#im not entirely sure if this fits but the answer i got when i did it a second time fit less sooo

[atv-migrated]

WHAT HERB ARE YOU?

— dandelion

You grew up too fast and all you know is the calluses on your fists and the thousand invisible scars that you pretend don't ache. Your anger burns so bright, so hot or maybe not at all, so deep you could never tell it was there. You are yours and you will defend that to the death after so many years of being ripped apart and denied your own agency and maybe you are still facing the bastards who stole your innocence but you will survive because that's the only thing you know how to do without breaking, the only thing you know besides protect, protect, protect, protect, yourself or sometimes those few others you claim as yours. You are a thousand sharp edges but impenetrable, a traumatized child so covered by thorny armor that you promised yourself you're grown now, you're stronger than anyone who has ever hurt you. You're safe. Nothing will ever hurt you again. You're so alone though sometimes, in a world that sees you as too much or too broken or too angry or too hurt, and you want to scream with the too-much of it, prove that you're okay, that you're self-reliant, that you are strong enough to stake your claim on your body, on your mind, on your heart, on your people, and protect it from any who dare take it away from you. You are the sea in tempest, a howling sky, a tsunami in motion, a force of nature, no matter how much you sometimes yearn to be still, to be safe, to be small. You are a dandelion, stubborn and determined to grow in the rockiest of soil, and bloom again in spring.

tagged by: @dastardlydaemon tagging: @becomelions (rickard), @trckstaer (elaerea) + VIEWERS LIKE YOU !

[kit-screams-into-the-future]

POV: you roll up to your boyfriend's house to take that sweet new truck of his up to the lake on a trip you've been planning for a while but then his old scientist friend shows up out of nowhere in a delorean and the strangest fit ever and tells you two to get in and then the thing starts flying(??) and travels 30 years into the future(???) where supposedly your boyfriend and you are married now(??) and then you black out and wake up in your house but it's definitely not YOUR house and you can't leave because there's no HANDLES on the FREAKING DOORS and then you get greeted by your future son(???) (who looks exactly like your boyfriend by the way) (and so does your daughter?) (where the fuck did your genes go??? are his just that strong?? did we clone him???) (also you have a daughter by the way) and learn that your boyfriend (husband?) gets into this terrible accident that causes him to give up his lifelong passion and then you witness him commit fraud and get fired via two dozen fax machines and then when you finally get to escape you immediately run into yourself 30 years older(??????) and it's so shocking that you black out AGAIN and when your boyfriend wakes you up he's dressed like a cowboy for some reason(??) and then you almost get into that accident you learned about earlier but it's fine because your boyfriend received some character growth along with that odd cowboy fit of his apparently and he takes you to the train tracks to show you the wreckage of the flying delorean you got into earlier (and yes, it WAS a time machine and all of that was DEFINITELY REAL and NOT A DREAM) and now the weird cowboy fit makes a lot more sense, and then all of a sudden there's a flying train now too(??) and your boyfriend's old scientist friend pops out with an entire new family(???) and when you ask him about the fax you nicked from the future because like, he's the one who made the damn machine surely he has answers, he ends up telling you a really inspirational piece of advice, actually, and then his flying time machine train takes off in the blink of an eye and THEN suddenly your boyfriend has the worst adrenaline crash anyone has ever experienced ever and now you're standing in an empty railroad among the wreckage of a car-turned-time-machine with your boyfriend in your arms and absolutely no clue what decisions you made in your life could have possibly led up to this. your name is jennifer parker and you have just experienced the weirdest, most absurd hour of consciousness in your entire life.

loosely inspired by this fic i read! please check it out :] and while you're at it check out the rest of this author's fics :] im a big fan of the one where marty is a ghost

[randombush3]

revocate animos (with or without me)

alexia putellas x reader

part one, part two, part three, part four

the second half of this part (it didn't fit in one post lol)

words: it's over 14k. i had lots to say.

summary: the final part, which originally had a different ending but i was told it was evil so i changed it.

warnings: it's mainly just sad, there's a bit of smut though

notes: i could give you so many excuses as to why this is being posted now but no one wants to read that so i'll just say sorry x

anyway, i got very lost along the way at points and had some serious plot crises that had me tearing my hair out. i researched children's behaviour to the point of needing an honourory qualification, and i spent the last three hours ignoring my girlfriend while i finished this off.

for as much as i put these two through (and myself tbh), i'm sad to finish it off. BUT ALSO NOW IM FREE.

have fun reading! and sorry about the length of it

London smells of dirty rain and exhaust fumes, of a homelessness crisis and inflation attempting to impersonate that of the Weimar Republic; greyish streets, cracks in the pavement, thousands of spices from all over the world. Grubby patterns, hidden by the smudging of millions of bottoms, coloured poles that used to match the train line but no longer do. You breathe it all in, eyes closed as the motion of the underground jerks you sideways, the train leaving London Bridge just as you left Barcelona. Without looking back. 

You had laughed when they told you they’d send a driver to get you from the airport. The luxury of some shiny black car held no appeal when compared to the familiar Northern line, its blackened route well-travelled and your own brick-road home. 

Part of this choice to ‘slum it’ is borne of your desire to return to the past; a time before the fame and the fortune, when camera flashes came from your parents’ Sony Cyber-shot and not paparazzos with a hunger to splash you across the front page of a slimy gossip magazine. There was no Alexia, then. The extent of Spanish in your life was Anya studying for her A-levels, and you’d spend time writing songs without it feeling like pulling teeth. Without having to relive some of the worst moments of your life. 

Those hadn’t happened yet.

God, you were so naive then back then. 

Your London shows are in Wembley. Two nights, two journeys through your album, through your heartbreak. Both are sold out. 

“See it, say it, sorted,” you mouth along to the voice, pushing the handle of your suitcase upwards, rising from your seat. The doors of the tube swoosh open, the yellow line of the platform attacking your tired eyes as Highgate station is revealed to you. You hear a whisper of ‘is that Y/n L/n?’ but you don’t turn around. 

The wheels of your suitcase gurgle against the bumpy pavement leading up to your house, but they grow quieter as you approach. They must sense the tension, glad to have the smoother surface of your driveway to move across as you force yourself to continue walking forwards. 

A woman is standing on your porch. Her body swivels around as she hears you stop just behind her. 

Leah takes in the sight of you, deciding that you definitely did not enjoy Barcelona. “I was just about to ring the doorbell, but I guess you wouldn’t have answered the door anyway,” she says with an awkward chuckle, not sure if you want to talk about how rough you look. You cried the entire flight, and refused to contact anyone once you had landed, hoping they assumed your plane had crashed and you had drowned somewhere in the English Channel. 

“I got here in the morning.” Your voice is unused. It croaks, shattered. 

“Let me get your bag?” asks Leah, rather firmly, leaving you no room to decline her request before she has stepped off the porch and into your personal space. She looks up at you, wondering how you manage to look so beautiful even now, hand blindly reaching out for the hard shell of your suitcase as she stares. “How’re Nico and–” 

Your lips silence her before she is finished. Leah freezes, surprised this is the moment you have chosen to kiss her.

But she misses you as soon as you pull away. 

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper, and she cringes at the self-loathing that drips from your words. A tear rolls down your cheek, but you are unsure whether it falls because you have kissed her or because you want to kiss her again. “I shouldn’t have done that.” 

You must have argued with Alexia. Leah’s realisation weighs heavy on her heart. Something has to have happened for you to have made your move, because Leah had been starting to accept the idea that you were still in love with your ex and she was nothing more than a friend. She had been looking forward to your concert tonight, in all honesty, and was excited to see you again, glad to have you in her life in any way, shape, or form.

“Because,” she starts hesitantly, “because you didn’t like it? Or…” 

“Leah.” 

“If you wanted to kiss me again, I wouldn’t mind.” 

“Leah,” you repeat, the vowels almost failing to drop from the tip of your tongue. This is a dangerous game, but the look in Leah’s blue eyes tells you that she is happy to play it. “Leah, I… I shouldn’t have kissed you?” 

“Is that a question?” 

You blink. “I’m not sure.” 

“If it’s a question, I’d say that the answer is the opposite. And that we should go inside.” She slides her hand over the metal handle of your suitcase, warm skin covering your fingers where your grip is still curled around it. “But only if you want to.” 

Do you want to? 

You value your friendship, you really do; Leah has been there for you many times since you met her, never asking too many questions. She means something more than what you crave from her, and doesn’t deserve to be the woman you use to detach yourself from reality. 

But Leah is looking at you with desire that has been missed, relentlessness promised by her toned muscles. Leah is looking at you as though you are the only star in the galaxy or the sun on a rainy day. Leah is looking at you like she wants to devour you, and you, with no soul left to give, resign to letting her have your body.

“This won’t change anything, right?”

It’s a mean question. You know that. 

“Course not,” Leah lies. 

You let it convince the both of you. 

Pink glitter covers the dining table at one end, and shiny green stars are scattered on top of the brown grain of the wood on the other.

“She might be at soundchek,” Alexia explains to Nico, who is finished with his Mother’s Day creation and is now intent on FaceTiming you to show you the card he has made. “And cards are supposed to be a surprise. That’s why we made envelopes!” 

“But you said my card should be put in a museum,” he replies with a frown, his nose crinkling in confusion just as yours does. “So we show her now.” 

“Mi amor, that’s not how it works,” laughs Alexia, reaching out to ruffle his hair. With Elena settled comfortably on her healthy knee, gleefully pushing piles of glitter around so that it mixes with the glue smeared on her card, it is safe to say that this year’s cards are going to be successes. “Mama has promised to call when she gets home, and you can tell her that you have a surprise for her. That will build up the excitement, and make it even better when she gets to open it.” 

Your son has become a cynic. “And when will that be?” 

“Mother’s Day is on the 19th, so we have three days to wait.” You have purposely chosen a chartered route to Tokyo that flies via Barcelona so that you get to spend the day with your children before your fortnight in Asia to end the first half of the tour. “Do you want to write the words out for Lela once the glue has dried?” 

“I don’t know what Lela wants me to say,” he explains with great concern, turning to his sister with a very serious expression. He speaks to her in English, because he knows that this card is for you. He understands that there are two Mother’s Days, though he thinks it’s because he has two mothers, and that Alexia’s day is in May. When Alexia opens her mouth to speak, Nico is quick to shut her down. “Calla, Mami, no sabes nada de inglés.”

Your legs slam together but find no available route with Leah’s body in between them. 

It feels… good. 

Liberating.

You haven’t brought her into your bed, which she notices but doesn’t comment on. It’s excusable to be on the sofa, to have stayed downstairs for the hours she has spent trying to make you feel better, because the clock has only just ticked its way to lunchtime. You laugh to yourself at the thought of that, amused by the notion that you have already eaten.

Leah is curious when it comes to you. That much you had expected, having been aware of her lingering gazes long before the sores on your heart had calloused into tougher muscle. She has been waiting for this resiliently, and you present yourself to her as though you are a new toy she finally gets to play with. She kisses you slowly at times, to memorise the warmth of your tongue or the jut of your chin, but she often grows impatient, wanting nothing more than to end her torture and find out what it is like. 

What is it like to have a woman like you? To wake up next to you, kiss you, touch you? 

How does your mind work? What do you smell like just after getting out of the shower? Does your accent ever slip, or is it really that posh? 

The air in the living room is hazy now, and your eyes close in bliss as you let your sweat seep into the grainy fabric of your white sofa. Leah doesn’t crawl into your open arms as you assume she will. 

She wipes her mouth. 

Although Leah has enjoyed this very much, she knows that this instance has not been you allowing her to start to love you. It has been for her to help you forget how much pain you are in. Somewhere deep down, she cares, but she doesn’t try to search for the emotion.

“So,” she says with a giggle, as if you are two teenage girls, best friends who have decided to kiss so that they can practise for the real thing, “do I need to send an apology present to your makeup artist?” Sitting back on her knees, she swipes one hand down to pluck her t-shirt from the floor, pulling it on top of her naked body before sending you an exaggerated smirk and prodding the developing bruise on your neck.

“Fuck,” you groan, batting her hand away. “I completely forgot I had that thing tonight.” You also need to call your children before Alexia bans your name from her household (if that hasn’t happened already). 

“That ‘thing’ being your concert at Wembley?” 

“I’d have thought selling out Wembley is the norm for you now, Captain,” you tease, clearing your throat. “England have done it, Champions of Europe for the very first time.” 

“You’re freakishly good at a commentator’s voice.” 

“Gotten used to being my own commentator. Only Spanish streams in my house – even United matches!” You smile at your own frustration but it quickly sours as awkwardness drops on top of you. You bring your arms up to cover your bare chest, but Leah clears her throat with softened eyes and you no longer feel so exposed. 

You feel safe.

“What happened in Barcelona?” You shake your head at her question. “That bad, huh?” she presses. 

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” you tell her, grey clouds hanging over you as your voice darkens and lowers. “Like, at all.” 

“I think you should. It’s better it comes out now than later when you’ve had lots to drink and no idea who you’re ranting about it to, isn’t it? And it’s just me; I’m not going to judge you.” 

“But you know her. You know her friends.” Your hands move to cover your face. Leah can have your body, but you don’t want her to have your tears. “Thank you for caring, babe, but I think I’m going to handle this one on my own.” 

“Well, you know that–” 

“You’re always a phone call away.” You smile, tears sucked back inside you, bottled away in glassware you store in crates labelled ‘VERY FRAGILE’. Desperate to change the subject, you adjust your position on the sofa, sitting up. Leah tries very hard not to stare at the curves of your chest. “You know, Lee, I never thought you’d be that good in bed.” 

…

Alexia is in desperate need of advice. 

Her muscles contract and relax, the tissues pulling on her bone, which, in turn, pulls her. She is strung along, driven perhaps by her leap in recovery and impending comeback. She almost breaks out into a jog, but the church she has dragged herself to comes into view before she can gain speed. 

She had not expected this from herself. 

It’s nothing special to her, though she will admit that the architecture of the building does hold some sense of divinity, but the heavy wooden door is propped open and she is drawn inside. 

The Sacrament of Reconciliation, Fridays, 17.00-17.30. 

Alexia checks her watch, the golden links gleaming on her wrist, catching the sunlight that filters in through the glass windows. 

She catches a glimpse of white behind the doors of the Confession booth, becoming acutely aware of how empty the church is. The curtain has been pulled back, bunched to the left-hand side carefully, as though the previous handler had moved with peace. 

It can’t be that bad, can it? 

It’s just like therapy. 

Her feet carry her forwards once more, leading her into the wooden booth. It smells old. The cushion she kneels on is blue, she thinks, but she cannot tell because it goes dark once she pulls the curtain shut. 

Alexia is not a religious person. Sure, she signs the cross before stepping onto the pitch, and, like most people she knows, she is baptised, but her faith is limited to that. When she tore her ACL, she spent evenings trying to pray, trying to force her to believe in Him. It would have been comforting to know that someone had a plan for her, was watching over her carefully with the knowledge of how it was going to play out. It was to no avail. 

But somehow she knows what to say, and so she does. 

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” She recites the words like lines from a play, head bowed in shame as she writes her next sentences in her mind. “This is my first and, probably, my last confession.” 

