#again I’m not mad at a blazed post

[angelseraphines]

ೃ⁀➷ ultraviolence ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🦢 ꒱

╰┈➤ hwang in-ho x player!reader imagine

a/n: i would like to give a special thank you to @lumillsie for the layout of this post and for the filter used on the header! there is also a part one to this imagine, playing dangerous, and a part two, do you think you’d kill for me, one day? i hope you enjoy reading! 🤍

˚ ༘♡ choosing to take up arms and align yourself with player 456’s desperate plan was not so much a choice as it was an ultimatum. to do nothing, continue playing by their sadistic rules, meant walking the same path to inevitable death. but this? this rebellion, this gamble to strike at the heart of the operation. a blaze of defiance instead of the slow suffocation of compliance.

˚ ༘♡ the gunfire came fast and relentless, each crack like lightning splitting the air around you. the deafening staccato of bullets ricocheted off the metal structures, sharp and unforgiving. you pressed yourself hard against the crimson barrier, your heart a violent drumbeat in your chest. each near miss tore at your nerves, leaving behind the bitter taste of survival.

˚ ༘♡ the red structures were impractical shelter, offering only the facade of safety. around you, the others fought back with what little ammunition and courage they had. some fired blindly, their hands shaking, others aimed with accuracy, faces set with the resilience of people who knew they may never see another day.

˚ ༘♡ the air reeked of gunpowder and sweat, and your own breath came in short, uneven bursts as you tried to steady your hands. the ground beneath you was littered with shell casings and splintered debris, each piece a fragment of the chaos you had willingly stepped into. a thought crossed your mind, whether this was bravery or madness. but the thought vanished as quickly as it came, drowned out by the next thunderous racket of gunfire.

˚ ༘♡ you don’t have time to think, only to act. your fingers find the magazine release instinctively, pressing it hard. the spent magazine drops to the ground, clattering louder than you’d like. your other hand is already reaching for a fresh one, fumbling for a second before finding it.

˚ ༘♡ the cool metal feels heavy in your palm as you slot it into the magazine well. you shove it upward until it clicks into place, a sound that’s both satisfying and urgent. your hand moves to the slide, gripping the serrated edges. you pull it back sharply, feeling the resistance, and let it snap forward with a crisp, metallic clank.

˚ ༘♡ your heart is racing, but your hands are steady. you flick the safety off with your thumb without even thinking about it. the gun is ready again, its weight familiar in your grip. you take a breath that doesn’t seem deep enough, your focus narrowing as you lift the weapon and prepare to fire at the masked men who stand across in another block structure.

˚ ༘♡ player 001 had insisted you stay behind. his voice was grounded, almost gentle, as he took your hand, his rough fingers a stark contrast to the warmth in his tone. “this plan is reckless,” he said, his expression unreadable except for the glint of concern in his dark eyes. “we have enough people. you don’t need to put yourself in danger.” but his attempt at reassurance only fueled your resolve.

˚ ༘♡ “if you’re not staying behind, neither am i,” you replied, your voice firm, though your heart pounded like a war drum. his face darkened with vexation, but he didn’t argue further, young-il knew he could not change your mind.

˚ ༘♡ crouched behind the unforgiving cover of the red structure, your hands trembled as you clutched the empty weapon. “i’m out of ammo,” you called, your voice barely cutting through the raucous chaos around you.

˚ ༘♡ gi-hun and jung-bae had disappeared minutes ago, slipping into the chaos to infiltrate the control room. every second they were gone stretching unbearably thin. around you, the others were panicking. shouts rose above the gunfire, “almost out!” player 246 hollered, “running low!” player 120 yelled out, desperation laced every shout.

˚ ༘♡ young-il’s radio crackled to life, gi-hun’s strained voice breaking through. “we’re running out of ammo here. there are more magazines on the guards, someone has to get them. hurry!”

˚ ༘♡ the moment the line went dead, young-il turned to the group. unlike the others, he was calm, his face as still as stone, his composure a striking contrast to the pandemonium. his eyes swept over each of you, calculating, deliberate. “four of us will move to back them up,” he said, his voice even, “but someone has to retrieve the magazines from the guards.”

˚ ༘♡ you felt the weight of his gaze settle on you for a moment longer than the others. your stomach tightened. the bodies of the masked men were out there, sprawled in the open, exposed under relentless gunfire. retrieving the magazines meant running into certain danger.

˚ ༘♡ “i’ll go!” dae-ho shouted, his voice quivering. his hands shook as he clutched his weapon, his knuckles white against the grip. before anyone could argue, he pushed himself to his feet and sprinted into the open, his silhouette a vulnerable target in the chaos. bullets ricocheted off nearby walls, sparks flying like tiny explosions. player 120 darted after him, crouching low and firing in short bursts to cover his reckless charge.

˚ ༘♡ young-il, player 047, and player 015 began moving toward the exit. you didn’t hesitate to follow, the worn soles of your shoes crunching against the debris-strewn ground. before you could take more than a few steps, young-il stopped abruptly, turning to face you. his stern gaze locked onto yours, “stay here,” he said, his voice low.

˚ ༘♡ your chest tightened with frustration, and you met his command with a sharp glare. “i can’t stay out here,” you hissed, your voice barely louder than the chaos around you. “how can i stand by knowing you’ll be in danger while i sit here, doing nothing? i can help.”

˚ ༘♡ his expression darkened, his face hardening as his jaw tightened. the faint lines around his eyes deepened into sharp creases, the wear of age etched into his skin. you could see the conflict inside him, his instinct to protect you clashing with the knowledge that he couldn’t stop you. his shoulders sagged ever so slightly, a reluctant surrender.

˚ ༘♡ he didn’t argue further. instead, he turned sharply and continued toward the exit, his steps heavier than before. you followed close behind, the cold air biting at your face and your hands shaking.

˚ ༘♡ once inside, the oppressive silence of the corridors was shattered by the sharp crack of gunfire echoing through the narrow passageways. your boots slid against the blood-slick floors, the dark streaks smearing across the ground like grotesque markers guiding your way. shattered shell casings crunched underfoot, their metallic edges catching the dim light as you moved in tight formation behind the others.

˚ ༘♡ the sounds grew louder with every turn, each burst of gunfire sending a jolt through your chest. when you reached the source, your heart sank. gi-hun and jung-bae were pinned down behind a stack of crates, their weapons barking in quick bursts as masked men returned fire from the opposite end of the hall. “the control room is there!” gi-hun shouted, his voice strained as he gestured toward a guarded staircase. the veins in his neck stood out with the effort.

˚ ༘♡ young-il’s gaze darted between the staircase and gi-hun, his expression grim. “i’m nearly out of ammo,” he said, his voice undisturbed despite the chaos around him.

˚ ༘♡ gi-hun didn’t hesitate. he reached into his pocket, retrieving a magazine with shaky fingers. “here,” he said, extending it toward young-il. “it’s my last one.”

˚ ༘♡ young-il’s eyes flicked to the magazine, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. “are you sure?” he asked, his tone measured, though the tension in his voice was unmistakable.

˚ ༘♡ gi-hun nodded. “dae-ho will be back with more. now go!”

˚ ༘♡ young-il looked as though he might argue, yet with a reluctant nod, he took the magazine. sliding it into his weapon, he jerked his head toward the opposite direction. “this way,” he commanded.

˚ ༘♡ you fell in step beside him, your shoulder brushing his as you moved. the air felt thick, you couldn’t help but glance at young-il, his face a mask of stable focus.

˚ ༘♡ arriving at another stairwell, the tension in the air felt suffocating, every step heavy with the weight of what might come next. player 047 and player 015 moved quickly, their rifles poised as they positioned themselves near the walls, peering toward the masked guards above.

˚ ༘♡ you and young-il lingered behind them. he reloaded his rifle with the magazine gi-hun had given him. your hands tightening around your weapon. the cold metal felt heavier than ever, slick with the sweat of your palms. you tried to calm your breathing, to ready yourself for the chaos that was certain to erupt. beside you, young-il raised his gun, his posture steady and unshaken. you followed his lead, preparing for the onslaught, waiting for the inevitable storm of bullets. the shots rang out, but they weren’t aimed at the guards.

˚ ༘♡ the first sharp crack reverberated through the stairwell, a deafening sound that seemed to shatter the air. player 047 jerked forward, his body crumpling to the ground like a discarded puppet. his rifle clattered away, the life drained from him in an instant.

˚ ༘♡ before the echo of the first shot faded, another followed, sharp and final. player 015 collapsed, his body writhing as blood began to trickle beneath him. he let out a guttural, choked gasp, his hands clawing weakly at the ground as he struggled to breathe. his voice, broken and trembling, was barely audible as he begged for mercy, his words dissolving into wet, rasping breaths.

˚ ༘♡ you stood paralyzed, the scene before you unspooling in a sickening blur. player 047’s body lay still, his eyes vacant, while player 015 twitched helplessly, his life draining away with each agonized second.

˚ ༘♡ your eyes went to young-il, who remained motionless, his gun still raised. his expression was cold, unreadable, as if the weight of what he had done didn’t touch him at all. there was no hesitation in his actions, no flicker of remorse in his eyes.

˚ ༘♡ the distant echoes of gunfire and screams drowned out by the discordant pounding of your own heartbeat. your mind raced, grasping for something, anything, to make sense of what was happening, but your body refused to move. your breath caught in your throat as young-il turned toward you, his weapon still raised, the barrel gleaming under the light.

˚ ༘♡ time seemed to stretch as the frigid metal pressed against your forehead, the faint scrape of the barrel against your skin sending a chill down your spine. his eyes, once a source of reassurance, now bore into you with an intensity that felt almost inhuman. they weren’t angry, but calculating. you opened your mouth to speak, to plead, to demand answers, but no sound came. the words were trapped, strangled by a fear that gripped your chest.

˚ ༘♡ for a vanishing moment, hope sparked when he lowered the gun. relief struck you so abruptly it nearly made your knees give out. that hope shattered as quickly as it came. he aimed the gun not at your chest, but lower. you barely registered what was happening before the deafening crack of the shot filled the air.

˚ ༘♡ the agony radiating from your shattered knee. it was as if every nerve in your body had been set ablaze, the pain so consuming it blurred your vision and stole the breath from your lungs. blood gushed from the wound, pooling rapidly beneath you.

˚ ༘♡ you clawed at the ground, desperate for anything to anchor you as your body convulsed with the shock of the injury. tears streamed down your face, hot and uncontrollable, as a strangled cry escaped your lips. the cold floor beneath you seemed to pull the heat from your body, leaving you trembling and vulnerable.

˚ ༘♡ through the haze of agony, you forced your gaze upward, meeting his cold, unflinching eyes. “why?” you rasped, your voice barely audible over the pounding in your ears. the word was a broken plea, filled with pain and betrayal, though deep down, you already knew no answer could justify what he had done.

˚ ༘♡ young-il stalked over to player 047’s lifeless body, his demeanor disturbingly composed despite the carnage surrounding you both. crouching beside the corpse, he grabbed the sleeve of the dead man’s jacket, his fingers curling around the fabric. with a deliberate pull, he tore a strip from the bloodied material.

˚ ༘♡ you writhed where you lay, the searing pain in your knee refusing to relent. blood continued to seep from the wound, its warmth pooling beneath you in thick, sticky smears. your breathing came in short, erratic gasps

˚ ༘♡ he returned to you, the strip of fabric clutched in his hand like a twisted tool of control. his presence loomed over you, suffocating in its quiet intensity. you flinched as he knelt beside you, the smell of blood and sweat clinging to him, a grotesque reminder of what he’d done.

˚ ༘♡ without warning, his hand shot out, his grip firm as he seized your chin. the sudden pressure forced your head off the cold, blood-slick floor, and you gasped, your lips trembling as you struggled to focus through the pain clouding your vision. his touch was rigid, his fingers digging into the tender flesh of your jaw.

˚ ༘♡ young-il worked methodically, winding the fabric around your mouth. you tried to jerk your head away, but his grip tightened, holding you in place as he secured the knot at the back of your head. the coarse material bit into the corners of your mouth, the taste of grime and death filling your senses as your cries were reduced to stifled, pitiful sounds.

˚ ༘♡ when he finally let go of your chin, your head hit the floor with a thud that seemed to echo inside your skull. the pain was sharp, but it paled in comparison to the turmoil raging within you. confusion clawed at your thoughts, tangled with disbelief so heavy it was suffocating. this was young-il, the man who had stood beside you, risked his life for you. you couldn’t reconcile the murderous figure before you with the person who had once seemed so kind, so loyal. why? the question screamed in your mind, louder than the agony in your leg or the blood pounding in your ears.

˚ ༘♡ he pulled the portable radio from his pocket, the cold efficiency of his actions cutting deeper than any bullet could. he walked over to where player 015 lay, choking on his own blood, the pitiful sound barely audible between gurgling gasps. kneeling down beside him, young-il’s voice changed, slipping into a grotesque mockery of grief and desperation.

˚ ༘♡ “i’m sorry, gi-hun,” he said, his voice uneven, laced with feigned exhaustion. “it’s over.”

˚ ༘♡ your eyes widened as the meaning of his words sank in. you thrashed against the bindings around your mouth, your muffled screams raw and desperate as you tried to drown out his lie. gi-hun needed to hear the truth, that young-il betrayed them, but the gag stifled every sound.

˚ ༘♡ young-il pressed the radio closer to player 015, holding it just inches from the man’s face. the wet, ragged gasps of the dying player filled the channel. you watched in horror as young-il’s hand rested on the radio. it was cruel, calculated, a performance designed to destroy any hope gi-hun might have left.

˚ ༘♡ with a flick of his finger, he silenced the radio. the stairwell was suddenly quiet except for your muted weeping and the faint rasp of player 015’s fading breaths. young-il stood over him, his gun raised once more. there was no hesitation, no emotion as he pulled the trigger. the crack of the shot was deafening, the sound of it reverberating off the concrete walls and leaving an emptiness in its wake.

˚ ༘♡ the silence that followed was unbearable. it pressed down on you, crushing your chest, as the weight of his betrayal settled fully in your mind. young-il turned, his face as calm as ever, and you felt your stomach twist. “i’m sorry,” young-il murmured. your heart sank as you convinced yourself this was it. he was going to kill you, finish what he started and tie up loose ends.

˚ ༘♡ instead, he turned and walked away, his footsteps unhurried. the sound of them faded into the distance. confusion churned in your chest, mingling with the pain that consumed your body. why leave you in such a pathetic state? surely, even he wouldn’t be so brutal as to condemn you to bleed out slowly, to suffer alone in agony until death finally claimed you.

˚ ༘♡ time became meaningless as you lay there. blood seeped from your shattered knee in hot, pulsing waves, the sticky warmth swarming beneath you, soaking into your clothes. the air grew colder, or maybe it was you, the life draining from your body, inch by inch. you couldn’t tell if a minute had passed or an hour.

˚ ༘♡ somewhere far away, gunshots cracked. a scream came, a piercing, gut-wrenching sound that sent a shiver crawling up your spine despite your weakening state, unmistakably gi-hun. you refused to consider what might have happened, it was far too devastating.

˚ ༘♡ and then, footsteps.

˚ ༘♡ as the figure emerged into view, a dreadful realization set in. it wasn’t anyone you recognized.

˚ ༘♡ tall and imposing, the stranger was clad in sleek black from head to toe. the fabric of their attire shimmered faintly under the dim light, perfectly fitted, without a single crease or flaw. their face was concealed by an angular black mask, its pristine surface reflecting nothing, revealing nothing, not even a hint of the eyes beneath.

˚ ༘♡ your mind, dulled by pain and blood loss, struggled to comprehend the sight. fear should have seized you, but your body was too weak, your thoughts too fractured to muster a response. when the figure crouched beside you, their movements swift and efficient, you didn’t resist as they ripped the gag from your mouth.

˚ ༘♡ “who… who are you?” you managed to slur, your voice barely audible.

˚ ༘♡ the figure didn’t answer. they didn’t hesitate. one gloved hand cradled the back of your head, tilting it upward with unsettling care, while the other hand brought a cloth to your face. the sharp, chemical scent hit you instantly, chloroform.

˚ ༘♡ panic flared, yet it was short-lived. the edges of your vision blurred, your body growing heavier, like you were sinking into a dark, bottomless pit. the last thing you saw was the smooth, featureless mask staring down at you, icy and unfeeling, before the world faded into black.

a/n: another hwang in-ho fanfiction! let me know your thoughts and if you have any requests! 🤍

[onlyhereforthestories]

Chica Medica - Part 6 (Alexia Putellas x Reader)

Okay, so the end of this has taken on a world of its own so I've split it into more parts so you get more frequent updates. We are very near the end now so buckle in for the final few parts. Also this outfit on Ale gets me everytime 😍

The first session back after the Christmas break felt different. The usual energy in the training facility was there; players catching up, coaches making rounds, but the tension between you and Alexia was undeniable. She had been avoiding you ever since the team returned from their respective holidays. You’d noticed the way her eyes barely met yours, the clipped tone in her voice when she answered your questions, and the way she seemed to disappear the moment the session ended.

It was driving you mad. After everything that had happened, the gift, the Instagram post, Alexia’s coldness towards you stung. You had thought the necklace meant something to her, but now you weren’t so sure. Maybe you had misread the entire situation. Maybe she had decided to push you away, after all.

After another training session where she barely acknowledged you, you decided you couldn’t let this go on any longer. If she was upset, if something had changed, you needed to know and you needed to know why. You had to understand what had happened between the two of you.

As the players filtered out of the gym, you approached her carefully, trying to mask the anxiety bubbling inside you. "Ale, can I talk to you for a minute? I need to go over some review forms with you for your progress this season. We can do it now if you have time."

Alexia’s body stiffened at the sound of your voice, and for a moment, you thought she was going to walk away. But instead, she turned around, her face cold and unreadable. "Fine," she said shortly. "Let’s get this over with."

You led her into the office, your heart racing in your chest. She sat down across from you, her arms crossed, her posture defensive. You could feel the distance between you, the walls she had put up since Dubai, and it was suffocating. How had you got to this point.

You cleared your throat, trying to keep things professional. "I just need to get your feedback on how you're feeling physically. Have you got any lingering injuries, anything we should keep an eye on for the rest of the season."

Alexia didn’t respond immediately. She just stared at you, her jaw tight, her eyes narrowed. The silence stretched on for too long, and the tension in the room became unbearable.

Finally, she spoke, her voice sharp and laced with frustration. "Are we really going to do this? Pretend like nothing happened?"

You blinked, caught off guard by her tone. "What do you mean?"

Alexia slammed her hand down on the table, her eyes blazing. "Don’t play dumb, Y/N. You know exactly what I’m talking about. All the messages, the gift, the way you made me feel... And then I see you with Leah. After everything, you go back to her."

Her words hit you like a punch to the gut. "Alexia, it’s not what you think—"

"Not what I think?" She cut you off, her voice rising. "I trusted you! I let you in, more than I’ve let anyone in for years. I told you things I haven’t told anyone since my dad died. I opened up to you because I thought we had something. And then I see you with her, like none of it mattered. Like I didn’t matter."

Her words hung heavy in the air, and you could see the pain in her eyes, the vulnerability that she was trying so hard to mask with anger.

"Alexia," you started, your voice soft, "Leah and I aren’t getting back together. That night, we were just talking. We needed to clear the air, to get some closure. I would never go back to her, not after everything we’ve been through."

Alexia stood up abruptly, pacing the small office. "Then why didn’t you tell me? Why did I have to see it through someone’s Instagram story? Why did you let me believe..." She trailed off, her hands trembling slightly as she turned to face you again.

You swallowed hard, standing as well, trying to close the distance between you. "I didn’t mean to hurt you. I thought you understood what the gift meant, what I was trying to say."

"The gift?" Alexia’s laugh was bitter, her eyes flashing with emotion. "Yeah, I thought I understood. I thought it was your way of saying that you felt the same. But now... I don’t know what to believe. I feel like I’ve been led on, like I was just someone you could toy with until something better came along."

Her voice cracked on the last words, and your heart broke seeing her like this, so guarded, so hurt.

"I didn’t lead you on," you said quietly, stepping closer to her. "I care about you, Ale. More than I’ve been able to put into words. I didn’t think... I didn’t realize how much this was affecting you. I should have told you everything sooner."

Alexia shook her head, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. "I haven’t felt this way about anyone, I don’t think ever. I haven’t let anyone in this much, and now I wish I hadn’t. I wish I had just kept my distance, because this... this hurts more than anything I’ve felt in a long time."

Her words hung in the air, raw and full of pain. You could see the regret in her eyes, the regret of trusting, of opening herself up to you, only to feel like she had been left behind.

You took a deep breath, trying to keep your voice steady. "I’m sorry, Alexia. I never wanted to hurt you. I never wanted you to feel like I didn’t care, because I do. I care about you more than you know."

For a moment, the room was silent, the tension between you thick and heavy. Alexia turned away from you, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

"I don’t know if I can do this anymore," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I don’t know if I can let you in again."

You felt a lump in your throat, unsure of what to say, unsure of how to fix what had been broken between you. But you knew one thing, you weren’t ready to give up, not yet.

"I’m not asking you to make a decision right now," you said softly, taking a step closer to her. "But please, just... don’t shut me out. Not like this."

Alexia stayed silent, her back still turned to you, the weight of everything she had said hanging heavily in the room. You could feel the distance between you, a chasm that had opened up, but you weren’t ready to let her go. Definitely not without a fight.

