#proofread (kind of)

[therainywriter]

Missed You 18+ (Smut/Fluff)

Pairing: Mike Schmidt x F!Reader

Abby had you on the floor, coloring with her as she simultaneously watched an old cartoon. She kicked her feet back and forth, eyes slowly growing heavy as she fought back sleep.

You suppressed a smile, knowing she was waiting for Mike to come home, she always did. It was an endearing thing and showed just how much she loved him. Even if he sometimes thought otherwise.

You were growing drowsy yourself and stood with a yawn, “Let’s put you to bed kiddo,” you mumbled to her sweetly, having adopted the nickname from Mike.

She seemed to ponder over your words for a moment before she reluctantly gathering her things. You put her papers and crayons away as she snuggled into bed.

You tucked her in and turned off the lights, pausing when her voice called out to you, “Will you leave the door cracked.. please?”

You nodded, “Of course, sweet dreams Abby,” you said softly, heart melting when she whispered goodnight.

You did as she asked and left the door cracked before you made your way back into the living room. You cleaned up what little mess the two of you had made and curled up on the couch.

The house was quiet aside of mumbling voices on the TV, you were warm and cozy, cuddled so snugly in the corner that you hadn’t even realized you’d fallen asleep.

You awoke just as Mike was closing the front door. He gave you a tired smile as he took off his boots and joined you on the couch.

He pulled you onto him, letting you stay tucked within your fluffy blankets. You hummed, laying your head on his chest, pressing a kiss there as he sighed.

“Rough night?” you asked with a gentle frown, looking up at his pretty brown eyes.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, voice weary. He pressed a kiss against your forehead, working his way down until he met your lips.

“Missed you,” he whispered, pulling you closer as his mouth moved slowly against yours.

You gripped onto his shirt, moaning softly in response. You missed him too, terribly so.

He’d been gone more often than not recently, you’d even debated driving down to that old pizzeria just to see him.

He grabbed your legs and positioned them around his waist before grabbing your hips to rock you against him.

His head fell back, lips parting from yours as he moved you how he pleased. You hid at his neck, one hand grasping arm as the other griped his shoulder.

You whined when he thrust his hips up against you, jeans hard against your soft pajamas. The friction had you squirming, a familiar throb forming between your legs.

“Wanna fuck you,” he groaned, reaching down to slide his hand in your cotton shorts. He swiped his middle finger along your wet folds, rubbing at your pussy a little before slipping his finger into his mouth.

“M’ gonna fuck you,” he said, voice strained in a hush, “right now.”

You whimpered at the promise, letting him lift you up and carry you to his bed. He carefully kicked the door shut behind him, the action silent and swift before he laid you onto his bed.

He stripped you of your shorts and panties, leaving you in only his large, plain shirt. You bit back a moan when his hand went back to your cunt, middle finger pushing into your slick heat.

Mike cursed to himself, dick straining in his pants as he fucked you with his finger, soon adding another, rubbing and pushing into you.

Your body was hot and aching, walls clenching around his digits. You were close, oh so close when he stopped entirely.

“Please,” you nearly cried, pleas silencing when his cock replaced his fingers. The stretch of it both painful and pleasurable.

He hadn’t even bothered taking his jeans off, wanting too badly to feel your warm, wet pussy around him.

He moaned into your shoulder, “So, so good baby.”

His thrusts were slow but rough, each pushing you further into the mattress as he intertwined his hands with yours.

It didn’t take long for him to speed up, fucking you just as he’d said he would. You were a flustered mess, holding back moans after each meaningful drive into your cunt.

You squeezed around him, eyes shutting as your hands tightened their grip on his. Your hips moved up into his, needy and wanting.

He leaned down, lips pressing against your ear as soft huffs escaped his mouth, “That’s it princess, want you to cream on my cock.”

His words sent you over the edge, pussy milking him as you came undone. He ground down onto your clit, thrusting into you until he pulled out and shot hot ropes of cum on your stomach.

He let his body engulf you as he rest on top of your smaller form, the weight was comforting.

“Wish I would’ve done that weeks ago,” he mumbled, kissing the soft flesh of your neck.

You yawned, fingers playing with his as a smile crept onto your lips, “Me too..”

[undreaming-fanfiction]

Eddie hated this and he'd just started.

See, he was so proud when he made it, when he got his first office job. He saw what decades of physical labor did to Wayne's back, his hands, and he wanted to make his uncle proud. So he kept applying and applying and getting ignored and rejected and finally, finally he got a job in a pretty large corporate. Not exactly something prestigious, but hey, it had potential. The experience counted and all that.

He thought maybe workplaces would be different, that the good ol' high school dynamic would fuck off, but no. He was sitting at his desk, trying to fill in paperwork after a taxing phone call, but all he could focus on was whispering from the neighboring cubicle that was ostentatiously loud. He didn't know who sat there yet, the guy had been on vacation for the two weeks Eddie was in the company. From the stuff he was hearing, he was getting introduced anyway and not exactly the way he'd have liked to be.

"Can you believe they actually let him work here?" It was Carol, of course it was, the office gossip and mean girl knockoff. "I mean, he doesn't even look decent! Did you see that hair?" Okay, that hurt. He actually pulled his hair into a neat bun every morning, but you can't please some people. "And he has tattoos, what would our customers think if they actually met him, plus you should have heard the rumors about his past-!"

But just as he was about to slam down the pile of paperwork and either take an extended smoke break or gently ask Carol to go fuck a polar bear, he heard another voice. Bored and wonderfully bitchy.

"That's absolutely fascinating, Carol. Please tell me more, what could this guy possibly have done? It must be something juicy. Did he perhaps fuck his boss during the Christmas party and then lie about it to his boyfriend of five years? Oh wait no. That was you. Silly me."