Silence. 

She rests her hands in her lap, shuffling around to ensure she is not pressing down on her knee in any way that is harmful. It would kill her to have to push back her return to the pitch because of some stupid thing she has spontaneously chucked herself into. 

“I messed up.” She laughs. “No, that is actually an understatement. I know this is a church and I really shouldn’t swear, but I fucked up. Father, I had Heaven in my hands and I threw it away as though it were meaningless. Was it greed? Was it greed that led me to do it?” 

“Do what, my daughter?” 

The priest sounds younger than she’d thought he would be. 

“I had an affair with a woman whom I am certain I do love a little bit, but, by doing that, I destroyed a life that was perfect. Was it greed?” 

“I think you know the answer to that.” 

“Was it temptation?” Alexia tries again, desperately. Part of her yearns for the priest to tell her it was the Devil so that she can shed the responsibility. “I love my wife. More than anything, I love her. I do not think my own life is worth living if it is not in service to her, to our children, to the smile she reserves for her favourite people. I… I didn’t attempt it, but I thought about killing myself.” She swallows the lump in her throat. “Only once, but I thought it all the same. My sister called me selfish.

“It’s just – forgive me – fucked, isn’t it? I got carried away. I got lonely, I was alone. I craved something to make me forget, to pinch the gaping hole in my life shut. I relied on it to make me feel better, and it did for a time. But now it has made me feel much, much worse.

“And I am sorry! I am so, so sorry. I have grown sick of the word; I’ve used it so much that it holds no meaning anymore. It doesn’t do my regret justice, nor my quest for forgiveness, and I’m really on that quest, Father, I want to stress that to you. I lost my temper and said things I should not have said – things I don’t even believe – but I did not mean them then, and I do not mean them now.” 

“You are not religious,” accuses the priest, very gently. His voice washes over Alexia’s ears like a wave of warm saltwater from the Mediterranean, and she feels comfortable enough to swim into the expanse in front of her. “Our God is forgiving, but it is not His forgiveness that you seek. I cannot give you a prayer that will make her absolve your sins, because our holy words are not spells.” 

“Father,” croaks Alexia. As her lips part, she tastes the saltwater of the sea, dripping down her cheeks as though the tide has come in and there is no other option than for her to be flooded. “Please help me. I don’t know what to do.” 

The priest speaks, but she assigns the voice to someone else. 

The first thing you forget about a person is what their voice sounds like. It lingers like a feeling you can’t quite name; distant, distorted, enhanced by fantasy.

Alexia does not remember her father’s voice. 

The realisation is crushing. 

She knows his words – they are her prayers – but, like Catholics do not know the voice of their God, she can no longer hear the voice of hers. 

What would her father say if he saw her like this? On her knees in a Confession booth, backed against the wall with nowhere to hide?

This is not the girl he was proud of. Alexia, of course, is not that eighteen-year-old anymore; she hasn’t been for a decade. But, recently, the legacy of that unknown Levante player has disappeared. 

Alexia is so very lost. 

She does not know where she is in her own city. In her home. 

She does not know her place in her life, much less her place in yours – if you will still grant her one. 

She has not felt the thrill of football for months, has driven herself to Hell and back, and considered giving up enough to be on the brink of actually doing it. 

She has seen countless meals hit the water of her toilet, never digested, never deserving of the very thing that keeps her alive. 

She has counted your sacrifices, memorising the digits of an ongoing figure so that she can punish herself with the knowledge. 

She has tried to forget English, tried to improve her English, and taken vows of silence. 

She has cried and cried and cried until the only thing left for her to excrete is her hot, red blood. 

She has searched for a way out of the maze. She has failed every time. 

Alexia is lost without you, and she knows it. Everyone knows it, perhaps even you yourself. Do you revel in that fact? Do you enjoy it? 

You have a right to watch her suffer. You do, you do, you do. 

Alexia runs a hand through her damp hair, sweating as she sobs in the booth next to some stranger who she will never meet again. Her mouth is dry but her cries are wet and raw, and they scrape her throat as she chokes them out, losing her breath and falling silent only to catch it and begin again. The cushion burns her knees as though she is trapped in an inferno, the darkness blazing against her skin. 

The priest talks to her for a long time, not letting her leave until she has calmed down. She sniffles, wiping her nose with the back of her palm before softly pressing her thumbs to her blotchy cheeks to clear the final tears from them. 

When he is finished, he instructs her to take a few deep breaths, which she does. “You are not entitled to her forgiveness,” he reminds her. He begins the Prayer of Absolution – he insists for the sake of closure – and Alexia walks away from the church no more than five minutes later. 

She is still stuck in the maze, but she has restored that voice in her head that she knows will help her find her way out.

…

“So you went to church?” Olga asks with an amused smile, taking the first sip of her latte, relishing in the gentle burn of the liquid. She needs this coffee; she stayed up late last night because she knew Alexia has been struggling. There is nothing worse than being asleep when Alexia calls her for help. 

“I have no idea how I ended up there,” Alexia explains, somewhat defensive about yesterday’s catharsis. “Confession is way better than therapy. There is too much accountability in therapy.” 

“You have a lot to account for.” 

She huffs out a breath, taking a sip of her own drink. “I know, Olga, but I cannot change the past, so what would you like me to do?” Olga doesn’t reply. The brunette parts her lips, but promptly closes her mouth when she sees Alexia’s slight discomfort. “Mama wants you to come to dinner tonight. I… I do too.” 

Olga’s smile is big and genuine. “I’d love that,” she answers. “Eli is the best cook out of our friends’ parents. Everyone knows that.” 

You’re in London, childless, and are watching the grand old Arsenal play (reluctantly, forced to by Leah if anything). Alexia has seen the pictures of you at the match on Instagram; she has already felt the frustration that you are most-likely never going to watch Barcelona play again unless it is to support the other team. Like clockwork, Alexia seeks to fill the gaping hole you have left in her life. Somewhere, somehow, the lines of friendship between her and Olga have blurred. 

…

It takes just over a month for Leah to crack. 

You appear in London every two weeks, attending meetings and events, but she has decided, once and for all, to see through your excuses. You come to London for her. She knows that, and so do you. Leah’s ego has not reached a size where she believes she is enough for you, but the facts (and Lia Wälti) tell her she is wrong. 

Except, what Leah tends to leave out is that no matter how many times you let her sleep with you, she still is unable to access a certain part of your mind. 

She has never been upstairs in your house because you always prefer to go to her place in St. Albans. She has never slept in your bed, nor woken up next to you. 

You talk to her like she is still the same old Leah, the captain you befriended during the tournament of her lifetime, your entrance in her life intertwined with the ecstasy of winning the Euros. She closes her eyes and thinks of how you looked that summer; white England shirt, sunglasses pulled down over your eyes. Smiling, cheering. For her, she greedily claims to herself.

Sometimes, in her mind, you lift your sunglasses – you always seem to be crying when she pictures this – but Leah is only vaguely familiar with the timeline of your divorce. This is the issue.

There is a door that you have locked and refuse to let Leah find the key. It leads to heartbreak, to Nico and Elena, to a family you once had. 

“I wish you would let me in,” Leah says one day. (The day she cracks.) She tears her ACL two days prior, something that makes you feel guiltily nauseous, and you have come to visit her. She knows that you had flown over the minute you had swapped custody with Alexia. 

Your legs curl into your chest as you try to reduce the amount of space you are taking up on Leah’s sofa, cautious of her injured knee. Leah misses the warmth of your thighs, and wants to revoke her conversation starter instantly, pained that she has to even ignite the fire of this forbidden topic. “What do you mean?” comes your quiet reply, unwilling to disturb the peace of her living room. The peace of existing side-by-side. 

“Exactly what I said.” Leah nods to emphasise her agreement with herself. “I wish you would let me in, because how do you expect me to love you if I don’t know you?” 

She sees the bullet fly through the air; she sees the moment it hits you, the way you go rigid. Dead. Dying? 

“It’s crazy because it usually takes years for me to feel about someone the way I feel about you, and I just… I just wanted to tell you that it’s okay to let me in. I want to hear everything, to know everything.” 

“Oh.” What had you expected when you kissed her? “Oh, Leah.” 

“You don’t have to apologise.” She assigns your guilt, the tears in your eyes, to your distance. Perhaps you hadn’t realised, perhaps it is a coincidence Leah has never slept in the bed you used to share with Alexia. Maybe you are unaware that Leah has never heard you speak Spanish, and doesn’t know a single thing about your life in Barcelona. 

You’re a busy person, after all. 

“No, no,” you dismiss quickly, shaking your head. Leah can’t help but wonder if the paranoid voice in her head is right; has she been reading too much into this? “Fuck, I am such a twat.” 

But you don’t elaborate further, asking how she’s feeling, distracting her from your realisation about her realisation. Before Leah knows it, you are making her laugh harder than she has in a month, and soon, like most good things, your visit comes to an end. 

Returning to Barcelona is a little weird. 

You feel as though you have done nothing but check over your shoulder the entire journey, staring the past straight in the eye and wishing you could change it. 

You hadn’t meant to make her fall in love with you. (But she has. Oh, she has.) 

This week’s swap is no different; the same park as usual, the same pleasant weather to undergo an unpleasant task. 

On the bench usually occupied by Olga, a different, blonder head comes into view. 

“Irene?” you ask in surprise, wondering if she has been sent in Olga’s stead or just so happens to have brought Mateo, her son, to the very same park. You sit down beside her, somewhat pleased to not see Alexia’s henchwoman today. “Where’s the free childcare?” 

The defender’s eyes narrow, as though she is debating whether or not she should tell you. 

Irene has known Alexia for a long time, and, by extension, has known you for a long time too. She is calm, level-headed, and mature, much like Alexia. Except Irene hasn’t ever thought to cheat on her wife. 

You are clearly in a lot of pain, and you have a right to be; Irene does not rise to your comment. “Olga has gone on holiday,” she states with practised neutrality. 

“Ah, they’ve broken up.” 

Eyebrows raised, she turns to you, breaking her line of sight that encompasses Nico, Mateo, and Elena. The playground is small enough, and very safe. “They were never together.” You wait patiently for her analysis of whatever the fuck was going on between them. “Olga said she wasn’t what Alexia needed. She’s on holiday with Carla, and I guess she is quite upset.” 

“And Alexia?” You know Irene does not like to gossip, nor stir the pot. So you can be nosy about how she is doing. 

“I think her ego was bruised, but she sees Olga’s point. She has been… better recently. She’s focused on getting back onto the pitch, and Jona is only saying good things about it.” Irene’s eyes brighten at the thought of her captain’s recovery, and her tone soars through the air. The entire team has worried for Alexia, spending their own nights tossing and turning, wondering if the old version of her will ever return. “I know you two don’t speak, but if you did, you’d get a glimpse of what it was like before.”

You can’t help your smile, and Irene does not make you feel pathetic for wearing it. “Good.” 

“I heard you were in London?” 

“Visiting a… friend.” Irene is not a gossip, you remind yourself. “I think I might have to stay in this country for a bit and let things cool down over there.” 

She chuckles. “Whose heart have you broken?” She won’t tell Alexia, when Alexia inevitably asks about you, that you are seeing someone. Not that you have confirmed that to her. 

“I’m yet to break it,” you tell her, sighing, “but I know I will, and that is much, much worse.”

“Hey, at least you have two weeks of being endlessly busy to keep your mind off it.”

Children change a lot in two weeks, so Irene then launches into an update on school, clubs, and everything else. She gets the information from Alexia, of course, who writes out a list every time you switch over. No one has ever handed you the piece of paper before, worried that her handwriting will be an unnecessary reminder of the pain she has caused you, but, for some reason, Irene does today.

You are not put off by the swirling Spanish in front of you, instead choosing to study it. You have spent hours in Alexia’s lap as she scrawls out football notes upon football notes, scribbling prompted by footage or, freakishly, her own memory. From the lightness of the indentations of the pen, you figure that Alexia is exhausted. From the half-finished sentences, you decide that she was rushing when she wrote this. 

But, as much as you delight in your brief analysis of the evidence in your palms like Sherlock Holmes solving a mystery, you can’t ignore just how greatly you have missed the letters that swim between the lines (and the hand from which they were written). 

Irene spares you your dignity by standing from the bench and checking on the children just as your tears begin to fall. 

…

You take one last look in the mirror embedded in the sun visor, ensuring your hair is perfectly in place and your earrings match your cream, sleeveless turtleneck to poise you just between casual and smartly-dressed. A quiet grumble from the backseat draws your attention away from your reflection, though your last glimpse at your concealed eyebags and red-rimmed irises leaves you feeling a little dejected and mourning the days you’d actually get some sleep. (Or wouldn’t, smoking cigarettes on the balcony while talking Alexia’s ear off.) 

“Mama, we go,” decides Elena with a huff, tugging on the buckle of her car seat. 

It’s Nico’s first-ever recital tonight. 

He started playing the piano in September, when his teacher at school had mentioned how he boasted to the children in his class that he was a musician: ‘if I am Catalan because my mami is Catalan, then I am musician because my mami is musician’. You felt guilty. His teacher says he is naturally talented, voice lacking surprise but praiseful nonetheless, and is proud to name Nico his youngest student at tonight’s show. 

The bouquet of daisies you ask Elena to hold makes her look like a miniature carnival float, and she toddles into the venue by your side while you do mental gymnastics between the knowledge that Alexia will be here tonight and the nerves for your son’s performance. It’s nothing complicated, but you worry he will hate it. This is the only thing he does that is a nod towards you; his one deviation from his worship of Alexia. 

“Mami!” squeals the walking flowers as soon as you make it to the half-full hall. You direct your gaze to the three rows your daughter refers to, every seat lined with either professional footballers or family. With a sudden rush of blood to your head, you feel out of your depth.

You’re not sure whether the hazel eyes that find yours help or worsen that. 

“Keep it moving,” you mutter firmly, holding her hand so she does not make a break for it and tumble right over to the cohort of FC Barcelona and Seguras. Not wanting to get too close to them, you take your seat in the penultimate row, knowing Nico will not be able to see you over the grand piano set up on the stage wherever you sit. “You can talk to her later, sweetheart.” 

She is in an obedient mood, most-likely intimidated by the tension in the air. You tell yourself it’s the stress radiating from the line of performers sitting on the front row. Nico stands on his chair, waving first to Alexia and then to you (it’s your turn with them so you are a lot less exciting right now), before he is lightly scolded by his teacher and the first child walks up the steps and onto the stage. 

Five uninspiring children later, Nico is finally led up onto the stage. His teacher sits down on the piano stool and nudges him forwards. He smiles brightly at the room. You reciprocate, encouraging Elena to do the same to keep her engaged with an admittedly boring event. 

“Bona nit a tothom! Jo sóc en Nicolau i tinc quatre anys i ara aniré a tocar ‘Brillia Brillia Estel Petit’.” The audience melts before him. “Mama, that means ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’,” he whispers loudly. 

You send him a thumbs up. He sends you a grin back, before giggling as he climbs onto the piano stool beside his teacher. 