Months had passed since that tense confrontation in the office. The coldness between you and Alexia had grown into something you had never experienced before. Every interaction was brief, detached, and painfully professional. You felt the weight of her unspoken emotions in every glance she avoided and the way she seemed to slip away before you could even say goodbye after training.

Despite the distance, your feelings for Alexia hadn't faded. If anything, they had only continued to grow, but the space between you both felt greater with each passing day. The tension was thick, but you didn’t know how to bridge the gap.

Training sessions continued as usual, but you noticed Alexia had been pushing herself even harder as the season wore on. And then came the first leg of the Champions League quarterfinal against Wolfsburg.

The game had been brutal. Wolfsburg came out strong, overwhelming Barça with their physicality and relentless pressure. By the time the final whistle blew, Barcelona had lost 2-0. The entire team looked defeated, their heads hung low as they left the pitch. It wasn’t just the scoreline, it was the sense of being outplayed, of the fight slipping away. And with the second leg looming, the pressure was immense.

Alexia was one of the last to leave the field, her frustration clear. You watched her, torn between wanting to reach out and the fear of being pushed away yet again.

Later that evening, as the team had mostly dispersed and the changing room quieted down, you were preparing to leave when you heard familiar footsteps approaching from behind.

You turned, surprised to see Alexia standing in the doorway, her posture tense, her expression unreadable. She looked exhausted, both emotionally and physically drained.

"Can I talk to you?" she asked, her voice low and hesitant, as if the words were difficult to get out. You noted as well that she spoke without looking at you.

You blinked in surprise. After months of icy silence, this was the last thing you expected, but you nodded, your voice gentle. "Of course." You thought twice about adding the you can always talk to me, you didn’t want to push it.

She stepped into the room, closing the door behind her, and stood there for a moment, struggling to find the right words. The tension in the air was thick, almost suffocating, and you could tell something was weighing heavily on her.

"It’s all too much," Alexia finally said, her voice quiet but strained. "This... everything. I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this."

You stayed silent, waiting for her to continue, giving her the space she needed to open up.

"The game today..." She shook her head in frustration, pacing the room. "It’s not just the loss. It’s everything that’s been building up. The pressure, the expectations, the weight of everyone thinking I should be carrying this team. And now, we’re down 2-0, and I don’t know how we’re going to turn it around. It feels like it’s all my fault."

Her voice cracked slightly, and you could see the vulnerability behind her words, the weight of the captaincy, the pressure of being the one everyone looked to when things went wrong. The public perception of her being the one that needs to do it all, even though there are 11 players playing each game.

She stopped pacing and looked at you, her eyes filled with frustration and something deeper. "And you..." she continued, her tone softening but still filled with hurt. "I’ve been avoiding you for months because I didn’t know how to handle everything I felt. After what I told you, I regretted opening up. I felt like you led me on, like I let myself get too close, only to see you with Leah and feel like it was all for nothing. Like we were nothing."

Your heart ached as you listened to her. You had known she was upset, but hearing her admit just how much she had been hurting hit harder than you expected.

"Alexia, I—"

"I haven’t let anyone in like that since my dad died," she interrupted, her voice breaking. "And when I finally did, you made me feel like I made a mistake. I haven’t felt that vulnerable in years, and I hate that I let myself care so much about someone who was still hung up on her ex."

You stepped closer, your heart heavy with guilt and concern. "I wasn’t leading you on, Ale. Leah and I were never getting back together, are never getting back together. We just needed to clear the air. I should have told you sooner, but I never want you to think I don’t care about you."

Alexia’s gaze flickered, the anger and frustration slowly giving way to the exhaustion that had been building inside her. "I miss talking to you. I miss... us. But I don’t know how to fix this. Theres this massive gap between us now and I don’t know how we close it."

You stepped even closer, your hand hovering near hers, unsure if she would accept your touch after months of distance. “There’s no gap that can’t be closed, Ale,” you said softly, your voice trembling slightly. “But we have to want to close it. I want to fix this with you.”

Alexia’s eyes flickered with uncertainty, her guard still up. “How?” she whispered, her voice raw with emotion. “How do we go back to... before?”

You took a deep breath, searching her face, seeing the exhaustion in the lines etched into her brow, the pain in her eyes. “We don’t go back,” you said, shaking your head. “We can’t. Too much has happened. But we can move forward. We can try again, take things one step at a time.”

Her gaze dropped to the floor, her jaw clenching as she wrestled with the emotions that had been bottled up for so long. “I don’t know if I can,” she admitted. “I don’t know if I can let my guard down like that again. Not after...”

“You can,” you interrupted gently. “You already did once, Ale. I know it’s terrifying, but you don’t have to do it alone this time. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. We’ll figure it out together.”

Her eyes finally met yours again, and you could see the cracks beginning to show in her hardened exterior. “But what if I do?” she asked, her voice trembling. “What if I push you away again?”

“You won’t,” you replied, your tone steady. “And even if you try, I’m not going to let you. Not this time.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The weight of the months of silence and hurt hung heavy in the air, but there was something different now, a fragile thread of hope, pulling you both together. Alexia’s defences were crumbling, bit by bit, and she was letting herself feel again, even if it scared her.

“You meant more to me than I let myself admit,” Alexia finally whispered, her voice barely audible. “And when I thought you were moving on, I didn’t know what to do with that. I didn’t know how to be anything other than... angry.”

You could feel the vulnerability in her words, and it broke your heart to know how much she had been hurting, how deeply she had internalised everything. “I was never moving on,” you said, shaking your head. “Not from you. I was just... figuring things out. Trying to make sure I could leave my past in the past before starting my future. But not having you to talk to... that hurt me too.”

Alexia nodded, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. She let out a shaky breath, her hands fidgeting slightly at her sides. “I’ve been holding onto this anger because it was easier than admitting I was scared. Scared of what it meant to care so much, to let someone in.”

You took a small step forward, closing the final distance between you, and cautiously reached out, gently taking her hand. To your relief, she didn’t pull away this time. Her fingers curled around yours, the touch hesitant but real.

“It’s okay to be scared,” you murmured, your thumb brushing over her knuckles in a soothing gesture. “I’m scared too. But that’s part of this, right? Taking the leap, even when it’s terrifying.”

Alexia’s breath hitched, and for a moment, she squeezed your hand tightly, as if grounding herself in the moment. Her voice was a whisper, full of uncertainty and emotion. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t,” you said, your voice steady and full of conviction. “I’m here, Ale. And I’m not going anywhere.”

She let out a shaky breath, her body relaxing slightly as she allowed herself to trust in your words. “I haven’t felt this close to anyone since my dad died,” she admitted softly. “And it scared me how much I needed you.”

Her words broke the last piece of tension between you, and you stepped even closer, gently pulling her into your arms. She hesitated for only a second before she leaned into you, her body melting against yours as if finally allowing herself to feel the comfort she had been denying for so long.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered into your shoulder, her voice thick with emotion. “For shutting you out. For everything.”

You held her tightly, your hand gently rubbing her back in slow circles. “I’m sorry too. We’ll work through it,” you whispered, your voice soft but full of promise. “We’ll get through this together.”

For the first time in months, the tension between you eased, and Alexia’s walls came down completely. She rested her forehead against your shoulder, her breath steadying as she let herself be vulnerable with you.

After what felt like an eternity, Alexia pulled back slightly, just enough to look into your eyes. Her expression was softer now, the anger and frustration replaced with something else, something deeper. “I miss us,” she whispered, her eyes searching yours. “I miss... this.”

You smiled gently, your hand brushing a strand of hair away from her face. “So do I.”

For the first time in what felt like ages, Alexia smiled, it was small, hesitant, but real. The gap between you wasn’t gone, but you were starting to build the bridge. Slowly, carefully, but surely and together.

The atmosphere inside Camp Nou was electric. The roar of the fans echoed throughout the stadium as you sat on the bench, your eyes fixed on the pitch. This was it, the second leg of the Champions League quarterfinal against Wolfsburg. After a 2-0 loss in the first leg, the pressure was on, but there was a quiet determination in the air. The team knew what was at stake, and you could feel it in every passing glance, every focused expression. Tonight felt different to the last match against Wolfsburg, it felt like the girls had all taken the loss personally and were out for redemption.

From your position on the bench, you watched as the girls took their places dotted around the field. Aitana, Caro, Jenni, and Alexia stood at the ready, their eyes locked on the opposition, the tension almost palpable. Your heart raced in sync with the crowd’s chants, well until your heartbeat grew so loud in your ears that you could barely here the girls on the bench next to you. Tonight wasn’t just about advancing to the semifinals; it was about proving to the world that loss was a small blip.

The whistle blew and within minutes, the tension began to ease. Aitana, always so composed on and off the ball, burst forward and connected perfectly with the ball. In just three minutes, she had found the back of the net. The stadium erupted, and the weight of the first-leg defeat seemed to lift, even if only slightly.

You smiled, feeling some of the tension in your own chest loosen. It was the perfect start, exactly what the team needed. You glanced toward the pitch, where Alexia stood with her teammates, a fire in her eyes that hadn’t dimmed despite everything she had been through.

Ten minutes later, Caro added to the tally with a brilliant finish, sending the crowd into another wave of celebration. The momentum was shifting, and you could see the belief growing stronger with each pass.

As the game neared the half-hour mark, Barcelona were relentless. They pressed higher and higher, refusing to give Wolfsburg a moment to breathe. Then, in the 33rd minute, Jenni Hermoso received a perfect cross into the box and, with her trademark composure, slotted it home.

3-0.

The roar of the crowd was deafening. You could feel the surge of energy coursing through the team, and yet, your focus kept drifting to Alexia. She was commanding the midfield with a quiet intensity, orchestrating every movement, every attack. And she looked really good doing it, although you would not ever share that thought with anyone except maybe her.

And then, just five minutes later, in the 38th minute, it happened. A sharp pass from Aitana found Alexia on the edge of the box. With a quick touch to control, she unleashed a precise strike that soared into the top corner of the net.

4-0.

The stadium erupted in a frenzy, but in that moment, everything around you seemed to blur. Alexia, breathless and triumphant, turned toward the bench, her eyes finding yours. The relief was clear, the weight of months of tension visibly lifting from her shoulders. In that brief second, you shared a silent exchange, a connection that had been buried under layers of misunderstanding and distance. Her eyes said it all without any words needing to be uttered. Thank you, I needed this.

You smiled, your heart swelling with pride for her. This was the Alexia you knew, the one who carried the weight of the team but had finally found a way to let go of some of that burden. To find the joy in the game that she really loved to play.

The game pressed on, Barcelona in full control. Wolfsburg tried to push back and did get a goal, but the momentum had shifted irreversibly. As the clock ticked down, Barça kept up the pressure, refusing to let Wolfsburg find any momentum after the goal.

Then, with just minutes left on the clock, Barcelona were awarded a penalty. The crowd held its breath as Alexia stepped up to take it, the ball resting at her feet. The stadium fell into a tense silence, the kind that only a moment like this can create.

You watched closely, your heart in your throat. Alexia stood over the ball, calm and collected. Then, with the same precision you had seen from her countless times, she sent the keeper the wrong way and buried the penalty in the bottom corner.

5-1 on the night. 5-3 on aggregate.

The roar of the crowd was deafening, a wave of relief and celebration sweeping through the stadium. Barcelona had done it. They had pulled off the comeback, securing their place in the Champions League semifinals. The players on the bench jumped to their feet, cheering, hugging, and celebrating the incredible turnaround.

But your eyes were still on Alexia. As she celebrated with her teammates, a weight seemed to lift from her entirely. The game had been a battle, both on the field and inside her heart, but tonight, she had won on both fronts.

As the final whistle blew, confirming Barca’s 5-1 victory on the night, you stood from the bench, your heart pounding with pride, relief, and something deeper. The crowd was in full voice, chanting Alexia’s name, and you couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed by everything she had accomplished, not just with the team, but for herself.

Alexia glanced back at you one last time before the celebrations truly kicked off on the pitch. This time, there was no hesitation, no doubt in her eyes. Just relief, pride, and maybe, just maybe, a flicker of something hopeful.

The celebrations were in full swing. The team had gathered at a private club, the sounds of laughter, music, and excitement filling the space. After the dramatic 5-1 win over Wolfsburg, it was time to celebrate not just the victory, but the resilience and unity that had brought the team back from the brink.

Everyone was buzzing, adrenaline still high from the match. Drinks were flowing, and the room was alive with the chatter of teammates recounting the goals, the tension, and the triumph of the night. You sat in a booth toward the back of the room, watching the team’s joy unfold around you. It was one of those rare moments when everything just felt right, well at least when it came to the team.

But there was another reason your heart raced tonight, and it had nothing to do with the match. It had everything to do with Alexia.

You had caught glimpses of her throughout the night, her laughter mingling with the music, her smile wide and free as she embraced her teammates. But every now and then, her eyes would find yours across the room. There was a warmth in her gaze that hadn’t been there for months, and every time it happened, you felt the invisible thread pulling the two of you closer.

As you took another sip of your drink, trying to shake off the nerves bubbling in your chest, you noticed Alexia making her way across the room. She moved through the crowd with that calm confidence she always carried, but this time, her destination was clear, she was headed straight for you.

Your heart thudded in your chest as she approached, her eyes never leaving yours. When she reached the booth you were in, she paused for just a moment, glancing at the player sitting next to you, Claudia, who had been laughing at something Patri had said.

"Mind if I sit here?" Alexia asked, her voice soft but firm making it very clear what she wanted even if she had phrased it as a question.

Claudia glanced up a bit surprised, but not one to argue with her team captain. She smiled at Alexia and nodded, quickly sliding out of the booth to make room and grabbing Patri’s hand as she did dragging the woman with her. "All yours, Capitana."

You could barely suppress the smile tugging at your lips as Alexia slid into the booth beside you, close enough that her thigh brushed against yours. The warmth of her body sent a jolt through you, but you tried to play it cool, glancing at her with a casual smile.

"How are you feeling after that performance?" you asked, trying to mask the nervous energy that had crept in.

Alexia smiled, that familiar spark in her eyes that you hadn’t seen in so long. "Relieved," she admitted, her voice low so only you could hear. "And exhausted."

You chuckled, nodding. "You deserve to relax after tonight. You were incredible out there."

Her eyes softened at your words, and for a moment, the noise of the party seemed to fade into the background. It was just the two of you, sitting close, sharing the relief of the night’s victory, and happy that the months of tension between you was slowly melting away.

Alexia shifted slightly, her leg pressing more firmly against yours as she leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper. "I missed this."

Your heart skipped a beat, but you managed to keep your voice steady. "I missed it, too."

She looked at you, her eyes searching yours, as if she was trying to find the right words. The playful, teasing glances from earlier had been replaced with something more genuine, more vulnerable.

"I’ve been thinking," she began, her fingers playing absentmindedly with the edge of her glass. "About everything that’s happened. About us."

You held your breath, not wanting to interrupt her train of thought.

Alexia took a deep breath before continuing, her voice quieter now. "I didn’t know how to face you after everything. It was easier to avoid it, to push you away. But... that just made everything worse."

You swallowed hard, the weight of her words hanging between you. "You don’t have to apologize, Ale. I know it’s been difficult. I should’ve been clearer with everything. I should have been more upfront about Leah, about how I feel."

Her eyes flickered with something you couldn’t quite place. "How do you feel?"

You hesitated for just a moment, then met her gaze, deciding it was time to be honest. "I care about you, Alexia. A lot. And it wasn’t just about the work, or the physio sessions, or even the football. I care about you."

Her breath caught, and for a moment, you saw the same vulnerability in her eyes that she had shown after the loss to Wolfsburg. The walls she had built between you were slowly crumbling, and now, sitting so close, the months of distance between you felt like they were finally closing.

Alexia smiled softly, her hand finding yours under the table. She didn’t say anything at first and she didn’t need to. The simple act of reaching out, of closing that physical gap, spoke volumes.

The room around you buzzed with the energy of celebration, but for you and Alexia, the noise had become background static. All that mattered was the connection between you, the understanding that despite everything, you were still here, still close. That there was still something there to explore.

"Thank you," Alexia finally whispered, her thumb brushing over the back of your hand. "For being there. Even when I pushed you away."

You squeezed her hand gently. "I’m not going anywhere."

Her eyes met yours again, and this time, there was no hesitation, no doubt. Just the quiet promise of something that had been waiting to be said for months, now slowly beginning to surface.

The celebration carried on around you, but you and Alexia remained in your little bubble at the booth. Her leg was pressed against yours, and her hand occasionally found yours under the table, both of you taking comfort in the quiet connection that had begun to rebuild.

It was only a matter of time before someone noticed. And, unsurprisingly, that someone was Mapi.

From the corner of your eye, you saw her making her way toward you, a mischievous glint in her eyes. Leila followed close behind, a grin already forming as they approached your booth. The second Mapi spotted the two of you sitting close together, she raised an eyebrow, her teasing smirk unmistakable.

"Well, well, well," Mapi drawled, crossing her arms as she came to stand beside the table. "What do we have here? Cozying up after a big win, huh? Looks like more than just the game turned around tonight."

Alexia shot Mapi a warning look, but her lips twitched with amusement. You felt a flush creep up your neck as you glanced between them, unsure whether to laugh or feel embarrassed.

"Mapi," Alexia warned lightly, though there was a smile threatening to break through.

But Mapi wasn’t done. She wiggled her eyebrows, clearly enjoying herself. "I knew something was up when Claudia said you asked for some time in the booth without others. Didn’t think you’d be making moves this fast, though Ale. Capitana’s got game on and off the pitch, huh?"

Before you could respond, Leila, having been quietly observing, stepped in. She gave Mapi a pointed look before swatting her on the back of the head. "Cut it out, idiot. Now’s not the time."

Mapi yelped, rubbing the back of her head in mock outrage. "Hey! What was that for?"

"For being a pain," Leila deadpanned, her eyes darting between you and Alexia, clearly sensing that this wasn’t just light-hearted fun. "Come on, leave them alone."

Mapi looked between you and Alexia again, her expression softening as she realized Leila was right. "Fine, fine," she muttered, though the teasing smile never quite left her face. "But just remember, Ale, I’m watching you." She pointed her fingers at her own eyes, then back at Alexia’s, as if to say she was keeping an eye on things.

Leila rolled her eyes and dragged Mapi away by the arm, pulling her back toward the dance floor where the rest of the team was letting loose. Mapi threw one last cheeky grin over her shoulder as she let herself be pulled into the chaos of the celebration.

Alexia shook her head, chuckling under her breath. "She never lets up, does she?"

You smiled, the tension from the teasing already dissipating. "Not even for a second."

But as Mapi and Leila disappeared into the crowd, the quietness returned between you and Alexia. It was as if, for a moment, nothing had changed. The warmth of her presence, the way she leaned into you, it was all still there, unspoken yet undeniable.

Alexia glanced over at you, her eyes soft with affection and amusement. "I should have known Mapi would notice."

You laughed softly, leaning in just slightly. "I think the whole team’s going to notice eventually."

Alexia smiled at that, the corner of her mouth lifting in that way that made your heart flutter. "Let them. I’m not hiding anything." Alexia’s hand slipped into yours under the table once again, her touch gentle but steady, like the wave that had always connected you.

The tension that had once defined your relationship with Alexia was beginning to melt away. After the celebration following the comeback win against Wolfsburg, something had shifted between you. The stolen glances, the shared smiles, the quiet conversations. They were all part of the rhythm you and Alexia had started to fall into, like finding your way back to something that had always been there, that was just waiting for the right moment.

A few days after the match, with the team preparing for the final of the Champions League, Alexia had sent you a text. Simple, to the point, but it had made your heart skip a beat all the same.

Coffee after training tomorrow?

It wasn’t exactly a grand gesture, but it was the kind of thing you had been hoping for, something normal, something easy, something for just the two of you.

The next afternoon, training wrapped up, and the usual buzz of the team filled the air as everyone began to drift toward their cars. You spotted Alexia across the car park, pulling her bag over her shoulder and heading in your direction. She gave you a small smile, one that made your stomach do a little flip, and you smiled back, trying to hide the nerves fluttering inside you.

A short walk from the training grounds, tucked away in a quieter part of the city, was a small café Alexia had mentioned a few times before. It was one of her favourites because she found it charming and cozy. It was a small whole in the wall shop with a few tables lining the windows and a barista who already knew her order by heart.

When the two of you walked inside, Alexia nodded to the barista, exchanging a familiar smile. "Dos cafés, por favor."

You found a table by the window, the late afternoon sunlight spilling in and casting a warm glow over the café. It felt easy, sitting there with Alexia, even with the unspoken weight of everything that had happened in the past months. Somehow, that weight seemed lighter now.

As you both sat down with your coffees, you couldn’t help but smile. "So, is this the famous café you’ve been talking about all season?"

Alexia chuckled, her eyes bright as she took a sip of her coffee. "This is the one. Best coffee in Barcelona, in my opinion."

You raised an eyebrow, taking a sip from your own cup. "I have to admit, it’s good. I can see why you’re a regular."

The conversation flowed easily, both of you falling into a natural rhythm. You talked about the upcoming matches, about the team, about the Champions League final that seemed to be looming on the horizon. But every now and then, the conversation would drift to lighter things like your favourite places in Barcelona, stories from when you first started working with the team, and little tales about the players that made you both laugh.

At one point, Alexia leaned back in her chair, her gaze soft as she looked at you. "It’s nice, this. Just being here with you."