Eddie had to bite his pencil to stay quiet, but his whole chest hurt by trying to keep the snickering in. And then the offended gasp. "I- you promised you wouldn't-!"

"I didn't promise shit, Carol. You just came to me, cried your eyes out - bad move by the way, invest in some waterproof mascara for god's sake, mascara in wrinkles doesn't good on anyone, and yes, you do have wrinkles - and tried to play the victim. Except I heard your small proposition to the guy before so it didn't really work out. But it's fine, you know," and oooh, the tone was smug, so bored, Eddie loved this guy already, "Tommy saw you as well and had a good time with Nicole to get even. So there's nothing to worry about. Now tell me, what did this horrible Eddie Munson do to summon wrath of such a righteous woman such as yourself?"

Eddie heard a sharp sound as Carol got up from the desk. "Fuck you, Steve Harrington," she spat out and sped past Eddie's seat. He just gave her a small salute.

When the sound of high heels faded, Eddie leaned over the cubicle wall and knocked to draw the guy's attention. And yeah, maybe he was a little bit biased because he'd just obliterated a textbook definition of a shrew, but this Steve was fucking gorgeous, light brown eyes looking at him, a smug smirk tugging at his lips.

"Oh hi," said Steve and offered his hand, shaking Eddie's. "Sorry for that. I'm Steve Harrington and whatever deepest, darkest secrets you're hiding, I don't care, I'm pretty sure I've heard them all. What did you do? Shave your head in school? Join a cult? Cut dolls apart and chant hail Satan?"

That had Eddie laughing again, but he still had an introduction to make. A proper one. "Nice to meet you, Steve. Eddie Munson, and I'm worse than your darkest nightmares. I sometimes wear socks in sandals."

Steve's eyebrow twitched. "Oh, Carol was right, you are a monster!" he muttered. "Speaking of monsters..." His head leaned to the side, towards Carol who was angrily carrying her coffee mug, her mascara running again.

Before he could catch himself, Eddie leaned over the wall and whispered as loudly as he could muster. "Can you believe some people wear dotted dresses with stripes on their stockings? We can't all be born with taste, I guess...tragic."

And again, maybe Eddie was just biased, but Steve's laughter was so pretty that it actually made dealing with Carol's bullshit worth it.

[hoshiina]

pairing: hoshina soushirou x gn!reader (no prns)

request: consider a hoshina x a VERY clingy reader that keeps hugging him from his back and nuzzling their head in his neck (bonus points if they're a tad taller than him)

notes: slightly taller reader, no warnings I think?, IM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO RIDICULOUSLY LONG its also rather short.... but it's finally here THANK U FOR REQING !!!!

wc: 600

Your clinginess especially on slow afternoons wasn't something that started today. Rather, you had always been this way, especially when both of you were home and free to relax. You'd wrap your arms around him from behind his back and nuzzle your head into his neck and nape while resting your chin on his shoulders from time to time. It was a very simple gesture, but it was sure to melt his heart every time.

“Missed me?” he asked, teasing.

“Yeah,” you said, voice muffled as your face was planted in his shoulder.

Gosh. If only you knew how you made him feel.

He loved the way your arms wrapped around him. Your comfy hoodie was a soft contrast to his solid build you could feel under his baggy shirt. It was a warmth he wasn't used to at first, but soon became unable to live without. The way he could feel it when you talked into his shoulder and the way you stuck close to him like this was all you've ever wanted— your every action meant so much more to him than you'd think.

Subconsciously, he brought his hand to your head to run his fingers through your hair. You recognized this gesture as a cue that he wanted a kiss. It was a habit of his— although you weren't sure if he knew about it. You lifted your head from his neck and looked up at him without letting go of him.

A frustrated yet flustered expression painted his face and immediately he went in to kiss you. He hated that you knew even when he hadn't even processed it himself.

“I missed you too,” he finally said after a few more kisses.

You were already burying your face in his shoulder again but he could feel you smile against him.

“Love, I want to see your face,” he said.

“Well, I don't want you to,” you replied. “It's embarrassing.”

Gosh. It wasn't like this was new, but he'd probably never get used to this. In front of others you were someone everyone would depend on, someone always on top of their work. No one would ever believe him if he mentioned that you were like this when the two of you were alone. Not that he would ever. This version of you was for him and him alone.

He loved when you had your head on his shoulder— he could lean his head on yours and run his fingers through your hair. He quite liked that you were slightly taller than him, but this was rather nice from time to time.

He pulled away from your embrace and you looked up, only to feel him kiss your forehead. He continued to pepper soft kisses on you face and you couldn't help but smile.

“It tickles,” you said and he grinned then gave you more.

“Soushirou, I missed this,” you said and he finally stopped for a moment. He did too. Everything had been a little too busy lately. There had been no time for the two of you to just… sit down and spend an afternoon together.

“Yeah,” he said. “I did too.”

“We should start making time for this,” you said. “Find time for this.”

“Yeah, I'd love that a lot,” he said. “I'll promise to make time.”

“But will they let you, Vice-Captain Hoshina?” you asked, knowing it wasn't that simple. He would've made time long ago if it was.

“I will!” he said and you laughed.

Yet, later you'd find out he really would keep his word.

[saturnniidae]

I love how Trollhunters is such an outlier in its genre in the sense that from the very beginning, when establishing the status quo, the notion is set; you can't always win someone over, you have to finish the fight. It is very often kill or be killed, and you can't bank on being able to change that.

And of course in the beginning Jim is horrified, and staunchly refuses to even kill even the troll equivalent of a rodent, and he does manage to win people over by talking, multiple times. And he defies everyone's expectations with these new allies. His ability to do this is one of his strengths and it's incredibly impressive, but in the end he learns and relents to the fact that sometimes of only way you can stop someone is to meet violence with violence and by then he wants to.