Situated comfortably, feet dangling adorably far away from the pedals, his chubby, little fingers hit the ivory keys once, then twice. 

You pray this goes well. 

It does. 

He plays with two hands, something you hadn’t expected, and Elena holds in her noisy yawn until after he is finished so she must have been invested in the performance. Your own hands sting after you clap with such prideful force that you are the loudest in the room, and the hoots and hollers from Alexia’s territory only make Nico even happier as he bounces down the steps and back to his seat to wait for the others to do their pieces. 

After the recital has finished, you walk down the aisle separating the seats in half to get to Nico, daughter-less courtesy of a squadron of football-playing kidnappers. 

“How was that?” you ask him smugly, his arms wrapping around you in a tight hug. “I knew you would be brilliant, even when you were scared you weren’t going to be. Do you know how proud I am of you?” 

“This much?” He holds his hand about thirty centimetres apart. “Mami says this much.” 

When he widens his hands, you gesture something even bigger. 

“‘Immensely’ is the word I would use.” 

“Im-men-lee?” 

“Es que nuestro orgullo llena una casa sin techo. Hasta el cielo.” 

“Up to the sun,” you amend, ignoring the way the voice has made you stiffen. You don’t read too much into her misuse of the collective pronoun. There is no ‘our’ in ‘affair’.

Alexia’s hand hovers by your waist for a moment, muscle memory getting the better of her before she draws it back into her body. Nico gives her a matching hug, telling her how much he has missed her. 

You try not to blame yourself for his derailed childhood. 

“You were amazing, petit,” Alexia says, picking him up with one strong arm and settling him on her hip. You grip the wrapper of the bouquet you are holding. “Did Mama get you a gift?” 

He peers at the daisies in your hand with curiosity. Shaking his head, his confusion deepens as he studies the bouquet you are extending towards him. “They are for Mami? Flowers are for love.” 

“I love you,” you tell him, not trying to make a point but instinctively prickling in the presence of Alexia.

The silence is awkward. 

A few metres away, whilst entertaining the sleepy toddler on her lap, Mapi is excitedly talking to Alba. “Y/n hasn’t killed her yet,” says the defender with glee, one of your admirers. The team respected you before, never questioning their captain’s judgement nor family, but when word got out about the affair amongst the older girls, most of them began to see you as more than Alexia’s wife. A new layer to your character was revealed; you are a strong, independent, and successful woman. Football nerds sometimes forget success comes in more forms than blaugrana kits. “They made such a beautiful couple.” 

“They did.” Alba watches as you talk to your son, your eyes actively avoiding the woman in front of you. “Our mother has sent Alexia over there to invite her to dinner. It killed me to see her sit alone.” 

You are too used to the feeling of eyes on you that you no longer notice the weight of people’s stares, but, if this were not the case, you would know that most of the heads attached to the bodies sitting in Alexia’s rows had been swivelled towards you for majority of the recital. Pity is never a desired emotion to have offered to you, but the Barça girls can’t help but feel that way whenever they see your forehead crinkle in an attempt to understand Catalan, presuming you only speak Spanish as you have more than enough on your plate. (And, as most of the players will admit, your children speak better English than them, so one can only assume that it is your main method of communication.)

“She’s a very good mother,” Mapi comments with a small nod, sucking a sharp breath in as she begins to sympathise with you even more. Not a day goes by where she witnesses the suffering Alexia’s idiocracy has caused – as Ingrid, her girlfriend, knows very well – and does not fail to scream in frustration about her best friend’s stupid mistakes.

“She’s a very good person.” 

They fall silent as they see your head tilt up, jaw clenching as Alexia begins to speak to you. 

“Can you hear what she’s saying?” whispers Eli to her daughter, equally invested in the conversation. “I knew I should have sent you; Alex is too socially awkward.” 

“Mami, she is talking to her wife,” replies Alba, though she remembers what happened the last time Alexia and you had spoken and the outcome of that. Maybe that commences her increasing agreement with her mother… “I guess you– Are they coming over here?!” 

Even you seem surprised by how your legs carry you towards the Barcelona clan, a step behind Alexia and Nico. Hesitant would be an understatement, but most of them are too preoccupied with congratulating the four-year-old they have come to watch to notice your tight-lipped smile and trembling hands. 

“Hola,” you say shyly. 

Eli pulls you into her strong embrace without missing a beat. “Te he echado de menos, hija.” 

You try very hard not to burst into tears. 

They take you to dinner; a plan you had known about but not envisioned yourself included in. Although it’s your fortnight, Alexia (through the conduit of Alba) had previously arranged to drop Nico and Elena over to yours before midnight. 

You blow off your FaceTime call with Leah.

The restaurant is on the lower level of fine-dining. It’s chic, but it does not make your children feel unwelcome. The table is set for five places, though Alba informs you that the reason for this is because the reservation was made before she broke up with her girlfriend. 

“Mama, what are you going to eat?” asks Nico, slipping back into his old life seamlessly, mixing his English with the Spanish he knows everyone can understand, his legs swinging underneath the table with an enthusiastic energy. He is still too young to pick up on how far apart his parents are sitting, or how you refuse to let your eyes linger on Alexia’s tanned skin, far too much of it shown off by the tank top she sports in the humidity of the busy restaurant. 

You glance around the room, searching for those who have recognised you. Under the weight of at least four curious stares, you motivate yourself to enjoy your meal. 

“Not sure yet, babe,” you answer. “Alba, do you fancy sharing something?”

“Yeah, of course.” The younger Putellas smiles. Alexia knows who has lost the war.

Dinner passes with light conversation centred on very neutral topics. No man’s land is clearly the children, and you had never expected to be so desperate to continue a conversation about school lunches until the other options are how Alexia had an affair with her teammate or that your song with her favourite singer is topping the charts and explicitly about being cheated on. 

Although you and Alexia both watch how many times your wine glasses are refilled, Alba lets loose, as does Eli (probably to ease the stress on her heart that her girls force upon her). Their cheeks redden and Nico begins to yawn, Elena already curled into your side halfway between dreams and reality. 

“Should we head out?” you ask it to the table, but the only functioning person is Alexia, really, and so you close your eyes to avoid having to make eye contact. 

“I should probably get Mama and Alba into a taxi.” 

“If you call one for them, I will call one for us?” Your suggestion is instinctive; an old habit reminiscent of many similar nights, back when there was love and happiness and a relationship that didn’t feel like walking on a floor made of broken glass. “Or did you drive here?” 

“No, but you drove,” comes Alexia’s reminder. Internally, you face-palm. Parking the car before dinner seems like years ago; something feels different now. “But if you don’t feel up to it, I could drive you home. I haven’t had much to drink and I have nothing else planned for tonight. Elena is practically in a coma anyway.” 

You laugh – a softened version of it so as to not rouse the dead weight of your daughter. 

“Are you sure?” 

It’s late.

“Yes, I’m sure.” 

I don’t care. 

“Mama,” Alba slurs, pulling her mother in close. “The saint has given her sinner a second chance.” 

It may not be as quiet as she thinks it is. Alexia, occupied, is deaf to the comment. You are not.

This is not a second chance. 

This is a lift home. 

The last time all four of you sat in a car together was the day you found out about Alexia’s affair. 

You had suffered then – are still suffering now – but your anger was hot and sharp and new. Fresh wounds. 

Now, though more scabbed-over than healed, those wounds no longer seem to gush blood; you entertain Alexia’s stiff small-talk. 

She asks about the tour, never veering too far off the road of practicality and shared custody. When does it resume? Which has been your favourite show? 

“Wembley is like playing El Clásico in Camp Nou,” she determines, not needing to ask about that because she knows you too well. 

Your memories of the London shows involve a naked Leah Williamson. (If only she knew that!) 

“Yeah, London was great.”

Awkwardness is part of Alexia’s personality; something you are fairly certain you still love. She is shy, though it perhaps comes off as stoicity, and she has never been good at making conversation. You know she hates it, and you know that her eyes, Alexia’s eyes, are gazing at you every time she thinks you are not looking. 

She is weary about the desire darkening her pupils, but she does not do well to hide her hunger nonetheless. 

“Go into the carpark,” you instruct as you approach your building.

Wordlessly, she presses the correct pin into the pin-pad, never having forgotten it. 

She parks the car beside a new-looking Mercedes. It’s not a car for children, and she imagines it reeks of cigarettes – there is no way you have stopped smoking. 

It belongs in the carpark; in your little world of celebrities and male footballers; of money and fame and fortune. (One could argue you lack the latter, what with your current situation.) Alexia’s life has never moulded with yours. 

Perhaps it never will. 

Perhaps she slept with Jenni because they are equals, you think. Because Jenni understands Alexia in a way you cannot. 

“Mami,” cries a quiet voice from the backseat. You stop staring at the grey, concrete walls, snapping back to reality as Alexia shifts to turn her attention to the source of the whimpering. “No quiero que te vayas.” 

“Lela, me tengo que ir.” 

“Pero–” 

“You could always come up to say goodnight to them?” 

It starts off innocently. 

Of course it does. Of course you are nowhere near forgiveness, more likely to forget about the crushing affair before you excuse any of her actions. Sometimes, you wish for amnesia. Sometimes, you refer to the tab open in Safari – ‘is there a drug that makes you forget?’. 

Alexia is granted a tuck-in and a story for each child, glad that their rooms are separate so that her time in her home is prolonged. The walls are familiar, the floor is the same. There are new pictures in new frames, but the old ones have not been removed. If you had ever wished to take photographs of your relationship down, you have never acted on it. 

She realises you must not spend a lot of time here alone. Maybe you cannot bear it. Maybe your life in London is more important to you than she had thought. 

Anyway, for as much as she subtly noses around and draws out the night, she has no intention of overstaying her welcome, sure that she probably did that the minute she stepped inside. 

In fact, she is on her way out, under the assumption that you will not want to speak to her.

“So you’re back to playing?” 

“Sí.” 

A doorway conversation. 

You’re English. You’re very polite. Alexia knows this, tries to not get her hopes up. 

“Does that mean you don’t want a taste of this ‘97?” You hold the bottle up to her, the cork lying on the granite worktop with the incriminating suggestion that you have already had a glass. 

“We play the day after tomorrow.” 

“Oh, Ale, this is a good one.” 

How many times have you said that to her before? The same tone, the same look in your eye; red tinting your lips, one hand on a lighter because you smoke when you’re drunk, even if you refuse to touch the cancer-sticks when you are sober. 

“Was this a gift?” she asks, drawn into your magnetic field like a flimsy paper clip; thin, worn metal trying to piece the pages of her life back together. “Or have you been making ridiculous purchases again?” 

“I can assure you that it is not ‘ridiculous’.” You moan in delight as you take a sip from a glass you subsequently hand over to her. “Gosh, that is divine, and you are simply going to dissolve when you taste it.” 

Dissolve she does, but one can attribute that to the company. 

The contents of the bottle dwindles quickly, paired with a vulnerable retelling of her ACL recovery (sans suicidal thoughts and huge, huge regret about the affair – she doesn’t want to bring that up, seeing as you are clearly trying to forget about it), and the warm breeze of the Barcelona nighttime. The salty air from the mediterranean mingles with cigarette smoke, though Alexia softly says that you really should stop. 

You hesitate on your next puff, but you inhale it all the same. “I like my wine smokey.” 

She opens the next bottle for you. 

The wine glasses are soon discarded, pouring becoming shaky and difficult. 

“They sleep all the way through the night here,” observes Alexia, surprised that no little hands have knocked on the glass door leading to the balcony. The last time you had reached for the wine, you’d moved closer to her. You have not yet returned to your original seat on the other side of the rattan sofa. 

You raise your eyebrows, under the impression that they were both sleep trained. “They don’t at yours?” 

“Elena keeps trying to sleep in bed with me.” 

“Maybe she likes you more,” you suggest with a light, alcohol-infused laugh. “She must have been upset to find her place filled by your friend.” 

“No,” murmurs Alexia, “it has never been filled. Though I don’t think you can say the same.” 

You swallow the stickiness of the wine running down your throat.

“Not in our bed. My bed.” You fight yourself. “Our bed.” 

“In Highgate?” 

“Anywhere,” you breathe. 

“It’s been months,” croaks Alexia, your hand pressed against her stomach as you slowly lean into the feeling only she can give you. “Months.” 

You kiss her. Time folds in on itself, and you are transported back to when every touch was electric; when nothing was tainted. The pain of the past months, the heartbreak, momentarily fades into insignificance as you lose yourself in Alexia’s warmth.

Her fingers tangle in your hair, pulling you closer, afraid that this moment might slip away too soon. The taste of wine lingers on your lips, and she craves the softness of them – she has been craving them since July.

“Well, now it has only been seconds,” you whisper as you pull away. 

With a sense of urgency, she chases your mouth once more, strong arms pulling you on top of her, manipulating your body against her with no hint of uncertainty. 

Alexia knows you well.

Her touch lacks curiosity and exploration. Her hands are experienced and confident in their movements, and she has hoisted you up and brought you to your bedroom without needing to have been told that this is what you want. 

“Is this what you want?” she asks anyway. 

“Please.” 

And she really doesn’t make you beg. 

Your hands roam her body with a primal hunger, instinctive touches to the most sensitive parts of her, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Her back is tense, muscles flexing as she pushes your clothes off your skin, her own following their path soon after. 

Parted legs and soft moans. 

She slots herself between your thighs. 

Her tongue is determined, fierce. Sloppier because she is drunk, but, then again, so are you. 

Your fingers repay the favour. 

“More,” you request just as she pulls away. 

“Is it in the same place?” 

You nod, panting.

There is a playful glint in Alexia’s eyes as she finds the strap just where she left it. As she secures it in place, you wipe the sweat from your brow, forcing your mind into the dirtiest of thoughts to ward off the building regret.

The room is dimly lit, and the air heavy with desire. Your heartbeat pulses in the silence, the thrum of the organ drums that guide Alexia’s slow, deliberate steps back towards the bed, kneeling atop the scrunched sheets. 

She positions herself between your legs once more, and you can feel the heat of her body radiating against your skin. She leans in closer, her breath hot against your neck, sending shivers of anticipation shuddering down your spine. 

With trembling hands, you reach out, nails digging into tanned, taut skin. You pull her closer to you, urging her to take whatever she wants. 

You want her to have you. You want her to make it hurt less. 

As Alexia presses inside, a jolt of pleasure courses through your body. You cry out, the sound igniting a blazing inferno within her that grows hotter the moment you ask her to move. Feverishly, her hands move over your chest, finding purchase on your breasts with a dormant possessiveness as her hips begin to drive the strap in deeper. 

Your breath hitches in your throat as you surrender to the overwhelming sensation, encompassed by someone so divine that you begin to separate yourself from all things wrong with this situation. The headboard thuds against the bedroom wall as she pounds her thrusts into a rhythm, and you shut your eyes as you quietly ask her to kiss you.

Tears cascade down your cheeks, but you do not know to whom they belong. Her tongue smothers your moans, and her hips begin to snap into yours more urgently, with more desperation. The pressure builds inside of you, and you feel as though you might explode. 

You feel as though this is the end, and you are glad that here is where your misery terminates. 

