#hope you have the most wonderful day okay!!

[genderqueerdykes]

hello, i have a question concerning one of your recent posts talking about trans men, ftm and other male or mspec people being lesbians. i mean this in the most respectful way possible, but how could a trans man be a lesbian? isnt the whole point non men loving non men? im sorry if youve got this question before and thanks for answering in advance if you do

i get this question all the time lol but i don't mind answering. thanks for taking the time to ask!

that is radfem rhetoric that you've picked up from other people inadvertently- lesbian does not mean "non man loving non man," as gay does not mean "non woman loving non woman". "gay" is a form of queer attraction, so is lesbian. if we don't define "gay" by who we leave out, why are we doing so with lesbianism? we do not define who we are attracted to by who we leave out, that makes no sense. lesbian is a form of queer attraction that can include as many people as an individual feels is right for them. if we say "non men" to include nonbinary people why are we excluding nonbinary and other trans people who also happen to be men as well? some people are "non men" and men at the same time, so do we exclude them, too, or do we include them?

the logic falls apart instantly the second we remind ourselves that multigender, genderfluid, gender non conforming, genderqueer, (masc) nonbinary, genderfuck and other people who completely break the gender binary. and a lot of them are men and mascs. lesbians should not have to be shoved inside of a cis butch woman - cis femme woman dichotomy and nothing else. we've been tricked into thinking like radfems by viewing "proper" lesbian relationships as relationships between cis lesbians and feminine afab nonbinary lesbians (who are being viewed as cis women in this scenario) and nobody else. we need to allow lesbianism to be diverse, otherwise, we will continue this radfem echo chamber that has been going on for decades!

we must also consider that lesbian is a form of queer attraction, so it can include lots of experiences, just like gay can. nonbinary people, genderqueer people, trans people of all genders can use "gay" how they see fit, whether it means they're attracted to men, women, nonbinary people, intersex people, genderfluid people, and so on. people of all genders are allowed to do the same thing with dyke, sapphic and lesbian as well! the most common useage of the word lesbian is to mean wlw, but that doesn't mean every single lesbian, dyke and sapphic explains it that way. some lesbians, dykes and sapphics experience multiple modes of attraction! some are bi, pan, poly, omni and so on

lesbianism and men are not polar opposites. lesbians can be multigender or genderfluid. lesbians can be transmascs and trans men and guys and boys and men. lesbians can be boydykes and guydykes. many trans men and mascs start out in the lesbian community and find their home there. some find they never stop feeling like lesbians or butches or dykes. there are two-spirit lesbians who are also men. this is totally okay. this sort of thing can hurt intersex lesbians. this kind of thinking can hurt transfem lesbians and lesbian trans women as well if transphobic people consider them "men". we need to stop trying to exclude as many people as we can from lesbianism, and focusing on including people instead. lesbian is not and well not ever be an exclusive term that only applies to women and women only. let's be real, "non men" just means very feminine nonbinary people and ""women-lite"" enbies. this doesn't apply to masc enbies and trans people, because where does the line between "non man" and "man" begin? it doesn't exist

hope that helps! thanks for taking the time to ask! have a wonderful day you can also search the tags on this post on my blog as i talk about this a lot! :) this works best in desktop or in a browser on mobile.

[munsonsmixtapes]

Hi I saw you wanted requests for older!eddie/sugar daddy!eddie and I have ideas! It’s a little sad so I’m sorry about that. Happy ending tho!

I can picture Eddie looking for a sugar baby because he’s had so much trouble with women in the past. He was always an outcast and he has a hard time believing someone wants to spend time with him. You’d been friendly (maybe like coworkers or neighbors) and when he offers the arrangement at first your like “you don’t need to pay me to spend time with you I like you” and you help him see how wonderful he is and show him how attractive he is.

Or alternatively (and way more smutty), you match on a sugar daddy/sugar baby site or chatroom or whatever and you and him have crazy good chemistry and then when you send him pics he’s like- holy shit it’s you the girl he’s been crushing on forever. Or maybe he doesn’t know you irl and the reader is a cam girl and Eddie pays for private zoom calls and you’re so surprised cause omg this client is so hot.

cw: MDNI (18+) Eddie receives a handjob, age gap (reader is 25 and Eddie is 40)

Eddie’s definitely the first to admit that he doesn’t have great luck in the dating department. He’s been on more dates than he can count, but for whatever reason, it never goes past more than one.

He doesn’t get it. He’s got the money and he thought the ladies loved that kind of thing. He’s even offered to buy them whatever they want, but that never seems to work as they often think he’s just flashing his wealth at them.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing wrong. He’s not asking for much either. He just wants someone who he can spend time with, someone he can spoil because he’s got more money that he knows what do with.

So when Steve and Robin suggest that he become a sugar daddy, he immediately thinks that’s the answer. It seems like the perfect arrangement. He gets what he wants and there’s no actual attachment. He just doesn’t know who he’d offer it up to.

When he sees you at your desk when he heads to his office, he decides you’re the perfect candidate. He’s constantly heard you complain about your financial situation to other girls in the building and has even seen you eyeing an expensive bag on your computer when he’s passed your desk.

He’s nervous when he finds you in the elevator on Monday morning. He was hoping at least a few extra minutes, but he supposes that this is as good a place as any since it’s just the two of you and no one is there to possibly eavesdrop.

You greet him politely like you always do and he greets you back in his awkward manner and then the rest of the ride to the top floor is quiet, so much so that you could definitely hear a pin drop.

He’s staring at you and he knows it’s creepy, but he can’t help it. You’re just so pretty in your dress pants and blazer, your makeup done so flawlessly. You always look so professional for work and he admires that about you.

He’d by lying if he said that he didn’t have a tiny crush on you. Okay, huge. The second you stepped foot into his office to interview for the position last year, he was taken aback by you. Not only did he think you were beautiful, but he also admired how smart and funny you were. So you were attractive and completely qualified for the position. Surely there had to be a catch in there somewhere, but there wasn’t. Your were just perfect.

But he hasn’t told anybody. He can’t. So he just bottles up his feelings and only lets them out with a sock and bottle of lotion when he gets home. He knows you probably (definitely) be grossed out by that so he doesn’t do it nearly as much anymore, just when he really needs the release.

Eddie’s not the most social person. In fact, the three years you’ve been working for the company, he can easily count on his hand how many times you’ve had a conversation that wasn’t about work. Sure, at first, you were an intern on an entirely different floor so he never saw you, but now he sees you five days a week so what’s his excuse?

What he doesn’t know, which is surprising since you’ve tried to make it very obvious, is that you like him too. And why wouldn’t you? Not only is he hot and a very rich CEO of a company, but he’s also so intelligent. You can see it when you listen to him during meetings. You’re supposed to be taking notes, and you do, sometimes, but really, most times you’re scribbling “y/n Munson” onto the page like a school girl. You’re so in love with him that sometimes, you don’t know what to do with yourself.

He’s beginning to think that’s maybe this is a bad idea, wondering if he should just find a sugar baby online. He’s older than you by fifteen years and he’s also your boss which wouldn’t look so good. But he’s speaking before he can stop himself so there’s no going back now.

“I have a proposition for you,” he says and you turn to him in confusion, your eyebrows furrowing.

“And what would that be?” You ask and you can see that he’s visibly nervous. He talks to so many celebrities on the daily and you’re the one who makes him nervous? That has never made sense to you.

“You can absolutely say no, but I just wanted to offer it up to you if you’re interested.” Now your interest is piqued. Is finally going to ask you to fuck him like you’ve been fantasizing about for years?

“What is it, Mr. Munson?” God, why does you calling him that always make him so fucking hard?

You’re looking at him with concern now, your hand on his shoulder as you step closer, so close that if he moves just a few inches, he could-no, he’s definitely not doing that.