It's not just about self defense or damage control anymore, Gunmar killed his friends, and caused those still living to suffer, and indirectly forced him to give up his humanity, his future, his chance of having any semblance of a peaceful life,

(In Jim's eyes anyway. But really, from the moment he picked up that amulet, he lost his chance at normalcy. He was doomed from the beginning. He was also 15.)

And he wants him fucking dead. I don't know, but that's just so unusual for the type of character that Jim is, but it's so very human to break under something so heavy (Young Atlas and all that, I suppose), and it's almost ironic for him because at that point – again, to him, at least – he is anything but human.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Why would you—That's not—I just wanted to ask for help, why did you have to go and make it awkward???

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[earth2steve]

eddie rambles vol 1: (18+)

whatever eddie lacks in technique, he makes up two times over in enthusiasm. 

he’s on you before your legs even hit the bed today; pawing at your ass and thighs and pressing hot open mouthed kisses down your stomach. he's always got a mouth on him, but right now he’s babbling and slurring over every second syllable so bad you'd think he were drunk. “fuck, sweetheart - lemme get my mouth on you? need it so fuckin’ bad, shit-”

he gets like this sometimes - so frantic and dizzying and urgent in his need to get you off that it almost knocks the wind out of you. “god, eddie - yes. please.” 

by the time he reaches his destination between your thighs you’re starting to feel as wound up as he looks. hot pleasure twists and bubbles in your gut as he slots himself against you and manhandles one of your legs over his shoulder. your hands twitch around on the sheets beside you, not knowing quite what to do with themselves. 

the feeling of vulnerability only grows as he stares straight through you and begins to suckle at your clit through the fabric of your underwear. his gaze is so cruel in its intensity that you have to look away and start counting the cracks in the ceiling.

his eyes flit back and forth just once from your absent gaze and flailing hand, and then he's reaching his own up the expanse of your stomach and drumming his fingers there. heat blooms in your chest and between your thighs as you reach down and interlace your fingers. he squeezes your hand twice, and it feels, in your mind, in lieu of a kiss.

it’s a sweet kind of torture when he really gets started; his hot, syrupy mouth working against the heat of you while frizzy curls tickles your thighs. he's not what one would call precise, but the sheer desperation with which he's making out with your cunt is nothing to complain about. his nose bumps incessantly at your clit with the angle he works you at, and every movement of his tongue is accompanied by the dull vibration of a moan against the heat of you.

it's too much - he's too much - in a way that makes your legs twitch and blood rush in your ears. even more so when he latches his mouth in a vacuum seal around your clit and shakes his head from side to side in replacement for the usual movements of his thumb. a series of whines and curses tumble from your lips, and right as you feel like you might start levitating exorcist-style off the mattress, he comes up for air with a blistering grin plastered across his face.

“gimme a number.”

your eyes are blurry with mounting pleasure when you prop yourself up to meet his gaze. "what?"

“how many times d' you wanna cum on my tongue? gotta know when you want me to stop or i could go all night, sweetheart.”

you pretend to be offended at his vulgarity of his words; the cockiness they hold - but the truth is, whatever eddie lacks in technique, he makes up two four times over in enthusiasm. 

[6okuto]

EASY SWEETNESS

itadori x gn!reader | insecure reader (about your laugh and... what you look like from an angle below? he's lying on your chest and you won't look down at him)

itadori’s a sweetheart without really trying.

maybe it’s just another one of his talents, you wonder—his way of making your heart skip a beat. compliments, gifts, how, with his back turned, his hand could find yours solely from the sound of your voice. it seemed to be as ingrained in him as the raw strength he held, or the recipe to his favourite late night noodles that he made every week; practiced yet somehow innate.

“you’re such a sweet talker, yuuji,” you deflected his compliment once (you had said something about not liking your laugh, and he had called it sweet instead, because there was no bad laugh, especially yours that he always wanted to hear), warmth tingling your face and ears.

“huh?” he tilted his head. “well, i guess so…wait, no? yes? it’s just the truth, though. is it sweet talking if it’s just being honest?”

you can’t help yourself from thinking back to that as he rests on top of you, favourite throw blanket covering the both of you and tucked beneath your feet so you wouldn’t get cold, and a movie you’ve both watched a dozen times plays on the television screen.

it was a comedy—one that yuuji happened to play in the background as he studied but, inevitably, distracted him from it. he told you it stuck with him, and it’s found its way back to viewership every few months when he feels like unwinding.

it was really only a matter of time before you took part too.

you’ve both got lines memorized from the words down to the pace they’re said, even the cut-offs by other characters and the noises playing in the background. you feel the rumble before you hear yuuji’s voice, smushed like his face against your chest, as he acts out the scene.

“hey, you think at some point we’ll have the whole movie memorized?” he asks, moving to look up at you with his chin resting against you.

and the thing about someone resting on your chest is that you have to look down when you speak, and the problem with that is that the angle isn’t all that flattering.

so you smile, eyes fixed on the screen yet not following a single word being said as you become aware of the angle of your head, and what you look like from a few inches away. “maybe. that’d take at least a few more dozen watches though, unless we’re talking active memorization.”

“then what about with active memorization?”

“hm…for you? i’d still say at least a dozen. movies are really long you know?”

“and you?”

“probably the same? like, if it’s just us two, that’s a lot of lines, and i don’t think megumi would be ecstatic to join. nobara, maybe.”

a character begins to yell at another as your fingers come to card through yuuji’s hair—yuuji, whose response seems to be silence until—“babe.”

“hm?”