You’re glad, you’re really glad. 

Your back arches, your chests pressing together, large hands holding you close to her. 

And then it all comes crashing down. 

Everything. 

You wipe your eyes once the orgasmic bliss subsides, seizing your wine haze as the tide goes out and destroying the blindfold that had deprived you of seeing things straight. Right now, with the pleasant ache between your legs, you can’t quite bring yourself to regret it, but you know you will. You haven’t forgiven her; you’re not sure that it is possible. 

“You can shower, but you can’t stay here.” 

…

Nico knows that he is special. He is lucky, and he is loved, and he gets to go to a very nice school that Mateo (his ‘cousin’) claims is fancy. 

He likes his teacher. She reminds him of someone he once knew – you have suggested the nursery helpers back when he lived in London. He is not sure if you are right, but he doesn’t remember what London was like so he tries not to think too hard about it. 

Nico’s friends, like Pau who is sitting beside him, all think it is really cool that he can speak English. Pau says she hears his mother on the radio sometimes, but Nico hasn’t yet grasped the concept of fame past the annoying camera flashes and big, sold-out stadiums. He dislikes fame as he knows it, anyway, because the cameras hurt his eyes and the stadiums are so loud that he has to wear ear-defenders that squeeze his skull a bit too much. 

“My mum is from Bilbao. My dad is from Barcelona,” states Paula as she swipes a crayon over the sheet of paper her drawing is on. Green wax slowly stains the white to form ‘grass’. Everyone is drawing their family today, although Nico hasn’t yet started, waiting for his teacher to circle their table so that he can ask for another piece of paper. “And this,” Paula carries on, squiggling brown hair onto a smaller version of the stick-figure father, “is Ander, my big brother.” 

“Who is that?” Nico asks, pointing at the fifth figure on the page, guessing that the fourth and Pau-sized person is, in fact, Pau. 

“My sister! She’s called Nerea, and she plays basketball.” Pau promptly makes an orange circle the size of Nerea’s head, which floats in the air between her and her sister. “My mum says Nere is going to be a lesbian, but I don’t know what that means.” 

“My mums are lesbian!” he blurts out, excited enough to garner the attention of his teacher. When she appears, he grins at her sweetly; the kind of smile that has melted many hearts, though Nico is unaware of how many people know he exists. “More paper, please.” 

“Nico, you haven’t even tried with your first one.”

She isn’t harsh at all, but he has slowly learnt to stop asking follow-up questions. Six months of exasperated ‘I don’t know, Nicolau’s has taught him that. 

He shrugs. “Okay.”

He learnt what a shrug was the other day, when Mapi told him off for doing it to her. (“Don’t shrug your shoulders at me, Nicolau Putellas!” she had chided playfully. “All I asked was which of your mamas’ houses we need to go to.”)

“Nico, what’s ‘lesbian’?” 

“Mama says football is lesbian. Basketball might be lesbian! That’s why your sister is lesbian.” 

“My mum says that lesbians kiss girls.” 

“Mama kisses girls! And Mami. And they used to kiss each other but now they don’t speak and me and my sister swap houses.” Nico begins drawing it out for Paula when she peers at him, befuddled. “Here is Mama’s.” A big square, a glamorous-looking woman inside of the blue shape; a stick with a circle on the end of it; the notes he sees in his piano music floating in the air. “And…” he says, tongue sticking out as he concentrates on the opposite half of the page, “here is Mami’s.” 

He draws a football. He picks up the red crayon too, and uses both the blau and the grana simultaneously. “Mami plays football for Barça.” He draws two lines on Alexia’s t-shirt. 11. “Mami made me get 11 at football.” Nico had originally worn the 10, but then the affair had come to light and Alexia was suddenly deep in conversation with his coach and apologising to the boy Nico then had to swap shirts with. 

Then, he drops the crayons in his hand and searches for the stack near Paula. He selects the purple one, gripping it tightly, his friend still listening to him with intrigue. 

“This is me and Lela.” Two stick figures are drawn in the middle of the page; the middle ground between each of the squares. 

Nico sometimes feels stuck between it all. 

When Mami got very sad, he and Elena went to stay with Mapi and Ingrid for a few nights. He held his little sister’s hand as much as he could. He always tries to remind her that he is right there with her. 

Mami once told him that it was his turn to protect Elena. Nico hasn’t forgotten that. 

“I keep Lela safe.” He has encouraged her, slightly selfishly, to call him ‘skipper’, which he has picked up from the Lionesses. Luckily, Alexia has not told him off for it because she doesn’t know what it means. “Lela is my little sister. She is a baby. She doesn’t remember what it was like when Mama and Mami loved each other, but I do.” 

The purple crayon scrapes on the page as he presses it into the white, colour rubbing out in the shape of a heart. “Lela and I are together tot el temps. Mami tries to take me from her sometimes, but I don’t let her.” 

His story – and ability to make Paula pay attention for longer than ten seconds – has already attracted the quiet attention of his teacher, but she moves closer as Nico continues. The four-year-old leaves out how Alexia is usually inviting him to training with her. Since Elena has yet to show any interest in football, it remains her and Nico’s special thing, and, of course, his mother misses him when it is not her turn. 

You benevolently give your permission if you have no prior plans. It is upsetting that the only hindrance to extra time spent together is the little boy who once worshipped Alexia Putellas like a god. 

“Nico, why did you want two pages?” asks Paula curiously, assuming he is finished now that his whole family is displayed on the piece of paper. 

He frowns. “Because now I have to do this.” And with that, he tears the sheet in half. 

Paula’s mouth drops open in surprise, as does his teacher’s. 

“What’s wrong?” comes a mature voice, a hand placed on his shoulder just like it is when the other children in his class cry. Nico doesn’t cry. He is strong and brave, like a little soldier. “Did you not like your drawing?” 

“No,” he replies neutrally, “half can live with Mama, and half can live with Mami.” 

“But now you are ripped down the middle.” 

He traces the jagged edges of the halves of his life. One of his legs is on your side, the other on Alexia’s. 

“I know, but it’s okay. I don’t cry.” 

Alexia does, though, when his teacher talks to her that afternoon. 

…

“I slept with Alexia,” you confess quietly, comforted by the sound-proofing of Anya’s home-studio. She asked for help with her album; your success might be contagious, she insists. “Last week, when Nico had that recital.” You clutch your mug protectively, as if she will strip you of the right to drink your tea to punish you for your crime. 

Anya is unsure what you would like her to say. You search her face for anger, but do not find it. 

“If Gio were here, she’d probably slap you.” 

You snort, almost spilling hot liquid all over yourself. “You two are like my mothers, and you’re the nicer one by far.” 

“God, you are such an idiot.” 

“And a slag.” She waits for your next admission with excitement. “I also slept with Leah Williamson.” 

“Do you think you and Alexia are just destined for polyamory?” Her amusement is quite pleasant, but one thing wasn’t dulled by the wine that night and you have been dying to tell someone about it.

Your knee bounces up and down as you gear up for it, having thought it through 

“I think we are destined for each other.” 

Song-writing be damned, Anya fully removes her headphones, placing the equipment beside her keyboard before letting out a small, exasperated laugh. “You are in love with Alexia again,” comes her accusation, with no real malice behind it. 

“I never stopped being in love with Alexia. She just made it a lot harder to love her.” 

Is that an understatement? 

“Hey,” you say with sudden energy, sitting upright and grasping at your phone, tea wobbling over the lip of the mug and running down your wrist. “Should we go to Bali in August?” 

…

You avoid both of your footballers right until the World Cup camps roll around. 

Leah doesn’t get to go, subjected to the ACL curse. Alexia’s call-up is not necessarily unexpected, but you do find yourself wondering how many more betrayals her friendship with Mapi León can handle. (Mapi is on her last straw, but she knows her friend really needed the win after her hellish year. The Champion’s League was never going to sate Alexia’s hunger to be the best at football – possibly an overcompensation for her terrible relationship skills.)

Your children, this time, are delivered to the park by their very own mother. Alexia beats Leah in this sense, because she has a valid excuse to see you without confessing feelings you do not want to hear. 

“I have something for you,” she says just after she has finished her goodbyes, pressing a small box into your hands. Her voice is filled with nerves and you are intrigued, hating yourself for being so. “Don’t open it until you get back home.” Her eyes meet yours for a moment. I’m sorry, they seem to say. “Alright, have fun in Bali, and don’t forget that I legally have custody but I am not going to go to court to battle you for it as long as you put them in Spain kits for Spain matches.” 

She could, if she wanted to be difficult, have you send Nico and Elena to New Zealand during her weeks. It would be very unreasonable, but the contract your lawyers drew up still stands. 

“They were delivered yesterday. I think it’s going to be a struggle to convince them to put on the worst kit ever.” You still don’t forgive Alexia for cheating on you, but there has come a point where acceptance replaces the animosity. Nico’s teacher has been the catalyst in this step forward. The developmental pamphlets she had thrust in your faces were enough for the two of you to come to a mutual agreement of increased civility (that maybe, maybe was only made possible by the fact that you have very recent memories of each other’s orgasms). “But, yes, I agree to your terms. Don’t forget that his favourite player is Alessia Russo, however.” 

“He is in a phase where I am ‘uncool’! It’ll pass.” 

“If you say so, Alexia.” 

“Anyway,” she carries on, rolling her eyes. “Open it when you get home.” She… presses a kiss to your cheek? “I’m so sorry, mi amor.” 

You blink back your surprise, but she is gone before you can reply. 

The small, neatly-wrapped box sits in the palm of your hand, the corners edging off your skin and sticking out as you stare at it. Nico and Elena continue their (unsupervised) playing, but you manage to call out a warning for ‘five more minutes and then we’ve got to pack’ while you examine Alexia’s gift.

Is this how Pandora felt? 

If you open it, what will be unleashed?

Alexia, before now, hasn’t actively pursued your forgiveness. She has given you the time and the space you had broken-heartedly requested, nodding as you communicated your wishes to her through someone else, never before able to confront the face that tore up your life before your eyes. 

There was a time when all you ever wanted to do was talk to her, but she tried to forget about that when she realised the extent at which you went to avoid an interaction. When she had understood your desperation to be left alone fully, she began to breathe. The step backwards gave her room to examine just how royally she had fucked it all. 

She now feels a bit more capable of tackling the clean-up, working with a much clearer mind. Everyone is relieved that she hasn’t killed herself, or, at least, that she is keeping those thoughts at bay. 

You realise that she has bought you a ring, and regardless of whether you wear it or not, she wants to tell you that she is sorry.

...

IT'S NOT OVER YET! THIS WILL TAKE YOU TO THE SECOND HALF

[doawks]

i. melt into you, im changkyun.

♫ If I move too quick past you, I would think it's my reflection Being this close isn't close enough You could tell every time we touch, every time we, oh [...] That's when I melt into you

pairing. ex!changkyun x f!reader. genre. exes to lovers (?), smut, some fluff. warnings. manhandling, cheating (but he’s kinda like forgotten lol), dirty talk, implied jealousy + possessiveness, dom!changkyun to softdom!changkyun, praise kink, daddy being said once, little crying, creampie, unprotected sex━ missionary.

not proof read.

“does he fuck you like this, sweetheart?” the question was rhetorical━he knew the answer just as much as you did. “nah, i don’t think he does. because if he did, i wouldn’t have to be fucking you into my mattress every night and sending you on your way back home with my cum dripping down your thighs, now would i?”

you couldn’t help but turn your head to the side in utter embarrassment. changkyun saw right through you, constantly reading you like an open book. he knew you better than anyone, he knew you better than you knew yourself - and that’s saying a lot. you could never pretend when you were around changkyun, already knowing he would instantly call you out.

“c’mon, baby, fuck━” he lets out a guttural groan when he feels you clench down onto his cock tightly. god, changkyun will never get over the way your pussy feels. “so fuckin’ tight. i’m not going anywhere, baby, relax.”

you whimper at that. it’s not like he meant it in the way you thought, but it wasn’t exactly like you were in the right state of mind. when changkyun fucked you, he took you to an entirely different planet, literally. he fucked you hard and deep, leaving your pussy battered and legs a wobbly mess by the time he was done with you. when you two were dating, he left marks all over your body because he wanted to show the world how belong to him and only him ━ he can’t do that anymore however, much to his annoyance. but he doesn’t need to mark your pretty skin up anyway because you will always know who you belong to. your pussy only cries, aches for him and your heart is interlocked with his. you know it, he knows it. your new boy toy was merely a poor replacement to try to get over changkyun, but it obviously isn’t working, clearly.

“more. want more, please, kyunnie . . .” you aren’t exactly sure what you’re begging for. you’re honestly just blabbering at this point and changkyun knows that. he also knows how to shut you up.

shaking his head in amusement, changkyun hooks his veined hands underneath your knees, pressing them to your chest. when catching a glimpse of his biceps flexing, you instantaneously feel your pussy gush. his head lurches forward, silver necklace dangling prettily from his neck, “my insatiable little thing. you’re never going to be satisfied with what i give you, will you?”

you pout slightly, “i am.”

“no, you aren’t. but you will. you want me to fuck you hard and annihilate your little cunt, then so be it. but don’t try to push me away, you got that?”

maybe you overestimated just how much you could handle. . . just a bit. changkyun’s cock is thick, it always has been. he takes pride in that, quite frankly. the first time you two had sex, he remember vividly how shocked along with astounded you were when he lined it up with your pussy, eyes big and doe, mouth wide wondering how he was going to fit. since then, you thought you became accustomed to his size, but that’s only because he was giving it to you sweetly, inch by inch. even tonight, when changkyun threw you on the mattress, he promised to go easy on you, though you being as needy as you are, you knew you wanted - needed more than that. you only got to see changkyun once a week because you didn’t want your boyfriend to grow curious, so when he did fuck you, you wanted to make the most of it.

“fuuuuuck,” he draws out, throwing his head back, adam’s apple bobbing. he pounds into your squelching pussy mercilessly, a white ring of cum beginning to coat his cock when sliding out. “sweet little cunt━fuck, so tight. takin’ me so well, sweetheart.”

“d━daddy, my clit . . . can you, mhm, can you rub my clit?”

you were so fucking cute, always using your manners for him. he absolutely loved that about you. yeah, you might be a brat at times, but at the end of the day, you were always going to be his good girl. his.

he doesn’t answer verbally, instead, he takes his thumb into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the digit before bringing it down onto your clit, which twitched instinctively underneath the pad of his pollex.

on the brink of tears, you don’t think before you cradle changkyun’s face and bring his plush lips to yours. since you two began doing this whole ‘exes with benefits’ arrangement, it was agreed that there would be no kissing during sex because it would be deemed too romantic. you initiated the rule, unfortunately. only because kissing was the first intimate thing you ever experienced with your ex, who was once your boyfriend, changkyun. it meant so much to you especially because it was with someone you loved━love so dearly. you knew that if you were to kiss changkyun, it would bring you back to the first time you ever did. the memories suddenly pivoting in your head.

changkyun kisses you back sincerely, lips molding against yours. his pace comes to a halt, the hand that was under one of your knees quickly coming to your cheek, stroking the skin tenderly. you don’t feel yourself crying until changkyun acknowledges it, “shh. don’t cry, my pretty angel. i’m here.”

you’re silly. extremely silly. you never just wanted to fuck changkyun. but you knew, or thought, it would be the only way to relish in his warmth once again. you missed his touches, his words, sure, you missed him fucking you, but you really just missed him, in general.

changkyun pulls away slowly to press a kiss onto your nose. “need to take a break?”