“I-well-as you know, I have a lot of money.” You laugh at that. He’s one of the richest men in the world, of course he has money.

“Right,” you nod, wanting him to proceed. You’re on the edge of your seat, desperate to know what he wants to ask you and why he won’t just come out and say it.

“And it’s come too much for me to handle so I need someone to spend it on, a companion.”

“Okay,” you drag out the word, still unsure as to why he’s telling you this. You’re just his assistant.

“And I’d like that someone to be you.” Your eyes widen at his words. Surely you didn’t hear him right. There’s no way that he wants to give you some of his money. That just doesn’t make any sense. “I can provide you with anything you want or need. Rent? Done. Clothes, shoes, even if you just want some extra cash. But in return, I would like you to spend time with me.”

You’re staring at him like he’s got three heads so he’s quick to backtrack. He really doesn’t want to upset you. “But that’s not a requirement. If you just want the money-“

“Mr. Munson, that is so generous,” you cut him off, your other hand moving up to his other bicep as you step even closer, pulling him forward as you bring your lips to his ear. “But you don’t have to pay me to spend with you. I already like you.” You press a lingering kiss to his cheek then flee the elevator as the doors open.

He’s following you, hurrying to catch up with you. Instead of heading to your desk, though, you’re entering his office, looking back at him with a flirty look.

You open the door and hold it for him before letting it slam closed and locking it. When you turn, he’s all the way across the room, trying to make sense of what’s happening, but he just can’t.

He’s loosened his tie and his hair is even more of a mess than it usually is. You make your way over to him, taking him by the hands and pulling to you and wrapping his arms around your waist while your hands wind into his hair, giving his scalp and little scratch before pulling his head forward. Your lips slowly press to his and he gasps into your mouth before slowly melting into you.

You’re kissing him hungrily and he’s matching your energy as this is something that the two of you have wanted for so long. It’s everything you could have imagined and more, his lips just as soft as you had pictured.

Your tongue quickly swipes along his bottom lip as you push him against the window. He lets you inside and can’t stop himself from moaning. You swear you’re to come just from hearing it and once you press your body to his, you can see he’s already one step ahead on you as you feel his rock hard cock pressing against you.

“Want me to take care of that for you?” You ask and he whines, unable to get the words come out of his mouth as he nods enthusiastically.

You hurry over to his desk and look through his drawers until you find a bottle of lotion that you’re sure if for the exact purpose to lucky you. You then unbuckle his pants and pull them and his underwear down, his rock hard cock coming into view. You pump some of the lotion into your hand then go to town, pumping his his cock hard as he pressed himself even harder against the window, trying to grab onto whatever he can as a loud moan falls from his lips.

You slap your free hand over his mouth and his eyes flutter shut as pleasure courses through him. He’s sure he’s going to come any second.

“That’s it. Just like that,” you encourage him. “Maybe if you’re a good boy, I’ll clean you up.” He mumbles something against your hand and before you’re about to ask him what it is, there’s a loud knock at the door, the two of you staring at it in fear as you pull away quickly, letting Eddie put his pants back.

“We can continue this at my place tonight,” you wink. “I’ll message you my address, okay?”

“Okay,” he nods as you make your way to the door as Eddie heads towards his desk, sitting behind it to hide is still very hard cock.

You unlock and open the door and sure enough, Steve is standing on the other side of it, looking between you and Eddie curiously. As you head out of the office with your head low to hide your smile, all Steve can think about is how he owes Robin twenty dollars.

taglist: @the-witty-pen-name @k-yurieee

[iamquiantrelle]

VIRGIN TERRITORY (chapter 4) ────── iamquaintrelle

# pairing: aurelien tchouameni x black oc (☔️✨💕)

# tags: @whoevenisthiz @irishmanwhore @lettersofgold @deonn-jaelle @sucredreamer @leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro @rougereds @f1-football-fiend @judectrl @ayeshami @greyishbach @haartemis @goldenngt @solidbrii @sailurmewn @rainbowsparkelsunshine @lbchi @bbgkoo @mauvecherie-writes

# summary: she's been his pa for almost a year and every day is a struggle to function around him, but he'll never see her more than that...will he? and what will happen if he finds out she's also a virgin? masterlist.

Breakfast at the hotel hits like a hangover even though she barely drank last night. Eight months of morning routines, of knowing exactly where to sit, exactly how Aurélien takes his coffee, exactly which protein options he'll choose on match days – all of it means nothing now. He hasn't said more than two words to her since last night. No "ma puce," no schedule checks, no nothing – just this heavy silence that feels like punishment for crimes she's not sure she committed.

He's sitting clear across the room, sandwiched between Jules and Cama like the empty chair next to her might bite him. His laugh carries over at something Marcus says, and it hits her chest like a physical thing because that's not the laugh she's used to. She knows his real laugh. This is the one he uses for journalists he doesn't like.

She's pushing eggs around her plate, willing herself not to cry over scrambled protein when she feels it – warm lips pressing against her cheek, followed by a soft "Good morning, beautiful."

William slides into the chair next to her like it's the most natural thing in the world, like half the French national team isn't watching this play out like it's better than their morning entertainment. Like Aurélien's fork hasn't suddenly become very interested in murdering his breakfast.

"Sleep well?" William asks, voice warm with implications that make her cheeks heat despite nothing happening last night.

"Do you need something, Saliba?" Aurélien's voice cuts through the morning chatter like ice. "Besides distracting my PA?"

The temperature drops about ten degrees, but William just smiles wider. "Just checking on my girl. That's allowed, non?"

The "my girl" hangs in the air like a challenge. Jules is watching the whole thing with wide eyes while Cama not-so-subtly pulls out his phone under the table.

"Your girl?" Aurélien's voice drops dangerous-low. "Since when?"

"Since she chose to leave the club with me last night," William says easily, and oh – they're really doing this over breakfast. "Unless you have some objection, Capitaine?"

The way he says 'capitaine' somehow sounds both respectful and like a perfect fuck you. Leila's caught between wanting to sink through the floor and wanting to see how this plays out.

"No objection," Aurélien says after a pause that feels eternal. "Just wondering when my PA started dating my teammates."

"Maybe around the same time you started calling her 'okay'."

The silence that follows is absolute. Even Marcus stops eating, which is how you know shit just got real.

"Je t’emmerde," Aurélien spits out, chair scraping against tile as he stands. The words carries enough venom to make several heads turn from nearby tables. ("Fuck you.")

His eyes finally meet hers, and something in them makes her stomach flip. Without another word, he stalks out like the restaurant's on fire, leaving his breakfast half-eaten and tension thick enough to choke on.

William looks entirely too pleased with himself.

"Well," Jules breaks the silence, "that was fun."

The worst part? Some stupid, hopeful part of her had really thought he'd fight harder than this.

"You want to eat, babe?" William's voice cuts through her spiral, casual as anything, like he didn't just provoke their captain into cursing up French storms at breakfast. He's already reaching for her fork like this is something they do, like this morning hasn't turned into a whole telenovela.

Her brain's running dual tracks: pure rage because what the actual fuck was that from Aurélien? Not a hint of the man who fights for everything he wants, who once argued with a ref for fifteen minutes over a throw-in. And panic, because oh god, is she about to lose her job? She's pretty sure there wasn't a 'don't let the fine-ass defender feed you breakfast' clause in her contract, but-

William's trying to feed her a forkful of eggs and she shakes her head no, mind still racing. He just shrugs, unbothered, and turns his attention to her abandoned pancakes instead, cutting them into perfect squares before drowning them in syrup like this is just another morning.

"You got a death wish," Mike says from across the table, watching William arrange her breakfast like he's plating at a Michelin star restaurant.

Bradley nods sagely. "You're crazy as fuck, Wilo."

"Why?" William's voice is all innocent curiosity but his eyes are sharp. "Because I'm showing interest in a beautiful, single woman?"