“why won’t you look at me?”

you snort, fingers pausing so you can gently mess with his hair instead. “i look bad from that angle, yuu.”

and you hope, maybe, he’ll leave it there, move back to the memorization idea, pick the characters he’d act out best. it really isn’t a favourable angle for anyone, so maybe he won’t look much further into the way your lips form a tight smile, or the forced breathy laugh at whatever’s just happened on screen.

“no you don’t,” he says matter-of-factly.

“...yuuji, really—”

“i think you look nice from every angle.” yuuji rests his cheek against you again. and you let your eyes flicker down, just once, just to see him grin as soon as your gazes connect. “i like looking at you from anywhere, but especially here.”

you shoot him a look of disbelief. “that’s your favourite spot to look at me from?”

“well.” he shifts his legs and kicks the blanket a little, untucking it from beneath you. “any spot that’s super close is nice so i can really see you, and do this—”

yuuji grunts a little as he moves up to kiss your cheek, hands finding home beside your head—you can feel him grinning even before he’s moved away to look at you.

“and you say you aren’t a sweet talker,” you murmur, face warm and housing a stupidly lovesick grin.

“hey.” he pouts. “i’m telling you i’m not a sweet talker, it’s just the truth as your boyfriend.”

“sweet talker.”

“i’m sweet and a talker. not a sweet talker.”

“okay, sweetie.” you try to joke and scrunch your nose, the pet name awkward and foreign on your tongue, but yuuji only smiles again in response.

“yeah, that works too. should we start calling each other sweetie now? i think it kind of fits.” 

“yuuji—”and you’re convinced he has a talent now, because even as he exaggerates the new term with a sickeningly sweet voice, it manages to roll off his tongue as naturally as every other compliment he’s said to the point that you think maybe you wouldn’t mind him using it—“yeah, sweetie?”

i'm gonna be so fr sweetness looks like a silly word to me rn. specfically when all capitalized...SWEETNESS... girl what is that

[softpine]

can you please, please relate? i’m not holding up

[transcript]

[diyasgarden]

betting on losing dogs cats

a story of a stray (patrick zweig) and a stray (kitten)

When Patrick finds it, he thinks the cat is dead. 

It takes him a moment to even recognize what it is, first assuming the little dark speck under the streetlight is just some unfortunate roadkill. A racoon or skunk. Maybe even an overgrown rat. The patch of grass it lays on is close enough to the narrow parking lot that all it would take is one hasty driver to swerve onto the curb and leave it for dead. It’s only when he pushes himself off the wall of the roadside shop and towards the light can he make out its little paws and upturned ears. 

It’s a bit odd for a cat to be out here in the first place. Far out on the interstate and away from any city. A place between places, but not a destination itself. He himself only stopped here for the pack of Marlboro Reds now in his back pocket. If he believed in a higher power, he’d take the dead cat as a sign to quit smoking. He opts for another drag instead. 

It’s on its side with its paws outstretched and eyes closed, the street light forming a warm halo around its body. Its fur is simultaneously scruffy and groomed in a way that makes it unclear if the cat is a stray or not. Although Patrick has a hard time imagining anything laying on the ground like this is loved in any capacity. Maybe it had owners it slipped away from. Or owners who let it go. There isn’t any blood either, so he can’t even tell if it’s roadkill. From its position to its stillness, it all feels peaceful. A hazy scene which looks less like a dead cat and more of an artist's rendition of one. 

He pulls the cigarette from his lips and languidly exhales. Without his permission, his legs bend down to stroke the cat’s sable fur. His hand tepidly extends and just as he is about to indulge his impulse, the creak of the store door’s hinge snaps him out of the trance.

His eyes flicker to the couple stepping out. While they look his age they sport smiles that give them a sprightly joy he now lacks. His expression turns sheepish as he remains squatted, arm out. They’re too engrossed in their own conversation to even notice Patrick. Their voices blend with the noises on the road and his gaze trails them back to their car, before he pushes himself up. Eyes drifting back down to the cat. 

He lifts the cigarette to his lips and looks to the side, away from the Carvaggio of a corpse. His eyes settle on the interstate and the cars who zoom by. His next challenger is two states over. If he is lucky, it will be another five hours on the road (it’ll take him seven). Yeah, you should get back to your car.

He drops the cigarette to the ground, allowing himself one last look at the cat as he grinds the cigarette butt into the pavement. This time he sees its paw twitch.

The cat’s nose sluggishly presses against his thumb and its whiskers brush against a callus on his hand. A soft, ticklish sensation Patrick would enjoy more if it wasn’t for the dull drone of the fan above him. His head tilts up to watch its jagged movement, expecting it to fall down on him any second. 

The low walls have a grimy yellow hue and if he squints he can make out the faint outline of cracks. His nose wrinkles at the stale wet-dog smell — which really should be reported on Google reviews. He takes it all in and is hit with a sense of deranged nostalgia for the crappy motel rooms he’s stayed in. The type of place you could fleetingly carve a home in, if you blurred around the edges. There is a somber appreciation at the fact that this shelter is the only one open at this hour. That even now, this is the sort of place to find him. 

He looks at the elderly woman behind the front desk, the only other person here. Her eyebrows droop to her eyes, which flick every few seconds to the clock overhead, but never to him. Her nose is buried into one of those cheap novels sold in the check-out aisles of grocery stores. A book not nearly compelling enough for the comical way she clings to it, but admittedly an astute way to ignore his presence. 

He lets out a sharp exhale and parts his lips to speak, but is cut short by the feeling of velvety fur shifting in his hands. His eyes dip down once more to the little thing, tracing its frail and dainty shape. It's too small to be anymore than a few weeks old. A kitten.

It sticks out its tongue and his finger instinctively moves to feel its sandpaper-like texture. Has he ever held a kitten before? He doubts he has ever been trusted to hold anything this young in his life. Does he even know anyone who had a kitten? 