“no, i just━missed you. not the sex, you.”

“i never left, baby. i was always here, no matter what you thought.” changkyun smiles softly at you, a smile that could light up an entire dim room.

changkyun’s words stick with you, because he’s so right. he never did leave. when he found out you were in a relationship, any normal ex would back off, but changkyun didn’t. he stayed in contact with you. or at least tried because you would never really respond to any of his messages. he made sure you were okay, wished you a happy birthday, a merry christmas. you two never ended on bad terms, but somehow, someway, you made it seem like you did.

god, how stupid you feel right now.

“i’m sorry, changkyun,” you choke, leaning into his touch. you missed him. so much.

changkyun puts your thighs at the side of him, bringing both his hands to your waist, gripping you. “no more apologies. just let me make love to you.”

with that, changkyun continues to fuck you. not hard, not rough ━ but slow and sensual. he tattoos open mouthed kisses onto your neck before going down to your collarbone, occasionally suckling your skin into his mouth. he yearned for this ━ just to be soft with you whilst telling you how pretty you are. he never told you he loved you enough back then, and that was his mistake. a mistake he would never make again. because now, he will make sure you know how much he loves and adores you with every 206 bones he has in his body. his life is purposeless without you, it has no meaning. you’re like his air, his water. you’re a necessity.

the head of changkyun’s cock kisses your cervix which has you arching your back of the mattress in pleasure. it feels good, too good. you haven’t felt this overwhelmed with pleasure and emotions in a long time. “kyunnie━”

“don’t think i can keep up any longer, baby. g━fuck. gonna come.”

“in me, kyun! in me. want you to come in me, please.”

he furrows his brows but nods his head nonetheless, “fuck. yeah, alright, angel. whatever you want.”

the mans hips speed up, balls slapping against your ass. the thumb he has on your clit also begins to quicken, causing your legs to jerk at his sides from the sensitivity and the impactful pounding. the sounds of your pornographic moans, changkyun’s deep grunts, and sweaty skin clapping is extraordinarily lewd but you can’t even find it in yourself to care neither does the man above you.

“c’mon, pretty baby,” he gently coaxes, “give it to me. make a pretty mess all over my cock for me. you can do that right, yeah? i know you can.”

your stomach starts to tighten, implying that your orgasm was quickly approaching. changkyun knows this, of course, because as stated before, he see’s right through you - and because he can feel your little pussy holding onto him for dear life, desperately trying to empty his balls. he chuckles, “fuck, sweetheart, you’re gonna milk me dry.”

with a few more encouraging words and deep thrust, you’re releasing all over his cock, changkyun following soon after into your pussy. as a heavy breath escapes from his lips, he deflates onto your chest - snuggling his head in the crook of your clammy neck - cock softening in the process while still being in your warm, gooey pussy. “love you so much, baby.” he whispers quietly in your skin.

you delicately shut your eyes, smiling while doing so. “love you, too.”

you knew you were going to have to find a way to break up with your boyfriend later on, but you didn’t care about that right now. all you cared about was the warmth changkyun was providing that you missed.

[vonbabbitt]

Hi Von! First off, I love tetro and you've done a great job! This fangan has actually inspired me to create the fangan ideas that have been rattling around in my head for the past year. I'm currently trying to do the character building and thought asking you a few questions could be helpful! First, how did you go about things like plot and character building/character design? Second, how did you go about assembling a team for tetro?

im glad youre enjoying it! thank you for the high praise! this got long, so ill put my answer beneath the cut!

one tip ill give before i say ANYTHING ELSE because this is my strongest gripe in the fangan universe: if youre planning on making something like tetro, or any fangan at all, DO NOT CAST UNTIL YOU ARE READY TO GIVE OUT CONSISTENT WORK. one of the biggest pitfalls in fangans is that fangan directors cast WAY before they actually need voice actors. if you arent yet in a place where you are going to be able to CONTINUE REGULARLY GIVING OUT SCRIPTS, you dont need to cast yet. focus on the other tasks!

in terms of plot/character building, you should consider what roles need to be filled in the story and what types of characters will be needed to keep the story interesting/moving forward. a lot of fangans struggle with having characters that dont really do a lot - not every character needs to be bombastically doing things all the time, but every character needs to have some sort of point in being there. it can be really tricky when youre working with the usual danganronpa numbers of 16 characters per cast, but take your time and really consider how you want your story to play out.

another thing i advise strongly is to make sure you're writing your characters in a way that lets the audience connect with them. the whole drive of danganronpa is that characters will die, so your audience needs to care when that happens. one of the biggest pieces of feedback i get with tetro is people saying that they like the whole cast and dont want to see anyone die - when you can cultivate that kind of cast, death matters. give each character something the audience can relate to in some way. you can still get interesting and specific with backstories and lore, but make sure the core of the character is something that someone can connect with. for example: harada. a lot of people probably cant relate to the idea of bullying people in their youth. however, many people can relate to the idea of doing something you regret down the line because you wanted to fit in or avoid trouble. the core should be something people can connect with. focus on that core!

in terms of assembling a team, i put up a casting call page! there are a couple different websites you can use, but this is the one i find to be the most effective. i only cast voice actors for tetro - other roles ended up getting taken on by people who were eager to do more work in the project or help out. i always say that if there's a job that needs doing in your fangan, you should be prepared to do that job entirely on your own, because the odds of getting help for free are slim. other people who know nothing about you or your project arent going to want to give you free art, video, music, animation etc., and from my experience, a lot of VAs will see a casting call full of calls for animators and artists and view that as a red flag. fangans are chronically unfinished, so make sure you can do every job by yourself if need be. learn whatever skills you need! there are tutorials everywhere!

hope this was helpful in some way!

[valeriianz]

For the fic writer asks:

4. Obviously you did research for BitB. I'd love you to ramble about it if you like I'm sure you've got STORIES

5. Did you outline it?

7. How'd you decide it would be Hob's pov?

25-27 I'd love to know a/some favorite lines, details, and any lore you might want to share

omg TJ what wonderful questions! thank you!! this is going to get LONG!

4: Rambling about research!

do you wanna see a screen shot of my bookmarks under my "band au" folder?

man, and that's only what could fit on the screen.

there is... SO MUCH i chose to ignore for this fic. ideas that i had to drop, lines or extra details about the other band members equipment. more logistics, what Lucienne actually does, what Mervyn has to put up with as the new touring stage manager... i realized very early on that i couldn't possibly cram all this (super cool and eye opening) information into the fic and still keep reader's interest and, most importantly, to not stray away from the fact that this is a dreamling fic. whenever i felt myself getting carried away with a side character or job or even social media numbers, gossip, outside POVs, i had to reign myself in and get back on track. there will be time for exploring everything i missed in side stories after BitB is finished. i just hope i still have the energy to write it all.

once, i was so deep into research that after publishing chapter 2, i went into work and when my chef asked what "GA" meant on my prep list, i answered with full confidence, "general admission."

(it means "get ahead.")

the worst part of this entire writing process is im still learning new shit. i havent rewatched or read a lot of what i've saved because, to be very honest, i was feeling a little burnt out. it's why we're kinda full steam dreamling now. it's why ive been glossing over a lot of technical stuff and being vague about conversations amongst the crew/not including it at all. i don't prefer ignoring my research, but at the end of the day i want to still enjoy writing this fic and finish it. even if i can't be as descriptive and detailed and nuanced as i used to be.

5: Did you outline the fic?

(also asked by @hardly-an-escape!)

i wouldn't call what i have a proper "outline," it's more like a 20k word document filled to the brim with notes that i skim at least a dozen times while i'm writing a new chapter (being in my brain is literally hell). i live multichapter life very dangerously. i copy and paste lines or sections (always scattered, never together! augh!) that are meant to go together and plop them in a new document titled "band au ch.#" and then i structure the chapter around what i want to happen.

but to answer this question in the plainest of terms: yeah. i know exactly what's going to happen up until the very end. even if its all in my head and the only concrete shit that's written down are beats/plot points. i'll figure out the rest later!

7: How'd you decide it would be Hob's POV?

i actually never even considered writing it from Dream's POV. this was my first fic in the fandom (which is so nuts to think about lol) and writing in Dream's POV sounded so scary lol. i also just thought Hob's would be easier because i have worked a few backstage shows, back in my college years. i figured eh, i can make this work. and i loved exploring how weird and mysterious musicians can be, from a normie's POV. making Hob a fan first and having him worry about developing a parasocial relationship... it was fun to explore.

25: Share your favorite line

oh god, i have so many haha.

“What are you thinking about?” starting in ch.2 and onward lmao

“It’s–” Dream laughs quietly, bitterly. “I don’t like change.” He says each word with emphasis, eyes trailing down to fixate somewhere past Hob. “And I still hold onto the things I can control, like my instruments–” his eyes swing up to regard Hob apologetically. “Or my clothes or my–” he brings a hand up and wiggles his fingers around his head. “My hair.” ch.4

"His majesty is pleased." ch.5

“You are obsessive,” he states, slow and cool and with a quiet smile cracking through his composure. “Just like me.” ch.7

“You look good.” Hob has to lean in to say so, unwilling to raise his voice amongst the roar of the fans. ch.11

“Del looks like porcelain, but she’s actually made of steel.” Desire swirls the contents of their glass before pushing their shoulders back with a deep breath. “She's tougher than all of us.” ch.11

“Everything. I want…” his fingers tighten in Hob’s hair, pulling him closer, speaking against his lips. “…Everything.” ch.14

26: Share your favorite detail

how intentionally coy Dream behaves. i love keeping him a mystery and deciding when and how much to allow his intentions to peek through has been so fun lol.

Despair is in fact covered in tattoos and piercings! i say this because i feel like sometimes i forget lmao. (but also her and Hob don't interact much so. my bad haha).

Delirium's constant explosion of color in the way she dresses <3

Hob's dedication to his job, Dream, and the people he cares about the most. i don't care if people think i'm making him too soft and good, im gonna project on that man and make him a sweet, sweet simp lmao

and ah, this doesn't matter anymore, and i kinda regret doing it but. i originally had Dream's favorite bass all black but the pickguard was white. so it actually looked like Jessamy. not gonna lie when @designtheendless drew it all black i decided i liked it better that way. and truly i do. that's when i went back to ch.1 and changed it haha. to actually see the guitar with Dream, all done up sparkling black and purple flecks... gosh it's just so him. but then i got up to the reveal that the guitar's name was Jessamy and i was like, "oh, right." lmao. no one seems to care so i'll leave it be.

27: Share a piece of lore you made up for the story

i have a lot lmao. and this post is already so long... im hoping i can get to some if not all of it in side fics in the future. but for now, here's some that's more like headcanons but:

Dream hates flying. he can full on go into panic attacks on the plane if he allows himself to get into his own head.

this was mentioned briefly in ch.4, while Dream was discussing the formation of the band, but Despair was in another band before joining Endless. she is the only character in the fic who gets to keep her English roots (lol sorry) and is the oldest in the band (30).

all of the band members ages: Dream, Desire, and Death are all 28 and Delirium is 22.

Dream can experience subdrop after going too hard during a performance.

Dream paints his own nails, it's very therapeutic.

as an exercise, i explored my own headcanons for Dream in this verse in a word doc, and one thing i will share from it that you might find interesting: If I were to ever give Dream a theological values, I would describe him as a satanist. He is a physical and pragmatic person, nonconforming, and although he is introverted, he enjoys being a part of a community (he loves his band).

also found this in my notes: How Desire and Dream got along was Death making them fight it out. Hob raises an eyebrow “like in a brawl?” He couldn't imagine Desire throwing hands. “No, in a pillow fight that escalated in hair pulling and verbal taunts.”

fic writer asks

[konigsprinzessin]

donnerkeil. part five, yandere!könig x reader

hey! sorry about the hiatus. not proofread. love you all.

mentally, he cursed you for not letting him in. he didn't care. why the hell would he? he would be too focused on you anyways. admittingly, he would've scoped out your apartment to find any thing he might wanna bring with him as a little memory of you. if he were to find your bra or panties casted aside on your bedroom floor he would try his hardest to conceal them within his palm.

his eyes got wide and almost frantically told you that your messy flat was no problem. he wish you would jump in and invite him anyways. he watched you fidget on your phone, asking again from his phone number.

which he gave you and then texting you right after. a few more minutes passed with you far too excited asking when he was free and asking könig questions about his policework.

policework? that's right. he kept his answers light responding with "its confidential". earning cute little laughs from your mouth. you wrapped up the conversation a bit worried that you were wasting his time. "i don't know what the word is english but im responsible for the entire unit and go to most calls because i'm...." he paused, trying to word in in english. he shook his head and spoke very fast in his native language "uh, i'm the top? i don't know how to say this." he laughed nervously. unbeknownst to you, both of these things were lies. his english was that of a native speaker's, hell, his english was probably better than yours. and that "police work" of his wasn't exactly as innocent and naive as he put it, the call about teenagers graffitiing buildings nor the call about the cat stuck under the family car were true. simple lies that made him look like a hero. someone to trust. how doesn't someone trust a giant that helps everyone. it tugged at your heart strings when he told you about an elderly woman that fell victim to an online dating scam- that one got you annoyed in particular, feeling enraged on behalf of some older woman that didn't exist nor did he save from wire fraud. he made all of it up to gain your trust. he wanted you to believe he was the local police chief with no hard crimes such as murder or rape to deal with. you admired this. the first outsider you meet is an older, native austrian working with the police helping and saving people.

that was charm. charming to you.

"well, if you give me a few hours i would be able to meet up tonight for drinks, im sure theres a bar nearby." you laughed as you handed his black cased phone back to him. you thought the suave was radiating off you, asking him out so calmly without fidgeting or shaking. you'd be thinking about him all day.

könig didn't want to wait. he wanted to push you back in the door where you'd fall on your ass and struggle to get up to defend yourself. even if you kicked and shoved you would be no match for his taller and bulkier frame. you were short and petite, without a weapon you were a frail mouse with no defense. even if locks were on the doors, he had a bobby pin laying about. he made a mental note of the locks and if needed, how he could make his way in.

not now. and not tonight. he would have to give it a few weeks for the chemistry to brew and bake until you felt comfortable with him. he knew his physique in itself was intimidating- which he loved to use to his own advantage.

"yes, of couse! although i have to be in the office early tomorrow so i can not be out until 3 or 4 in the morning." he had training at that time. if he wasn't asleep by midnight he would be an agitated mess at the gym. he had recently acquired a handful of new recruits that he would need to train this week. all the paperwork had been filled and finished last week so now the physical workouts called. he was curious to see how many would dropout within this week- maybe he would tell you that to fit along with his policeman job like an average civilian not a colonel from what some believed to be a terrorist group.

you hummed in response. "new recruits i have to train, i am curious to see how many will leave in the following weeks." he exhaled. knowing his time was running out and he would need to leave your doorstep. last thing he needed to do was give you the creeps and make you worried. you smiled at his comment, letting out a small chuckle.