"Because you're poking a bear that's been marking his territory for months," Marcus mutters into his protein shake.

"I don't see any marks," William responds easily, but his hand finds her knee under the table. "Do you, Lei?"

She should probably say something. Should probably address the fact that they're all talking about her like she's not sitting right here. Should probably be more concerned about the professional implications of whatever this is becoming.

Instead, she's watching William's hands – the same ones that had been so gentle last night – methodically destroying her pancakes with syrup.

"You're going to make them soggy," she finally says, because it's easier than addressing everything else.

His smile is soft when he looks at her. "You need the sugar. You're thinking too hard again."

"About what?" Cama asks, still filming like this is prime content.

"About things that don't matter," William answers before she can. "Like what other people think."

"Other people being our captain who looks ready to commit murder?" Mike suggests.

"He'll get over it."

"Will he though?" Jules finally speaks up, and something in his tone makes Leila look at him. He's wearing that expression that means he knows more than he's saying.

"Does he have a choice?" William counters, and there's steel under the casual tone now.

The table goes quiet again, the implications of that hanging in the air. Leila's phone buzzes – probably her mama's daily good morning text – but she doesn't check it. Can't look away from how William's hand is still on her knee, thumb drawing those circles that made her brain short-circuit last night.

"I should grab my things," she says finally. "We have a flight to catch."

"I'll come with—"

"No," she cuts him off, maybe too quickly. "I got it."

He studies her face for a moment, then nods. "Okay. But Lei?"

She pauses halfway out of her chair.

"Don't overthink it. Any of it."

Easy for him to say. He's not the one whose whole world just tilted sideways over breakfast.

She's barely out of the restaurant when her phone buzzes again. This time it's Jules:

Jules: He's in the gym. Breaking records and probably imagining Wilo's face on the punching bag. You good?

She stares at the message, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Is she good? Is anything about this good?

Another message pops up:

Jules: For what it's worth, I've never seen him this pressed about anything. Not even when Marcus stole his pre-wrap.

She starts typing several responses, deletes them all. Finally settles on:

Leila: Don't know what you mean

His reply is immediate:

Jules: Yes you do. But since you're both determined to be stupid about it... have fun with Wilo 👀

She puts her phone away before she can say something she'll regret. Before she can ask what Jules means. Before she can admit that maybe she does know exactly what he's talking about.

But knowing doesn't make it hurt any less.

Knowing doesn't change the fact that Aurélien walked away instead of fighting.

Knowing doesn't explain why "ma puce" became just "Leila."

And it definitely doesn't explain why that feels like losing something she never really had in the first place.

********************************

Life comes at you fast when you're dealing with a passive-aggressive captain who's apparently graduated summa cum laude from the School of Petty. One full day in Brussels and Aurélien's really out here showing off his PhD in Being Difficult.

"Doesn't your boyfriend need you?" He doesn't even look up from his phone when she tries to review the training schedule.

Later, when she offers to make his protein shake (because some habits die harder than others): "I have two hands, don't I?"

"Men are so fucking sassy," she mutters to herself, watching him stalk off to training like she'd offered him poison instead of protein. She's trying to maintain her professional dignity but he's really getting on her nerves right now.

Her phone buzzing for the fifth time finally breaks through her Aurélien-induced irritation. Her mama's contact photo – one where she's giving that look all Black mamas perfect by age thirty – fills the screen. Shit. She's been so caught up in this mess she forgot to call back home.

"Hey mama—"

"Oh, so you do know how to use a phone? I was about to file a missing persons report."

It's morning in Atlanta, which means Jeanna Mae Peterson has probably been up since five in the morning, waiting to give her daughter the business.

"Everything's fine, mama. Just busy with work—"

"Mhm. And I'm Beyoncé. What's wrong with your voice?"

"Nothing's wrong with my—"

"Leila Alicia, don't you lie to your mama. I carried you for nine months and twenty-three hours of labor. I know when something's wrong."

The full name. Lord. She's really in it now.

"It's just... there's this whole thing with Aurélien and William and kissing and dates and—"

"Hold up, hold ALL the way up. You kissed Aurélien? Jesus be a fence, finally! Wait till I tell your grandma—"

"No, mama, not Aurélien. His teammate—"

"Girl, what? You out here being messy boots, dating some other man when you ain't even dealt with your feelings for the first one? I swear y'all kids nowadays don't know how to talk nothing out. Put Aurélien on the phone. I'm gonna air him out right quick."

"Mama, he's training—"

"He can talk during a break. Matter fact, I got his WhatsApp number, I'mma call that."

"Mama, don't—"

But the line's already dead because Jeanna Mae Peterson invented stubborn and passed it down double dose to her daughter. Leila's frantically calling back but her mama's phone is going straight to voicemail which means—

Aurélien's phone starts ringing across the training ground.

She's doing every gesture she can think of to tell him not to answer – hand slashing across her throat, waving arms like she's directing aircraft, mouthing 'NO' with the energy of someone trying to prevent a natural disaster.

But of course he answers anyway because the universe hates her specifically today.

"Allo? Ah, Mama Peterson..."

All she can do is watch his face as her mama presumably reads him the riot act in that special way Black mamas have mastered. His expressions shift from confused to surprised to something she can't quite read, and is that... is he smiling?

When he finally hangs up fifteen minutes later, he doesn't tell her what her mama said. But he does actually look at her when he asks for his schedule update. Actually says "Merci, ma pu-" before catching himself and walking away.

It's not much. But it's more than she's gotten in days.

She's definitely going to kill her mama though.

Right after she figures out what exactly that woman said to him. And why he almost called her 'ma puce' again.

*************************************

Lunch is an exercise in studying the fascinating world of how many ways one man can pretend another person doesn't exist. Aurélien's got his phone propped up against his water bottle, completely absorbed in whatever's on his screen even though she knows for a fact his notifications are turned off during match prep.

The final training session drags like it's being paid by the hour. Even Marcus and Mike keep their distance – one look at her face tells them tonight isn't the night to beg for soul food. She's not even sure she could cook right now if she wanted to. Her energy's somewhere between "completely done" and "contemplating a career change."

Back at the hotel, she makes it to her room through sheer muscle memory. The Real Housewives of Atlanta are waiting for her on her laptop, ready to provide the exact kind of messy drama she needs to forget her own. Her Uber Eats burrito is doing its best, but even comfort food feels like it's failing her today.

The knock at her door makes her pause mid-bite. Maybe if she stays very still, whoever it is will-

"I bought food," William's voice carries through the door. She looks down at her sad burrito accusingly. "It's Lebanese. I promised to bring you some, remember?"

For a moment she doesn't move, weighing the pros and cons of human interaction. But then the smell of whatever he's brought wafts under her door and her burrito suddenly looks even sadder.

She pushes her glasses up her nose, does a quick check that she doesn't have salsa on her face, and opens the door to find William looking unfairly good for someone who just did two training sessions. He's got bags of food in one hand and that smile that makes bad decisions feel like good ideas in the other.

She steps aside to let him in, trying not to think about how this is definitely not in any PA handbook she's ever read.

"So," William says, spreading containers across her bed like he's setting up an exhibition, "we've got fattoush, hummus with extra pine nuts because you mentioned you like them, shawarma that's going to have the nutritionist trying to kill us tomorrow, and-" he pulls out what looks like heaven wrapped in paper, "extra toum because food without garlic isn't food."

Her abandoned burrito sits forgotten on the nightstand, looking increasingly offensive next to this spread. William's already making her a plate, explaining each dish like he's giving a master class in Lebanese cuisine, and something in her chest gets warm at how much thought he's put into this.

"The lady at the restaurant probably thinks I'm crazy," he says, handing her a plate. "I kept pointing at things saying 'she'll love this' and 'oh she has to try that.'"