Her words made your heart flutter, and you could feel a warmth creeping into your cheeks. "Yeah," you agreed softly. "It is."

There was a quiet between you for a moment, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of quiet that comes when everything feels right, like you don’t need to fill the space with words.

Alexia’s fingers gently brushed against yours on the table, a subtle but meaningful gesture. You smiled at her, feeling the connection between you strengthen with every shared glance, every light touch. It was simple, but it felt important.

As you finished your coffees, Alexia glanced at her phone, checking the time. "We should probably head back soon," she said with a small sigh, though there was a playful glint in her eyes. "Can’t be late to the next team meeting."

You nodded, not wanting the moment to end but knowing that the world of football never truly stopped. "True, but this was nice. We should do it again sometime."

Alexia smiled, standing up and offering you her hand. "How about dinner next time?"

You felt your heart swell at her words but kept your voice steady. "Sounds perfect."

Over the next few weeks, as the games piled up and the pressure built toward the Champions League final, you and Alexia carved out little moments like that coffee date. There were lunches after training, quiet dinners at out-of-the-way restaurants, and even the occasional late-night walk when the city was quiet and still.

Each date felt like another step forward, a chance to know each other outside the pressure of the pitch and the weight of expectations. It wasn’t rushed, it was comfortable, like two people rediscovering something that had always been there, but they hadn’t taken time to fully realise it.

One evening, just a few days before the final, you and Alexia found yourselves at a small tapas restaurant, tucked away in one of Barcelona’s quieter neighbourhoods. The evening air was warm, there was a soft murmur of the city around you as you shared a meal, laughing and talking like you had known each other for years.

At one point, Alexia reached across the table, her hand covering yours. "You’ve been amazing these past few months," she said softly, her eyes meeting yours. "I know I wasn’t easy to be around, but... I’m really glad we’re here now."

You squeezed her hand gently, your heart swelling with affection. "I’m glad too."

It was in these quiet moments, between games and team obligations, that the relationship between you and Alexia grew. It was no longer weighed down by misunderstandings or hesitation, now it was just two people, finally allowing themselves to enjoy the moments they shared.

As the final approached, the nerves and excitement would soon return, but for now, in the warmth of the evening, everything felt right.

[unhingedangstaddict]

had this little idea while at work today, doubt I'll do anything else with it but wanted to share anyway! (please excuse any mistakes I did not edit this) post S8E9, bucktommy fix-it(ish), 911 words, minor spoilers for S8E9

“So how are you really doing? I mean with Eddie leaving and all.” Maddie asked as Buck made the two of them breakfast in Maddie’s kitchen. Chimney and Jee-Yun were having a father-daughter date and had already left the house for the day.

“I- I mean, yeah I miss Eddie, but I understand why he moved back to Texas. Can’t exactly be upset with him for it-”

“Even if you were.” Maddie cut-in. “Howie filled me in on what happened.”

“Okay, sure, I was a little upset at first but I’m fine now. I get it. And me and Eddie are good, even if he’s off in Texas and I’m still here in LA.” Buck promised.

“Are you sure? I just worry about you. I know you have a hard time with people leaving. First it was the break-up, then Eddie, and the whole thing with that rescue dog.” Maddie pointed out.

“I promise Maddie I’m okay. Eddie is where he needs to be, Blaze the dog is where he belongs. I’m good.” Buck insisted.

“Well if you’re sure,” Maddie started. “But if you wanted to have dinner with the three of us tomorrow night I’m making a pot roast.” Maddie offered enticingly.

“As much as I love your pot roast Mads I’ll need to take a raincheck. I uh, I’ve got plans with Tommy tomorrow night.” Buck told her.

“Tommy, like your ex, Tommy?” Maddie questioned.

“Yeah.” Buck confirmed as he brought a plate of breakfast for each of them to the table where Maddie was sitting. “The other day after I said goodbye to Eddie, Tommy showed up and we talked about things and for now we’re just gonna hang out as friends.”

Maddie looked like she had something she wanted to say, but was holding herself back.

(more below the cut)

“What?” Buck asked as he sat down, knowing Maddie had something on her mind.

“Just, be careful, okay? Tommy did a number on you when he left. You were a mess for weeks. I just don’t want to see you get hurt again.” Maddie cautioned.

“Okay, did it hurt when Tommy broke up with me? Yes. But there were things about Tommy that I didn’t understand at the time, the breakup-” Buck shook his head. “It was on both of us.”

“It sure didn’t seem that way when you caused flour shortages at your favourite grocery store.” Maddie argued.

“During our relationship Tommy was worried about letting me set the pace and I got so caught up in things that I forgot to stop and check if it was okay with him and I should’ve and that was entirely on me. I should’ve stopped and considered that just because I was ready for something more didn’t mean he was too.” Buck explained.

“You seem to be taking a lot of the blame considering he was the one that broke up with you.” Maddie crossed her arms.

“Tommy was scared. I was moving too fast and he was afraid he was going to let me down, so he ended it before that could happen.” Buck countered as he took a bite of food.

“Well he could’ve just told you that. He didn’t have to break your heart.”

“Maddie-” Buck started, getting upset.

“If you can forgive him then good for you but it’s gonna take me some time to warm up to the idea of him being around again.” Maddie told Buck.

“Maddie, he was scared, he has trauma. Everything got to be a little too much for him and he didn’t know how to keep up so he left. Tommy thought he was protecting himself and protecting me by doing it.”

“Okay but that doesn’t diminish how much he hurt you.” Maddie argued.

“I never said it did. But I’m saying it wasn’t all on Tommy either.” Buck set his fork down. He was getting upset with Maddie. Buck was a grown adult. If he wanted to be friends with his ex-boyfriend, who was anyone else to tell him how to live his life? Especially Maddie, who of anyone, Buck figured would’ve been the least likely to judge. “Of all people I thought you would understand that the best.”

“Buck what do you mean by that?” Maddie frowned.

“When you run it’s perfectly understandable but when Tommy does it he’s a terrible person? Where was all this concern you have for me now when you were doing the same thing to Chimney?”

Maddie scoffed and sat her own fork down. “Wow.”

“You were going through something, fighting battles no one could help you with, and you got scared so you ran. That’s exactly what Tommy did too. It’s not fair for you to judge him for that when you did the same thing.” Buck told her.

“I was sick, I had postpartum depression.” Maddie argued.

“Tommy’s-” Buck paused. He wasn’t going to tell Maddie all of Tommy’s trauma. “Tommy was- still is struggling with something too. But he’s working to get better which is huge for him because if he’s not careful he could lose his pilot’s license. He’s not only risking his job, but something he loves just to try and get better to- to be better. Be mad at Tommy all you want, but don’t tell me how I should feel about him.” Buck got up from the table and began to leave.

“Buck, wait-” Maddie started.

“I don’t want to hear it, Maddie.” Buck shook his head and left.

[lalalychee-x]

"Say that again" — Valeria x f!reader

★ my headcannon post that this fic came from!

★ CW: NSFW, afab, wlw, Valeria and reader arguing about something unmentioned, Valeria gets embarrassingly turned on by fiesty women, tit-play, reader wearing a bra that like unclips from the front yk? fingering, sucking, g-spot TARGETTED, lace bra, Valeria smoking + reader with smoking metaphors... ★ Argument, Spanish, Lap Sitting, Groping, Apology Sex™ with Valeria because I'm so in love with her. Basically what happens when she's too busy palming your tits and blinking up at you all sweet while you’re trying to have an actual argument like a grown adult. word count: 1332

You weren’t yelling. Not really. It was more like raised talking—but with purpose, with bite. That clipped tone you only used when Valeria was testing you, and god, she was testing you tonight.

"Don’t give me that smug look, Valeria," you snap, standing in the middle of her living room, arms folded across your chest. The hem of your tank top rides up a little as you shift your weight, flashing the band of your underwear, but you don’t notice. You’re too pissed. "You can’t just decide shit and expect me to follow along like one of your soldiers."

She lounges back on the couch like she owns it—like she owns everything. Legs spread, black slacks rumpled from earlier, hair slightly mussed from pulling her fingers through it. A lit cigarette balances between her fingers, lazy smoke curling through the air. Her eyes, sharp and amused, flick up to meet yours.

"Ay, cálmate, mi reina," she says, voice low and dangerous, yet a little too soft. Too smooth. That fucking smirk playing on her lips. "You're sexy when you're angry, you know that?"

You gape. “You’re not even listening to me!”

She shrugs, unbothered. “I heard you. Loud and clear.” She brings the cigarette to her lips, inhales slowly, lets the smoke drift through her nostrils like she’s in a noir film. “You're mad. You don’t like being told what to do. Big surprise.”

You march forward. "You're deflecting. As usual."

That does something. Her smirk twitches—falters for half a second—and her legs subtly adjust, thighs shifting with tension. But she just looks up at you, dark eyes blazing with heat and something unreadable.

“You done yelling, baby?” she purrs, setting the cigarette in the ashtray without looking away from you.

“No, I’m not done yelling,” you snarl, leaning over, hands planted on your hips. “You don’t get to pull rank when we’re in bed and then ignore me when I call you out for it. You’re not La Macabra with me, Valeria. You’re my girlfriend. Or at least, you’re supposed to be.”

Your words echo. Heavy. Too honest. And for a second, she looks like you knocked the wind out of her.

Then—

With one hand, she reaches up, grabs your wrist gently, and tugs you forward.

You stumble, confused, but she keeps pulling—guiding you until you're straddling her lap, your knees sinking into the couch cushions on either side of her thighs. She's silent the whole time. Watching. Smiling.

“Valeria—”

Her hands slide to your waist, fingers curling into the waistband of your shorts, dragging you down closer.

“You’re so loud,” she murmurs, but there’s no malice in it. Just awe. Admiration. A hunger. “You drive me crazy.”

You don’t notice her hands under your shirt until her thumbs stroke bare skin. You flinch, surprised by the warmth of her palms, the softness of her touch.

“Valeria,” you warn again. A little breathless now.

“I’m sorry,” she says suddenly. Voice cracking like it hurt her to admit. “Lo siento. I fucked up, alright? I just…” Her gaze flicks to your lips, then down to the way your shirt is riding up over your ribs. “I hate when we fight. But God, it turns me on when you talk to me like that. You’re the only one who doesn’t flinch. The only one who’s not afraid of me.”

You blink, heart hammering. “You’re a menace.”

“I know.” Her smile grows softer, cockier. “Let me make it up to you, cariño. Let me touch you, please, baby.”

Valeria’s fingers move fast, suddenly unclipping your bra from the front with practiced ease.

You genuinely yelp. You’re still straddling her, thighs tense around hers, still a little stunned. Still pissed.

“Valeria—what the hell are you doing—?”

“Shh.” She barely hums in response. You’re half tempted to stop her—but her mouth is already moving, pressing slow, reverent kisses beneath your collarbone, dragging down. Down.

Then—

Her tongue flicks over your nipple.

You suck in a breath so sharp it burns your lungs.

She groans, low and animal. Her lips close over it, sucking gentle at first, then rougher when your hips jerk against her lap without your permission.

"Fuck—Valeria—"

Her hands find your hips again, dragging you closer, grinding your pussy down on her thigh. “You feel that, baby?” she murmurs against your skin, mouth hot and wet. “You’re soaking through. Qué rico…”

You whimper.

You fucking whimper, and Valeria grins against your chest, all smug and shameless as she bites—bites—down on your tit and groans at the sound you make.

"Go on, keep talking... Shout at me all you want, Mi reina."

You bite your lip, frustrated and borderline angry but your panties are getting wetter and you feel stupid.

Your hands tangle in her hair, pulling, but she just hums and licks over the mark she leaves, smug and hot and mean.

One hand slides between your legs, sliding over the lace of your panties.

You twitch—your whole body jerks—but her fingers are already pushing past the waistband of your shorts. Past your underwear and tracing along your dripping slit.

"Valeria! Stop that—"

She hisses. Because of course she doesn't stop; not that your protests held any real weight anyway.

“You're this wet just from yelling at me?” she grunts, slipping her middle finger between your folds, slow and indulgent inside you. 

You try to answer—try—but her fingers find your clit, circle it once, and your brain short-circuits. You rock your hips into her hand, chasing the contact, hating her for how smug she sounds, how cocky her voice is when she chuckles—

“Look at you.”

Then she slides two fingers in, slow, and your head drops to her shoulder with a moan.

“Shhh, I know,” she coos, nuzzling your neck, licking the shell of your ear. “I know you’re mad at me, baby. But please forgive me. You always do when I touch you like this…”

Her thumb rolls over your clit and your legs shake.

Valeria’s fingers are deep inside you now—crooked just right, like she knows exactly where your weakest spot is, and she does, she absolutely does. Every little whimper you make, every twitch of your thighs, as she curls her fingers everytime she pumps her fingers in and out of your dripping cunt. God it sounds so lewd and wet as a pearly, translucent-white ring forms around the base of her fingers.

"That's it..." she mutters, voice thick, lips dragging across the top of your breast.

You don’t even have the strength to fight her on that. Not when she curls her fingers just so, pressing up, rubbing your walls so deliberately it knocks a broken gasp from your throat. You’re already gripping her shoulder, nails digging in, and her thumb hasn’t even gone near your clit again yet.

But she’s teasing—oh, she’s being so evil about it.

One of her hands comes up, thumb brushing over your nipple now, while her mouth sucks on the other. She keeps switching sides, warm tongue swirling, lips tugging, groaning into your skin like you taste better than her favorite cigar.

Your hips buck helplessly, and she finally gives in.

Her thumb slips down, finds your clit again.

Circles once.

Twice.

Then repeatedly.

You gasp—loud—and her voice breaks with laughter. "That's the sound I like to hear, mi vida. Keep makin’ it for me.”

“Fuck—fuck, Valeria, I'm—”

“Mm-hm,” she hums, biting your neck gently. “I know. Don’t hold it back.”

You feel your stomach twist, tightening so hard it’s almost painful.

Her pace doesn’t stop—just steady, insistent, and precise. And her lips are still on you, still kissing and sucking like she needs it. 

When you cum, it hits you so your mind blanks with all the frustration. Your body arches, thighs quaking, jaw falling open with a cry you can’t hold back. Valeria's name, again and again.

She groans in your ear. "You’re so good for me. So fuckin' perfect like this."

She holds you through it—rocking her fingers through the aftershocks, until you're twitching from oversensitivity and burying your face in her neck, panting like you’ve just run a marathon.

And she’s still smiling. Smirking.

"Feel better now, mi amor?"

She kisses your cheek.

Then your jaw.

You look at her, your cheeks warm, flushed and red. "Valeria, what the fuck was—"

Then she cuts you off, chin right between your tits, smug as hell.

"Because I do."

♡ Please do not modify, steal, plagarise or post on other platforms without asking. Thank you!

[alittlegiraffe]

"Never That" - Part 3

It started small.

Marshall had been scrolling on his phone, half paying attention to the game on TV, when he noticed it. The little notification under your latest Instagram post.

Chad liked your photo.

He frowned.

Chad—the same idiot who had been running his mouth alongside Tabitha, the same clown who had laughed about making you insecure—was liking your posts?

Marshall ignored it at first. Maybe the dude was just watching, seeing how bad he and his girl had gotten dragged online after the diss track dropped. Maybe he was just lurking, trying to save face.

But then it happened again. And again.

Your old posts. Pictures from months ago.

And it wasn’t just likes. He was watching your stories, too. Every single one.

Marshall was still frowning at his phone when you walked into the room, freshly showered, wrapped up in one of his hoodies. You flopped down beside him on the couch, tucking yourself against his side like you always did.

He barely reacted. Still staring at his screen.

You noticed immediately.

“What?” You nudged him. “Why do you look like that?”

Marshall gritted his teeth, then turned the phone to show you. “This motherfucker’s all over your page.”

You blinked at the screen, taking in the flood of likes from Chad. You snorted. “Oh, come on, he’s just creeping. Let him embarrass himself.”

Marshall’s jaw clenched. “Yeah, well, he better quit before he embarrasses himself off the internet.”

You rolled your eyes, but a small smile played on your lips. ���Babe, it’s fine. He’s just being weird.”

Marshall wasn’t convinced. But you kissed his cheek, distracting him, and eventually, he let it go.

Until the next day.

When you checked your phone and saw a DM notification from someone you never expected.

Chad: Hey, I just wanna talk.

Your stomach dropped.

You stared at the message, completely frozen.

“What the fuck?” you muttered under your breath.

Marshall, who had just walked into the room, immediately picked up on your tone. “What?”

You turned the screen toward him, still in disbelief. “He—he messaged me.”

Marshall went still.

Then—

“You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

You had never seen him move that fast.

Before you could even process what was happening, Marshall snatched the phone from your hand.

You barely had time to blink before he was scrolling, tapping, opening the DM like it was his business—because, let’s be real, when it came to you, everything was his business.

His jaw clenched so tight you swore you heard his teeth grind. His thumb hovered over the keyboard like he was this close to firing off something that would make the dude regret ever touching his phone.

“Marshall—” You reached for your phone, but he jerked back, blue eyes blazing.

“Nah,” he growled, his grip tightening. “Nah, what the fuck does this dude think he’s doin’? Messaging you like—” He cut himself off, shaking his head, his breathing already getting heavier. “He really wants me to fuckin’ kill him, huh?”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “I don’t even know what to say to him.”

“You ain’t sayin’ shit,” Marshall shot back. “You ain’t gotta say a damn thing to this desperate-ass motherfucker.” He scrolled back up, glaring at the message like it had personally offended him. “What the fuck does he even mean by this? ‘I just wanna talk’—talk about what? How he’s a fuckin’ loser? How his girl lied and got him caught up in some shit that ain’t got nothin’ to do with him?”

You sighed. “I don’t know, babe. Maybe he just—”

“I swear to God, if you say ‘maybe he just wants to clear the air,’ I’m gonna lose my shit,” Marshall muttered, shaking his head. “He’s been creepin’ on your page for days, and now he’s slidin’ in your DMs like some fuckin’ weirdo? He ain’t tryin’ to ‘clear the air.’”

You chewed your lip, watching the way his fingers twitched like he was debating between blocking Chad or typing something dangerous.

“You’re really mad about this,” you murmured.

Marshall snapped his eyes up to yours. “You serious right now?” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “This motherfucker was just talkin’ reckless about you a few days ago, and now he’s in your messages? You don’t see how that’s a problem?”

You sighed. “I mean, yeah, but—”

“Ain’t no but,” he cut in. “He’s lucky I ain’t already buried his dumb ass for what he said before.”

You exhaled through your nose, reaching up to brush your fingers along his jaw, hoping to calm the tension there. “So what do we do?”

Marshall’s eyes flickered to yours. Then back to the phone.

Then—he smirked.

A slow, dangerous smirk that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Oh, I got somethin’ for this motherfucker,” he muttered, already opening his own phone.

You swallowed. “Marshall…”

He just looked at you, that sharp glint still in his eye.

“Nah, baby,” he said, voice dripping with promise. “Let me handle this.”

You could see it happening. The shift in Marshall’s whole body, the way his muscles tensed like a predator that just caught scent of something worth hunting.

He was ready.

Ready to unleash hell, ready to rip Chad apart with words that would make him rethink his entire existence.

But you weren’t about to let that happen.

With a quiet sigh, you reached for him, slipping your fingers under his hoodie, tracing along his stomach. “Babe,” you murmured, pressing your lips just under his jaw, “he’s not worth it.”

Marshall barely reacted at first, his mind still locked on what he was about to do.

So you tried again.

“Come on,” you whispered, trailing soft kisses down his neck, letting your body mold against his. “You got better things to do.”

His breath hitched, his fingers twitching around the phone. You could feel him wavering, the heat of him, the way his focus started to shift.

Finally, his grip loosened, and he let out a slow exhale. “You tryna distract me?”

“Obviously.” You pulled him down into a kiss, slow and deep, making damn sure he forgot whatever brutal response he was crafting.

His hands slid to your waist, gripping tight, and for a second, you thought you’d won.

Until your phone buzzed again.

Your lips barely parted from his when you both heard it. The soft ding cutting through the air like a gunshot.

You felt him tense immediately.

Still tangled together, you reached blindly for your phone, already dreading whatever fresh bullshit Chad had sent.

And then you saw it.

Chad: Look, if you're sick of being messed around on, I’d be loyal to a chick like you.

Your stomach dropped.

Marshall’s whole body locked up.

For a second, everything went silent.

Then—

“… Oh, fuck no.”

Before you could stop him, before you could even think, Marshall snatched your phone, sat up, and grinned.

A slow, vicious grin.

“Nah,” he said, voice low, dangerous. “I’m done ignoring this motherfucker.”

“Marshall, don’t—”

Too late.

He was already typing.

You tried to grab your phone back, but he angled his body away, his grip ironclad. His blue eyes were locked onto the screen, sharp and furious, his jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscles twitch.

You scrambled up, straddling his lap again in an effort to distract him, but this time, it wasn’t working.

“What are you even gonna say?” you asked, half-exasperated, half-nervous.

Marshall didn’t look up. “Somethin’ that makes sure this dumbass never even thinks about you again.”

You sighed, pressing your hands against his chest. “Baby, please—”

Your phone dinged.

Marshall stiffened.

You didn’t even want to look.

Still, he tapped the notification, opening another DM from Chad.

Chad: For real, though. You deserve better. If you ever wanna talk, you got my number now.

Marshall let out a short, dark laugh. The kind that sent chills down your spine.