"i hope they all stay, you seem to be a good trainer." you closed your eyes, crows feet appearing around your temporarily closed eyes. "you have a lot of muscle. that's something to be proud of, i can barely move my boxes around."

"ah, thank you, (y/n), i know for some it can be hard to stay focused and work out every day. it takes viel bestimmung oder ausdauer" he laughed, apologizing for not knowing the words in english. secretly, he hoped you would know but another part of him hoped not. he was cruel and calculated, he would keep you locked away and speak only in german and watch as you become more and more confused, frustrated and scared with the language barrier. just that thought made his heart pound a little faster. he didn't want to torture you- rather scare you into obedience and submission. as long he didn't physically hurt you then there was no harm in what he intended on doing. he reminded himself that and repeated it again to keep his head on straight. "and i can help you with the boxes, i don't want you to hurt yourself."

your eyes brightened at this idea. a godsend, you thought. you dreaded those boxes stuffed in the corner of your room. it was quite the eye soar and bothered you. the boys that lived above you were nice enough to help you move all of your stuff in, besides the heavier things like the entire refrigerator or microwave which you surely weren't able to install nor the heavier boxes filled with a myriad of trinkets.

"i didn't feel like brining half of the stuff in the boxes and coming back downstairs. it would take me too long." you sighed, scratching the side of your cheek. "i also have to install the microwave and fridge and i still have to call the maintenance guys." you half laughed partly out of embarrassment, still smiling nonetheless.

könig laughed at how flustered you looked with your cheeks turning into a bright pink. it reminded him of rose flowers. "i don't mind doing all of that right now for you, (y/n). only if you have time." with this he realized that you literally just have moved in. how could you not have these things set up by now? he was going to take you before any of the locals realized that you were settled down and lived there.

"well, i certainly do." you opened the door a bit wider for him. you sat the bread basket down on a high table adorned with your housekeys, a dish filled with rocks and photo of who he assumed was your family back home. he watched you slip off your flats, grab the basket and walk into what he guessed was your kitched. he also followed suit with his shoes not trying to be rude or give you any hint that he was off. you met him no longer than two hours ago and he was alone with you in your fucking house. gently, he placed both of his shoes side by side thinking how stupid you were. imagine, if he was malicious or had a gun? you would be robbed and dead by now. yet, you were a caring little thing. too innocent for this world. too innocent for him. all he had to do was rush you and choke you until you were unconscious and figure out a way to get out. he began to seriously contemplate thing noting the door behind him and the slightly open windows letting a draft in with open blinds as he made he way behind you.

there you stood, back to him with your hands on your hips. the refrigerator was laid horizontally on the wooden floor. granted, it was a small apartment but it could fit two people. it was most definitely built for students. the microwave laid door up on the kitchen countertop. könig found solace in how normal this all was, like he was an old friend using his muscle to help you move in or a couple just moving into a new apartment. he enjoyed the ladder more than the former by a longshot.

"im thinking the fridge goes here." you motioned to an empty spot in the kitchenette next to a plus, undoubtedly where the old tenants had it. könig watched you slide around with your white ankle socks on. he was jolting every few minutes with a primal instinct to cover your mouth and threaten to kill you if you didn't comply. he would never hurt you, just empty threats to keep you from running or screaming...or both. könig's mind went blank responding with nods and hums as you talked about where the fucking microwave should go. you should go, go with him to his place on the other side of the city. he only came back into reality when you struggled to pick up the metal microwave, which was too heavy for your little bones to carry. he thought how stupid he must've looked...how creepy he must've looked as you picked the metal up with him solely staring at you.

[ovinophobia]

Ok my biologist brain needs to be satisfied:

Does your body work like a human's ? Or something else ? Like, are your bones shaped in a different way ? Do you have a heartbeat ? Do you even need to eat ? Or are you just... Void inside ? Like no organs ?

And is it the same for Alternates ?

oh my GOD I LOVE YOU FOR THIS I'VE BEEN WANTING TO EXPLAIN THIS FOR SO LONG HSHS

wayy too long explanation under the cut

answering this ooc,,,,

gabriel has smtn fairly close to the same biology/internal systems that a normal person would have, except that its more mechanical (i'm not too sure that makes sense ,,)

it's immune to (most) disease, has an infinitely slower metabolism (hence the need to not eat too much, since it takes so long to fully break down.. that + a general disliking for how it feels to eat/drink)

his bones are the same as a persons, although, a bit more ?? flexible?? if that makes any sense ??

theyre more flexible/weaker so he can change his body shape, height, facial structure, etc,,,

(sorta following what i said about his body running a bit more mechanically ↓ )

gabriel ONLY has vital organs (excluding his stomach, but tbf, it's small enough to the point where it can barely eat a sandwich)- he didn't see the others as "fit" so, as a result, got rid of any non-vital organs (spleen, appendix, reproductive organs, etc)

he does have a heartbeat, but it's much closer to artificial in order to appear more alive than he is if that makes any sense ??

gabriel wouldn't die entirely if his heart stopped beating (as i said, it's more artificial.. it's already barely beating as is) but he WOULD have to take a day or two to get his body up nd running again

he still does need to eat/drink occasionally, but doesn't most of the time if he has the choice not to (this doesn't have a specific reason other than his preference)

i feel some of this doesn't make too much sense biology wise but i do NOT know how to elaborate further for gabriel specifically ,, im going off of the fact that hes lucifer nd wtv, so rather than him needing a fully functioning body, he made/chose this one to tinker with until it looked decent enough for him (i.e.: removing the organs because he didn't believe he would need them)

ALTERNATES RAFH

they don't have blood,, or at least, don't bleed as easily as humans do; they CAN be harmed, although it takes a lot to do so (i.e.: setting an alternate on fire would probably do a little bit of damage, but not to a fatal point)

their skin has a really rubbery consistency, making it hard to pierce !!

they have blood vessels, veins, wtv, but they walls around them are a lot thicker (like a giraffe ^_^)

they don't have any bones (no i don't know how this would make sense movement or structure wise, but they just,, don't,, if they did, then it'd only be the spine, skull, scapula, sternum, maybe pelvis??) so that they can take whatever shape/form they like, allowing them to turn into people, animals, blobs (???) whenever they wish

they don't necessarily have organs? mainly to prevent problems when changing form/because gabriel imo didn't believe it to be efficient nor necessary + they're still artificial.. they're not real people, nor entirely alive

they eat, but only for the pleasure of eating ! it doesn't serve a purpose whatsoever

alternates are virtually just mass,, something to take up space- they don't have much of a sentience, either; they were made for one purpose (inflict MAD onto people) and follow that said purpose

there are gonna ofc be some cases where they gain sentience, occasionally morality, except extremely rare (simple defect that gabriel ignored/assumed wouldn't happen)

PLEASE tell me if i left anything out. i adore explaining this typa stuff thank you so much for this ask ohmy god

[musewritingsforyou]

A Normal? Day

Summary: A normal day in the life of Beacon Hills Favorite Couple

Warnings: unbearable Fluff, plot points that wont make sense just yet

Word Count: 1.6k

A/N: I realized I dont have any of my Stiles work updated yet! This is just a short little oneshot to show people what my stiles writing will kind of be like. I wrote it to be included in a season rewrite that I am doing but It didnt fit great so now im just giving it to you for fun!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*somethings that wont make sense to you will be explained if you go read my series rewrite in the next few weeks!*

A normal day in a supernatural world. 

Step one, wake up. 

Waking up is a long process for me. My lovely hyperactive boyfriend did what he always does for me each morning, wake up about thirty minutes before me, sit there as still as he can (which is not very still) to let me sleep in, give up after ten minutes and then get out of bed. Stiles woke up at six this morning, playing with my hair as I slept before he finally got out of bed. Like every morning since we started doing this, he placed his pillow and a spare flannel in my arms so I wouldn't  ‘get cold and lonely’, and then went to get himself ready for school. This was a relatively short process, throw on some pants, decide between a sweatshirt or a flannel, find the backpack and then he's pretty much done. For me on the other hand, it's a little different.

“y/n/n, I gave you five extra minutes. You gotta get up.” I groaned and moved the pillow that was in my arms to cover my face. To my disappointment Stiles took it off and started peppering me with kisses until I opened my eyes with a scowl on my face.

“I love you but I really hate you.” He gave me a classic Stiles grin as he moved backwards off of the bed. 

“I know, you make sure to tell me that every time I wake you up.” 

After walking out the door, and then back to it within seconds to make sure I was actually getting up, Stiles went downstairs to make some coffee and left me to get ready. I was running late, per usual, but by the time I made it to the car all of my things were there waiting for me, along with Stiles who held out a travel cup of coffee just the way I like it and forcibly handed me a banana.

“Eat.” I shook my head and motioned for him to drive. 

“Too early, If I eat right now I'll actually puke all over your car.” He started the car and drove with one hand as he kept the banana extended. 

“Babe, we do this every morning and every morning I remind you that-” I snatched the fruit from his hand as I finished his sentence. 

“Breakfast is important and if you don't eat it in three hours you're going to come to me during class with a panicked look on your face telling me you think you're about to pass out. I know, I remember.” 

I sound sarcastic like this every morning, but even through the snide remarks and the occasional unnecessary and undeserved insult, Stiles still looks at me like I'm the answer to the universe.

Step two, school. For this one I recommend that you don’t do what I manage to do every year, fill your schedule with all honors and AP classes, zero breaks or study halls, and more than three extra-curriculars.

I won't bore you with the rather slow details of a highschool senior. I will however give you this, classes are hard, I don't think I will ever be able to use a red pen in my entire life, and with each passing day somehow I find a way to be even more stressed than the day before. 

The day ended with me sitting on a bench with Lydia and Malia, watching our boys play lacrosse from across the field and inevitably laughing our asses off whenever either of them would look over to make a face at us and get tackled or hit with something from the field. Ah the simple pleasures, you know? As we both waited for Stiles and Scott, Lydia and I spread our various school textbooks out on the bench in front of us, in all about sixteen heavy books set open as we studied. When Coach finally blew his whistle with one ear shattering blow after another the boys ran to us, practically dripping in sweat. Stiles bound up the bleachers, skipping some of the steps and leaned down in front of me, waiting for a kiss. I didn't look up from my textbook, and neither did Lydia as she responded to the boys while hovering over her calculus homework.

“Nice try boys, but before you even think about going anywhere but a dog kennel, you need to take showers.” There were a few mumbled protests but again without looking up she shooed them with her hands. 

“Come on, off you go.” I giggled a little as they marched away in defeat, their cleats making a crunching sound when they reached the grass. 

Step three, finally to get home, only to have to go to a pack meeting. 

Like every other Friday the pack all met in Scotts living room, this time all agreeing to stay away from anything breakable. I promised Melissa I wouldn't let them destroy the house while she was out, and I keep my promises. At the moment there were no big problems. Though I still wince a little when I say it, it seems like everything in Beacon Hills is… normal. As weird as that sounds. But we still meet once a week, every week it becomes more of a group study/hangout than a real meeting, but spending time with our friends was more valuable than any solution we had come up with before. The only issue to discuss at this meeting was me. I wouldn't call it an issue exactly, but after finding out about my… species? People? Clan? I don't know what to call it, but after finding out about what I am, we still have almost no information about what that really means, for me or for them. 

“Liam, as much as I appreciate the input, I don’t think being a truth seeker literally means that I can cheat on multiple choice tests. Even if it did, morally I will tell you again, cheating is a bad thing, and also none of my classes use multiple choice.” 

They all tried their best to put Stiles and I at ease, telling us that in time we would figure it all out. But that was the thing, we didn't have time. We’re seniors just a few months from leaving this town for college, and once I leave I don't see myself flying across the country once a week just so that I can make sure I know the “truth” of Beacon Hills. The sun finally set and Stiles and I said our goodbyes, walking hand in hand out the jeep before heading to his house for the night. 

Step four, stay up until three in the morning looking for answers about what supernatural powers you have. yeah , I know, that one's a kicker. 

As soon as Stiles and I stepped foot in the door of his room we threw off our bags and changed into sweatpants. I took the flannel he gave to me this morning and placed it over my tank top as we stood in front of his clear board as if waiting for an idea to come to us by itself. The board was still blank, nothing there but a picture of me and Stiles together at the lookout in the woods. A little reminder that no matter what crazy ideas are thrown onto this board, we always have each other. We settled into our usual spots, Stiles standing and pacing in the middle of the room while I spread books and papers out over his bed, laying on my stomach and staring into the pages. 

Finally, Step five, wait for the full frustration to kick in, and then once it's there, find a cute boy to calm you down.

I was laying flat on my stomach with four books in front of me, two from school, two from Lydia on the supernatural. I was hoping that in between my AP calculus homework and my college physics textbook I could figure out something new about my identity. News flash, it wasn't working. I groaned at the words in front of me, frustrated that for some reason the letters were swimming in and out. I took the books (all four of them) and slammed them shut before throwing them aggressively onto the ground in front of Stile’s bed and then taking the papers and just tossing them onto the air without any thought of aim or purpose. Stiles stopped pacing and stood still in front of his board, which now had a few red squiggles here and there along with the photo and a horrible attempt at drawing a wolf. He turned slowly to me with a marker in his hands.

“You good?”

“Not really.” He nodded and walked over, sitting beside me on the edge of the bed and putting the marker down. While I was still lying on my stomach he placed a hand on my back and rubbed it slowly.

“baby, do you know what time it is right now?” I placed my head in my hands and responded. 

“No. Do I want to?” 

“No, but I'm going to tell you anyway. It's three in the morning.” I said nothing and just signed into my hands. Stiles ignored my angry sighs and continued. 

“Babe do you know what that means?” I shook my head. 

“Well first of all it means that you are probably exhausted, which is why you're getting so frustrated with yourself, but more importantly it means that we have two hours before that night time diner downtown closes.” I looked up fast. 

“Are you talking about the one with the pie, and the fries and the shakes.” He looked at me very seriously and nodded. Without another word I popped up on the bed and threw on a pair of crocs.

 “Stiles, no matter what I say in the mornings when you wake me up, I love you so much I think you might even be higher on my list than eating pie at three in the morning.” He gave me a broad smile and kissed me on the cheek. 

“Say no more, love.”

[beatcroc]

Okay I finally generated an ask for you!!!!