"You didn't have to—"

"I wanted to." He settles next to her, close enough that she can smell his shower gel but not so close it feels presumptuous. "Besides, you looked like you needed saving from that sad burrito."

She can't help but laugh. "The burrito was doing its best."

"Its best wasn't good enough." He dips a piece of bread in hummus and offers it to her. "Try this instead."

The food is incredible, but it's the way he talks about it that makes it special. Every dish comes with a story – about his father and mother competing to see who could feed more people at family gatherings, his grandmother teaching him that love always tastes better when it's shared.

"It's like you with your soul food," he says, wiping some sauce from the corner of her mouth with his thumb. "You don't just cook, you share yourself."

She looks at him – really looks at him. At this beautiful man who brings her dinner and understands what food means to her, who looks at her like she's something precious.

"Thank you," she says softly. "For sharing this with me."

His smile could light up Brussels. "You’re welcome."

Somehow they've migrated from sitting to lying down, empty containers pushed aside, William's mouth does unholy things to her neck. His hand is cupping her face like she's made of glass, the other one drawing patterns on her hip that are absolutely not PG-13, and her brain's having trouble remembering why she was ever stressed about anything.

Until she feels it.

Lord have mercy.

His very obvious excitement pressing against her thigh, and her virgin self immediately goes into panic mode. She freezes like someone hit pause, and William pulls back so fast you'd think she'd burned him.

"I'm sorry," he says, voice rough but eyes soft with concern. "We can stop."

"No, it's okay, I just..." she shifts away slightly, wondering if it's possible to actually die from embarrassment because what kind of grown woman freaks out over dick. "I should be the one apologizing."

"Why?"

"Because..." she stares at his collar instead of his face because eye contact feels impossible right now, "you probably have thousands of girls who would just..." she makes a vague gesture that she hopes translates to 'let you hit without all this drama' without having to actually say those words. "And here I am making you wait."

"True."

Her heart does this weird dropping thing, but then his fingers catch her chin, tilting her face up to his, and the look in his eyes makes her forget how to breathe proper.

"But I don't want them," he says, voice low and serious in a way that makes her stomach flip. "I want you, Leila."

"Why?" The question comes out barely above a whisper, all her insecurities wrapped up in one word.

William shifts back just enough to really look at her, and baby – the way this man's eyes can make her feel seen is almost too much.

"Because you don't pretend," he says finally. "Because you make soul food for an entire football team just to make them happy. Because you push up your glasses when you're nervous and wear bonnets to bed and actually care about us beyond what we can offer you."

Her heart's doing gymnastics in her chest. "That's not—"

"Because," he continues, pressing a kiss to her forehead that feels almost too sentimental, "you're real. And that's worth waiting for."

And what is she supposed to do with that? With this man who brings her Lebanese food when she's sad and kisses her like she's precious and says things that make her want to cry and jump him at the same time?

"Plus," he adds with that smug smile, "the way you cook? I'd wait years just for those wings again."

She smacks his chest but she's laughing, the tension breaking. "So you just want me for my cooking?"

"Among other things." His hand finds her waist again, gentler this time. "But mostly because you are you."

"Will..."

"We can take it slow," he says, pressing soft kisses along her jaw. "As slow as you need. I don’t plan on going anywhere."

Her fingers curl into his shirt of their own accord. "Even if it takes a while?"

"Even if it takes forever." His lips find that spot behind her ear that makes her toes curl. "Though maybe not forever-forever because honestly? You in that dress the other night almost killed me."

She can't help the laugh that bubbles up. Trust him to know exactly how to ease her anxiety while simultaneously making her want to kiss him senseless.

"So," he pulls back just enough to meet her eyes, "can I kiss you now? Or are we still having a moment?"

She answers by pulling him down to her, and for a while, she forgets about everything else.

Even if his dick is still making itself known against her thigh.

The match against Belgium is already tense as hell when it happens. They're up 2-1, but it's been scrappy, ugly football – the kind that has tempers running high and tackles getting messy. Leila's been watching Aurélien get more and more wound up, his usual smooth control fraying at the edges with each challenge.

When the Belgian midfielder says something to him in the 76th minute – something she can't hear but definitely sees Aurélien react to – it's like watching a bomb go off in slow motion. The tackle is reckless, aggressive, absolutely deserving of the red card that follows, but the way Aurélien gets in the ref's face after? That's something else entirely. That's weeks of pent-up something spilling out all over the pitch.

It takes both Jules and Mike to pull him back, his face twisted with the kind of rage she's never seen on him before. The captain's armband gets handed to Ibou, who looks like he'd rather be anywhere else than in the middle of whatever this is.

William steps toward him as he's heading off the pitch, probably trying to calm him down, but Aurélien's shoulder check is brutal enough to make several people gasp. The look he gives William could freeze hell over twice.

"Don't," is all he says, but that one word carries enough venom to kill a man.

They manage to hold onto their 2-1 lead, but the victory feels hollow somehow. Especially when Aurélien doesn't even wait for the final whistle – just disappears into the tunnel like a storm cloud, leaving chaos in his wake.

Leila catches William watching him go, something complicated passing across his face.

This isn't about football anymore.

This isn't about football at all.

She's moving before she can think better of it, her press pass bouncing against her chest as she runs from her spot near the pitch toward the tunnel. Security knows her well enough to let her pass, but right now she probably looks wild enough that they wouldn't dare stop her anyway.

The tunnel feels endless, her footsteps echoing off concrete as she follows the sound of what's probably lockers being abused. She finds him in the away team room, radiating the kind of anger that makes the air feel thick.

"Leave." His voice is sharp enough to cut.

She takes a step forward instead.

"Leila. Get out."

But she can't. Not when he's like this, not when everything feels like it's fracturing. Her fingers catch his wrist, trying to... what? Comfort him? Stop him? She's not even sure anymore.

He yanks away like her touch burns, fixing her with a look that's equal parts fury and something else she can't name. Something that makes her chest hurt.

"Aurél-"

"Why the fuck are you doing this to me, Leila? Haven't I been a good person? A good boss?" His voice cracks on the last word.

Her lips purse in confusion, mind racing to catch up. "I'm sorry," is all she can manage because what the actual fuck is happening right now?

He's pacing like a caged animal, all coiled energy and barely contained rage. And then he starts – rapid-fire French pouring out of him like a broken dam, words she can't understand but tone that hits her right in the chest. He's gesturing, still pacing, voice getting louder and rougher with each passing second.

The first tears fall before she can stop them, not because she's afraid – never that – but because she's never seen him like this. Never seen him so... broken.

"I'm sorry," she whispers again, already backing toward the door. She doesn't even know what she's apologizing for anymore, just knows she needs to get out before she completely loses it.

She runs past the guys hovering in the hallway, catches William's face transform from worry to anger as he looks past her to where Aurélien's still going off in French.

The last thing she hears before turning the corner is their voices rising, angry words in multiple languages bouncing off concrete walls like bullets.

She doesn't stop running until she can't hear them anymore.

Until she can't hear anything but her own heart breaking.

She ends up in some random corridor of the stadium, mascara probably creating art on her face while she tries to get her breathing under control. Her phone's blowing up – probably Jules checking on her, maybe William trying to find her – but she can't look at it right now. Can't deal with any of this right now.

The sound of something hitting a wall echoes from somewhere down the tunnel, followed by raised voices that she can still make out even if she can't understand the words. French and English mixing into what sounds like a full-blown fight.

"Hey." Mike's voice makes her jump. He's standing there looking uncharacteristically serious, holding out a water bottle and what looks like clean tissues. "You good?"

She wants to laugh because nothing about this is good, but it comes out more like a hiccup. "Yeah, I just–"

"Need a minute?" When she nods, he slides down the wall to sit next to her. "Yeah, me too. Those two are..." he trails off, shaking his head.