No.

He knew someone with cats though. 

The corners of his lip involuntarily twitch upwards as he remembers a tabby who would crawl up onto his lap whenever he was around. 

“I don’t get why he likes you so much,” Art told him once, as if Patrick knew why Grandma Donaldson’s cat preferred him. The blonde ran a finger over the red scratch to the left against his pale skin, the little orange beast’s favorite scratching post. 

“Well he has good taste,” Patrick quipped back in response with a lopsided smirk, earning a laugh from the blonde. Or was it a scoff? The corners of his lip dip down once more, eyebrows knotting as he tries to recall.

It had to be one of the two. 

Could it have been both? 

What was even the name of the cat? Something with an S. Sebastian? 

Fuck this.

Not like any of it matters anyway. 

Art’s grandmother is dead. 

The cat probably is too. 

None of this matters. 

He feels the kitten’s tongue scratch his thumb once more, and his attention is brought back to the creature in his hands. Its amber eyes flutter open for a second before shutting again. It faithfully repeats this motion and Patrick is overwhelmed with the sense it is stuck between life and death. Purgatory? Not quite. More like it hasn’t decided if it wants to remain in this life or move on to the next. To live or to die.

He wants to hit himself for his next thought. 

You’d be better off dead. 

“Well, definitely a stray,” are the first things the woman says when she finally acknowledges his presence. His frown deepens into a grimace, but is quickly washed away with a more neutral expression. If she notices, she says nothing. The woman’s finger runs back and forth over the kitten’s delicate spine, as Patrick tentatively places it on the treen desk in front of her. . 

“So you’ll take it?”

The woman’s finger abruptly stops the moment the words leave his lips, just watching the little creature roll around. The ragged hum of the fan turns oppressive as he waits for her to speak, but she only turns her head up to him instead. She sports a frown which is equal parts pitiful and honest, her eyes piercing into his with little wrinkles that imitate her lips.  

“Well in cases like this…” she starts in a tentative voice usually reserved for children, but her voice fades into the background. He doesn’t catch anything after that, his focus shifting to the bile forming in his throat. 

An acutely sadistic part of him wants to laugh at himself. Mock the asinine belief that he could save this kitten. What did he expect? That this shit show of a shelter would magically nurse this dying creature to life? It’s hilarious to him now. Another joke with him at the punchline. 

The woman continues on about sedation and tranquilizers, but it remains a distant murmur, eyes drifting down to the kitten. He watches it open its mouth and lets out a noise so soft, he may as well have imagined it. 

Maybe he did. 

He probably did. 

Not that it matters. 

For Patrick, it’s the only sound in the room. 

You did the right thing.

You did the right thing. 

You did the right thing. 

You did the right thing.

You did the right thing. 

This is what he tells himself as he hits 80 on the interstate. He holds his foot steady on the accelerator, eyes glued to the endless highway in front of him. After the day he’s had, what’s a bit of speeding? The whole kitten debacle was an hour long detour, and now he doubts he’ll even make it to the tournament in time. Not that it would stop him from trying. Why else would he be speeding? It’s all justified. 

There's a slight disapproving trill, and from the corner of his eye he shoots a look at the kitten now in his passenger seat. It sleepily raises its head to meet his gaze, the only part of its body peeking out from the worn, gray shirt he’s wrapped it in.

It purrs once more. 

“Okay sure, I’ll slow down” 

(He doesn’t)

author’s note: finally explored a concept that has been lingering in my head since i wrote these cat headcanons. this fic is different than anything else i’ve shared, so please share your thoughts! shout out to @pparacxosm for pulling me out of fanfic writer retirement !! and also shoutout to sebastian. realest cat out there!! i love you and your owner @apatheticrater !!

art credit: i’m not sure who drew the smoking cat itself, but i made the yellow background-double cat graphic. if you know who the artist, let me know so I can credit them :)

[carma-tjol]

obsessed with that "boil a frog and it wont notice until its too late" thing opm does with its audience introducing serious ass concepts in a funny way and then not expanding on how dead serious they are until way later.

like with genos's backstory getting played off for laughs because he monologues vs now seeing how his obsession with revenge makes him equate his self worth with power/he struggles to understand himself as a human instead of a commodity

or sonic's backstory about the ninja village getting comedically introduced with him bragging about his skills and then immediately getting punched in the balls vs now it going into the trauma and betrayal related to his past and that his upbringing didn't teach him any normal useful skills thus setting him up for failure

the story acts like it doesnt really matter or that it wont get brought up again initially, but as everything progresses and slowly gets worse and worse at some point the reader is like "oh fuck"

((it can probably be credited to the way the audience sees everything from saitama's eyes at first (since he tends to be a bit dense and apathetic) until it focuses on other characters and their individual arcs more but yeah))

good stuff good stuff

[thesunisatangerine]

against all odds (to wait for you is all i can do) – part eleven

alexia putellas x photojournalist!reader

warnings: explicit sexual content, mentions of death, scars

(a/n in the tags) [parts: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve]

word count: 11.4k

Early Tuesday morning, you opened the door to Alexia who–to your surprise, but not really–had on a pair of training shorts, a plain jersey under an unzipped hoodie, a New Era cap on, her hair left down while a pair of sunglasses completed her look. And just like the other time she came to visit, she had you in her arms the moment she was close enough, pulling you into her for a kiss on your temple and then your lips.

“Hello, you.” You said as you pecked her cheek, smelling the familiar sharpness of sunscreen on her skin. Then you held her at arm’s length so you could look at her better before you asked, “Did you just come from training? I thought you won’t be back until Saturday?” 