What is your favourite genre of music? Or if you don't know how to categorize the music you listen to (like me), what is your favourite song? Or band? Or album? Something like that.

ohhhhh #1 question i am categorically incapable of being normal about <3

i typically just define my favorite music as "loud" or "aggressive" or "abrasive" bc most stuff that fits those descriptors will be in my faves regardless of the genre.

a more specific answer is that there are 3 main things i've noticed that will typically make me go apeshit without fail and they are: 1. hardstyle/gabber/industrial hardcore- sorta basskick 2. sickass metal guitar shredding 3. huge dramatic grandiose orchestral

if something has 1 of these i will probably like it, if it has 2 it will be a top fave, and all 3.... well i have yet to find it yet but im sure i will Ascend. here are examples of said top fave combos.

laur covers hardstyle+orchestral and i Cannot Get Enough of his shit man it goes so fucking crazy hard

metal+orchestral is unquestionably ruled by nightwish, but theyre not on bandcamp and i dont feel like finding other links so this one goes to the still-very-fucking-awesome runner-up, POWERWOLF

riikira and rabbitjunk hit metal+hardstyle, though it's less strictly hardstyle and more just general hardcore* electronica. if its got crazy amens its enough who cares. i put the ones that use actual kicks for the sake of illustrating the point here but these tracks are both pretty far from my faves from each lmao *hardcore referring to hardcore [edm] in this case, even though the genre these belong to is called "digital hardcore", which instead refers to hardcore [punk]. it's a mess out here. did you know theres two completely different things called doomcore where one is derived from metal and the other is derived from hardcore. and you never know which itsd going to be when you click on something in the doomcore tag. im dying squirtle

anyway on the other side of the hardstyle+metal combo is kobaryo [with his alias blaxervant], who's much more about the hardcore side of things and just has the metal as flair, but it is still: the best shit ever

laur also on occasion hits this side of hardstyle+metal becaue he just likes using whatever the fuck instruments

there are of course many other things i love a lot, primary examples being ambient/atmospheric, folk, and anything with a lot of Texture. im not gonna get into all that but i do have an extended list of faves/recs from the last time i was asked about this and went insane abt it. it took forever to make and my actual recs are not entirely the same as my Faves so im putting it on here too.

i keep these curated to the top of my bandcamp profile so they're the first things that display there. it's a bit old by now and some have since been shuffled out, but it's still like 80% accurate.

as for the actual recs: the angel's message is there because it's my fave brand of intense and chaotic stuff and want it to kill you full force. it already has some tracks up there so im not re-linking it

this one i recommend just because i think it's really interesting and out there and i'm curious what other people think of this sort of stuff. it's also the prime example of what i mean when i talk about Textures in music.

wolfgun is an actual rec for being genuinely just really good music. probably the most objectively cool/platonically enjoyable thing in my library

[spacecadet-ticklesinspace]

Triple Threat

Summary: Harry tried to hide a cold and it did not end well---well, sort of.

(More tickle stories will be posted soon after I finish a few things at work, but enjoy some Harry whump with over protective dad Norman until then ❤️ :))

It took Harry a moment to understand what the voice was saying to him.

"M-mr. Osborn? A-are you okay?"

Harry tried to answer, but the dizziness made his stomach roll.

A hand touched his shoulder then immediately pulled away. "Mr. Osborn! Y-you're burning up!"

Harry tried another attempt at answering, but he couldn't get a word out around his coughing fit.

"I-Im going to get someone." Footsteps started taking off away from him. "D-dont move!"

With the intern gone, Harry leaned against the wall. Evrything ached and he felt as if he was dying. Yet he tried pushing upwards to get himself standing before the dizziness made it difficult.

He thought he heard voices coming back, but everything sounded muffled.

As the younger Osborn pitched forward, hands came out to steady him. "Harry!"

"D-dad---," Harry squeaked through his sore throat.

"What's wrong? Are you sick? Did you fall?"

"I-I found him like this s-sir."

"I believe you Miss." Norman's other hand pressed against his son's forehead. "Thank you for all of your help. I'll take over from here."

With that, Norman led Harry downstairs.

"Talk to me Harry. What's going on?"

"M'fine."

"You're burning up, you can't stand without tipping over, your face is extremely pale and flushed, and your voice sounds horse when you talk. Clearly something's wrong."

"I--I'm sorry---," the younger Osborn broke into another coughing fit.

"We all get sick son. I'm just worried about you is all."

"St-still."

Norman helped Harry into his car. "Let's get you home."

"Okay."

After ensuring Harry was buckled in, Norman closed the car door and jumped into the driver's seat. "Still need those symptoms."

"Dizzy. . . Pain. Throat . . . Ears. Chest tight. . . H-hot."

Harry had to give his dad credit. He tried to look calm throughout the ride. But even in his fever ridden mind, the younger Osborn could see the white knuckle grip his dad had on the steering wheel and the worried glances he gave as they sped way above the speed limit on the way home.

The entire way, Harry fought to stay awake. He wanted to assure his dad he was okay so he would actually relax. However, his fever pulled him into sleep despite the pain and chills he was experiencing.

Meanwhile, Norman Osborn was an internal wreck!

Harry had seemed off the past few days, but he had been helping Otto with an upcoming project down in the lab while Peter was out sick. He had assumed it was just allergies mixed with exhaustion and even Harry had agreed.

Yet, here his son was, dying in his front seat!

Well---dying might be a strong word, but it sure felt that way to Norman's overprotective brain. So as soon as they were parked at home, Norman pressed two fingers just under Harry's jaw to check for a pulse.

"Still there." The older Osborn then moved his fingers down the sides of his son's throat. "Throat feels swollen though."

It took a bit of doing, but finally Norman got Harry upstairs and into a change of clothes. However, the sight of a rash creeping up his son's neck that he hadn't noticed around the collar of his dress shirt sent him into another panic.

That's when his phone rang. "Hello."

The phone kept ringing. Norman hadn't even picked it up yet.

He answered it this time. "Hello."

"Mr. Osborn?"

"Peter. Is everything okay? I can't talk much right now."

"Is everything okay on your end? We saw you leave with Harry."

"He's sick and I can't figure out with what."

"Hold on." There was a shuffle and Peter's voice came back a second later. "Okay, I have you on speaker."

A new voice entered. "Norman?"

The older Osborn huffed. "I don't really have time for a social call."

"I know." There was the sound of Otto shuffling some things around. "Do you want me to come over and take a look at him?"

"Why?"

"Didn't you know Mr. Osborn?" Peter piped up. "Otto has his medical degree."

Norman's eye brows shot up. "What?"

"Yeah!"

". . . When?"

"I had to do something in college." Otto sounded as if he were walking back and forth. "I was bored."

That comment pulled a smile from Norman. "Show off."

"Paid off in the long run. Someone has to keep these three alive."

"Hey!" Peter exclaimed.

Otto chuckled. "Lovingly, you three often have problems with self-preservation."

It sounded like Peter let out a huff, but it wasn't out of anger or annoyance.

"I can come over as soon as you need me Norman."

The older Osborn nodded. "Now would be great."

"On our way."

The call ended immediately, but Norman knew it was just so they could get here. While he waited, the older Osborn shifted Harry around to make him more comfortable.

In less than ten minutes, Otto had arrived with Peter.

Norman gently shook Harry awake. "That was fast."

"Would have been here sooner, but someone had to obey the speed limit," Otto teased.

Peter smiled as he rolled his eyes. "Getting pulled over by the police would have taken even longer."

"Fahair Ihi guess." Otto set a bag on the bed. "Hello Harry."

Harry lifted his hand in a small wave.

"Alright, one of you two start giving me symptoms to work with."

"Dizziness, fever, cough, swollen and sore throat, complaints of ear pain and chest tightness, and the formation of a rash on his neck and chest," Norman listed before Harry could even think of speaking.

Otto's eyebrows knitted together as his eyes clouded with worry. "That's an . . . interesting list of symptoms."

"Why? What does it mean?"

"Not sure just yet." Otto fished a set of latex gloves out of his bag. "But we'll figure it out."

After putting on his gloves, Otto started by examining the rash on Harry's chest and neck. "Does it hurt at all son?"

Harry gave a shrug.

Meanwhile, Peter also put on a pair of matching gloves. He looked like he'd done this countless times before.

"Hmm," Otto hummed as he gently felt along the sides of Harry's throat. "Definitely swollen. . . Light please."

Peter fished a small pen flashlight out of the older scientist's bag.

"Thank you," Otto replied as he took the flashlight then gently placed his fingertips on the side of Harry's face. "Open for me please."

The younger Osborn opened his mouth and let Otto shine the light inside.

"Very interesting."

Peter started and leaned over Otto's shoulder. "Are those his tonsils?"

Norman tensed.

"Mh-hm." The older scientist also adjusted so he could see the roof of Harry's mouth before pulling away. "You said chest tightness and a cough too?"

Norman nodded.

"Stethoscope."

Peter handed Otto the device.

"Thank you." Otto placed the stethoscope in his ears. "Harry, take a deep breath for me."

As the younger Osborn complied, Otto took a listen to his lungs.

"Good. Now, give me a cough."

It took a moment, but finally Harry broke into a coughing fit.

The older scientist was still for almost a minute as he listened, then he raised one eyebrow.

"What?" Norman moved a step closer. "What's wrong?"

Otto held up his hand as he took out the stethoscope. "Harry, have you coughed up anything?"

The younger Osborn nodded as he coughed.

"Did it have a color to it?"

Another nod and a grimace.

"Thought so." Otto switched out his stethoscope for an otoscope. "Turn your head for me please."

Once Harry had, Otto used the otoscope to peer into the younger Osborn's ear. He then had Harry turn the other way to repeat the process on the other ear.

Norman noticed Harry flinch a bit. "Otto."

The older scientist handed the otoscope to Peter before grabbing a thermometer and placing it under Harry's tongue.

Norman couldn't wait any longer. "Otto, please. What's wrong with him?"

"I can promise you it's not some sort of rare, strange disease if that's what you're thinking." Otto took the thermometer when it beeped so he could read it. "101. Not bad, but not the best."

"Why's that?" Peter asked.

"High fever means a worse infection. Not good for strep throat, a double ear infection and what sounds like acute bronchitis."

Peter's eyes widened. "Wow."

"How?" Norman added.

"Welcome to the complexity of the human body." Otto removed his gloves. "My guess is the 'allergies' he's had the last few days has actually been a cold."

Harry looked away from the older scientist.

In response, Otto smoothed down his hair. "All that matters right now, is getting you better.

"How did he get so bad so fast?" Peter asked.

"When your immune system is weakened other sicknesses can creep in. That's why they want you to rest and keep things sterile in doctor's offices. This way other things can't make you worse."

"Makes sense."

Otto turned to Norman. "Amoxicillin should treat the strep throat and ear infections while a medication like cough syrup should help treat the bronchitis."

"How long will he be in recovery?"

"A week at most before he's able to return to work. Probably a little more for the ear infections."

Norman turned to his son. "I'm not letting you out of my sight the entire time."

Harry gave a weak thumbs up. When Norman Osborn got into overprotective mode, there was nothing Harry could do or say to get him out of it. He would just have to go along with it until his Dad was covinced he was in fact fully better.

And the coughing fit he broke in to did not help his case.

Peter patted Harry's leg when he was done. "Good luhuck."

The younger Osborn stuck out his tongue at Peter.

"Alright yohou twoho." Otto repacked his bag and handed Norman some things. "Amoxicillin, cough syrup, and cough drops. Keep fluids in him and keep his head and shoulders propped up to help ease any coughing fits."

The older Osborn took the packages. "Thank you Otto."

One of Otto's actuators ruffled Harry's hair. "Anything for our son."

Harry blushed at the affection.

After Otto relayed all the instructions Norman needed, he and Peter headed back to Obscorp to finish up with some work.

Once they were gone, Norman turned back to Harry. "You are confined to this bed until further notice, and you are going to rest."

The younger Osborn slumped.

"Don't worry." Norman sat down on the other side of Harry. "We'll make the most of it."

Harry tried to push his Dad back. "Contagious."

"I'm willing to risk it." Norman settled back into his spot. "If it means getting to take care of you."

Harry blushed even more at the affection, but he couldn't hide the smile on his face.

[rel124c41]

I suck horribly at actually talking to people but I NEED to make it known how much I've loved and enjoyed your jade fics!!! Every single one has been a total banger., i've been fed so well.

I absolutely loved the readers lack of autonomy in your japanese folklore fic (im typing off memory so my spelling of everything will be off) they didn't have a choice in anything. fish wife <3 I'll admit I was a little confused with the Garappo, i truly thought it was some weird suicide until Jade later mentioned it. And why Floyd mentioned his brother dying to one, (I honestly thought it was supposed to be jade creature)

AGHHHH fish wife??? really?? fish wife??? the ending was so delicious, i could almost visualize it. so lovely. the fear, lack of autonomy, the loss of all they've known, never knowing what's real and what's a fantasy. I'm not sure what you envisioned for their future, but I can imagine that lack of autonomy will be more of a pressing issue than it was. God, the view of that though!!! Someone you only remember when you're too hazy to be in the real world, someone that's been with you throughout your life, someone that's wanted you since you could remember. isn't that so romantic? Finally together where the sun can't part you, under the water.

i dont know how to really explain what im feeling, or what i think, but i feel like it's such a poignant visual to be killed by this Jade in that way. It feels like watching a puzzle you've been working on be completed, or reaching a new plot point in a game you like, it's this feeling of intrigue, anticipation, idk. I always get that feeling reading your fics and also HOLY FUCK THEYRE SO LONG!!!!!!

and dont think i've forgotten your other fics LOL im ready to talk about those too holy fuck. I don't have that much to say unfortunately, I really enjoyed them just as much but I'm far more speechless. The Jade fic based off of Mera's god! Floyd was... really nice. The altar scene felt like Jade was punishing them for something. That's just how the bee crumbles, though. "sadist" might not rhyme with "jade" but it's basically the same word anyway... I loved watching Jade's opinion of Reader change over the time skips, he goes from mild annoyance/hate or, idk, repulsion (?) to interest, to love (menace style).

The reader fulfilling nothing in the end was certainly something. I loved it.

I've never really had a family, so I can't understand reader's motivations in your "crowley finds a way to send Yuu home" fic, but it made me wish I had one. I enjoyed the ending, the usage of the ghost camera. Poor Jade, really. I don't have much to say, because I'm not personally a fan of angst.

I feel like I can safely say you're my favorite writer, even above Mera. (who i now know you're also a fan of!!! which is neat!!!!!)

i know i probably could've DMed you but I feel like an ask is more appropriate >:) i hope you enjoy the long ask, as an artist myself this is kinda like tags on my art, and i really feel like you deserve that happiness. not good at talking, my bad!!!!

oh the way this made my day, i’m on break for my 6-2 shift and just AAAAAAAAAA thank you thank you thank you for this ask (*≧∀≦*) i’m geeking over here man,, i’m so flattered

okay to answer the first thing about why Floyd mentions his brother got killed by one!! the entire point of him going there is to check if his future sibling in law opinion on yokai, his brother’s lovesick so Floyds on the case

he had to make the reader let him stay!! the idea of the garappa outside is more terrifying to the reader than letting in a stranger & he mentions his brother dying to one (falsely!!! he’s lying ofc!!!)

bc the reader’s like oh that sounds familiar for him to have a brother, that fits into place — doubled with the bath salts, it’s an ease slip inside the shrine

“the fear, lack of autonomy, the loss of all they've known, never knowing what's real and what's a fantasy.” dude why did you write Sundo better than me??? why did you write the whole thesis of Sundo in a more poetic and all around better way that i ever could holy shit

also if i was the reader i’d give into to be an umi bozu so easily,, like the eldritch beauty of becoming something truly incomprehensible, some Berserk-esque creature

like look at this!!!!! it would be so cool to be this!!!!! GIANT FISH WIFE!!!!