They sit in silence for a while, just breathing, while the sounds of argument fade into something more distant. Her phone buzzes again but Mike gently takes it from her hands, turning it face down.

"Whatever's happening," he says quietly, "it's not your fault."

But isn't it? She's the one who complicated everything. She's the one who—

"Stop that." Mike nudges her shoulder. "I can hear you thinking from here. This isn't about you."

"Then what—"

"It's about them. About stuff they need to figure out." He hands her another tissue. "And about our captain being too stubborn to admit what everyone else already knows."

Before she can ask what he means, footsteps approach – multiple sets. She tenses, but it's just Marcus and Cama, both looking worried.

"They've been separated," Marcus reports, sliding down to sit on her other side. "Jules has Auré, Bradley's got Wilo."

"Proper mess, isn’t it?" Cama adds, joining their little floor party.

They sit there together, this weird little group therapy session on stadium concrete, until her breathing evens out and her hands stop shaking. Until the reality of everything that just happened starts to feel less sharp.

"Come on," Mike finally says, standing and offering his hand. "Let's get you back to the hotel. Pretty sure room service has ice cream, and if they don't, I'll make them find some."

She lets them shepherd her out, these boys who've somehow become family. Let them distract her with stupid jokes and commentary about anything except what just happened.

Her phone buzzes one more time as they reach the team bus. It's Jules:

Everyone's alive. Barely. But alive.

He's asking about you.

Both of them are.

**************************************************

The bus ride back to the hotel is quiet. Unnervingly quiet.

She sits between Mike and Marcus, her head resting against the window, watching Brussels blur past in fragments of neon and streetlights. The city feels different now – less magical, more complicated. Just like everything else.

Jules sits a few rows ahead, phone pressed to his ear, his voice a low murmur that never quite rises to a conversation. Bradley's in the very back, headphones on, staring out the opposite window with a look that could freeze fire.

"You want my headphones?" Mike whispers, nudging her. She shakes her head. Silence feels safer right now.

When they finally arrive at the hotel, the team moves like a fractured unit. No jokes, no post-match chatter. Just bodies moving through the lobby, each absorbed in their own gravitational pull of tension.

At the elevator, William and Jules carefully avoid looking at each other. Not anger. Something else. Something deeper that feels like it's happening in slow motion and at lightning speed all at once.

Her room key feels heavy in her hand. She knows Jules will be checking on her soon, will want to talk, will want to make sure she's okay. But right now, "okay" feels like a country she can't quite reach.

The shower runs scalding hot, water washing away stadium grit, tears, and the complicated residue of everything that just happened. Her makeup dissolves in streaks, mascara creating abstract art down her cheeks that she doesn't have the energy to wipe away.

A knock comes just as she's wrapping herself in the hotel's white terrycloth robe. Jules. Of course.

"Come in," she calls, knowing there's no point in pretending she needs privacy.

Jules enters, takes one look at her, and doesn't ask if she's okay. They both know the answer to that.

"Want some tea?" he asks, already moving towards the small electric kettle.

"God, yes."

They sit in silence. Some moments demand quiet more than words. Jules knows this – it's why he's always been her favorite, why he gets her in ways the others don't.

"So," he finally says, pushing a steaming mug towards her, "you want to talk about what just happened?"

She raises an eyebrow. "Which part? The part where Aurélien nearly started World War III in the tunnel? Or the part where he and William threw hands?"

Jules snorts. "All of it."

Her fingers curl around the mug, seeking its warmth. "There's nothing to talk about."

"Mhm," he says in a way that means exactly the opposite. "Nothing at all. Just our captain losing his mind, your boyfriend fighting, and you sitting in a hallway looking like you've been through the world's most emotional spin cycle."

"William's not my boyfriend."

"Sure," Jules drawls. "And I'm not the most handsome man on the team."

She throws a tissue at him. He catches it without looking, that infuriating smirk never leaving his face.

"What do you want me to say?" she asks finally.

"The truth would be nice."

But the truth feels too complicated. Too raw. Too everything.

"You know what's wild?" Jules says after a moment. "Aurélien's never been like this before. Not about anything. Not anyone."

She looks up, catching something knowing in his eyes. "What are you talking about?"

"Eight months I've watched him with you. Always careful. Always professional. Always..." he waves a hand, searching for the right word, "contained."

"And now?"

"And now?" Jules leans forward. "He's running around breaking shit and looking like he wants to murder William."

Her phone buzzes. William. She ignores it.

"He doesn't get to be mad," she says finally. "He's the one who walked away. Who stopped calling me 'ma puce'. Who—"

"Who what?" Jules prompts when she stops.

The truth slips out before she can stop it. "Who made me feel like I was just... okay."

Jules' laugh is sharp, unexpected. "Okay? Lei, that man has never thought you were just 'okay' a day in his life."

"He doesn't show it!"

"You're in love with him," Jules says suddenly. Not a question. A statement. "You guys are in love with each other."

"No," she protests immediately. "Absolutely not."

Jules leans forward, voice serious. "It's not fair to William. You know that, right?"

"I'm not doing anything wrong," she insists. "Aurélien had his chance. If he wanted something, he should have said something. "He needs to make a move. He's the man."

"Tu es têtue," Jules mutters. ("You are stubborn.")

"He needs to come to me," she continues, nodding.

Jules throws his hands up, cursing in French. "Putain de merde. You're both so fucking stubborn." He wipes his hands down his face, groaning. "Fine. Aurélien needs to grow some balls and you guys need to figure this out. And fast." He moves to the door, pauses, and with a cheeky grin calls out, "Bonne nuit, ma puce."

It's enough to make her smile, just a little. Just enough to soften the edges of the day's chaos.

************************************************

The private jet feels carved from ice. Leila's tucked herself in the back, pretending to work on her tablet while Aurélien sits opposite, professionally ignoring her existence.

"The match report," he says finally, voice clipped.

She keeps tapping on her tablet. Let him wait. Let him feel what being ignored feels like.

"Leila."

Nothing.

His fingers start that familiar drumming pattern on the table – the one that used to mean he was working through plays in his head. Now it just sounds like frustration trying to escape.

"The report," he tries again, softer this time.

Her fingers continue their dance across the screen.

"Ma p-" He catches himself. "Leila."

That gets her attention. She looks up finally, one eyebrow raised in a challenge that clearly says: you made this bed, now lie in it.

Something flickers across his face – something raw and real – before the captain's mask slips back on. The Madrid skyline approaches through the window, offering no answers.

"We need to talk."

"Do we?" Her voice could freeze summer.

"About what happened—"

"Which part?" The words come out sharp enough to draw blood. "The part where you walked away? Or the part where I was just… okay?"

His fingers curl into fists. "It's not that simple."

"Really? Because it felt pretty simple when you treated me like I was nothing."

The plane hits turbulence, forcing them closer for a moment. The physical proximity only highlights the galaxy of space between them.

"You don't get to be angry," he says, leaning forward. "You're the one with William."

"I'm not with William." She lets out a bitter laugh. "And even if I was, you walked away first."

His hand hits the table hard enough to rattle their water glasses. "I didn't walk away."

"No? What would you call it then?"

"I was trying to protect you," he says, something cracking in his voice. "From what people would say. From the gossip. From—"

"I don't need protection," she cuts him off. "I need honesty."

"You think I didn't want to say something?" His voice drops dangerously low, accent thickening with emotion. "You think I just…"

"'You think I just' what?" Leila presses when he doesn't continue. "Because from where I'm sitting, you've done a lot of acting weird but not a lot of explaining."

His jaw works like he's chewing on words he can't quite spit out. "It's complicated."

"No, calculus is complicated. This?" She gestures between them. "This is you not being able to handle… whatever this is. So I'm taking some time off."

"No." The word comes out sharp, almost panicked.

"Yes."