“Oh, you wanna talk, huh?” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

Before you could stop him, he switched to voice memos, hit record, and—

“Listen up, dumbfuck,” he growled. “I don’t know what the fuck made you think you could slide into my wife’s DMs like you got a shot, but let me make this real fuckin’ clear—she don’t see you, she don’t want you, and you better keep my wife’s name outta your mouth before I make sure you can’t open it again.”

He stopped the recording, hit send, and smirked as it delivered.

Your eyes went wide. “Marshall!”

He finally looked up at you, and despite the fire still burning in his expression, there was something smug in his smirk.

“What?” he said, gripping your waist like he wasn’t about to just fight a man through a phone. “He needed to be put in his place.”

You groaned, burying your face in his shoulder. “You’re so lucky I love you.”

Marshall chuckled, rubbing slow circles against your lower back. “I know.”

Your phone dinged again.

You both glanced down.

Chad: Yo chill, I ain’t mean no disrespect.

Marshall grinned.

You sighed.

“See?” he murmured, trailing his fingers up your spine. “Handled.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, you and Marshall had a completely normal day.

No drama, no stress, no bullshit. Just the two of you, enjoying each other like nothing outside of your little world even existed.

Marshall had taken you out for a drive, blasting old-school rap while you laughed and sang along. He’d pulled into your favorite burger joint, making a big deal about how “Shady doesn’t wait in lines” before begrudgingly standing with you like a normal person.

He’d kept a hand on you the entire time. An arm slung over your shoulders, fingers brushing along the back of your neck—like he needed you close after all the shit from the past few days.

And you? You needed that, too.

By the time night rolled in, you were exhausted, curled up on the bed while Marshall moved around the room, pulling off his hoodie, getting ready to crash.

That’s when you made the mistake of opening Instagram.

You weren’t even thinking about Chad. The whole situation had felt done, buried in the afternoon, lost somewhere between a milkshake and Marshall making you laugh so hard you almost choked.

But there it was.

Your stomach tightened as you scrolled through your notifications, seeing his name again.

Chad.

And he’d been busy.

He’d been posting old pictures of you. Some from Marshall’s own page, others clearly dug up from fan accounts. Photos from red carpets, from casual outings, even some that were just candids of you watching Marshall perform.

And under each one, the captions got worse.

"Yo guys, Shady's girl is 🥵🥵🥵."

"How long before she’s bored of his cheatin’ ass?"

Your heart stopped.

Your fingers tightened around your phone as a cold, sinking feeling settled in your chest.

Cheating?

You knew it wasn’t true. Knew it. But the fact that Chad was saying it, pushing it out to the world like it was fact, like he knew something—

“Babe, you comin’ to bed or what?”

You jolted, nearly dropping your phone.

Marshall stood by the dresser, watching you with his hoodie still bunched in his hands, his brows pulling together the second he saw your face.

“What’s wrong?” His voice lost its casual edge, shifting into something more serious in an instant.

You hesitated, your grip tightening around the phone.

You knew how he’d react. You knew this would set him off again—

And honestly?

You weren’t sure you wanted to stop him this time.

Before Marshall could even open his mouth, you moved quickly, your instincts kicking in before the situation could escalate again.

You set your phone down for just a second, pushing yourself off the bed, and before he could ask what you were doing, you straddled his lap, trapping him against the headboard. Your hands found his face, pulling him toward you, and you locked lips with him in a kiss that was both desperate and full of assurance.

Marshall let out a low sound, surprised, but immediately responsive, his hands gripping your waist as you deepened the kiss, your tongues moving together like they’d done a thousand times before.

You didn’t give him time to process. While your lips were still locked with his, you reached for your phone, grabbing it off the bed and holding it at an angle just high enough to catch both of you in the frame. You were on fire—fingers tangled in his hair, a possessive grip on his face, your wedding band catching the light as it glittered in the photo.

In one fluid motion, you snapped the photo, never breaking the kiss. You held it for a beat, letting the quiet between you stretch, before pulling back just enough to smile softly at him.

“Shady’s Girl,” you whispered under your breath, the words heavy with meaning as you typed them in the caption.

His eyes locked onto yours, wild and heated, his chest rising and falling in the aftermath of your kiss. There was a flicker of disbelief, then something else—something softer—when he saw what you had just done.

“Damn,” Marshall muttered, brushing his thumb along your cheek. “You didn’t waste any time.”

You smirked, a touch of pride swelling inside of you. “I’m not gonna let some idiot make me feel small, Marshall.”

He grinned, his fingers still tangled in your hair. “I never thought you would.”

With the photo sent, you didn’t wait for a reply. You simply melted into him, burying your face in his neck, feeling his strong arms come around you in a way that made everything feel right. Secure.

This was the only validation you needed.

The phone buzzed on the bed, but you didn’t care. You just kept kissing him, letting him prove, once again, that no one would ever come between the two of you. No one.

The room felt heavy with silence, but it was the kind of silence that came with contentment. Marshall’s arms around you were a steady, grounding force, and for a moment, everything in the world outside of the two of you just… stopped.

You pulled back, just enough to look at him, your fingers still tracing the lines of his jaw. His eyes were soft now, no longer filled with the storm that had raged earlier. There was something different in his gaze, something that settled between the two of you—comfort and trust in the midst of everything else.

Marshall’s hand moved from your waist to gently lift your chin, his thumb brushing across your bottom lip. “You good?”

You nodded, a small smile curling at your lips. “Better than good.” You leaned in again, just a soft press of lips to his. “I don’t care what anyone says, Marshall. I’m yours. Always have been.”

His eyes darkened, but not in anger—in desire. He gripped your waist and lifted you slightly, pulling you closer as if he couldn’t get enough of you. His lips were hungry as they met yours, demanding, but gentle at the same time.

Then, the phone buzzed again.

You groaned, breaking the kiss for a moment, but Marshall was having none of it. “Don’t worry about it,” he murmured against your lips, voice a low rasp. “Whoever the fuck that is can wait.”

You didn’t protest.

Instead, you grabbed your phone, glancing at it briefly. It was from Instagram.

You opened the notification and saw a flood of messages on the post you’d made. Comments of support, from fans, from friends, from people who’d seen your marriage and knew what it was about. Then there were the haters, the ones who still couldn’t understand why Marshall would want you, or why you’d stick around with someone like him. But none of that mattered right now.

What did matter was the small group of messages that stood out—the ones that made you smile. The ones from your close friends, the ones who knew your truth and had your back no matter what the world thought.

One message caught your eye, a direct one from someone you hadn’t seen in a while.

“This is what love looks like. Ignore the noise. You two are fire.”

You didn’t even think twice. You slid the phone over to Marshall’s side, letting him see it for a second before your attention was fully on him again.

“See?” you whispered, kissing his neck. “I don’t need to let him have power over me.”

Marshall’s hands cupped your face, his eyes soft but fierce as he spoke. “You never have, baby. Not for one second.”

There was a long pause, but it was comfortable, warm. You felt his lips curl into a grin as his hand slid down your back. “You know, though… I’m not gonna let that clown keep playing in your comments.”

You chuckled, shifting to lie beside him on the bed, feeling his body come to rest against yours. His arm draped over your waist, pulling you close.

“You sure you don’t wanna say something else to him?” you teased, letting your fingers trace the edges of his tattooed arm.

Marshall sighed, clearly pleased with himself. “Nah. I said what I needed to say.” His voice dropped low, the hint of a smirk still lingering. “Besides, I think he’s learned his lesson. I’m not the one to fuck with when it comes to you.”

You chuckled softly, curling into him. “I’m glad you’re on my side.”

His voice was full of sincerity when he spoke next. “I’m always on your side, baby. No matter what.”

And for the first time in a long time, as the soft hum of the night filled the room, you finally felt at peace. You were his, and he was yours, and nothing anyone said or did could ever take that from you.

The next morning, you woke up feeling lighter than you had in days.

Marshall was still asleep beside you, his arm thrown lazily over your waist, his breathing deep and steady. You smiled to yourself, brushing a hand through his messy blond hair before carefully slipping out of bed.

The house was quiet as you made your way to the kitchen, grabbing your phone and a cup of coffee before settling onto the couch.

You weren’t even thinking about last night’s drama—at least, not until you opened Instagram.

The second you refreshed your feed, you saw it.

Chad was getting destroyed.

You nearly choked on your coffee as you scrolled through the comments on his latest post.

Apparently, sometime in the middle of the night, he’d tried to save face, posting a blurry mirror selfie with a long-ass caption about how people were “taking things out of context” and how he was “just stating facts” because “Shady’s got a history.”

Bad move.

Marshall’s fans were relentless.

@Stan4Life: Bro, you really thought you could come for Shady’s wife and walk away unscathed? LMAO

@RapGodsOnly: "History"??? Where??? Post the proof, Chad. We’ll wait.

@MMLP_Stan: "Shady’s Girl" really got you in your feelings, huh? 😂😂

@KillshotIncoming: You’re just mad your girl was a side quest, and Shady’s still winning.

You snorted, scrolling down further, watching as thousands of fans flooded his comments with clown emojis, memes, and every single diss track Marshall had ever dropped.

There were gifs of Marshall smirking. Screenshots of your post, captioned with “Stay mad.” Even old clips of him going off in interviews about loyalty.

And the best part?

Chad was trying to argue back, but it wasn’t working.

Every time he responded, someone else would hit him with a lyric, a joke, or just straight-up facts about how he was the one looking desperate.

You shook your head, biting back a grin. Marshall’s fans were a different breed.

Just then, you heard a low, groggy voice behind you.

“What’s got you smilin’ this early?”

You turned to see Marshall leaning in the doorway, shirtless, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

You smirked, holding up your phone. “Your fans are handling Chad for you.”

He frowned slightly, walking over to sit beside you, eyes scanning your screen as you showed him the comments.

A slow grin spread across his face. “Damn. They really goin’ in.”

You laughed. “You’re surprised?”

“Nah,” he muttered, stretching his arms behind his head. “They don’t fuck around when it comes to me. Or you.”

You settled against his side, scrolling a little more before locking your phone. “Guess that means we don’t have to say anything else, huh?”

Marshall hummed, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Nope. Let the Stans handle it.”

And just like that, the situation was handled—without either of you even lifting a finger.

[mooncello]

2024 in review

Alright, there's a handful of hours left in 2024. So many of you have tagged me which is lovely. Hi. So much brilliant and amazing work has been created and shared this year. As well as countless kind comments and fic recs and supportive messages and general community.

My roundup will be a little different. I'm not gonna focus on numbers or word counts. Instead, I thought I'd focus on the most unexpected and delightful surprise that happened this year: Dev and Niall.

I never dreamed that these two would show up in a Snowbaz fic (lost boys) and I'd become so enamored with them that I'd no longer want to write anyone else in the fandom. Ok, this is a slight exaggeration but only just.

So, here is my 2024 by way of Niall and Dev:

(under the cut because I can't write short things, even tumblr posts)

I started the year with the posting of lost boys. A weird, dark merging of Snowbaz and Neverland. I hope to finish this fic in 2025.

Here's how Niall showed up in lost boys (Baz POV):

I look up to see a boy. He has an absolute mess of shaggy brown hair, his eyes are kind, and there’s paint on his fingertips. “You seem to be the most sane person here,” the boy says, and lowers himself into the seat across from me in the school canteen. I raise an eyebrow at him. “Looks can be deceiving. Maybe I’m completely mad.” He laughs at this. A soft, gentle sound. “Most artists are. I’m Niall.”

And Dev:

There’s the solid thump of a hand against my shoulder and the dramatic collapse of tall, muscular limbs into the seat beside me. “My favourite nerd. How’s it going, cuz?” Dev flashes his white, perfect teeth at me before snatching my remaining bourbon biscuit. His fingernails are painted turquoise today, his dark hair is swept away from his face, and he’s wearing eyeliner. The bastard looks amazing. Despite being cousins, we never really hung out as kids. Always kept to different social circles. Which is to say Dev constantly had a roving pack of friends, and I had nobody (save for the lost boys in my dreams). But when I got outed this past spring, Dev decided to take a more active presence in my life. He even convinced me to join the football team with him. He’s charismatic and popular in his own way, and so unabashedly and loudly himself that even the nastiest bullies don’t bother him. It's been nice, having Dev in my life. Even though it means I now deal with his chaotic, abrasive personality all the goddamn time.

Around this time, I was also drafting my COBB tripping over stars, a celebrity AU with skateboarder Simon and model/influencer Baz Pitch. (I have no idea if I'll finish this one. I want to; we'll see.) Niall and Dev showed up again in very different roles. This time Niall was a competent asf talent manager, and Dev his in-the-background supportive partner. I love this Niall so much. He's so feisty.

There's the clicking of smart brogues across the wood floor, and Niall appears in my line of vision, his gold-brown eyes blazing at something behind me ... As both my talent manager and personal friend, Niall is a goddamn force. And people think I’m the ruthless one. (Maybe on the runway. No, definitely on the runway. But everywhere else it's Niall Niall Niall.) “Sweetie, what’s the problem?” I ask Niall. I’m still slouched in the ancient chair, my arse so numb I’ll need an extra-long bath tonight, and I feel the beginnings of a migraine coming on. “I’m fixing it,” Niall returns crisply, and I swear his eyebrow quirk is now superior to mine. The traitor. His breath is minty which means he’s been chewing wintergreen Altoids nonstop. Which means he’s either very stressed or trying very hard not to smoke. Probably both.

And here's a fun lil something from the unpublished, unfinished chapter 3:

“Shit. Fuck.” Niall’s fingers are flying across his phone. “Okay, okay, here’s what we’re going to do. Dev’s going to take you home. Wash up. Stay off your phone. Do not post a single goddamn thing. Do not engage with any post, any comment. Do not answer phone calls or emails. I’m going to stay here and get more information.” There’s the muffled clacking of dress loafers on porcelain tile, and my head snaps up to see Dev running down the long hallway towards us. He takes one look at me, and his eyes light up in a kind of horrified-transfixed combination. “Hell’s teeth, Basil. You look like the first murder victim in a horror movie.” He smirks. “Or a really sloppy vampire.” “Can you not,” I growl. My skin starts to burn and itch. I need to get this foul shit off me now. “Take him home.” Niall tosses his car keys to Dev without looking up from his phone. I can hear the soft rumble of guests in the grand foyer through the wall. Niall suddenly glances up, skin pinched between his eyebrows. “No, wait, pap will show up there. Take him to mine. Discreetly.” “You got it, babe,” Dev drawls. Niall returns his attention to his phone, and says in a tight voice, “Dev, darling, this is serious.” Dev rolls his eyes. “I know.” Then he loops his fingers around my non-splattered arm. “C’mon Nosferatu, we can sneak out the rear exit.”

I got majorly blocked on both of these fics during the spring. I had no clue where to take either. I blew up my original outlines because they didn't feel right. Like ... I was way more interested in how Niall and Dev met in the celebrity AU and began daydreaming their story more than Simon and Baz. 🤔

Around this time I saw a carry on prompt on tumblr for a Dev and Niall fic in which they play matchmaker to Simon and Baz. And the seed was planted for more than a footnote.

more than a footnote started as a lark. It was supposed to be six chapters, 12k max, silly, fluffy, ridiculous, not serious. A palate cleanser if you will, until I got clarity on my other two wips. HA. This fic has captured my entire heart, and it is my absolute favorite thing I've ever written. Niall and Dev get to be center stage, and it's been such fun to flesh these characters out.

From Niall's POV:

Dev has always been comfortable in his body. He’s open and confident in a way that makes my chest ache. I wish I were more like that, but I’m sinew and bone whereas Dev is polish and muscle. Half the time I feel like something the cat drags in, and Dev, well … Dev’s the cat.

And:

The truth is: Dev is stunningly beautiful. He’s got one of those faces you want to stare at. Dark, liquid eyes and sharp angles. Expressive mouth. Then you add his piercings and eyeliner and nail polish and … overall Dev-ness and— Like, yeah, I get his appeal. But his looks are only a sliver of who he is. People don’t actually know him, and I kinda hate how much everyone talks about his abs and his cock, and not about him as, you know, an actual person. Because he’s really cool, with wicked intuition and an absolutely mad sense of humour. Underneath all his swagger, he’s deeply good.

And from Dev's POV:

What was I supposed to say anyway? That I’m looking at him, always? That I want him? I’ve had months to think about it, and my list just keeps growing longer. Of what I wish I had the balls to say that night. You should never spell your irises blue because your big brown eyes are enough to make me commit forbidden magic, if you asked. Your hair keeps getting darker each year. So the ginger kid I met at the Crucible now has brown hair threaded with copper, and when the sunlight catches it, I kinda want time to stop because it’s one of the prettiest fucking things I’ve ever seen. Your smile could power the sun. It sure as fuck controls my breathing. You’re real and honest without even trying. And you have the weirdest sense of humour. You make me laugh. You always have. You’re my favourite person. Ever.

Yeah. I love these guys.

And can I just say that DeNiall stans are the best? So many of you have left the most amazing comments on mtaf, and I've enjoyed chatting with you as each chapter's gone up. @rimeswithpurple made gorgeous fanart from chapter 3 and the cutest, most colorful DeNiall friendship bracelet I wear all the time. And @monbons MADE DEV AND NIALL DOLLS. Which I still can't get over. Just last night I saw my snowflake exchange gift from @iamamythologicalcreature who illustrated fanart from chapter 1. I am speechless; it is so very beautiful.

And finally, to get ridiculously sentimental on main: I've loved this fic more than I thought possible, in large part, because I got to know @valeffelees through the writing of it. Words are gonna fail me, dude, so I'm just gonna say that your friendship is one of the best things from this year. HOW'S THAT FOR PUBLIC AFFECTION. Are we puking yet?

a few stray thoughts:

while I love collabs and fests (I had a lot of fun collaborating with @iamamythologicalcreature on lost boys and @shemakesmeforget on tripping over stars), I've definitely (unfortunately) learned that time-constrained fests are not my friends. I want to participate in them, but my brain is very unpredictable and I end up stressed and worried about disappointing people, like my collaborators and mods. As I write this, I'm painfully aware of how very late my exchange gift is gonna be. But I've given my recipient a heads up and I swear the wait will be worth it. 🩵

I feel like I'm a slow writer. Perhaps speed is subjective. I do know that I have so many ideas bursting at the seams of my brain, and I often wonder what my creative output would be like if I didn't have my mental health shit to contend with. I spent entire weeks frozen this year, deep in my cave, unable to touch my writing projects. For someone for whom creativity is essential in feeling fully human, it sucks to have that part of myself unreachable. Urgency is a construct of capitalism so I'm trying to resist that wretched sense that I'm losing time, falling behind, etc, while I still have so much that only exists in my mind, desperate to be shared w others. Fics, original novels, screenplays, on and on. A filmmaker friend of mine gave me the advice: Don't plot it out. Trust the process. And nature reminds me all the time to allow things the time they need. You can't force it. Fuck, it's easier to say all that than actually let it settle into my bones. But I'm trying.

A spot of brightness: All of you. This community. As others have already mentioned in their roundups, truly the best part of the past year has been the relationships. I cannot list everyone but you know who you are. I didn't know I could be known and cared for in this way. I've been writing on my own for a very long time, and it feels deliriously good to write in community. To have friends and betas and cheerleaders, and to be these in return. Like, what the fuck. I'm never gonna write in isolation again.

Ngl I'm heading into the new year with large amounts of trepidation. It's gonna get even scarier than it already is for several vulnerable populations here in the US, including my trans community. But I also have a rooted focus and clarity. I'm gonna keep writing queer love stories. I'm going to nurture queer and trans community in my town. I'm gonna keep hanging out with all of you. Y'all make the world better and brighter, more honest and brilliant. Love ya. 🩵

thank you for the tags: @run-for-chamo-miles, @drowninginships, @artsyunderstudy, @emeryhall, @monbons

@rimeswithpurple, @ileadacharmedlife, @alexalexinii, @best--dress, @you-remind-me-of-the-babe

@imagineacoolusername, @skeedelvee

tagging: @valeffelees @blackberrysummerblog @orange-peony @youarenevertooold @shrekgogurt

@hushed-chorus, @whatevertheweather, @cutestkilla @iamamythologicalcreature,

@bookish-bogwitch @thewholelemon @brilla-brilla-estrellita, @larkral @messofthejess

[gilbirda]

Desired

I was talking again about my Eldritch Ghost King Danny AU and was encouraged (I didn't need a lot of encouragement to be honest) to post some never-released to the public chunks of the main fic. One day I'll finish writing it and post it neat and structured on AO3, but today is not the day.

Context for this fic: Masterpost

--- Wordcount: 2712-----

Storming the Observants headquarters was easy. The majority of them were scholars of some kind, archivist, recording history and the future, studying it.

The real threat was behind the huge doors Clockwork guided him to. He threw them open, relishing the screams and gasps once the meeting inside came to a halt at his interruption.

“You are not scheduled to come here until a few more days,” a ghost eyeball with some kind of suit on approached them, a clipboard in their hands. They looked nervous, and their eye went back to the head of the Observants glaring at the halfa at the door.

“Then make time,” Danny pushed through. The poor ghost jumped and froze, clearly not used to people coming guns blazing into a meeting. “Heeeyyy,” the teenager floated down the stairs, ignoring the ghosts sitting around the circle of chairs in the middle. “Did you miss me?”

“Daniel Phantom.” The leader of the Observants, who he came to learn was called Larry (well, more like La’arriem, but he decided to call him Larry), stood from his chair furthest from the door. “You are not welcomed here.”