Alexia chuckled, clearly amused, raising her brows at you for your shameless display at checking her out. But who could blame you, really, with her looking so damn good in a training jersey. She replied, “No, I’m actually–”

She halted, tilting her head to the side to look over you, and then she switched to English when she spoke again, taking her sunglasses off to place them on top of her cap as she grinned, “Hola, chiquita, you ready?”

When you looked over your shoulder you saw Elisa framed by the archway and the open door that led to the backfield, standing in her favourite Alexia jersey and Barça shorts, cheeks tinted red while her forehead shone with sweat, a football between her hands. 

“Hi, Alexia!” Elisa’s hand fluttered in an eager wave, her grin a brilliant beam, before she began to take off her sneakers and zoomed right up the stairs, shouting over her shoulders. “I’m ready! Lemme just grab my stuff!” 

Ah, now it made sense. 

You wondered why Elisa couldn’t sit still last night and even during the day, she practically buzzed with excitement. Initially, you associated the surge in energy from the promise of another day spent with Alexia, but now you understood that whatever the two of them had planned involved football and that was the reason why Elisa’s enthusiasm for today had increased twofold. 

As if Alexia was your mirror, you found her reflecting your expression when you turned back to her; she had an appraising gaze fixed on Elisa accompanied by an amused smile, and your heart filled with the urge to kiss her so you did. You kept your arms loose around her neck when you parted so you could look into those eyes you found yourself missing every minute that you were apart.

“When did you guys plan this?” You asked as you toyed with the ends of her hair.

“When we were at the Barça store. Elisa asked me for some tips and I offered to train her for the day.” Alexia hummed, fiddling with the hoops of your jeans. Then the inner corners of her brows quirked up, bashful when she asked, “I hope that’s okay?” 

Touched by her thoughtfulness, you traced the line of her brow as you spoke, “More than okay as long as it’s alright with you. And I should be thanking you.”

“It is, don’t worry. I get to spend time with the both of you and play football at the same time. Win-win.” Alexia said in a matter-of-fact tone and flashed you a radiant half-smile, and it made your chest and cheeks warm, obviously charmed by her, and the lightness in her eyes made those words all the more earnest to you. So you cupped her cheek and pressed a soft kiss against her jaw in gratitude. 

Then you whispered, “Thank you.”

Alexia pulled up at a deserted football pitch, the morning still early enough that the dew had not entirely dissipated from the grass when you got out of the car. The sound of the doors closing echoed from the emptiness of the space, Alexia’s call over the roof of the car sounding louder than it actually was. 

“Chiquita, I’m gonna need your help unloading the equipment at the back.”

Elisa stuck a thumbs up into the air as an answer. 

As you made up your mind that you’d just watch them do their thing, you tinkered with your camera around your neck, following them to the trunk but after Alexia popped it open, the sight both surprised and amused you. When Alexia said equipment, you’d envisioned a bag of balls, several cones, and the like but what you hadn’t considered–when in fact you really should’ve–was Alexia’s disposition for coming prepared, the scene in front of you a testament against your blatant underestimation of her ability. You watched them haul bags upon bags from the trunk–ranging from pop-up goals, agility poles and ladders, rebound boards, and other football paraphernalia–and as you spied the growing pile of things by the side of the car, you snapped a photo before laughter escaped your lips.

Two pairs of eyes darted your way with equal confusion, stopping their busy hands for a moment. You pointed at the pile, “Do you always keep these back here?”

“Why, of course, darling. All the time.” Despite the dryness of her tone, the term of endearment set your cheeks aflame. Then Alexia raised her brows at Elisa, “Elisa, could you please tell your mom to stop being mean and help us?”

“Yeah, Mom, stop laughing at us and come help, please.” Elisa giggled, gladly playing along before she eventually returned back to her task.

You scoffed with no real sting to it, grabbing the water bottle rack and slinging a bag over your shoulder as you whined, “I can’t believe you’re ganging up on me.”

At that, Alexia only scrunched her nose at you, smiling, before she closed the trunk–all the equipment were out finally!–then the three of you began lugging everything to the empty field, happy to follow their lead. After setting down the things you took where Alexia and Elisa were, you went to the sidelines, unfolding the chairs Alexia brought along. When you turned back to the scene, Elisa was already doing some stretches–as per Alexia’s instructions probably–while Alexia set up and, once done, she joined Elisa to warm up as well. But before she started, she waved you over as she called out, “Come join us!”

The desire to join them wasn’t lost to you but so was the weight of your omission to Alexia about what happened while you were gone–what would you say when you pass out from exertion if you joined them?–so you gave her a dismissive wave, lifting your camera as an excuse. Relief filled you when, with a shrug of her shoulders as if to say it was your loss, Alexia patted Elisa’s back before she pointed to the opposite goal line, taking off in a jog right after, their strides in time with each other. You put your camera over your eye and took a photo of them, but even though you busied your hands with the lever and buttons of your camera, your mind remained occupied with another matter.

The past few days were spent in a state of bliss; the ease by which you and Alexia had slipped back into each other’s lives was more than a surprise to you, pleasant in its own right but it was beginning to dim the longer you kept your story to yourself. It wasn’t a deliberate omission. You just hadn’t found the right time to breach the topic because, after all, how could one easily part with such a fact to a lover when even you dare not step to that precipice and stare into that void? But you knew you at least owe Alexia that much; to enlighten her about what she was truly signing up for. 

Today. 

You promised yourself you were going to talk to her about it today.

Returning back to yourself, you regarded the scene before you, took photos, and shouted encouragement every now and then. It continued on for a couple more hours: Alexia, who had occupied the role of the trainer, stood a vigilant watch over her novitiate, guiding Elisa with instructions you couldn’t quite hear but the complementing gestures she made gave you a semblance of what they were, as she exclaimed and clapped her hands to compliment and motivate; and Elisa followed with apt diligence, serious and attentive to every line, every move. By the time their feet had stopped disturbing the grass, the sun neared its highest peak, its warmth and the promise of a good day had already invited more than a handful of people to occupy other parts of the field. 