"You can't—"

"I can and I am. Some space will do us good." She starts gathering her things, needing to move to a different seat, to do something with this energy crackling under her skin. "Help you get over whatever this is you're going through."

"Leila—"

"Your uncle Bertrand hired me," she cuts him off. "Not you. Remember that."

The look on his face – like she just slapped him – almost makes her take it back. Almost.

But she's done waiting for him to figure out what he wants.

She's just done.

The Madrid tarmac appears through clouds that look like they're about to burst. Perfect weather for her mood.

"When?" His voice breaks through the landing announcements.

"Two weeks." She's already got her bag ready, already planning her escape route. "Starting tomorrow."

"That's not enough notice—"

"Your temp's already briefed. Sarah's good at her job."

The plane touches down with a jolt that matches the way his head snaps up. "Sarah? From ESN?"

"She knows your schedule. Knows the team." Leila keeps her voice professional even though her hands are shaking. "You'll be fine."

"I don't want Sarah."

"Well, that's who you're getting." She stands as soon as the seatbelt sign dims. "For two weeks, while I figure out if this job is still worth it."

She doesn't wait for his response, doesn't look back as she heads for the exit.

The Ciudad Real Madrid facilities feel wrong without her footsteps echoing through the halls. Aurélien stares at his locker, still in his training kit, everything feeling off-balance.

"Putain," he mutters, splashing water on his face like it might wake him up from whatever nightmare this is.

Two fucking weeks.

Sarah from ESN keeps sending him perfectly formatted schedules, but they're missing the little notes Leila would add – reminders about his mama's favorite call times, warnings about which journalists to avoid, suggestions for post-training recovery that she definitely got from stalking medical journals.

His passes were shit today. Ancelotti had to call him out twice for being distracted, and Jude kept shooting him these looks like he was about to shatter. Maybe he is. Maybe that's why he keeps checking his phone between drills, keeps turning to share training ground gossip with someone who isn't there.

"Tu fais chier," he mutters to his reflection in the locker room mirror. His knuckles are white where they grip the sink edge, and he looks like he hasn't slept in days. Because he hasn't.

The team's tiptoeing around him like he's a bomb about to go off. Even Camavinga's keeping his distance, which should be impossible given how that boy usually operates. But everything's impossible lately.

Sarah's efficient. Professional. Knows exactly what she's doing.

He fucking hates it.

She doesn't make his coffee right – too much cream, like she's trying to drown it. Doesn't know that he needs an extra five minutes before morning meetings to properly wake up. Doesn't push up her glasses when she's trying not to smile at his jokes.

Doesn't call him out when he's being difficult.

His uncle's words keep echoing in his head: "What did you do?"

What did he do? He protected her. Protected them both from the media circus that would follow, from the whispers, from everything that would make her job impossible. That's what he did. That's what he had to do.

Right?

But then he remembers her face in that tunnel in Brussels. Remembers how she looked at him on the plane. Remembers "your uncle Bertrand hired me" like a direct shot to the chest.

His phone lights up – Sarah confirming tomorrow's schedule. The sight of her name where Leila's should be makes his stomach turn.

One week down. Seven days of everything being almost right but completely wrong. Seven days of catching himself turning to share jokes with someone who isn't there.

Seven more to go.

If she comes back.

The 'if' sits in his chest like poison.

*****************************************************

Even Ocho knows something's wrong. The dog keeps bringing him Leila's favorite throw blanket that she left on the couch, whining at the front door around the times she'd usually arrive. Animals aren't supposed to be this emotionally intuitive, but here's his Belgian Malinois really out here making him feel worse.

Jude's been trying to drag him out, talking about some party at this new club that's apparently letting in half of Instagram's finest. Usually he'd be first in line – nothing cures what ails you like beautiful women and expensive liquor, right?

But then this girl at the club – all smooth brown skin and curves for days, exactly his type – pressed up against him on the dance floor and something felt… wrong. He couldn't even blame it on alcohol because he was stone-cold sober, watching everyone else get lit while he nursed the same whiskey all night.

Even his DMs are full of missed opportunities. Models, influencers, that one actress who's been trying to get his attention for months – all of them exactly the type of distraction he needs. The type of women who usually help him forget whatever's on his mind.

But pussy doesn't feel right when your heart's fucked up.

And that's what's really killing him. That somehow Leila managed to ruin him for other women without even touching him. That the thought of fucking his way through Madrid's modeling agencies (his usual go-to when shit gets heavy) feels wrong now.

His phone buzzes – probably Jude with another party invite, another attempt to get him out of his head. But unless the invitation is from a certain PA who's currently ghosting his entire existence, he's not interested.

Even praying feels different. His parents raised him right, taught him to take his troubles to God, but how do you pray about feelings you can't even admit to yourself?

"Je suis vraiment dans la merde," he tells Ocho, who just looks at him with those judgy dog eyes. Even his own pet is disappointed in him.

Five more days of this torture.

If she comes back at all.

The doorbell catches him off guard – he's been ignoring it for days, but tonight it's more insistent. Ocho's already at the door, tail wagging like he knows something Aurélien doesn't.

It's Cama standing there, phone held up with Jules' face on FaceTime.

"Je t'aurais laissé souffrir mais Jules m'a appelé," ("I would've let you suffer but Jules called me,") Cama says, already pushing past him into the house.

Ocho immediately attacks Cama with kisses while Jules' voice carries through the phone: "Tu as une tête de merde, mon frère." ("You look like shit, my brother.")

"Va te faire foutre," ("Fuck off,") Aurélien mutters, but lets Cama settle onto his couch anyway.

"Alors," ("So,") Cama starts, scratching Ocho's ears, "on va parler de pourquoi tu te comportes comme un connard?" ("are we gonna talk about why you're being an asshole?")

"Je ne vois pas de quoi tu parles." ("I don't know what you're talking about.")

"Leila," Jules says through the phone. "On parle de Leila." ("We're talking about Leila.")

Just hearing her name makes his chest tight. "Il n'y a rien à dire." ("There's nothing to say.")

"Rien à dire?" ("Nothing to say?") Cama laughs. "C'est pour ça que tu as l'air d'un zombie depuis une semaine?" ("Is that why you've looked like a zombie for a week?")

"Elle te manque," ("You miss her,") Jules says simply. "Admets-le." ("Admit it.")

"Ça n'a pas d'importance." ("It doesn't matter.")

"Pourquoi?" ("Why?") Cama demands. "Parce que tu as trop peur de dire ce que tu ressens?" ("Because you're too scared to say what you feel?")

"Tu sais que Wilo est sérieux avec elle?" ("You know Wilo is serious about her?") Jules' voice crackles through the phone, making Aurélien's jaw clench.

"Et alors?" ("And?") But his fingers are drumming that anxious pattern again.

"Pendant que tu joues au con, il la traite comme une princesse," Cama leans forward. ("While you're playing stupid, he's treating her like a princess.")

"Il lui apporte le dîner," ("He brings her dinner,") Jules adds. "L'écoute. La fait rire." ("Listens to her. Makes her laugh.")

"Bon pour lui." ("Good for him.") Aurélien's voice could cut glass.

"Non, pas 'bon pour lui'," ("No, not 'good for him',") Cama snaps. "Tu es amoureux d'elle et tu le sais." ("You're in love with her and you know it.")

The silence that follows is deafening. Even Ocho stops begging for attention to look between them.

"Je ne peux pas," ("I can't,") Aurélien finally says, voice rough. "C'est ma PA." ("She's my PA.")

"C'était ta PA," ("She was your PA,") Jules corrects. "Maintenant elle est la femme qui te rend fou." ("Now she's the woman driving you crazy.")

"Et qui rend Wilo heureux," ("And making Wilo happy,") Cama adds pointedly.

"Je leur ai dit de parler," ("I told them both to talk,") Jules sighs. "Mais vous êtes tous les deux têtus comme des mules." ("But you're both stubborn as mules.")