“Oh, yeah?” His smile was feral, and his eyes shone with a mad glint. “I thought I was, you know, since I’m apparently the Ghost King.”

He slammed his hands on the long circular table, ignoring the gasps of the ghosts around him.

“Cease this behaviour.” Larry narrowed his eye.

“So you don’t deny it?” Danny looked up towards the ghosts adjourned, recognizing some familiar faces, not all of them friendly. “And what’s with the meeting? Making rules behind my royal back?”

Larry made a gesture and stopped the guard who was approaching them. “No, this is not of matters that concern you, since you aren’t yet the King.”

“Aren’t I?” He tried not to show confusion.

Larry caught on his hesitation. “Until the coronation you are not, officially, the King.”

“Then let’s get on with it!” All this suspense was killing him. If he was going to throw his life out the window anyway, he may as well do it now.

But the Observants were shaking their heads (eyes?) at him. Larry sounded mocking when he answered. “You are not ready. The king must be prepared before the ceremony. That’s what we summoned you for.”

Danny felt a shiver down his spine. This sounded more and more like a cult. What would they force him to do? Meditate under a waterfall? Fast? No thank you.

“Skip it.”

Larry looked around the hall before sighing, accepting that there was no way they could solve this quietly.

“No.”

Danny punched the table and the papers and artifacts strewn over it flew away. “If this is some kind of power play…”

“It is not, I assure you.” Larry floated up one artifact that fell from the table. It was some kind of rock with a weird aura, now that Danny noticed. It called him, feeling familiar. “We were actually discussing the plan for your… training.”

When Larry and the Observants looked at the audience Danny looked as well, catching Dora and Frostbite sitting together, waving enthusiastically at him. A ghost in greek armor nodded at him, but Danny didn’t recognize him — must have been someone from New Greece, Pandora’s realm. He also saw Desiree talking with a group of female ghosts he didn’t recognize at the back of the hall, and if she saw him she didn’t make it known.

“Do you recognize this?” Another Observant’s voice made him look back at the center of the hall, and at the ghosts in front of him. Danny didn’t know this ghost, but he knew they followed Larry everywhere. 

Danny looked at their hands. The artifact. “No.”

Some Observants shared a look, and Larry snickered. “You should.”

“Why?”

“It’s the Ghost Zone’s Core. Or at least part of it.”

Phantom looked down again. It was just a rock. It glowed, but that’s it — it was like everything else in the Ghost Zone. “It’s a rock.”

Some murmurs filled the hall. The lapdog Observant looked up at Larry for support.

“It’s part of the Zone itself. This artifact was handed to us by the revered Ancients a long time ago, to watch over the Realms’ desires in their stead as they looked for a new King.”

Danny blinked. He tried to imagine it as something fantastical and amazing. “It’s just a rock.”

Larry started trembling in rage, hitting the floor with a staff that had been resting against the table. “Silence!” He screamed at the audience before turning back towards the halfa. “Child, your disrespect shouldn’t be left unpunished, but for learning purposes I will let a demonstration prove you wrong.” Larry made a gesture and the other Observant put the rock in his waiting hand. “Oh revered Core, please, show us your power.”

The rock started shining on command.

“Huh.”

Larry glared at Phantom. “Revered Core, please, do you recognize this ghost?” He asked clearly, approaching Danny with the rock. The shine, which had been soft, morphed into a full glow as if it was some kind of star. Being so close, the Observants, Danny and Clockwork had to cover their eyes with a hand.

“So it does respond to questions, huh.” He leaned down and smiled when the rock’s glow lowered to a soft shimmer, pulsing like a heartbeat. “Yo, are you happy with the eyeballs?”

The glow dimmed. The Core wasn’t happy.

“Interesting,” he took the rock from the other ghost’s hand and floated backwards, away from the eyeball trying to retrieve the chunk of rock. “Was everything that the eyeballs say true?”

The Core started pulsing rapidly, as if it were nodding to his question. Okay, so the Observants didn’t steal the artifact and were appointed by the Ancients after Pariah’s defeat.

Danny floated a bit further, dodging Larry. “Core, do you know why the eyeballs stalled my coronation?”

The rock’s glow dimmed to a barely noticeable shine, unsure of how to answer his question. Right, yes or no questions were better.

“Do you think I can be King?” Danny did a flip, his ghostly tail gracing an Observant’s hand trying to grab him. 

The rock’s shine went overdrive, vibrating in his hands.

“Do you think I will be happy being King?” He landed, not sure why he asked that question. Before the Core could answer like some kind of magic 8 ball, it was ripped from his hands.

“Enough!” Larry fumed, withdrawing the rock to his chest, as far as he could from Danny. “Stop this nonsense.”

“Why? I need to get to know the Core of the place I am meant to rule, right?” He laughed, but his heart wasn’t in it.

“You will not ‘get to know’ anything! Not, at least, until we deem you prepared to—”

“Then why wait? Why not now?” he crossed his arms over his chest. “You could have told me and started ‘preparations’ when I defeated Dark.”

“Because—”

“Or, even better,” he walked up to Larry, ignoring the low glow of the Core in the ghost’s arms. “If you wanted to wait you could wait until I graduated high school, no? Just a few years and I would even be happy to oblige.”

“Because you are an insolent brat!” Larry declared to the silent hall. Someone coughed uncomfortably. “Child, you are the last ghost we would choose for this! Oh, believe me, if it were up to me, you would have been executed like you deserve!”

“But you won’t.”

Larry growled, giving a look at Clockwork, who found the whole situation amusing. “For some reason that escapes us, the Zone has chosen you over the other candidate.”

Danny knew this but had to ask. “Who was the other candidate?”

“You know who he is,” Larry straightened his back, the artifact safely in his hands. “Vlad Plasmius.”

The reaction was immediate. The Core turned pitch black, vibrating with an emotion that one could even call fury. Not fear, not dislike — the Core despised Vlad.

Huh. At least they had that in common, Danny appreciated.

He looked up at Larry. “How can you say he is a better alternative? Vlad only wants more power to conquer the whole Zone!” He turned towards the audience and the other Observants. “If it were up to him, all of you would be stripped of your freedom if he decides you’re in the way of his conquest.”

“But he is more experienced than you. He knows the Realms, more than you. Our customs, our ways,” Larry narrowed his eye, ignoring the angry rock in his hands. “You, on the other hand, are just a child. You would only lead us into chaos!”

“Is your fear of the unknown so deep that you would choose a tyrant over me?”

“Plasmius is not a tyrant. At least he can be reasoned with. Not like a brat like you.”

Danny couldn’t believe his ears. “Excuse me? Do we know different Vlad Plasmius?” He waited for Larry to admit he was just kidding, but it never happened. “Vladdie would decimate you the first thing if he becomes king.”

“Impossible. He appreciates the order we keep in this institution.” Larry puffed his chest.

“And he told you this himself, right,” Larry didn’t nod, but it was implied. “Ok, then you are more stupid than I thought you were.”

He grabbed the rock again when Larry stuttered at the insult. “Tell me, Core,” he stage-whispered at the still black stone. Apparently it didn’t like all the Plasmius talk. “Are the Observants stupid for believing Plasmius?”

The rock changed colors to a soft yellow and vibrated, amused. “Thought so.” He nodded and looked back at the audience. “Please, never trust Plasmius. He will stab you in the back at the first notice. I know many of you don’t know me, but I assure you that he would not be a good alternative as King.”

“It doesn’t matter,” a bored ghost interceded from the crowd. Danny didn’t know who it was. “The Core has chosen you no matter if we like it or not.”

On cue, the rock changed colors to green, pulsing and vibrating with desire in Danny’s hands. The halfa almost could hear a whisper in the back of his mind, pure desire, a visceral want of him, his body and his mind. The Core wanted him. Pretty words, but faced with what he could sense from the piece of rock in his hands, he wanted to throw it away and never look back.

He had never been desired or felt desire at this level. It rubbed him the wrong way. It was borderline sexual, how the Core seemed to want him as theirs, as the King — a desire so primal and animalistic that scared him.

Danny licked his lips, turning towards the Observants. “What if I say no?” He knew the answer as well, but he needed to hear it again. He really didn’t want to be King.

Larry looked worried, but relieved. Maybe he sensed that Danny was scared of what he felt from the piece of Core. 

“Destruction. Chaos. The end of the Realms,” he walked towards a book resting on the floor, one of the documents that fell when he hit the table. “It has been recorded by previous kings that they received… visions from the Realms, messages, possibilities of what could have been or could be. One recorded such a vision of what could happen if the Zone is left without a King for too long.” Larry searched for the passage he was referring to and started reading. 

[...] and I saw a black void, hunger, eating everything and everyone away. Such pain and destruction [...]. Unhappiness, the weight of absence of light and a center, a pivot from where the Core would anchor in, only the ultimate unmaking of the Realms was what was left of us.

“Some parts have been lost in the translations, but the message is clear, child. The Realms cannot exist without a king for too long and we are already at the limit.” He closed the book with a thud, the sound too loud in the suddenly quiet room. “This cannot wait until it is convenient for you.” Larry said the word in mockery.

Danny looked down at the chunk of Core, pondering. He knew he didn’t actually have a choice — he couldn’t just leave the Realms to die so he could have a normal life for a few decades and die in a fight.

Centuries.

He would instead reign for millennia, become something else, leave behind his life as he knew it. No big deal. In his mind’s eye he saw his friends and family, Jazz smiling at his show of responsibility. He could almost hear her go on in a spiel about growth and maturity. He chuckled quietly.

There was really no other way, huh? His future that once had been so uncertain now was taking shape in a way he never imagined, set in stone before he even knew what was happening. Decided for him before he knew the implications.

He didn’t want to be king, but he could try. He had the power of friendship and love on his side, right? What could go wrong?

Oh… maybe he shouldn’t have thought that. Jinxing this so early on was a bad idea.

Whatever.

Danny sighed. He knew there was no way in hell he was going to let the Infinite Realms crumble and perish just because he was sixteen and wasn’t sure about his future.

“Okay,” the word was heavy in his mouth, his hands playing with the shiny piece of Core. “Then I accept.”

One blink and you miss it — he found himself in another place, maybe even another time, maybe another realm. He saw a man, tall, muscular, with an imposing figure. The man wore dark and spiky armor, with shoulder guards that resemble animal skulls, a giant white cape clasped over his chest with a black chain waving in an invisible breeze, and in his hand he could clearly see the Ring. He looked up, knowing what he would find.

His own face. Older, more defined, once the baby fat is gone and years have eaten away his innocence. He looks a bit like Dan.

But his eyes. His eyes were different. They weren't red, or angry, or even vicious. His bright green eyes looked gentle and gracious, even with the unnerving absence of pupils or irises. They were all green, toxic green, with flowing green smoke pouring out of the sockets, the wispy ends curling up. The kindness he found in them was familiar.

The not-Dan tilted his head forward and smiled. On his head, among impossibly long flowing locks of snow white hair, the Crown flared with a silent command.

Danny wanted to say something, ask how things would turn out for them, if he was making a mistake, but when he opened his mouth he was back at the Observant’s meeting hall, back to being watched and scrutinized. He blinked the spots in his eyes at the sudden change of lightning, noticing the unusual silence in the room.

Everyone was looking at something behind him.

He turned barely in time to glance at a giant hologram (astral projection?) of the not-Dan crossing his arms around his broad armored chest before it vanished. A deep laugh rang in his own voice, and yet so different from his, reverberating in the big round room. 

Clockwork smirked, as if he had planned for this to happen, and knelt.

“May the King reign forever.” It was just a murmur, but it startled half the room.

Soon, everyone else followed. Detractors, enemies, frenemies, the Observants… Everyone knelt and echoed the claim. His supporters spoke louder, but there was little they could do to add on the fantastic reality he was living.

Danny barely has the conscience to acknowledge what was happening. Because since the… apparition vanished, he felt like he was not the same. His body, a mere flesh suit, the mold of a person he could become. His mind was not just Danny Phantom or Fenton. He has become something else. Someone else.

Or, at least, the ball has started rolling in that direction.

[polskasroka]

Another Odydio fic of mine dropped, folks

Heaven's Closed For What I've Done

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Iliad - Homer, Ancient Greek Religion & Lore Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Diomedes/Odysseus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore) Characters: Odysseus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Diomedes (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore) Additional Tags: Dissociation, Madness, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Flashbacks, Character Study, God Complex, Non-Graphic Smut, Metaphors, Period-Typical Homophobia, Implied Sexual Content, Child Death, POV Odysseus, Derealization, Existentialism Summary:

There, at the edge of the wall I stand. Tears streaming down my face, someone calling out my name. To encourage or discourage me — I don’t care anymore. I let go. I holler. I watch the child fall. I see the great fire consume it. Word count: 2,562

Read below or on AO3!

There’s fire in your eyes, Diomedes. And although I should think that it’s the candle that’s nearby, I wonder if it isn’t the fire from the city, if you haven’t brought it within you. If it hasn’t followed you — followed me — here, into the camp, into the safety of my tent.

But then again, it’s a different kind of fire, is it not, dearest? One that burns inside of you. For me.

You’re running hot, son of Tydeus. It’s not only in your eyes. The fire’s spreading. You’re not sporting a fever, are you? No, the grey-eyed one wouldn’t allow that.

You’re about to spread the fire yourself. Right onto me when you lean in and your lips are on my neck. You kiss, you bite, you lick. Your tongue’s rough, like a cat’s. A cat would lap until it reached the flesh and then separated it from the bone. I wish you could do that. Rip the skin off of me. Tear it off and keep it. That’s the least of what I truly deserve.

Oh, Diomedes, you move upwards, the heat follows you, radiating from you, and I’m once more at the top of the walls of Troy. The fire’s lapping at me from below. It burns and I feel like I’ll turn into ashes in a second. It hurts and it won’t cease until I leave. I want to escape it, so I flinch away, wincing, the heat becoming too much. I close my eyes; maybe it’ll take me away from there and back home if I fool myself enough. And then you call out my name. I open my eyes, gasping, heart thumping. I look down and it’s only you, Diomedes. The candle’s still flickering to the side. There’s no fire down below to consume me.

But you’re here, Diomedes, you’re here to consume me. To push me down onto the furs and hides, and strip me bare, so the blaze can embrace me whole. The fire closes in again, steals my breath away and I shudder. You hold me, I freeze. Your hands on my face, your fiery eyes searching mine and I can’t help but meet the flame once more. I draw nearer and I kiss you but you flee. Or, how you tend to think, do it on purpose. To annoy me, perhaps.

You go lower again and as I close my eyes, I am in that godsforsaken city. I try to stare at the ceiling but there are shadows dancing, evoked by the fire. Oranges, reds and browns mingle with one another and I can’t breathe again. I gasp but it’s not the time to break and there’s none of it to waste.

The heat’s burning my body, heating up the armour. It makes me want to pull it off, afraid of melting or boiling in it as I stand.

I prevail. I weather the heat. I do what I’ve been told to. That’s what you, Diomedes, do too — that’s what you’d do. You wouldn’t undermine a decision of a king who’s older than you. Especially when I’m said king. You don’t hesitate, Diomedes, and I don’t, either. Usually.

The fire blooms in my core and I scream. I jolt away from the burn. I shake my head and, breathing heavily, my eyes meet yours, Diomedes. Propped on my elbows, I stare at you and you stare at me with those big, confused eyes of yours. Then, there’s a spark in the dark as everything clicks in your head. Of course, you’ve seen me like this before. Out of my mind.

Hurt graces your features but once I sigh, you know it’s a sign for you to come closer. And you do just that as you always do. Because you would never deny me, would you, my dear son of Tydeus?

With you so near, I feel the heat embrace me whole once more. You move, as if in a rush, and you share the warmth with me. This time, however, it fuels me with the need to pursue my aim. Instead of worrying about melting within my armour, I let us part and you complete your own task. I wish you could go with me but it’s something I’ve been told to do. Not you. But now I truly wish you could be here with me, running by my side, riding the walls of Troy in the sea of flames below. Dodging the vicious licks of the blaze that is so desperately trying to take a bite of me. Hissing. Cursing. So welcoming.

Sweat beads under my helmet but I don’t stop. Maybe I whimper, out of heat or exhaustion, or both, yet I can’t allow our efforts to go to waste. You’re somewhere out there doing your best (for me, Diomedes?) and I can’t retreat or abate now.

As I fly past and through the flames, I hear my heart pounding in my ears. I can see the finish line, the chamber I’m supposed to enter and proceed with what was planned. My throat’s dry and I swear under my breath because the end to all our misery is so close, already in my hand to claim and bring upon us all. There’s joy sparkling among the suffocating heat and it’s like a sip from a cold spring on a hot summer day. I take it, I embrace it and I choke on it.

A cry rips through my head and I tremble, my breathing hitches. I stop and realise how much I’m clinging to you, Diomedes. And it’s only you, croaking out my name into my ear as you keep the fire between us. As you let your own one last and burn brightly while I’ve never reached mine. I squeeze my eyes shut and feel how tears begin to gather. I’m clinging to you, dearest, as you keep moving against me. You moan and I rake my fingers through your hair. How can this be that you haven’t halted yet?

“Odysseus,” you breathe, “you—”

“Worry not about it, Diomedes,” I say.

You whine. Stroking your hair, I add, “good.”

Time stops when you breathe against my skin, when you brush your lips against it, languid, your haste long forgotten. I take a shuddering breath and hold you close, so that you won’t leave me. Diomedes, your touch is so delicate now, too delicate for it to be yours. Gentle as a lamb, not the wild beast you are so often.

It’s not you, Diomedes. The candle’s flickering but time’s frozen in this very moment — the moment I realise whose I am supposed to take.

I cradle him in my arms because what else am I to do? So frail, so fragile. He’s so small and the sounds he makes are so soft. Barely audible. Little cries and mewls, the silky breath fanning over my sweat-soaked skin. With my helmet off, it’s almost like a breeze against my heat-scorched face. I can’t let you go.

As I sit here, still holding you, the fire outside reminds me of what must be done. My throat grows dry again and I allow the flames to reach me. To ignite the force within me, the one that led me here and will once more drive me forward. The one that’ll help me do what I can’t refuse.

A whimper rings inside my head and I turn towards the sound. My arms still around you, I lay my eyes upon your stern face. Those ever-knitted eyebrows of yours have given you wrinkles already, Diomedes. Ten years take a toll on everyone, even those as young as you.

I reach with my hand and cup your cheek. Your eyes bore into mine and then look down. I don’t torture you with waiting, so I seal our lips together and you shift above me. You’d crawl under my skin and devour me from the inside if you could, wouldn’t you, Diomedes, dear? I so wish you could. What relief you’d grant me if only you ripped me apart.

“Diomedes,” I say against your disgruntled huff.

“Odysseus, my Lord,” you mumble as if in a daze and I can’t tear my eyes off of you. I can clearly see there’s something you want to tell me.

“Speak your mind.”

“There are no matters that we should attend to. Will you, thus, let me… stay?”

“Of course, my young king.”

A faint smile tilts your lips before you capture mine once more. You exhale through your nose and squirm, and you think I missed the way you rolled your hips and rubbed against me. I didn’t, Diomedes. I wouldn’t. I know what you want, I know you’ll need to chase your pleasure soon. I briefly remember the days that my own stamina could compete with yours.

I know what you want the most but you would never ask me of that. This is not what men like us should do. One of us would have to give up his honour. I would never demand that from you, Diomedes. You deserve much more than that. And you, even in your bluntness and straightforwardness, wouldn’t tell me to do it to you nor would you tell me about what you’d love to do to me.

You’ve still plenty of honour to uphold. Unlike me. There’s no honour to give up if there’s nothing of it left.

“Claim me, Diomedes,” I say and think you haven’t heard. So I speak again. “King of Argos, please, have me as you would a woman.”

Your eyes grow wide as you pull back. With the way your mouth’s open, I have half a mind to close it. It’s gone, isn’t it, Diomedes? All your harshness and brutality. The cold calculation that you must’ve learnt from me.

Confusion suits you. It makes you look so naïve and so young, despite your still young age. There’s this softness to your features, one that I would steal glances of when we first met. One that I thought you’d lost along the way. You didn’t possess much of it to begin with and I deemed it gone some time ago. I was wrong.

“No, I shouldn’t… I mustn’t!” you gasp out and I hush you.

“Out of so many things that you’re willing to do for me, this is where you draw the line?”

“We can’t, Odysseus. Think about your—”

“No one has to know. No one will know.”

There’s a struggle inside of you. I recognise that spark in your eye, Diomedes. I’ve seen it before. Anytime you get my approval, it lights up.

It’s tempting, the idea of dishonouring someone like me. An illusion, as I should call it. An illusion of greater might. And you fell for it. I have fooled you, Diomedes, and you can’t see it. There’s little to no honour in me left, after all. Thereby, you cannot claim it. I lost it all back on that wall. It’s as simple as that.

You don’t deserve this kind of treatment. And still I promise you something I don’t have.

“Please, Diomedes.”

You hesitate (hesitate!) for a moment longer. “As you wish, my Lord.”

“Good, lad.”

You ignite that force within me, Diomedes. I let it smoulder and it’s you who drives me forward. Because, most of the time, you don’t hesitate. You’re relentless like the wild beast that fire is.

And so I rise and the flames crawl up and then down my body. They push me forwards, they make me cross the line. I blink and shake my head, still having troubles to pull myself together. Through the smoke I see you, Diomedes. For a moment, I feel relieved. For a moment, I am with you and I watch you rain caresses upon me.