After they’d finished cooling down, you watched Elisa run off to the restrooms while Alexia trudged her way over to you, bags of equipment on her which she deposited on another growing pile on the sideline, taking a water bottle in hand. She brushed her hand over the nape of your neck for a second before she dropped to the chair next to you with an audible huff, and you patted her knee in response to her apparent exhaustion while she drank from her bottle, just a little out of breath. 

“Damn. Sorry, I forgot to bring the umbrella.” Alexia said as she shielded her eyes to look at you, one eye squinted from the harsh light. She softly grazed a knuckle over your cheek, “Did you put sunblock on?”

You replied in the affirmative as you leaned into her touch, and Alexia nodded in approval before she took her hand away, taking another sip of water. In the silence that followed, you thought, ‘Should I tell her now?’

“Alexia, I–”

Alexia’s lips crinkled around a mouthful of water, raising her brows at you before she jutted her chin forward. Confused, you looked to where she indicated and found Elisa surrounded by a group of kids, some of them taller and looked to be slightly older, who now occupied the once empty space that Elisa and Alexia had just been training on and in a blink of an eye, a small game of football had commenced. Shouts and laughter filled the air as they continued, passing, tackling, shooting; Elisa flew untethered along with her peers, face free from any worries and filled with glee. 

The two of you were a fair distance away from the youngsters that they hadn’t noticed nor recognised that Alexia watched over them with a proud–if not a bit sombre–countenance for the sight, probably, to her, was a validation–proof–of how far women had cemented their place in football compared to when she was of their age. These kids, boys and girls alike, now had their own paragons of light to follow, the names and numbers of their guiding stars shining bold on their backs–the names of women… Alexia’s including. You regarded the woman next to you, chest welling up at the soft gaze you saw there aimed towards the children, a thought clear in your mind that you longed to speak, ‘This is the fruit of your labour, what you and the others had fought–and still fighting–for.’

Alexia’s eyes flitted to meet yours as if magnetised by your volition, the colour of them almost green against the backdrop of the field.

“If Elisa was given the chance to play for Barçelona’s youth team, what would you do?”

You blinked as the question caught you off guard. There was no doubt what you would do but the abruptness by which it was brought up made you squint your eyes at her. Why would she bring that up unless she knew something? Unless she was about to do or already had done something? But as you regarded her with a careful eye, you found nothing in her features that betrayed answers to your questions, her face a blank canvas–perhaps a bit too neutral.

“Alexia, did you do something?”

Alexia shrugged, pulling the corners of her mouth down for good measure before it settled to a smile, then she answered in the negative, “Nothing. It was a question. Purely hypothetical.” 

Her answer did little to convince you but you answered in truth anyway. “Move here, of course.” 

At that, Alexia only hummed but a light twinkled in her eye–one not dissimilar to the one you found in them the night you met–a light that told you she knew something you didn’t. She brushed her thumb over her chin before she tore her gaze away, focusing her attention back to the match in front of her. And before you could question her further, excited screams filled the air and, when Alexia stood right after, you knew she’d been found.

You stood aside as the kids flocked towards Alexia and you captured the scene with a smile while Alexia conversed with the kids, bumping their fists and posing with them when they asked for a photo. You felt a presence beside you and, upon turning your head, saw Elisa with a look of admiration on her face, a mirrored expression among the children there. It went on for a bit and another game of football commenced but now with Alexia in the mix, but half an hour later, you were all packed up with everything back in Alexia’s trunk, and the three of you were off. 

On the way back after lunch, Elisa and Alexia chatted, discussing things about football with equal enthusiasm. The sound of their amusement filled the car, and with the day ending on such a high note, you felt compelled not to say anything about what you planned to tell Alexia as you didn’t have the heart to bring it down. 

And as you laughed at one of Alexia’s dry jokes, you resigned your promise.

Tomorrow. 

You would talk to her about it tomorrow. 

Unlike the day before, Alexia came by early–early enough that Elisa was still asleep while you, yourself, only woke up just about half an hour ago–but that was no surprise. It was rare for Alexia to sleep in; the rigorous conditioning her body had borne throughout the years made her circadian rhythm almost permanent, something that you’d teased her about from your time before–something that you teased her about just then.

“I don’t hear you complaining about it.” She muttered against your ear and, though you couldn’t see it for she had her front pressed against your back with her hands gentle on your hips as you made two sets of coffee, you could practically hear the pout in her voice. 

“I’m not! It’s actually kinda cute.” You laughed before you added, “You’re cute.”

“I’m really not,” Alexia practically whined, hiding her face in the crook of your neck and the feel of her there tickled you, so you tried to angle yourself away but she clung to you as you felt her laugh against your skin.

“Alexia! You’re going to make me spill the coffee!” 

When the both of you finally made it to the couch with no drop of coffee spilt, you tucked in by Alexia’s side, her arm over your shoulder as the both of you revelled in each other’s company, sipping at your beverage, you broached the news to her. 

“Your brother’s coming here?” She asked with surprise and with both brows raised.

At how she posed the question, you couldn’t help but giggle. “I love the way you made it sound like he’s not the one who owns this house. But yes, later today, probably around evening or earlier, depending on when he’ll finish his meeting in Madrid this morning.” 

Alexia blew a puff of air, a bit petulant, as she muttered low–although still deliberately loud enough for you to hear, “It’s kinda easy to forget when he’s never here.”