"Qu'est-ce que tu veux que je fasse?" ("What do you want me to do?") Aurélien runs his hands through his curls in frustration. "Que je ruine sa carrière? Que je la mette dans une position impossible?" ("Ruin her career? Put her in an impossible position?")

"Elle est déjà dans une position impossible," ("She's already in an impossible position,") Cama says quietly. "Entre l'homme qu'elle aime et l'homme qui l'aime." ("Between the man she loves and the man who likes her.")

That hits different. Aurélien's head snaps up. "Qu'est-ce que tu veux dire?" ("What do you mean?")

"Tu crois qu'elle sort avec Wilo parce qu'elle l'aime?" ("You think she's seeing Wilo because she loves him?") Jules laughs without humor. "Elle essaie de t'oublier, crétin." ("She's trying to forget you, idiot.")

"Mais—" ("But—")

"Pas de 'mais'," ("No 'buts',") Cama cuts him off. "Tu as une semaine avant qu'elle ne revienne. Une semaine pour décider si tu vas la laisser partir ou te battre pour elle." ("You have a week before she comes back. One week to decide if you're going to let her go or fight for her.")

"Et si je la perds complètement?" ("And if I lose her completely?") The question comes out smaller than intended.

"Tu l'as déjà perdue en ne faisant rien," ("You've already lost her by doing nothing,") Jules says. "Au moins en essayant, tu sauras." ("At least by trying, you'll know.")

Ocho whines, head butting Aurélien's knee like he's agreeing.

"Une semaine," ("One week,") Cama stands, stretching. "Pour arrêter d'être un lâche." ("To stop being a coward.")

"Je ne suis pas—" ("I'm not—")

"Si, tu l'es," ("Yes, you are,") Jules interrupts. "Mais tu peux changer ça." ("But you can change that.")

They leave him with that thought, with Ocho looking at him like he's waiting for something too.

One week. One week to figure out if he's brave enough to risk everything. One week to decide if she's worth it.

She is. He's just been too scared to admit it.

Until now.

...................tbd

[moosesarecute]

Chapter 4: The Shadow to my Flame

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

It was Tuesday before she got her spelled letter from Shadow. A letter that gave her hope and at the same time it worried her deeply.

It pleases me to inform that we have brought over 100 faeries into the Night Court. They all have temporary shelter, food and other resources until we can get them more permanent ones either in Night or any other Court.

The situation in Autumn has worsened in only a couple of hours through the night. Do you know the High Lord’s next moves? We want to try to prevent him from going further.

Remember that your safety is more important than any piece of information.

Shadow

Ashe knew minimal about the situation worsening through the night. But she knew one thing, she could definitely find it out.

She felt almost proud as she read about the fae that had been saved. She felt grateful that Shadow had listened to her. And to show her gratitude, she would give all she had as she tried to find out enough information.

She spent the first few hours of the day just doing her normal tasks. That’s how she had learned most of the information previously. Through gossip. That day, it was unusually quiet, and Ashe felt herself grow more and more frustrated. She needed to get the information. She needed to safe more people. She needed to prove that she could be useful.

That’s how Ashe ended up sneaking up to one of her fellow servants, asking her to switch work for the day. Ashe were supposed to be on cleaning duty, and the servant she asked would be with the Lady. To night was a big dinner, which meant a servant would need to stay by the Lady’s side the entire evening.

“And why would I do that?”

“My arms still hurt from Monday, so I won’t be able to do good enough work.”

It was a lie. It was not true at all. Her arms had stopped hurting almost immediately after she got the cream from the Lady. Ashe didn’t care that she lied. It was for the greater good after all.

Her fellow servant rolled her eyes, but she eventually agreed.

“The slaughter has gone exactly according to plan,” one of the generals said. He spoke with food still in his mouth and Ashe could almost see the disgust her Lady felt.

Ashe stood in her finest uniform a few steps behind the table. She was standing ready to bring the Lady to her room when they finished eating. Other than that, she was supposed to act as if she didn’t exist.

“Good,” the High Lord answers. “Is it time to move to the next step of the plan?”

The discussions had been going on for over an hour and Ashe started to wonder if she wouldn’t get any more information.

As the High Lord spoke, she got new hope. The High Lord speaking usually gave the opposite effect, but it was a first time for everything.

“I say we wait until after the ball. The rest of courts have understood that something is going on. Especially the Night Court has been snooping around.”

Ashe got a little bit nervous at the mention of the Night Court. She hoped that Shadow was okay.

“We should make sure the Night Court spies get caught. I don’t want Illyrian scrum in my court,” the High Lord spoke, and all his generals agreed. “We don’t have time to wait until Monday. I want to set a good example to the other courts. Having a town full of lesser faeries will give off the wrong example.”

“Are you saying you want us to move all soldiers to this city before Saturday?” one of the generals said. Ashe had no idea how he dared to speak against the High Lord.

“I am saying we should move the soldiers to this town, starting tomorrow.”

Ashe then started to freak out.

Soldiers would kill lesser faeries in her town tomorrow. She needed to let Shadow know about this. She needed help. That couldn’t happen.

She thought about how she could fix it when it hit her. Thord. Had he left for a different court? Was he and Samli safe? The worry was so overwhelming that Ashe felt tears trying to leave her eyes. Ashe had to be professional, so she took a few deep breaths and tried to ground herself.

“I think I’ll retire,” the light voice of the Lady sounded for the first time that evening. Ashe had never felt more relief as she moved to the Lady and helped her out of her chair. Both the Lady and Ashe gave a quick bow to the High Lord before they left the room.

They walked in silence.

Ashe opened the door to the Lady’s chambers and the Lady immediately sat down in her chair, ready for her hair to be taken down. Ashe could read thousands of emotions on her face. Heartbreak, sadness, terror.

As Ashe finished taking out the last clip, the door to the Lady’s chambers opened. In walked the High Lord with the most confidante steps.

“Leave.”

Ashe didn’t need to be told twice. She bowed to both of them, a small bow to the Lady and a bigger one to the High Lord before she left the room.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Maria asked her.

“I completely forgot about it,” Ashe explained in a hurry.

“You know I can’t give you time off with such late notice.”

“I don’t need any time off. I just need the night. Five hours at the most. I will come back for breakfast duty tomorrow morning, I promise.”

Maria looked at her and it was obvious she was thinking a lot. Ashe was ready to beg. She would do anything. Anything.

“Okay,” Maria said and signed Ashe’s approval of leave. “But if you’re not back for breakfast tomorrow, I can’t save you.”

Ashe nodded and gave Maria a big hug.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Ashe started to make her way out before Maria’s voice stopped her.

“Ashe? I don’t know who you’re planning on spending the night with, but next time, come with a better excuse than “having to feed the pigs”.”

Ashe felt embarrassed, but she didn’t say anything.

She was going to make sure her friend would be okay.

Taglist: @tele86 @demon-master-zero @kbear8863 @atluky

Let me know if you want to be tagged!

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

[idliketobeatree]

@dont-offend-the-bees okay my darling first of all

AND SECOND OF ALL. i am gobsmacked by your commentary, thank you for taking the time to write these tags despite the cold sickly weather day!! you picked up on so many things i usually only hope people will find, and it feels like the biggest prize that you scored so many!!