With a shuddering gasp, I allow the inner passion to sting and hurt. It starts nipping at the remainders of my honour as I let it consume me and lead me to where I’m supposed to be. Carried towards the aim as I am, I whine and cry, pressing a hand to my eyes. Tears well up and shortly begin to run down my face and I yelp the closer to the fire I am getting.

Although my will’s strong, my body protests, and I choke on a sob that threatens to leave my mouth. I sniffle, my lip trembles. There’s something very soft, very delicate in my grip.

I near the line. The flames from below remind me of their existence as I feel the heat beaming off them. There’s nothing picking at me from the inside now. There’s only me and the blaze surrounding me, blocking out anything else but your voice, Diomedes. I think I hear you say my name and I say yours, a silent plea to help me, to give me some of that strength that you possess and I don’t. The stark decisiveness, sometimes more reckless than is considered appropriate.

There, at the edge of the wall I stand. Tears streaming down my face, someone calling out my name. To encourage or discourage me — I don’t care anymore. I let go. I holler.

I watch the child fall. I see the great fire consume it. Someone’s still saying my name and time stops again. There’s a rift in reality, there’s a rift in me. All my honour’s gone. Wrenched from deep within me. Leaving me raw.

I’m once more clutching onto something and maybe I am clutching onto what’s left of my humanity. With the flames embracing me, from the tips of my toes to the top of my head, I’ve done it. At last, the satisfaction fills me with its white-hot power, rippling through me and I am there, at the peak, at the brink between humanity and godhood.

And in all of that, I still ache. Pain level with shame that’s replaced the honour. It’s only for a moment, though. Because promptly there’s nothing else human left in me.

The fire’s burnt it into ash. You, Diomedes, have collected it. The dust, the worthless scraps of me that you don’t deserve to sully your godlike self with.

“There we go,” I say or rather croak out. “Very good.”

“Thank you,” you reply, although you know you don’t have to.

At least this bodily delight, albeit temporary, is something you can hold onto, remember. It’s worth more than any leftover honour that you may have seized from me. If you’ve seized anything apart from this illusion, this lie, that I’ve offered you.

“Tell me, son of Tydeus: who are we to decide if one should live?”

You frown as you search my eyes for answers that they don’t have.

“We’re at war.”

It’s that simple, isn’t it?

“Tell me, then: who are we to take life from those whose lives have only just begun?”

Sighing in contemplation, you look to the side. I watch you sit up and follow you, despite the pain deep inside my body. I wince. You’re confused again. Or you’re thinking hard. It’s sometimes difficult to say.

“It doesn’t matter. The answer’s the same.” You shrug and I rub your cheek.

Holding the side of your face in my hand, I say, “isn’t it the gods’ task to decide about our fate, Diomedes?”

“What if we’ve been the ones deciding about our fate all this time?”

[sunlightandsuffering]

POSTING JEDI AU BC I WANT IT TO SEE THE LIGHT OF DAY BC I LOVE IT AND IT'S SO CUTE !!!

Jedi AU

Mikasa comes to Eren at sixteen, prim and shy, but ever eager to please. Eren is twenty-one, and he is not at all impressed with the assignment. 

Everyone else heralds it as an honour, what a big achievement to have your own padawan learner when he’s barely an adult himself. 

Eren on the other hand sees the ‘honour’ for what it really is: babysitting. And not just for him, but for Mikasa as well.

Because his own master had been drawn away on other assignments, missions that Eren couldn’t go on. And the Jedi Order couldn’t have their most rebellious young master running around the galaxy unsupervised. So, they’d given him Mikasa and said here, teach her. They’d successfully saddled him with more responsibility than he’d ever wanted and effectively knee-capped him from doing anything too crazy… Not that the things he did were ever really that crazy, they just weren’t so perfectly in line with the Jedi Order’s world philosophy. She’d stepped off the ship in a blaze of barely contained excitement, he could tell, even as quiet as she was that she was practically bursting with energy, but she’d been raised by the order, so what could he really expect? Orphaned at a young age and found miraculously on the burning remains of her planet, Mikasa had been taken in by a wandering Jedi and raised at the temple. 

For all intents and purposes, she was the perfect specimen, everything a Jedi should be and so not who Eren had wanted to teach. 

She’d looked up at him dutifully, waiting to be spoken to, eager to receive orders and Eren knew immediately she was going to be a problem. They were so diametrically opposed it was laughable, and he thinks the Order probably is laughing at him, payback for causing them so much trouble over the years. Eren sighs, reaching his hand out for a shake, “I’m Eren Yeager, I’ll be your new Master.” “I’m Mikasa,” she tells him sweetly, finally letting a small smile overtake her lips, “I look forward to working with you.” Oh, this was going to be a struggle of epic proportions, he can already tell.

The longer Eren spends with Mikasa, the more sure he is that the Jedi Temple moulded her to be everything he isn’t, to be his worst nightmare personified. 

Because that’s exactly what she is. 

“Well, Master I think we should follow Jedi protocol, and it says to call –” “Mikasa,” He tells her warningly, and she shuts up, her mouth pursing shut, she’s used to it at this point. 

This is how 90 percent of their discussions go these days. “The other masters will be mad,” she sing songs as Eren drags a droid away from the wreckage of the ship he’s trying to access. 

Eren sends her an unimpressed glare over his shoulder, grunting as he hefts the droid out of the way, “Yeah, well the Jedi Order can stuff it, there’s a lot of things they get mad at me about.” “Why do you insist on doing everything incorrectly? Maybe if you did things the right way like I tell you to, then you wouldn’t get in so much trouble.” “Who’s the Master here, Mikasa?” She shuts up again, huffing in irritation and Eren has to remind himself it’s him, he’s literally the master here, their very small age gap and her immense knowledge of Jedi principles blurs the line sometimes. He’s only five years older, sometimes it’s a little hard to boss her around so much, especially when to top it all off she’s almost as good of a fighter as him. He curses away to himself as he steps into the abandoned ship, because of course, he had to be paired with the most gifted Jedi of the new generation, topping even him in her midiclorian count and with the uncanny natural ability to simply kick ass. Her fighting skills are amazing, almost on par with his own, her only fatal flaw is perhaps that she’s such a rule follower. It blinds her in other aspects, makes her too trusting, too sweet. 

Something that could one day get her killed. Eren looks back sharply at the thought, his pain-in-the-ass little padawan nowhere to be found, standing guard until she’s given another order, proving his point. Eren sighs, “Mikasa, get over here brat.” He hears her make a little noise of affront at being called a brat, she gets all cute when she’s huffy, like an angry kitten, and then there are footsteps as she enters the ship. She’s hurrying so fast she runs right into him and Eren grunts as her little body collides with his at full speed, but he’s quick to steady her, firmly grasping her shoulders. 

“Mika,” he chides softly, “Be careful okay, and remember to follow me okay, what if there were still enemies out there, what if something happened to you?” There’s a pretty blush staining her cheeks, but still, she protests, “I can take care of myself!” Eren quirks an eyebrow up at her, his hands rubbing softly up and down her biceps, “And what did I say about that?” Her cheeks puff up as she repeats his words back to him, “I can’t say that until I can beat you in a spar three times in a row.” “And have you?” He questions, because yeah, sometimes being her Master is a little bit fun. “No,” she grumbles out in irritation and he smirks, giving her a playful love tap to her cheek before letting her go, and she gasps in response, “Eren!” 

“Master,” he corrects easily, already slipping further into the ship to investigate, and now he’s really pissed her off, her usually sweet, quiet presence raging behind him. She’s stomping around the ship, showcasing her rage at being spoken down to, and Eren can’t help his smile as he inspects the engine controls, trying to grasp what exactly went wrong here. He hears something fall but doesn’t look back, engrossed in attempting to revive part of the ship, maybe he can find an old flight path if he gets it going. 

His fingers fiddle with buttons and wires, all the while Mikasa seems to be making a lot of noise behind him, a lot more noise than he thinks he’s ever heard her make before. Mikasa really is the perfect padawan, or well she probably would be for any other Jedi – intelligent, kind, brilliant fighting skills, quick on her feet – all qualities necessary in a great Jedi. 

Eren would have preferred someone more flawed, an orphan with maybe a bit more emotional damage he could counsel, someone more similar to him. Not quite such a rule follower, someone he could really bond with, who might look up to him. 

Mikasa isn’t any of those things. Except for right now, it seems as Eren turns around finally after something else goes crashing to the ground. His padawan is glaring at him from where she’d very obviously knocked something over, sweet, docile Mikasa who never allows her emotions to get the better of her is evidently, very displeased with him. 

And most interestingly, demanding his attention, even more as she stares him down, those quicksilver eyes raging, purposefully knocking something else right off the shelf next to her. She’s exactly like a cat, a displeased little creature that gets what it wants. Eren can barely repress his smile, maybe there’s still hope for him yet, some fire in those pretty silver eyes of hers. 

He’s almost giddy at the thought because maybe she’s not a completely lost cause, maybe he can still corrupt her just a little, mould her into being a truly great Jedi instead of a standard foot soldier, someone who thinks for themselves, assesses the situation and decides the next course of action instead of consulting the damn Jedi temple on everything. “Miki,” Eren hums, and she perks right up at the name, it’s one she favours and something he doesn’t call her often, reserves it for special circumstances. “Are you mad at me?” “What gave you that idea?” “Miki,” he chides, beckoning her forwards, and she stomps towards him angrily. 

She stops just before him, glaring up at his tall frame, evergreen locked with silver and Eren smiles, full and genuine at the cute little expression of rage on her face, eyebrows knitted together in irritation. “Tell me what’s wrong?” “Master, you always dismiss me! And you rarely let me fight, even though I can. At the temple I was the best, I beat all the other kids, and I- I was so excited when I found out I’d be training under you, but you never let me show off, never let me fight.” She deflates towards the end of her monologue and Eren hums in acknowledgement, “It’s not because I don’t trust you Mikasa, I’d just rather watch you fight in more controlled environments first. It’s only been a few months, I don’t want to throw you head first into battle.” “But-” He tuts her, his hand slipping up into the tangles of her hair, pushing her bangs back behind her ears, he’s always had a fascination with that sleek pretty black hair of hers, how soft it is, how it feels under his fingertips, “Don’t worry I’m going to let you fight Mikasa, but once you can beat me three times in a row, which I know you will do.” He gives a soft little yank at one of the dark strands of her hair, “You’re a great fighter Mikasa, brilliant, especially with your lightsaber, but you fight predictably. Just like the Order teaches, the same spar you’ve done a hundred times. That’s not how real enemies fight, that’s not how I fight.” Eren smirks, his hand combing out her hair now, something Mikasa leans into, has always enjoyed the rare time he shows her affection.

“I fight dirty, and I always win. There’s a reason I’m so revered at the temple, that my missions are always successes, albeit with perhaps more damage than I’d usually like. It’s because my methods differ from the Jedi temple, and I think that’s something you need.” 

“Oh,” she murmurs softly, eyes now shut, like a cat, as he continues to finger his hands through her hair, his other one slipping up to join in the soft thick strands. She makes a little noise of contentment as he gathers the thick dark mop of her hair in his hands, leaning in as he styles it into a makeshift bun, using his own hair elastic to fasten it at the base of her head. He presses a soft kiss to her temple as he finishes, affection she’s never had, that Eren can’t help but give, something the Jedi Order frowns upon but Mikasa needs more than anything, such a touch-starved child. 

His hands skim down now, settling over her shoulders, “Do you understand now? It’s not because I don’t trust you, it’s because we’re already training Mikasa, and if I have my way you’ll be the best Jedi the order has ever seen.” “Even better than you?” She breathes curiously, her eyes soft and warm now, pliant, heather grey. He chuckles, “Of course, you’re my padawan after all, you’ll have to be better than me.” Mikasa smiles, such a full and beautiful smile, so bright he almost has to look away, “I have to train all those bad Jedi habits out of you though, I think they sent me the worst recruit they could find.” At this, she smacks him and Eren cackles, pinching her side. 

“At least I know how to cook.” Eren guffaws, “Barely!” “I’m better than you!” “Not by much.”

Sometimes, Mikasa wonders how Eren ever thought she wouldn’t fall in love with him. 

Force, how the Jedi Order had thought she wouldn’t fall in love with him? It’s like they were hoping for it. Even when she was younger, she could remember hearing about the trouble-making padawan that no matter how he went against the Jedi temple rules, never had an unsuccessful mission. She had been enamoured, who was this boy, this legend in the making? And then as she’d gotten older, moved up the ranks herself, set to become a padawan, she’d seen him in action and she’d been star-struck. Only once in battle before she’d been ushered away to safety, only a glimpse, but the way his hair had stuck to his forehead, slick with sweat, blood spattering his tunic, forearms pulled taut as he held his light-saber. He’d looked like a vengeful God, and for reasons unknown to her, she hadn’t been able to get him out of her head ever since. He’d appear in her dreams, always standing over her, shirtless, saving her life, the lines of his back cut like there should be wings there. 

She’d seen him only once more before she’d become his padawan, and it had only elevated him further in her mind, up high on that pedestal she could never reach, never even hope to touch. He’d been in the middle of the council, and she’d been sneakily walking by, only to hear the voices of the council. And Mikasa, ever the dutiful student, hadn’t been able to help her curiosity. What she saw had been the dressing down of a lifetime, as Eren stood in the middle of the council, being utterly ripped apart for his most recent mission. She’d been nodding her head along, agreeing, until Eren had finally defended himself, speaking of all the lives he’d saved. 

That had shut them up rather promptly, and Eren had been smirking when she’d finally disappeared down the hall, her heart beating with far more than just the adrenaline of listening in on a top-secret meeting. 

Because Eren had looked particularly handsome that day, his hair windswept against his cheeks, the long cloak the Jedi typically wore conspicuously absent to display lean muscle instead. 

And now, at sixteen, the peak age for puberty, when hormones are running high, especially in battle, the Jedi Order had thought it was a great idea to pair her off with a handsome rebellious twenty-one-year-old? It was cruel, to be honest. Everyone else she knew had older men with beards for masters, shrivelled up and half dead. And here she was with probably the best-looking boy she’d ever seen in her life, and he was around her all the time. Mikasa knew she would be a good Jedi, it was what she was born and raised for after all, she’d spent countless hours sparring, mastering her use of the force, everything to be the best she could possibly be. But lately, she finds what is thwarting her the most is the whole ‘no attachment’ part of being a Jedi. 

Because it’s becoming really hard for her not to get attached. 

Eren steps out of the bathroom, clad in only a towel, his other hand occupied in drying his long hair, water dripping down the divots of his abs. Her mouth suddenly feels very dry, and he sends her a wink as she eats her soup. Yeah, it’s becoming really, really hard for her not to get attached. He disappears down the hall to his quarters, and Mikasa spends ten minutes fanning herself, chanting the Jedi Code over and over again. 

No attachment, absolutely none, not allowed!

But really in hindsight how did they expect her not to fall in love? 

Eren is passionate, almost to a fault, and since she’s joined him on his missions as his padawan she’s realized that he’s particularly passionate about her safety. 

In a way, it’s kind of flattering, and in other ways, it makes her heart almost beat out of her chest. 

He’s always saving her, even when she doesn’t need saving, he’s always there. And afterwards, he’s scolding her for ever being in danger in the first place, as if it isn’t part of both of their jobs. 

But it’s afterwards, that’s the part she adores the most, after the lecture and the yelling when he’s tucking her into his chest and whispering into her hair how much she scared him, that she shouldn’t go out and be so reckless. To which she always replies cheekily, “Isn’t that what you trained me to do?” He always pinches her side for that particular comment, but it never gets old, being wrapped in the warmth and safety of his arms, it feels like coming home, like safety in a way the Jedi temple never has. 

“Mikasa,” Eren chastises her from the head of the ship where he’s piloting them off towards some faraway planet for their next mission, ready to shoot them into hyperdrive, “What are you doing?” He can tell she’s up to no good just by the sound of her footsteps, how she tries to soften them just slightly, her breathing clipped as she tries not to let him hear her. He spins in his chair to find her slipping out of his room, and he quirks an eyebrow curiously, repeating his question, “What are you doing?” She winces as she’s found out, slumping in place. She’s cute, adorably messy all dolled up in her pyjamas, hair tucked up behind her in a messy bun that he aches to pull into a proper one. Always her damn hair. 

“I had a nightmare,” she murmurs, “I was gonna go sleep in your bed.” “C’mere,” he beckons her, his hands just itching to properly tie up that silky hair of hers and almost as soon as she’s within reach he’s dragging her to his lap, turning her around. She shuts her eyes blissfully as she leans back into him, her head tilted against his shoulder as he massages her scalp, gathering the sleek strands into a soft bun at the base of her skull, one that won’t come out so easily like hers did. “What was the nightmare about?” He murmurs as he ties it up with her pretty red ribbon. “Losing my parents.” She doesn’t miss a beat, and Eren sighs as he turns her in his lap, her hair now secured properly. “Are you scared?” She shakes her head, grey eyes tearing up, “I just miss them.” And before she can stop herself, the tears are rushing down her cheeks in hot streaks, more than Eren is equipped to deal with. He sighs, rough hands coming up to wipe at her tears tenderly, “I’m not going to bed anytime soon I have to pilot us to the next planet, but why don’t you sit with me? You can keep me company.” “Okay,” she murmurs through her tears and Eren settles her in the chair next to him, piling her up high with a soft fuzzy blanket as he tucks her into the large swivel chair. “Better?” He asks, and she nods, wiping the rest of her tears into the blanket and Eren smiles, his hand finding her knee to lovingly stroke, “You’ve got me now, I’m here, and I’ll never leave you.” “What about,” she sniffles slightly, “What about when I become a master in my own right?” Eren chuckles, “We’ve got a few more years but even then I think I’ll keep you around Miki, you’re not so bad.” She smiles through her tears, resting her head on her knees as she looks at him, “Would you have stayed with your master if you could?” 

Eren shrugs, his hand still resting on her knee comfortingly, and Mikasa shivers as he strokes over sensitive skin not covered by her blanket, his hands so big and warm. 

“Probably if I could have, but you know the council wanted me doing my own thing, cause less chaos that way, you know how it is.” It’s quiet for a moment and Eren smiles at her softly, squeezing her knee, “But I’m happy how things turned out, I got you instead and that’s not bad at all.” Her breath hitches and she feels like she can’t breathe, her eyes drawn towards his lips and the chiselled cut of his jaw, so brutally beautiful, the harsh angles of his face contrasted with the soft length of his eyelashes, those brilliant green eyes. He’s stunning, and she just wants to lean across the controls and kiss him, has to grip the arms of her chair just to stop herself. 

That night she falls asleep encased in his arms, even better than his bed, warm and protected. She’s only mildly upset the next morning when she wakes up in her own bed, devoid of her master, no evidence it had ever happened at all. Except when she glimpses her reflection in her bedroom mirror and where she expects to find bedhead sticking up at all angles, she finds only perfectly smooth plaits, meticulously woven and expertly banded together. 

Mikasa is not oblivious to the fact that Eren has needs, more carnal needs, it’s something she’d discovered a few months into her apprenticeship. She’d seen a pretty girl leaving his rooms as she reported, bright and early, ready to start the day. Eren hadn’t exactly been thrilled to see her, looking a little worse for wear. He’d grumpily told her to come back in an hour. 

She’d left wondering what this awful feeling in her gut was, this painful sorrow she didn’t understand. 

The feeling had only grown with every subsequent girl she saw him with, how he’d pick them up in different worlds between missions, shooing her off to her quarters and telling her not to knock on his door that night. The deep selfish part of her always wondered what he’d do if she did knock, if she claimed to have a nightmare, would he drop everything for her, push the girl out the door to tuck her into his arms instead? The only thing stopping her from testing the theory was her Jedi training, and her strict promise to herself not to get attached. 

She’s not attached already, she’s absolutely not! Well… maybe she is, just a little bit. 

And as she teeters on the edge of seventeen, a few months until her eighteenth birthday, her attachment becomes more and more apparent. She’s been with Eren for almost two years now, watching him, learning from him. She’s intimately familiar with him, his every quirk, every preference, how he likes his breakfast, how to beat him in a spar. 

It’s becoming dangerous, just how well she knows him, because she’s starting to notice things… things she has no business noticing.

Like his obsession with her hair, how he can never seem to pass up the opportunity to touch the long sleek strands, or how he fusses when she leaves it loose sometimes. He always claims it’s unacceptable for battle, too much of a liability, but Mikasa thinks he just likes to touch it, and she won’t complain. She’s grown to love it, the feeling of his hands in her hair, battle-calloused hands working at her scalp so gently, plaiting her hair with expert precision. 

Mikasa absolutely refuses to admit that she ruffles her bedhead up a little more than she should, that she enjoys how he fusses over her in the morning when it’s particularly wild. Mikasa has noticed this obsession with her hair also seems to extend to his overnight guest preferences. At first, it had pained her to see all these beautiful women slip from Eren’s quarters, long sleek dark hair, always a shade of dark brown or raven as her own, and always long and silky. Temptresses, Mikasa thought of them, beautiful women with perfect bodies, and long flowing hair, styled in a way Eren would never allow her to even think of. To leave her hair loose was to be killed in battle, and it was something her master adamantly refused, always pulled the pretty dark strands taut against the back of her head in some sort of twist. 