AAAAA to be a huge monster loved and adored by your husband who stole/shares your immortal soul and infects your memory like a leech 💕💕

“It feels like watching a puzzle you've been working on be completed, or reaching a new plot point in a game you like,” AAAAA THANK YOU!!! (￣个￣) this particular part has me geeking,, i’m a big video game fan so to mimic that feeling of completeness, integrality!!!

and yeah i’m always worried about length bc i’m too fluent in yappanese when it comes to writing

the altar scene in Psilocybin was definitely a mixture of punishment and accepting them into his world — he’s always going to be salty that he does not know what fear tastes, smells, looks like upon the reader! (〃´∀｀)

i’m a HUGE momma’s girl so that’s where the theme of Schism came from haha and i love Tool’s music — thank you for saying u like the ghost camera usage, i was worried the audience might not get this BUT reader does not end up leaving; that end scene is specifically with the fragment of her soul from the photograph on Jade’s desk

ALSO MORE THAN MERA???? AAAAA THATS CRAZY PRAISE 💕💕💕 (O∆O)

UM THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THIS ASK <<<3 im tattooing it in my head forever!!!! also ure my first mutual and it’s such an honor bc you’re so incredibly talented and AAAA i’m still geeking 💕

[writingwenches]

for Lyn: canvas, day, & formal?

Thank you for this lovely question about my main star~ I had to physically stop myself from writing you a novel answer >.>

canvas: Does your OC have any scars, piercings, tattoos, or other markings? Do they display or cover them up at all?

Above is the model, Mariana Mendes, who has a similar Facial Difference to my character Lyn. I imagine Lyn having a larger mark on her face, along with various similar markings all over her body. The psychology of Facial Differences is fascinating, and as many things involving humans, can be very sad. The benefit of living in a ye'olden times, is Lyn rarely interacted with new people, even in the markets near The Twins, it wouldn't ever be a hustling-bustling city center. BUT there are enough people that exist in the area for it to be......annoying. Just the same interaction with different people, people offering advice, or speculating on how she got the "scar." Growing up in a Motherhouse, she was raised by Women and the occasional Maester, so she was probably not introduced to outsiders thinking its "ugly/scary" until she was old enough to roll her eyes at that sentiment. She's not a petite girl, so it gave her a very ready-to-throw-down type personality when she was elementary aged younger girl with other mean girlys around, in a practical way. I'm sure there were elder bullies in her Motherhouse community, I haven't explored any of them, but I'm open to it! We need more female bullies in the world just cause. maybe she had some harsh harsh bullies and then one week they all died from the flu oopies Basically, I could speak on this topic forever, as it's a major theme of the entire story, so I'm not going to let myself ramble. She doesn't try to hide it, it's on her face, not really the easiest thing to do. I have JUST started noodling with the idea that the girls in this Motherhouse would be hoping to get adopted into a family one day, I've written a lot on how she feels about her markings, but introducing the idea that her markers would have prevented her from "finding a family" and getting adopted, she would probably change her thinking about it to make it even more interesting~ I could literally talk about this all day, if anyone else has experiences with facial differences or similar I'd love to hear any thoughts~

day: What does your OC wear on a normal day? Why do they default to those clothes? Do they wear similar things, or do they change it up?

Peasant life — When in the Motherhouse, I'm sure they had maybe two pairs of underdress, which is what would have served as their undergarments, and what they slept in. One set of working clothes, and maybe one set of morning clothes? I had written that they weren't the place the mourning, so maybe it's one set of fancier worship clothes, but it would be all communal clothing so it wouldn't be like tailored to fit her? Hmmm. More thoughts needed on that. Very basic, hearty fabrics. She did not have anything really extra for winter? They probably wore blankets as coats? Winters were extremely harsh and taxing on Lyn and is why she is generally afraid of being completely destitute. High Born life — THIS is going to be the fun parts~ Getting to decide what she normally wears~ Reds are the Lannisters colors, so it would be plenty of reds and golds. Her hair would be styled and and decorated every day, perhaps multiple times a day, it would be a whirlwind. Very Hunger Games parade outfit scenes every day. She will be a life size doll for other people to dress up.

formal: What's your OC's formal look? Do they like dressing up? Do they have different looks for different occasions?

Peasant life — Not. Applicable. Maybe worship clothes, but I doubt it. High Born life — Im going to need research and ideas and help for this LOL, I need to have some beautiful and amazing gowns she gets to wear and actually enjoys, I do want her to find a style that she likes and feels comfortable with, but I think that might need to happen as the story goes on and I just write write write everything so i can't find some ~symbolism~ in fashion I'm JUST getting to the part where Lyn is living with other High Born Ladies, so she is still in wirlwind mode and can't think straight. So, hopefully this will eventually evolve!

[feathers-feathers]

Bug Fables' deep lore is engaging in open warfare with my mental helath i swear to GOD I CAnt figure this tHE FUCK OUT IM GOING INSANE

Context: I'm trying to make a timeline. Bug fables took this personally.

The big question here that got me to break is what the fuck is the deal with Flower Gods? So I was writing an essay of sorts to try and figure it out as I go, then clean it up and post it when I came to a few satisfying conclusions, and maybe make a poll to see what others would prefer.

I have now lost at least a decade of my lifespan, and will be seeking reparations in the court of law. I'll post what I wrote below the cut, just be aware that it's not finished, will not be finished if I have a gun to my head, and jumps places every now and then because that's just how I roll in the drafting stage.

I hope to all the gods above that some of you can find sense where I have failed.

Beware: Here be dragons. (Also, it's quite long.)

BEGIN

Currently doing timeline shenanigans with Bug Fables. I learned something in the lore that will have a major impact in how that timeline manifests. The problem is that this lore detail isn't exactly straight-forward, and has multiple interpretations. I'd like to see some other thoughts on this matter before I make a decision. The lore in question is regarding the creation of the Flower Gods.

A reminder: There is a secret room in Snakemouth Den that displays information regarding the 3 Flower Gods. Prior to seeing this room, most I think didn't even know there were 3 - only knowing of Venus at the time. The other two are Mars and Pluto. These displays tell us a few things. Some information on the gods themselves: Venus is

Guardian: M-001 "Mars" Age: 361 Status: Stable

Guardian: V-012 "Venus" Age: 358 Status: Stable

Guardian: P-183 "Pluto" Age: 34 Status: Stable

This secret asks a whole bunch of questions and answers exactly none of them.

The first thought I see many people go to is that this, of course, confirms that the Roaches created them. However, there is dialogue from Venus herself stating "Ah, it still feels like it was yesterday when they were scurrying around the land trying to get stuff together!" Which doesn't say much, but sort of implies that she was around while the Roaches were still figuring things out.

But what about those designations, what do they mean? For something like this - and considering they all start with the first letter of the Guardian's name - I think it's, like, a version number.

If they were all created by the Roaches, then… wtf? So with Mars, they got it right on their very first try - congratulations, a fucking GOD is born - but their next Guardian took 12 attempts? What? And then Pluto took 183 attempts. And the time discrepancy is just…. weird. Wtf does this mean? The Roaches started off as the best scientists ever, getting everything correct on their first go, then suddenly dropping the ball off the face of the Earth and getting nothing right? For centuries? And after all of that, they consider the Sapling to be their greatest creation. Not any of the Actual Deities they supposedly made. And then they place two of these gods in… just… entirely different territories. Mars is in the Eastern lands. Lord knows where Pluto is, but not Bugaria, that's for sure. I do find this rather unpalatable.

If they weren't created by the Roaches - they were just studying them, trying to replicate their power - I think that fits some of this better. Especially that above quote by Venus. If she was around before the Roaches developed what they have now - the Roaches being the first bugs to awaken - then did she awaken before even them? If she - and, perhaps, Mars - were the first to awaken, then was the Day of Awakening only around 370 years ago? That would probably be the best case scenario for developing a timeline. It'd be the only True Date that can be nailed down, and make it a lot easier to place other dates around it by comparison.

But still… what's the deal with the version numbers? Perhaps the Guardians do not have true immortality, but ressurrective immortality? That would sort imply that Pluto might in fact be the first, and he's on his 183'd life. It would also mean that Mars would actually be the youngest of the gods. Despite being the oldest current version, he is still only on his First version - no deaths, no resurrections. This would also mean that Pluto died around the time the Roaches vanished. But also - if Pluto died 182 times prior to his current iteration… what the fuck kind of life is this guy living? Is he stuck in a death loop, wtf?

This is honestly just another discrepancy, to me. Lets be as conservative as possible and say that most of Pluto's lives were all around 30 years in length. This is so conservative as to be ridiculous, but let's just ignore that. 183 x 30 = 5490. That's Fucking Old - and I'm gonna say, just as ridiculous. Why, then, would the other two gods only have a few years of an age gap? This feels like a strong point towards the idea that the Roaches created them??? that the designations are version numbers before deployment and not ressurrective iterations???

Oh My God. What the fuck am I supposed to believe?

BREAK

This is where I officially gave up. I hate all of these ideas none of them are satisfactory. Bug Fables why do you hate me so muchae dsafsafgfghrdsgrdfeignbreoiatghnbfrabgifrhdfhdfghdfsghdfizghsregtbdfsgfcuigh

[vampzxi]

untitled riri x black!afab!reader sneak peeks

it’s finished! read here: finish.

author's note: this is a WIP of a beach fic i started to write and im prob gonna post it soon. it's gonna be half fluff half smut i think, i'm not 100% sure yet. but yeah :3. i included 2 parts of it because i just think the second part is really cute. lmk if you wanna be tagged!! ^_^ @letitias-fav

part 1

“are we there yet?” you groaned, watching the irritation grow on riri’s face.

“i swear to god, ask me one more time and i’m crashing this bitch,” riri tapped the gps, checking the arrival time, “we only have 10 minutes left. you that damn excited to see me in a swimsuit?’

face turning hot, you look out the window and bite back a giggle. the answer was actually yes. riri never wears form fitting clothing, hell it’s been a while since you’ve seen her in anything but a hoodie and sweats. save for the occasional moment when y’all were-

“are you for real thinking about my ass right now?” riri asked, snapping you out of your thoughts.

you jumped, whipping your head back around to look at her, “what? no! you trippin, ri.”

“i could see your goofy ass smile in the window reflection. fucking freak,” she rolled her eyes in mock annoyance, “we’re close, i’m sure you’ll live.”

you leaned back in your seat and spent the rest of the ride listening to your playlist and continuing to annoy riri.

part 2

as soon as y’all got to the hotel, you immediately flopped onto the bed and kicked your sandals off. “finally,” you sighed, “i’m exhausted.”

riri came through the front door with both luggages. “ion understand how you so exhausted when all you did was sit and bitch the entire time.” she threw a pillow at you and it bounced harmlessly to the floor.

“hey!” you shot up, “i was also the DJ and snack-man.” 

“oh, my bad ma,” she climbed into the bed next to you and kissed you, “how could i forget?”

you gigged and reached for her hand, enveloping it with yours. you bought the back of her hand to your mouth, planting a kiss on it. “i can’t wait to spend this weekend with you, baby.”

riri snuggled under you, placing her head beneath your chin, “i am too. if you quit getting on my nerves i might just be able to have fun.”

you playfully swatted her arm as she dozed off to sleep, her breaths tickling your neck. you ran your fingers through her braids, playing with the ends until you fell asleep too; your chest rising and falling with ri’s.

[exmeowstic]

hii bastion !! can i pls ask to learn more abt ur ship with graha ? :o is ur insert the wol, or some other role in ffxiv, what were ur first impressions of each other and how/when did they shift into smth more? (u dont have to answer all of these, im just shooting questions out !) id love to learn more!! (@dmclr)

HIHII I HOPE YOUVE BEEN WELL <33 ive been dead from work but i finally managed to type out words from my brain. readmore bc its more than i expected and im embawassed a bit 👉👈 (also obligatory warning for spoilers thru endwalker)

SO. MY WOL AND GRAHA. truthfully,, there is still a lot of thinking to be done in terms of my s/i bastion and how things play out for him/how he fits into the story/how he acts and thinks and feels about things! esp as i approach the end of endwalker, it seems like dawntrail mighttt give me a bit more breathing room to actually think abt stuff

i do have him as the wol, i just feel like theres a lot i kinda missed out on/would like to review bc i Tunnel Vision Focused on msq to the exclusion of almost all else lol (and it doesnt help that my progression thru msq had been Very on and off until now bc i would put the game down for months due to social anxiety. frankly anytjing before like. mid stormblood is a biiiit of a blur)

though its extremely funny because i think during the crystal tower questline first meeting graha he did not make. a Particularly Big Impression on me. i was just like "oh cool another friend!" and then moved on once that was wrapped up and he kind of stayed in that default area of "nice new friend" that 99% of people fall into for bastion for a while..

AND THEN SHADOWBRINGERS HAPPENED. (admittedly i did go in pre-spoiled on the exarchs identity long before i even properly got into the game period, but just Knowing the thing and playing through it all myself are two Completely Different Feelings imo and everything about the reveal and the expansion just wrecked me it was so goodddd!!!) this is where i became crazy in the head about graha and started truly thinking abt him and bastions relationship specifically...

mm like i said i am still very much thinking about/putting pieces in place regarding bastions feelings and relationships with various characters and things, but as of endwalker things are in a weird spot with him and graha :3 specifially in the way of like... bastion is having a hard enough time just trying to come to terms with the fact that he has any sort of feelings for graha (or anyone, really) in the first place.

with the amount of things that happen to/around/because of him, he kind of blames anything happening to anyone around him on the fact That he is around, and is. overly worried with the idea that the people he cares about may get hurt because they get caught up in the mess that is His Entire Life. as much as he wants to spend more time with graha and just go on adventures with him and Not Worry, it all sits very heavily in the back of his mind.

that being said, while theyre definitely still dancing around the finer points of their feelings through endwalker, bastion and graha are undeniably close. there is no way bastion could see that an old friend waited and hoped and worked for an entire century for the sake of him and his future and Not try to match that dedication. bastion wouldnt say hes in love if you asked him, but he would say hes determined to do everything in his power to fulfill his promise to graha, to stay by his side through adventure after adventure and see the world as soon as theyre able.

on grahas side it probably seems like hes had. a Lot more time to think about things, but in truth i think hes still very much putting together the pieces. between all but abandoning who he was for a hundred years to take on the role of exarch, and then getting his soul and everything merged into his old body in the source and having to process all that, especially when he was so sure he was gonna sacrifice himself during shb and wasnt really planning on surviving up until now its. it makes me ill to think abt everything hes been through. so for sure he is also still working through his feelings. even if theyre both in a weird uncertain position about it as of right now, they both know for certain that they would like to stay by each others side.. we will have to see where dawntrail takes them ^_^

tldr lotta stuff is happening right now for the both of them so my wol and graha are not 100% a thing yet. though i can certainly think about them kising catboy yaoi style <3

bonus Image Of Them if you read this far i thank you for your time <333