(we both agree on charles in the middle supremacy <3)

and the way you described their individual voices!! excuse me! plucked them out of my brain but better! absolutely brills detail cought that you can technically read them as separate and they will make sense, but you feel there's something lacking all the same, waiting on the sidelines, and that only when they're together there is true harmony.

i hope you don't mind me turning this reblog for the director's cut for the poem!!

so here are my scattered thoughts:

starting out, i had to think about how each character would feel about their developed relationship. how it makes their life more rich? what would change about their self-perception? what can they take for themselves?

trying to breach the gap between magical and time-suspended in centuries cat king, and quite young in terms of their afterlife edwin and charles. especially charles.

charles in the middle, because this is an equilateral triangle, not a love corner around edwin; not payneland + ck, not catwin + charles. nothing wrong with those! just not the vibes i wanted

the most challenging part is not even the melding, but balancing between (what i imagine to be) their inner voice and actual poetic phrases. i don't want to feel restrained by their vocabulary, but sometimes finding the sweet middleground means you need to take down a notch of poetics for their voices to be still believable.

charles finding the strength within himself to heal-- with their combined power and support. he always includes himself in the picture. "six arms to form / all the goo inside of me" or "three dimensional beings": he recognises himself as part of the trio and he knows he doesn't have to do this alone

there's a wondrous, analysing part of edwin's brain that's somehow pleasantly surprised by this situation; he can't help but wonder what he'd be missing out on.

this poem is basically a playground. i've shown you four games these kids like to play, and they're bound by rules, but there are about ten more hidden mini-games in there. for example:

hurray! you can pick and pluck the lines from each individual poem to make new meanings! i underlined just four options.

charles' poem makes similar sense, but takes on different personal priorities if you read it from the bottom to the top

AND technically you CAN pair them up, the poems. edwin's and charles' work together well. so do charles' and tck's. it's vital for them to have a dialogue, the partnership wouldn't last otherwise.

edwin's and tck strong connection is implied, but they're on opposite sides for a reason. tck already feels a bit on cloud nine about the whole arrangement and i feel like. charles grounds him? keeps him from seeing god in edwin's eyes, you know?

THE STRUCTURE: a bit silly, but it does looks like charles is reaching out to both of them. i'm emotional about it.

AND ALSO. the closest they ever get during the line "the moment of crowning / clarity on where you stand, double-adored / a chance i never stood", because it's REALLY something that brings them together. you can't argue with that. ghostcat to me only works if all puzzle pieces fall into place, there is clear communication, there is love from all sides, the humbling and mortifying realisation that you can't be loved and protect yourself at the same time-- and in order to do that, you must get uncomfortably close.

i think that's it! thanks for reading to the end, and see you in the next poems <3

dead boy detectives contrapuntal poems — 4 — (1) (2) (3) for @dont-offend-the-bees, @dear-monday and @tw0-ravens <3

(click for better quality ✳️)

[tonycries]

D-daddy my birthdays coming up what will you gift me 🥺 (September 12)

[mitchmotch]

i was commissioned by @achinga to draw vash and milly! they're so silly :)

[sainz100]

2024 Las Vegas GP ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ by Irwen Song

[bluebelleisabelle]

Merry Christmas to all you lovely people <33

Because it fits the theme of my page, here’s something my sister got me this year JDJD

FRANKIE SLIME⁉️ HELLO❓❓SINCE WHEN WAS THIS A THING⁉️

[mel-loly]

Dont mind me:3

I- Tsu.. You didn't need to... But.. Yeah, uh... Thanks..😅💛

(no pressure, but if you can read the tags, I'd be happy! and that doesn't just apply to tsu but to everyone)

[pleasedontcareaboutme]

i think i finally realized why ive been feeling so damn depressed lately again

sorry for writing this here. im really hurting actually. im not good. i feel a bit helpless too. idk who to talk to bc i dont want to burden anyons and i donf feel like anything could console me right now

Like. fuck me man. thanks for saving me but. why the hell are you not here. i dont want to do this without you. i hate only being able to remember you. i was supposed to grow old with you, not without you.

And. honestly. even with all this bullshit i say here, all the endless times i spend trying to write down my feelings, abt you, about all the pain ive felt my life, it doesnt get better. not at all. and no words, no poetry takes it away and i truly feel like nobody will ever truly understand how suffocated i felt all my life.

and i want to change thanks to you but. i dont know. nothing's satisfying enough.

no matter what, i truly only feel great when im in that daydream like world you created.

and these past days ive been thinking a lot that. i really wouldnt mind dying right now. not at all. because at least i know what happiness feels like. and i want to stay in that state. probably, even in this life your music will bring me happiness, but i want to be trapped in it.

im tired of being so unseen, and even when im seen, im hurting. but i dont know whats hurting. i think im just really tired thats all.

and. ye. i feel brave tbh. i still havent posted my video to instagram, bc im not brave for that. i dont know. and i feel like a hypocrite bc everything is true that i wrote there but at the same time these are my thoughts currently

in a long while i looked up suicide methods again. i feel so hopeful, but im not really sure if really for the future. jm sorry this is probably alarming. i will probably not kill myself but. idk. im not sure actually. i dknt know what to say. i wasnt cut out for this wordly shit.i feel unlovable but even if im loved, i donf want to be. i dont want anything. just let me stsy in this quiet place snd just. disappear. i wouldnt want my family to hurt if i die but i wont know about it anyways. idk man. i feel strongly i could die calmly this time and thats nice. bc 6 years ago i was terrified, and hurt. but now im content and kind of ready idk man. its not a terrible feeling, its a "this is it, it was nice while it lasted" ig.

there are no clouds in my head actually. i truly dont feel like im thinking irrationally, i feel like this would just be like. the end goal i was looking for. to feel true love once. it was nice.

no goodbye yet bc idk how id kms even if i do. But ill tell u guys if i found something.

[mayo-is-an-instrument]

I made a boo oc!! I'll make more drawings to use them for when I start making "serious" YouTube videos :3

[stormyoceans]

https://www.instagram.com/reel/C5V8fYsKEfR/?igsh=MmpyeHc2bzB0em9n

Me to you 💕

ISMAY PLEASE THIS IS JUST SO SWEET IM 🥺💜🥺💜🥺💜🥺💜🥺💜🥺💜🥺💜🥺💜

i've actually been feeling pretty down in these past couple of days so getting this just made my entire week!!!!!! thank you so much, my sweetest, kindest, and warmest ray of sunshine. im sending all the hugs and hearts and love right back at you!!!!!!! 💜

[non-un-topo]

Daily November crying sessions start today

[ardenssolis]

New Years is hours away for me where I live, but it feels so surreal sometimes that it's coming. Everything flew by so quickly, didn't it? At least it certainly feels that way to me. There are days that I’ll recall something out of the blue and be like, “oh yeah…that was months ago.” But here we are, 2024 coming up like a freight train, but I have really high hopes for it! There’s so much I want to do, to change and do better on going forward and I’m just so excited for it all. I want to get over my fear of driving as my anxiety behind the wheel makes me barely ever want to go anywhere, I want to start going out for walks and going back to kick boxing, I want to read more books, pick up my tablet and reignite my passion for drawing – there is just so much and I’m so excited for it all. Baby steps, though. Most certainly not going to vroom vroom into it all in one go, but these are just a few things I'm looking forward to. 

But with all that said, I want to give a big thank you to all of you, especially those I’ve known for a really long time across blogs and fandoms, for sticking with me. Some of you I have known for literal years and that too feels surreal when I really think about it. To those who have followed recently – thank you for deciding to follow me in my little corner! I don't know how you all find me in this wide space known as tumblr, but I'm so happy you did! It has been such a comfort knowing I can step away from tumblr and do other things, be gone for a day or more just enjoying life, playing games, or resting from work, and not have to worry, or care about ‘not doing enough’. Truly, you are all appreciated. So, I once again end this with another big thank you! Here's to a New Year, and hoping you all go into it with a smile!

[bmpmp3]

the really beautiful landscape/skyscape animation in makoto shinkai's works tends to be the big thing i see focused on and that is understandable and deserved like the weather and lighting effects are unREAL but i do think we should also appreciate how absolute insane the plotlines of his original movies get. at least two movies with in universe catastrophes with major ecological implications. the guns and explosions. theres that one movie i havent seen yet with the guy who turns into a chair (?)