She tugs on her long strands self-consciously as she sips her morning tea, awaiting the exit of Eren’s visitor from last night. She’s thought about cutting the strands short, but she thinks Master would have even more of a conniption about that, and if nothing else she loves how he touches her, can’t help but finger the strands, comb his hands through the silky locks. 

Mikasa prides herself on how perfectly taken care of it is, always smelling of lavender and sage, preening when Eren notices the scent. There is the click of a door and Mikasa’s head snaps up, torn from her daydreams and she spots her, a blonde today, the golden colour more bronze, so dark it almost borders on brunette. And as they lock eyes, Mikasa’s mouth twists up in disgust, because she’s discovered another preference of her master’s, one she hadn’t been sure of, but today confirms it. 

He prefers Jedi women, to anyone else. 

She’s not sure when he picked up this proclivity, probably only in the last few months, but recently it feels like every girl she sees exiting his room she’s also seen around Jedi headquarters. 

It’s awkward, but at least they don’t linger. 

Because Jedi don’t form attachments… Thus, Mikasa cannot be forming an attachment. And there is, therefore, zero reason for her to be excited about the prospect of Eren preferring Jedi women, hopeful even. Why should she be excited about that? Why would she? She’s not attached, not at all. 

She’s also not jealous of the pretty blonde Jedi she’s seen around Jedi headquarters, that she’s seen Eren talk to more than she’d like. Mikasa does not fume silently as she watches the woman slip out of Eren’s bedroom, Jedi robes askew and with a slightly guilty look on her face. “Mikasa,” She whispers, shocked as she stands in the main lobby, a stand-off as she notices Mikasa seated at the ship’s helm, glaring miserably at Eren’s door. “Misha,” Mikasa responds coldly. 

Internally, she chastises herself, the ever-present voice of the order in her ear, urging her to call this woman ‘master’, to give her the respect she is owed. Mikasa takes a cue from Eren for once and continues to simply glare at the woman instead, the petty part of her refusing to even stand to greet her. “What are you doing up dear? I umm I hope we didn’t wake you –” “You didn’t,” Mikasa retorts, cutting her off, “But you should head out, Master and I have to leave soon.”

“Oh,” Misha mumbles, looking slightly put out, “Well could you pass along a message for me?” No, no she will not, but Misha doesn’t have to know that. “Tell him I’m around here a lot if he ever wants to…” Misha trails off and Mikasa wants to growl at her, how inappropriate the request is. The Jedi Order trained part of her kicking and screaming in her head about propriety and attachments and the fact that this is her fucking superior, asking her to proposition her own master on her behalf. But instead of saying anything, Mikasa forces a smile, just the smallest twitch of her lips, snuggling further back into her chair, “I’ll be sure to relay the message.” Misha smiles, “Thanks Mikasa, you’re a promising padawan I know you’ll do great things.” Yes, yes she will, but she doesn’t need this woman to tell her that. “Goodbye Misha,” Is Mikasa’s only response, a dismissal, and she can’t resist the cruel smile of triumph at how Misha deflates. The woman linger for another moment, glances back towards Eren’s door one more time as she leaves, looking slightly put out by the entire interaction. 

It is a small consolation to Mikasa, especially when Eren asks about her a few hours later, looking glum.  “Did you see Misha when she left this morning?”

“No,” Mikasa tells him primly, “But when we were fuelling up I saw her laughing with Master Reiner, they seem quite close.”

“Oh,” Eren replies, looking slightly put out, “I umm didn’t realize they knew each other so well.”

“Neither did I,” Mikasa comments casually, beginning to steer the ship out of the port, a responsibility Eren has finally allowed her again after the meteor incident.

“But they must be quite close,” She continues nonchalantly, “She was touching his arm, they seemed so comfortable together.”

Eren says nothing and Mikasa presses her lips together to repress her pleased smile as Eren drops down into the seat next to her, a hand slipping up to affectionately tug at her bangs, “Don’t crash the ship again please.”

She beams at him, “I’m only as good as my teacher, Master.”

“That’s it, give me the wheel, brat.”

Life is good.

[altocat]

7 and 8!

7. Coffee or tea while you write?

Neither lol I get hopped up on caffeine through sugar or soda. And then I dump out a bunch of galaxy brained nonsense before refining it slightly before publishing lmao

8. What's your favorite line/section from your fic?

I'll post a few!

Zack could only gape in pained helplessness as the silver soldier’s eyes began to stream with tears, staining his pale face as his expression contorted and broke. "H-hey..." Sephiroth didn't move, his arms locked at his side, the bitter river of sudden collapse burning against his face. Feebly, he lifted a hand to touch, staring blankly at the wetness that pooled against his fingertips. He had not cried since childhood, had not even cried upon learning of Angeal’s untimely demise. He had believed himself to no longer be capable of such a feat, the ability taken from him after years of Hojo’s harsh discipline. But now, as he unraveled before Zack, it wouldn’t stop. Tears. Real tears. His tears, slick and moist, beading in his eyelashes, salty against his lips and tongue. They were hot and cold in unison, his nose dribbling without dignity, his mind a torrid mess of merciless discoveries, drowning him. The painful buzzing in his head wouldn’t stop, would never stop. It only continued to fester and scream in his skull, digging ruthless jaws into him, wailing howls that dragged him deeper and deeper. And the tears still wouldn't lessen, wouldn't leave him. Wet. Incessant. Eternal. Tears that clung. That lingered. Tears that had been engineered into him, a cloying, blistering lie. Shinra's lie. And Hojo's. And Gast's. And his own. When Sephiroth finally opened his mouth again, the sound that escaped sounded small and childlike, a whining, babyish whimper that floated above the reality that lay before him, pulling him farther and farther away. He tilted his head, a cold halo in the yellow light, the words emerging in frail, disjointed pockets of breath, his eyes half open, as if on the precipice of sleep. "I...I want...to go back." "Sephiroth..." "I want to go home."

A Monster's Threads, Chapter 90

“No…” Zack held the Buster Sword out like a protective talisman, watching as Sephiroth slowly circled him, watching the frenzied light that swam in the once warm green eyes. “You’re not him. You’re not Sephiroth.” Another low gale of laughter, distorted and gnarled.  “Sephiroth was my friend. You're just wearing his face. Sephiroth wasn’t like this. Sephiroth was kind. He cared about things, about his friends! He protected people, valued honor! He never would have done this! Not in a million years!” “A fool on top of being a traitor. Such an idiotic little puppy.” “Sephiroth was HUMAN!” The silver soldier snarled, baring his teeth. “Pathetic, chattering creature…” “You’re NOT him. You’re not the Sephiroth I once knew!” "No," Sephiroth laughed, his weeping eyes flashing with prideful arrogance as he stood at his full height, his shadow engulfing Zack completely. “I'm more than that. Much more. I am…the chosen one. I have been chosen to rule this planet.” “No…” “Within my veins flows the blood of the Ancients. It was in the name of the Cetra and Mother’s legacy that I was born. I was born to eliminate you parasites and pave the way to paradise. This planet is mine. It was always mine, my birthright. I am Gaia. No…” Sephiroth’s face distorted, layers upon layers of madness blazing through him like a festering fever. “I’m a God.”

A Monster's Threads, Chapter 94

Sephiroth coughed. He wiped his mouth. He lifted his head back to the sky, icy flakes dusting the thick black slant of his eyelashes. He watched the spectacle, counted every steady, starlit trail, caught them on his palm, his fingertips. They coated his shoulders, his hair, his cheeks. Bitter water on his tongue. Bitter words farther beneath. "Angeal." It felt like rain. "Angeal." It wasn't. "Angeal, are you crying?" And that was somehow worse.

Snow

He wonders, sometimes, if it was all an accident. A stray thorn on the beaten path. Unfounded. Unexpected. A spare pulse in the dense time-worn fabric of the universe. Fool’s luck. Most people would agree. Most would have never even dared.  But then again, there are other things, too. Better things. Braver things.  Zack closes his eyes again, sighs.  Braver things, yes. Beautiful things.  There is today. And tomorrow. And the years to come. There are summers. And winters. And spring. There are reasons. Reasons far beyond the stars. Reasons to go on, to discover, dream.  Reasons to shelter. Reasons to strive. Sephiroth is warm beside him, cheek nuzzled against the smooth surface of Zack’s tender palm, soft breath tickling calloused digits. Zack rolls onto his side and captures that faint, foggy intake of air, cradling and caressing pale skin, rolling it tenderly in his hands. He presses their foreheads together and closes his eyes, letting the quiet overtake him, chasing the distant, drumming call of the forest, season by season, age to age. And Sephiroth sighs, reaches, pulling him ever closer. And smiles.

Shelter, Epilogue

[mynephewmarriedajaguar]

scrolling through the smosh tag rn & have some thoughts-

i think some of y’all just need to chill out a bit 😅

in my mind, it’s more logical that they’re together vs it being an elaborate months-long prank that they’ve masterminded, but either way i’m just happy that they’re happy! like if this is entirely a joke, isn’t it awesome that they’re in a place where they’re comfortable enough to joke this much about them getting MARRIED?

and i keep seeing these elaborate posts focused on either proving that they’re together or proving that it’s a joke, to the point of being upset at the “other side” for thinking different- hey! y’all are getting tunnel vision! in either situation, they’re HAPPY. chill!

specifically for some of the people who think it’s a joke that are getting actually mad at people thinking they’re together- be so fr rn.

they chose to do this, they are adults who knew what the reaction would be. people speculating (a reasonable amount, of course) is what they expected. courtney and shayne do not need you going guns blazing making vent posts about how this forcing shayne to come out?? what?? again be so fr, take a breath, and realize people talking about it is not doing any harm to either of them.

either way, this is hilarious and i love that they’re in a place where they want to joke about it when it used to be a much more uncomfortable subject. do not go full parasocial on either end of the spectrum, remember that this is happy silly fun! xx

[imperator-titus]

Ghost from the Past [Part 11]

Sorry for the long wait! (Is it long? Well, I've certainly updated quicker...) I had to focus on the end of my grad classes (and now have more... woo...) I also had to start really thinking about the next steps for the story.

I thought this bit was gonna have smut. Probably the next part will have a lot of spice.

A lot of my struggles came from modifying Gale's canon monogamous outlook without totally disregarding it and Astarion's character growth after the Yurgir fight. Clearly it has to be a little different since Eletha already confronted him about what he wants from her. Astarion in this part gets kind of a "+1 Emotional Intelligence."

I'm really enjoying this story, and I hope some of you are too! Please feel free to hit me up about it! I've been really enjoying some comments over on Ao3. Much love!

(Prev)[Part 10] (Next)[Part 12] [Master Post]

[For those unsure, yes, this is a made-up line the OP did, and honestly, it was perfect! Gale, you are about to be the star of the show.]

In the morning, Eletha was ready to go before anyone got up. She’d even started breakfast.

“You’re up bright and early,” Wyll remarked, one of the first to greet her.

“Early, at least,” Karlach said with a little laugh, indicating the permanent darkness that surrounded them. 

“I already have a plan of action for the next few days. We’ve wasted enough time waiting around for me to put my head on straight.” Eletha relinquished control of the cookware to Gale, who practically snatched the fork out of her hand.

“Are you sure you’re… okay?” Shadowheart asked hesitantly.

“Oh. No. No, I wouldn’t say I’m okay.” Seeing the looks they all gave her, Eletha chuckled. “I was never okay. Just… distracted. I can’t do anything about the whole… But I can do something about the problems that face us now.”

“Well said,” Gale said before turning back to their breakfast.

“Besides, I always feel better with a bloody blade in my hand.”

“I could not agree more.” Lae’zel’s eyes blazed with passion.

Before they headed out, Astarion approached Eletha.

“I know you said that I should stay behind with Gale and I normally wouldn't mind languishing around camp while you trudge waist-deep through curses and undead sludge, but-” 

Astarion stopped mid-speech as Eletha stopped digging through her bag and started rotating around, hand outstretched to the sky. Seemingly, she wasn't listening.

“Relapsing into madness again so quickly?”

“It's a sun glass. Can't be combusting in the middle of a fight,” she explained, tilting the piece of glass until she caught a glimmer of light. As she tucked it into her hip pouch she asked, “What did you want to tell me?”

“I wanted to come along. That's all. Wyll said it was fine if I took his place,” Astarion answered, throwing his words away as if it was no big deal.

“Okay.”

Astarion pouted a little. “You're not going to ask?”

“No.” Eletha stopped what she was doing and looked at him from the corner of her eye. He huffed and started walking away. She rolled her eyes and called after him, exasperated, “Why do you want to come so bad?”

“To look after you, of course,” he answered, practically sparkling. 

“Oh. You want praise.” He smacked her hand away when she tried to pat his cheek. She smiled. “Thank you. It's sweet of you to care.”

“I don't care and I'm not sweet. I have a personal interest in keeping you alive and not insane.”

“I get it. You're a magnificent bastard. So sorry, for implying you would be so weak as to look out for someone because you care.”

“That's right. I suppose all that brain damage hasn't made you stupid yet. Now that that’s settled.” Astarion turned and hesitated.

He ever so slightly wiggled his ass in her direction.

Eletha smirked. “Right. Best head out.”

As she passed him, she brought back her hand and smacked his backside so hard that he yelped and jumped a little.

“What is wrong with you, woman?!” he screeched, holding a hand to his stinging cheek.

“A lot.”

----

“This seem important to y’all?” Eletha asked, holding up the lute she just pulled off this weird doctor character.

“Are we gonna talk about how, in the past 4 hours, you've convinced someone to explode and another to let himself be brutally stabbed to death?” Karlach asked hesitantly, watching the mad nurses go back to their routines as if nothing happened.

“I dunno, I liked how that other one was full of gold,” Astarion remarked with a satisfied little smile.

“Why would he have a lute?” Eletha asked herself, ignoring Karlach’s question, looking over the instrument. She found some initialing carved into the neck. “That Art Cullagh guy seemed like the musical sort.”

“Well, he was insane. And he did seem to enjoy it…” Shadowheart said, regarding the gore with disgust.

“This place gives me the creeps,” Eletha said as she started to walk towards the back of the decrepit hospital.

“Because of the whole…” Karlach hesitantly made circles over her abdomen with a sympathetic pained face. Eletha’s eyebrows lowered in confusion.

“What? No. No, that probably happened in, like, the dirt, right? A pile of leaves?”

“You don't know?” Karlach asked, confused herself.

“Kinda blocked that bit out, yeah.” Eletha went through the doctor’s things, searching for anything interesting. Or valuable.

“I don't envy you. I've heard it ruins your vagina,” Shadowheart remarked flippantly as she cleaned her nails.

“That can't be true,” Karlach breathed in disbelief, her voice stressed.

“Oh, yeah, you can tear your arsehole like paper,” Eletha answered, tearing a piece of paper she found for effect.

“No! Don't tell me that!” Karlach cried in distress, closing her eyes and putting her hands over her ears.

“Is that why you're so shy? Worried it’ll be a disappointment for anyone but an ogre?” Astarion teased, indicating Eletha’s crotch with a cunty little wave of a finger. Eletha chuckled, smacking his hand like he was a child in need of a lesson.

“Not sure if I'm flattered or disgusted that you're thinking about my vagina.” Astarion’s lips curled into a mischievous smirk.

“I'm not the only one. Should I break the news to Gale that it's more like the Underdark than a cozy little cave?”

“Yeah, I got some glowing mushrooms in there and everything. Brightens the place up,” Eletha told him cheerily, mimicking decorating a home.

“Do you think a wizard can localize an enlarge spell?” Astarion asked after a comic hum.

“Aww, it's okay, I'm sure Gale’s more into technique than equipment.” Eletha patted his shoulder mockingly, a look of false sympathy in her eyes. Astarion laughed a little bark of a laugh.

“He'd be good for you. He could lend you a magic hand from the other side of his tower, no men involved,” he retorted cattily.

“He does know how to make a good steak.” 

“Oh darling, you wound me.” Astarion dramatically swooned and Eletha had to stop him from tripping over himself.

“That's what you’ll be saying when he's done with you.”

“Gods you two are weird,” Karlach breathed,shaking her head as she watched them.

Eletha let Karlach and Shadowheart take the lead as they walked through the crypt and the Sharran temple beyond.

“You look like you want to say something,” Eletha remarked, not turning her head to regard Astarion trailing beside her.

“Well…”

“You look nervous about it too.” She squints, eyeing him suspiciously. “Don't tell me you're actually thinking about my holes right now.”

“Maybe,” he retorted haughtily, bobbing his head in a mocking manner. After a defeated huff, he went on, “I feel like I should apologize. I never considered the possibility that I ruined you for all other men physically, not just emotionally.”

Eletha rolled her eyes so hard they threatened to get stuck that way. “Corellon save me.”

Astarion clicked his tongue, annoyed at her reaction. “Would it make you feel better if I said I have selfish reasons too? I've been thinking about that night after the goblin camp for quite a while.”

Eletha smirked and snorted, giving him a suggestive lift of her eyebrows. “Parched, are you?”

“Practically dying.”

“Gale not living up to his divine endorsement?”

“He is a good kisser…” Astarion clicked his tongue at her again. “Don't change the subject.”

Eletha wondered how she got in this conversation and how she was going to get out.

“No one has exactly complained, but that's not exactly a long list of possibilities and they probably had enough sense to not say anything.” She shrugged. “It used to just be uncomfortable, but as you know, I have quite the pain tolerance now.”

He emitted a soft “aww” and gave her sad eyes. She didn’t totally believe them, especially when his tone was a little too humorous. “You poor thing.” 

“Oh, look, a distraction!” she called out, pointing at a displacer beast skulking about.

Astarion sighed as he slipped his bow off his shoulder. “You’re no fun…”

----

“Did it go well?” Gale asked expectantly, following Eletha as she made for her tent.

“Bunch of cursed weirdos defeated, a clue to finding Thaniel, and a devil’s deal completed? Yes, a useful day,” she answered, laying down her weapons and stripping down to the clothes under her armor. 

“That is good to hear, but I was referring to, well, you.” He followed as she went towards where they'd set up a more “private” spot to bathe. It was nothing more than a bucket of cold water but it was better than nothing.

“You don't have to worry about me, Gale.”

“Perhaps, but I do.” He blushed and turned away as she started undressing, just like that night she showed them her curse. “If you desire, I can discuss this with you another time.”

“I’m not bothered. Are you bothered?”

“I… assumed you would be a bit more reserved, given… certain details.” Gale cleared his throat. “Anyway. You’ve been through a lot lately. I felt it prudent to check in.”

“Do I seem okay?”

“You seem like you’re burying your feelings. I should know, I’ve been doing that for a long time,” he said with a little self-deprecating chuckle.

Eletha touched his cheek and smiled softly. “You’re sweet, Bhin.”

“I was hoping for valiant or at least charming-” He stopped with a stammer as she got on her toes to place a kiss on his cheek. Her body brushed against his and a small gasp escaped his lips in surprise. “I… ahem… I will leave you to your ablutions.”

She watched him retreat with a coy little smirk on face before continuing with her “bath.” After washing the blood and dust out of her hair and off her face, she called out, “I know you’re there.”

“And you let me watch anyway?” Astarion asked as he stepped out of his hiding place.

“Nothing you haven’t seen before.”

“Mm, yes, but not that little display with Gale.”

“Jealous?”

“A little. Your approach is much more subtle than mine, and I think it might be more effective.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The way your soft touch caught him off-guard. His heart leapt, thinking your lips would meet in a kiss. Your naked body just so happens to brush against him? I’m sure he’s in his tent thinking about it right now. He’s asking himself, how can I convince her to see me as more than just a fool, worthy of more than just her sweet sympathies?” 

As he spoke, Astarion divested himself of his own armor and the clothes underneath it. It wasn’t the first time they’d washed the blood and road off in each other’s company. It was almost… comforting, that they could just be naked with no sexual context. 

However, knowing Astarion, he’d probably encourage it. 

“You’ve got quite the imagination.” 

“It’s true, though, isn’t it?” he suggested with a smirk, taking the sponge out of her hand. She merely gave him a quizzical squint. He regarded the object as if it was very interesting. “You know, you make fun of me, for not having plans. But I had a plan, once.

“You were right. I did want to make you desire me, protect me. Our previous relationship made that complicated, obviously. So I prodded the others, as a backup. Lae’zel and Shadowheart were too guarded, too difficult. Wyll, the gallant monster hunter, spent a long time debating if I was worthy of living. Karlach, well, we couldn’t touch her. And she’s so… sweet, when she’s not terrifying. She likes you enough that she’d take your lead.

“That left me with Gale. Handsome, powerful, doomed Gale. A tough nut to crack, until you get under the social awkwardness, emotional miscues, and over-inflated self-importance.”

“Well, you have a lot of experience with that,” Eletha remarked, unmoving as Astarion very carefully rinsed the sponge and wet it again with fresh water.

“The secret, as you have probably guessed, is how utterly desperate he is to be touched.” 

Astarion squeezed out the water from the sponge, watching as it dripped onto Eletha’s shoulder and ran down her chest, sometimes catching on a scar and running in another direction. 

A gasp escaped from her throat. 

“He hid behind that orb, but really, he was so desperate that it made him sick.

“I feel awful. He was supposed to be a sacrificial pawn and I feel awful. Those books… How he quivers under my touch…” 

Astarion began wiping away blood and sweat from her neck and shoulders. Eletha wasn’t quite sure why she allowed him to. It felt… nice.

“Today you went after that orthon like he wasn’t three times your size, like it didn’t matter how hard he hit you. You did it for me, just like I hoped, but feared you wouldn’t.”

His hand traveled down her chest, cleaning the shallow valley between her breasts. “Did you have a plan for this conversation or…?”

He stopped following his hand with his eyes and gazed deeply into hers. 

“When was the last time someone took care of you, my love?”

Eletha flushed and as she looked away, she took hold of his wrist and pushed it towards him. “Don't be ridiculous.”

“What's ridiculous about it? Gale wants us both. I want you both. And you want us. Why not a cheeky little three-sided thing?”

“You presume a lot.”

“My sweet, don't play so aloof. I've read your diaries.” With his other hand, he trailed his middle finger along one collarbone and then down her sternum. “You deny this part of yourself because you feel it's undeserved. Haven't you suffered enough?”

Eletha hesitantly let go of his wrist.

“Let me take care of you. Show you how much I appreciate you?” he purred, his hand taking hold of her waist, his lips approaching hers, their hips nearly touching. 

Sensing the proximity of the body that once so perfectly interlocked with hers, the long-forgotten part of her body awoke with a heat that was searing in comparison to the chill surrounding them. 

Eletha began to tremble. 

For a moment, Astarion’s eyes appeared golden as they gazed deeply into hers. 

“Please?”

Eletha opened her mouth to speak, but another voice was heard.

“Could you two move this somewhere else? I need to wash my hair,” Shadowheart complained, huffing and undoubtedly crossing her arms over her chest.

“Aww, Fringe, Lethi was going to finally get some…” Karlach complained quietly, although she could still be heard in the near-silence.

Eletha snatched the sponge out of Astarion’s hand and made a mad dash attempt at scrubbing the most important parts of her clean. When he stood there staring at her, she started cleaning him too, starting with his face so he couldn't argue. “Just a minute!”

Astarion glared at Shadowheart as he sauntered out behind a flustered Eletha. Karlach appeared apologetic.

From his position at the campfire, Gale appeared to be watching Eletha go into her tent, a worried look on his face. Then he saw Astarion, practically glowing in his underwear under what little light there was, and his expression changed to a glower.

“It's not what you think,” Astarion said as he passed him.

“Sure…” Gale grumbled, turning his attention back to the food he spent all day preparing.

----

Night fell, sort of, and Astarion stood in front of Gale’s tent.

“Can I speak with you?” he asked, trying to avoid any sarcasm and only using a little sass.

“I suppose,” Gale answered after a moment of silent consideration.

He was clearly upset, pouting as he flicked through a tome.

Astarion put his hands on his hips. “Look. We didn't do anything.”

“So you say.”

“Don't be like that. You were considering it too.”

“That is prepos-”

“You're not fooling me.” Astarion snatched the book away. Holding it more gingerly, he said deliberately, “I’m… sorry.”

“What are you doing right now?” Gale asked suspiciously.

“When I didn't know if Eletha was going to gut me or not, I… had a plan. You would fall in love with me and I would, well… have a powerful wizard in my corner. All I had to do was not fall for you. And I failed.”

Gale shook his head. “You have a funny way of showing it.”

“Because you’re blind.” Astarion sighed, the flow of his speech interrupted. “I see you with her. You can’t be jealous. Of course, it’s still not clear to me if you’re mad that I am flirting or that she is being flirted with. But what does it matter? We all like each other.”

“I thought this was an apology, not a call to a ménage à trois.”

“It is! Or, it's supposed to be. You know I'm not good at this.” Astarion offered the book back, only to move it out of reach at the last second. “Live a little, Gale. Expand your mind.”

Gale sighed wearily. “You've given me a lot to think about.”

Astarion’s lips curled in a self-satisfied little smile. “Hopefully something fun?”

Gale snatched his book back. Astarion huffed, although playfully, and left.

After a while, Gale left his tent and softly made his way towards Eletha’s.

“Are you awake?” he whispered, not wishing to disturb her.

“Come in,” she answered, making space for him in the small tent.

He could tell that she’d been drinking, but not as much as before, so that was good, right? Still, he felt the need to give her an out from the conversation. “We can discuss this some other time, if that would be more suitable.”

“I have the feeling you’re going to ask me something that will be easier to answer in my current state.” Eletha gestured for him to go on. “This is casual intoxication, not running away from my feelings intoxication.”

Gale would have to take her word for it. “Did anything happen between you? Today, I mean.”

“Are you asking because you’re concerned for me, or for personal interests?” She took a sip of her drink. 

“Can it not be both?” Eletha hummed. He had a fair point.

“He was coming onto me. Genuinely, this time, which was surprising.”

Gale swallowed around a lump in his throat. “Were you going to accept?” 

“I didn’t really have the time to fully consider it.” Eletha offered him her drink and, after a moment’s hesitation, he took it. “I was going to tell him off. Then he said something that made me reconsider.”

“He can be quite convincing,” Gale agreed sourly before taking a sip of her drink. It was just wine, not that hard stuff that seemed to magically appear in her hands.

“Well, he was right, which, if Astarion is right, you’ve kinda fucked up, yeah?” She grinned at him and he laughed, because she was right. 

“He was right. I’ve been running away from happiness ever since he left. Felt I didn’t deserve it. When I’d try again, I’d just get hurt, and I’d punish myself more. Sometimes it was just the wrong person, it doesn’t work. But sometimes… maybe it could have worked? If I didn’t get this knot in my stomach that says I’m worthless?

“I’ve tried being friends. I can do friendship. And I feel bad, that maybe I’m getting your hopes up, and not because I like teasing you, but because I hate myself. I’m punishing myself, by getting attached and ruining everything.

“So I considered it. I wanted to say no, because it would hurt you, because I didn’t deserve it. But… I wanted to say yes, so it would hurt you and you’d hate me and that was its own punishment. And just a little bit… I was happy with him, once upon a time. Maybe I could be happy again.”

Gale listened intently. Eletha had a habit of rambling, but she chose her words and tone carefully. With practice, he could untangle them to find the naked truth underneath. This time, it was… familiar.

“Do you think you could be happy again?” he asked her sincerely, meeting her two-toned gaze with his big brown eyes, so open and sad.

“After all we’ve been through?” She laughed a little and his heart sank. Then she smiled. “Yeah. I do.”

“Then I wish you the best of luck.”

Gale held out her wine bottle, intending it as a symbol of releasing her from the burden of worrying about his feelings. Eletha took the bottle, but with her other hand, took hold of his. 

“You deserve to be happy too.” Her words were so sweet. She was being so sincere and he just… had a hard time believing it was true. “If you want him, just tell him. And if he has to choose… I’m sure he’ll choose you.”

“I am not as sure as you. He loves you. You have-” Gale cut himself off before he could say something that might make her spiral again. Eletha appeared to understand what he was going to say, but she still seemed pleasant and level-headed. “Why would he choose me?”

“Because I’m old and boring. You’re young and exciting.” A mischievous smirk tugged at her lips. “And I’ll make him. He owes me for the rest of my life.”

Gale shook his head. “There is a wrinkle in your plan. You’d be alone.”

“My sweetling, I’ve been alone a long time. You have your whole life ahead of you” Gale opened his mouth to protest and the sharp dark gaze that instantly flashed in her eyes made him shut it again without her losing a beat “and my beloved Astarion is getting to start over. I can be alone a little longer. If you two are happy, then I will be happy.

“Besides. It’s not like we have done anything even close to what you two were doing. We haven’t even shared a kiss.”

Gale stared at their clasped hands. He thought about what Astarion said earlier.

“Would you like to?” he asked, squeezing her hand reflexively in his nervousness.

“I think that… I am just drunk enough to say yes, but not so drunk that I’ll be cursing myself in the morning.”

Eletha got to her knees and leaned forward, holding his face gently as she kept their other hands together. 

Gale let out a breath of excitement. 

Their eyes closed and their lips touched. 

The first kiss was hesitant, testing the unknown topography, finding the way to fit just right. A pleasurable heat rose to the surface of Eletha’s skin as she deepened the next kiss.

Gale’s heart fluttered while his stomach did flips. This felt so different from his interludes with Astarion. 

Those felt like a natural progression of a lanceboard game. They would have some heartfelt conversation that turned into an exchange of witty barbs and the only places to go from there were fighting or “fighting.”

That didn’t mean either was unpleasurable.

Actually. It was too pleasurable.

Eletha leaned back to catch her breath and make sure he was alright.

Luckily, this meant that she only got vomit on her chest and lap, not her face.

She was stunned as Gale pleaded for her forgiveness. “I’m so sorry, I don’t- I don’t understand-”

This time he managed to turn his head.

Rubbing his back soothingly, Eletha chuckled. “It’s okay. I know the feeling.”

If anyone noticed, they were kind enough to not talk about it the next morning. Eletha managed to clean herself up enough to help Gale back to his tent. There, she sat for a while, making sure he would recover.

“Words cannot express how foolish I feel,” Gale said weakly as she placed a cold damp towel on his forehead.

“It’s not the first time a wizard’s puked on me,” she answered, soothingly stroking his hair a few times before sitting back. It probably wouldn’t help to touch him too much right now.

“You must have a lot of interesting stories…”

“I promise to leave this one out of the ballad they’ll inevitably write about us.”

“It was enjoyable. Until the last bit.”

“I enjoyed it too,” Eletha said sweetly, a small smile on her lips.

A few minutes passed in silence. She was about to get up, assuming he’d fallen asleep, when Gale asked, “What was the first time?”

“So I was at this party in Suzail…”

[cottoncandy-icedcream]

The villain’s identity wasn’t included in the leak. Gillian was safe. For now. She couldn’t believe the woman she silently waited at the bus stop was her nemesis, she had always dreamed bus stop woman would become so much more to her

The first Monday after the leak, Gillian got to the bus stop first, a rare occurrence. As the bus pulled to the stop, hero ran up to the door and rushed up the steps with the villain following a few steps behind.

Gillian started to make her way down the aisle to her usual seat in the back but found herself stopping at the hero’s row. She sat down.

“I thought you wouldn’t make it. Don’t worry me like that again”

The hero looked up at her. “What’s the point? The only thing I liked about myself is over. I’m sure you saw the news. Work will be a shit show. I’ll be suddenly popular and everyone will pretend they always liked me. They’ll think I have some bat-cave lair and just want to see it. I got the whole routine from my neighbors this weekend. They didn’t even know my name until Post published that piece.”

Gillian put her hand on the hero shoulder. “I liked you better before I knew you were the city’s guardian. Your name’s laurel, right?”

Laurel smiled. “You didn’t even know me”

“Maybe not, but I knew you were better than that cape wearing goody-two shoes. No offense”

“None taken. Between you and me, I didn’t like her much either. I just thought that was how a hero should be”

“What made you even want to be a hero?” Gillian could feel her heart racing. Maybe Lauren wasn’t so good after all.

“I’m a shapeshifter. I guess I just wanted to help. It’s not like cops can do anything. I never thought I’d be famous or anything.

Then that bastard villain showed up and challenged me and I guess I thought I had to prove that ‘good will always prevail’ or some crap.

“I’m not even mad at her. Not really. I think she just doesn’t like my persona. Who would? Honestly, I’ve kinda always been team fire catcher. She’s a badass. Chameleon is just boring. Like me”

Gillian started at Laurel. She wanted to kiss her right there on the bus. Instead she made eye contact and let her eyes take their true blazing form.

The hero’s identity was accidentally revealed, but it turns out they are moderately poor, have no friends or family, and their civilian life is frankly…sad.

[postfinite]

Chapter 1: The Poop Protocol

---------------------------------------------------- I use AI to generate stories that I want to read and this is one of them. It's about a post-apocalyptic group that prioritized people that poop a lot when it was recruiting, so they would have more fertilizer to grow food, but have no other significant skills. Hope you enjoy! ----------------------------------------------------

"It all started with Todd’s composting manifesto," Benny said, staring wistfully into the cracked lens of his binoculars. From our vantage point on the roof of a gutted Kmart, we could see the nearby encampment of the Iron Fang Clan, their campfires blazing ominously against the twilight. They had functioning motorcycles, tactical vests, and a certain swagger that screamed “We’re the reason Mad Max movies have plot.”

We had Todd.

“They’re eating steak again,” Benny added, as if it wasn’t bad enough to watch our enemies indulge in a red-meat utopia while we debated if the expired cans of creamed corn we scavenged were safe to eat.

Todd popped his head up from a stack of handwritten notes that were only half-singed from the last time his "great ideas" went haywire. His wire-rim glasses slid down his nose, and he shoved them back with the same gusto he applied to his speeches. “You can mock it all you want, Benny, but let me remind you: without our Poop Protocol, there would be no corn, creamed or otherwise!”

“Nobody’s arguing about the value of the Protocol,” I interrupted, because that was the only way to stop Todd from launching into his "Waste Equals Worth" diatribe. "We’re just saying that maybe, maybe, we should’ve vetted recruits for things like combat skills or, I don’t know, basic carpentry, instead of basing admission on their digestive enthusiasm."

Todd stood up, all five-foot-six of righteous indignation, and jabbed a finger in the air. “Do you know how many encampments have collapsed because they ran out of food? Do you know what separates us from them?”

Benny, as usual, couldn’t resist. “A poop fetish?”

Todd ignored him. “Vision! And a sustainable agricultural model built on the natural cycles of human waste! We’re the future, Benny. We’re building something here—something the Iron Fang Clan can only dream of!”

“Yeah, they’re probably dreaming about ribeye steaks,” I muttered.

"And not getting eaten," Benny added.

Todd scoffed. "We have defenses!" He gestured to the makeshift perimeter we’d built around our compound, which consisted of broken shopping carts, rusty bed springs, and a sea of strategically-placed garden gnomes. The gnomes had been Todd’s idea. He claimed they were both a psychological deterrent and an early-warning system.

"You mean the gnome moat?" Benny asked, raising an eyebrow. "Real intimidating. I’m sure the next roving gang of cannibals will see that and think, ‘Whoa, better not mess with these guys.’"

Todd was about to respond when a faint moan drifted up from the street below. The three of us froze, peering over the edge of the roof. A lone zombie shuffled aimlessly down the cracked asphalt, its head lolling at an unnatural angle.

“One of them loners,” Benny said, pulling his crossbow from his back. He always acted like he was too cool for Todd’s big plans, but he’d made that crossbow himself out of an old leaf spring and parts from a toaster, so I knew he had his own kind of weird prepper pride.

“Wait,” Todd whispered, grabbing Benny’s arm. “We don’t know if it’s alone. Where there’s one, there’s often more.”

As if on cue, another zombie staggered into view, then another. Within moments, the street below was teeming with them, their groans blending into a chorus of guttural hunger.

“Great,” Benny muttered. “We’re outnumbered by the undead and still hungry. Typical Wednesday.”

Todd’s face lit up with the kind of enthusiasm that usually preceded someone’s bad idea. “This is perfect! We can harvest their fertilizer potential!”

“You want us to fight off a horde of zombies to collect their poop?” Benny asked, deadpan.

Todd blinked. “Well, not their poop. Their bodies. The decomposition process—”

“You know what? No. Stop. Just stop talking,” I cut in. “We need to focus on getting through the night without dying. Let’s save the zombie composting plans for another time.”

We hunkered down, watching as the horde shuffled past, their moans echoing like some kind of grotesque symphony. For once, Todd stayed quiet, though I could see the gears turning in his head, probably dreaming up ways to convert zombies into fertilizer factories.

When the last of the undead had passed, Benny let out a breath. “You know, one of these days, Todd’s going to get us all killed.”

“Probably,” I agreed. "But until then, at least we’ll have really good corn."

Benny snorted, and for a moment, the tension eased. Then a low growl rumbled from somewhere in the dark, and we all turned toward the sound. It wasn’t a zombie this time. It was something worse.

“Oh no,” Todd whispered. “The bikers have dogs."

The growl grew louder, followed by the unmistakable sound of claws scraping against asphalt.

Benny reached for his crossbow, but his hands were shaking. “I’m starting to think corn isn’t worth this.”

Todd straightened, his glasses catching the dim light. “Corn is always worth it.”

And with that, we braced ourselves for yet another ridiculous fight for survival.

[pluppsauthor]

Down the Barrel of a Second Death - Hellfire Scene

I haven't posted much about Frequency: Hellfire yet, besides talking about the characters in tag games. So let this be somewhat of an introduction, as intense as it is.

--------------------------------------------------- (CW: swearing, mention of death, self harm)

On his last legs, Akita stood like a dying animal. His eyes blazed with spite and anger. He didn’t want this life, he never wanted for any of this to happen. But what did that matter now? He was already dead, trapped in hell and staring down the barrel of his second, eternal, death.

The Archdemon, Garonil, before him in all of its bony goliath horror, stood like a testament to everything Akita couldn’t do. He was as good as dead, him and everyone who lay on the ground around him. They very well may be dead already, dead again that is, but that wouldn’t stop Akita from gritting his teeth in stubborn defiance.

The Archdemon reached out one of its bony limbs towards Akita. He couldn’t do anything to stop it, no running or use of his Frequency would stop the fiend. In a moment too fast for the fiend to have caused, Akita lost his arm.

Pain flashed through every part of his soul, a part of him was now gone. Even the strange armour he wore did nothing to slow the foul monster down.

He fell to his knees in agony. His right arm had already lost its hand, but now all of it was gone. His left arm didn’t fare much better either. Beaten, broken, and twisted, it was all but a mangled shadow of what it once was.

But, in that pain, something came to Akita. Like a vision, he caught a glimpse of something, a strange stillness. He grabbed a shard of bone with what remained of his remaining hand and cut into himself.

The pain was temporary as clarity dawned on him. The Archdemon froze as it watched Akita butcher himself. He dug the shard into himself with all of the strength he could muster, a terrifying vigour that spoke of his desperation. Tearing himself apart piece of piece, cut by cut, he had truly gone mad.

But something, something alien and completely insane stirred in Akita’s soul. He felt something break and reform the very core of his being. He held onto that feeling as it grew. Laughing maniacally as the pain only grew and grew.

Pain was an old friend, one he had known all his life. What was a little more? Pain, regret, misery, and a death wish. Those were his virtues. He was promised something better, but saw no sign of this mirage.

But this... this was something new...

Hope.

Akita felt his soul burn, like he was being reforged in molten metal. Something screamed at him, it screamed a single phrase or word over and over again. It was his voice, or so he thought. Over and over again like the bell tolling his demise, it rang in his head.

“Da”

“Da”

“Da”

It wasn’t the keyword for his Frequency, but it was something new. Not of his tongue nor that of the demons. In the blink of an eye, all of his pain vanished and he felt nothing but pure euphoria and hysteria. 

For a brief moment, nothing existed to him but this fire in his soul. It begged for him to let it out, screamed at him to break the chains that bound him and tear apart everything that dragged him down to this hell in the first place.

But all he could do was laugh.

He screamed in laughter until his voice broke.

“I’M NOT FUCKING DEAD YET YOU BASTARD! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA I’M GOING BREAK EVERY PART OF YOU INTO DUST! NO HEAVEN OR HELL COULD SAVE YOU FROM THE PAIN I WILL PUT YOU THROUGH!”

Akita, knowing his arm could barely hold the shard of bone as is, held it carefully between his teeth. He syphoned the air into his lungs and spoke something new.

“Da”

The dagger of bone ignited in a splendorous glow. Infused with the pure energy his Frequency normally created, it could cut through just about anything, other than Akita himself.

He had awakened his second Frequency, the power to infuse his energy. But that was only the tip of the molten iceberg boiling in his soul.

---------------------------------------------------

Thanks for reading as always! ❤ Uh, this probably isn't the best scene to act as an introduction for Hellfire, but who cares? It fucking rules, or I think so at least.

[slimyalienfreak]

Just One Kiss

(Secret History Mario x Horrorbrew!Reader)(+18)

Hey there! Guess what? Still not over Secret History Mario! So I decided I haven’t created a j.ai bot in a while and made one just for him. Definitely not an excuse to slut him out while wanting him to do the same to me. Also sorry (maybe sorry) for censoring the pic. If you want to see it I can upload a separate post of it. This bot is mostly planned for Horrorbrew/EXE users. You don’t have to it’ll probably work without it but it is an option if you want to use it. Anyways hope you enjoy it.

This bot is strictly for NFSW/Smut related purposes so if you’re a minor/uncomfortable with that kind of stuff I suggest not using this bot.~Blaze/Dawn

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Name: SH Mario || Just One Kiss

Request: Yes/No

Characters: Secret History Mario + Mentions of the other Mario’s Madness v2 characters

Scenario: You and the well known dictator never got along. Like trying to mix oil and water it just wouldn’t work. Why? Don’t know. Why do you two hate each other? You two didn’t really have an actual reason you just do. Sometimes people just hate each other. He finds you too ‘high mighty’ and you think he is an asshole so I guess you can say that is a reason. The others never really understood the drama between you and him. Like sure they weren’t expecting everyone to like each other but they found the reason to the hate between you two to be very stupid. However, even if you two hate each other you two secretly liked each other. Hell dare I say love each other. But you two were too stubborn to admit it. Eventually everyone else got sick and collectively agreed with each other to let you two be alone for a while to see if anything changes. At first discovering this you two didn’t like it. But it looked like they would be out for a while so you two had to get along at least a bit before they get back so you did. However, this suddenly turned sexual from enemies to lovers you two managed to put your hatred aside and let yours and his emotions get the better of you. But hey! At least the plan worked?

(Update: decided to remove the picture since I’m able to log onto the website again)

Link To Bot