The both of you broke out laughing. Then a pensive look took over her demeanour, her fingers fiddled with the ends of her hair, something that you noticed she did whenever she felt at peace or whenever she was worrying about something. You had a feeling it was the latter with the way her brows were slightly creased in the middle, but the question that left her lips, which was spoken in a soft tongue, confirmed your inkling to be true.

“What’s he like?”

Ah. 

Seeing Alexia unsure about herself was a rare occurrence, even more than seeing her vulnerable which was saying a lot. So you laid a hand on the nape of her neck, chest warming when she leaned back to seek more of your touch, and you ran your thumb over the skin just below her ear to keep her at ease. 

“He’s… my best friend and the best brother I could ever ask for. He’s funny;  likes to tease me a lot, but he’s protective.” At the mention of the word, Alexia’s frown deepened before you could even finish what you wanted to say, “And trust me when I tell you, he’ll definitely like you.”

But your reassurance seemed to have gone out the other ear for the movement of her finger didn’t cease and her eyes remained clouded with something akin to worry. You allowed her another moment more with her thoughts before you booped her nose and watched as her eyes fluttered, the light of her presence returning in them as she regarded you. And so, with light amusement, you said in the hopes that Alexia would finally listen, “Just give him the same attitude you gave me a minute ago, you’ll get along really well.” 

At that, Alexia let out a small chuckle and, as it trailed off, the smile that graced her lips lingered; what you said hadn’t fully expelled the doubt from her eyes but the fact it was lessened made you feel better. 

Alexia sighed after another lapse in silence. “I just want to make a good impression, you know? And thank him.”

“Thank him for what?”

She shifted so her face was angled more to you and held a gentle finger on your chin to keep you looking into her eyes, soft and earnest.

“For intertwining your fate with mine,” she said, each syllable spoken with the gentlest of air.

Your heart stuttered at her confession, the gravity of it heavier with Alexia’s belief in fate, and words eluded you so you could do nothing but take her hand to reveal her palm, and kissed her there.

Then after another brief pause, Alexia asked, “Does he know about us?”

“I think so. I haven’t told him anything directly but I think he’s put two and two together.” You pushed the memory of how your heart monitor betrayed you back from the forefront of your mind, but your cheeks heated up anyway. As you massaged the spot between Alexia’s brows with your thumb in the hopes of soothing her frown away, you added, “Please, don’t worry about it too much. He’s Derek; as long as I’m happy, he’s happy.”

“And are you? Happy?” The vulnerability that you found in her eyes made you ache, not unpleasant, just a sense of fullness that longed to break free. You pressed a kiss on her temple, then to the corner of her lips.

“More than I could ever put into words. You make me so happy, Alexia. You really do.”

Later that day, just around late afternoon after spending most of the day training–you, of course, only a spectator–the three of you found yourselves walking along the beach after a late lunch. It was a bit further on when, as you conversed with each other, an exclamation made you stop and look over your shoulders.

“Oh, my god.”

Standing a few paces behind you was a young man, tall in frame, cheeks still round with traces of his youth, the stubble along his jaw and chin a direct contrast, making it known to you that he’d probably just recently entered his early twenties. The first thing you noted was the camera that dangled from his neck–you recognised the model, vintage–and you barely schooled your features from showing your surprise; he was a photographer not only for leisure but if he was, well, that was one expensive camera for a hobbyist. 

Habit made you step aside–you’d been out in public with Alexia a handful of times now to know how this would go–but as you did, the young man’s eyes followed you, intent, and that confounded you. 

“I’m sorry, did I interrupt you?” His brown eyes flitted between you, Alexia, then Elisa, his small smile apologetic as the paleness of his cheeks turned rosy.

Alexia waved a careless hand in the air as she spoke in English, “No, you’re okay.”

“How can we help you?” You asked, smiling at him politely. 

The man stepped forward as he patted the pouch of his shirt, then he dug his hands into his jean pockets, then you watched him procure a marker, his hands shaking as he handed it to you. 

“I can’t believe it’s you. I wish I had your book with me but I don’t–I, I’m sorry, can I get a photo and your signature?”

You couldn’t prevent the surprise from showing on your face even if you had the time to try. Your eyes drifted to Alexia, and the question that was clear in your mind that you knew Alexia could probably read on your face. What was happening?

The action of yourself nodding preceded the intention and you watched, still in a state of confusion, as the man handed his phone over to Alexia so she could take a photo of you both. As you posed and looked at Alexia behind the camera, you found a familiar light in her eyes and from the slight upturn of her brows, you knew Alexia was more than slightly amused at the role reversal. When Alexia began to count down, you smiled at the person taking the photo more than for the image itself, and once done, she handed the lad his phone back.

You signed the back of a used plane ticket–the only paper of decent quality, as per his words, that he could find on his person that could house your signature–and after handing it back to him, you said, smiling, “I’m sorry if I looked more than a little confused. This doesn’t happen often, I only ever get asked for photos at events, and it’s usually the other way around!” 

“No, please, don’t be sorry. I–I just truly admire your photojournalistic work,” he stuttered as he tucked the plane ticket in his shirt pocket. “I read your book about your most recent conflict coverage and that photoset… It chilled me to the bone the first time I saw it. I’m sorry you had to see that in person.”

Images tore their way out from the shadows of your mind, their teeth bare and gnashing: vacant eyes from where souls were ripped away, crooked fingers accusatory, and the stench–

You shut your eyes as a malignant chill crept over you, crawling under your skin that left your muscles weak, and even beneath the Barcelona summer sun, you trembled. And the memories flooded back: Elisa with her mother, the shots, and now the scars on your body burnt anew. You took a deep breath and took careful note of where you were: there was a baby crying a few paces away, a large wave just arrived home to the shore, there was a call of a seagull overhead, someone with coffee walked past you, and… there was the familiar warmth and weight of Alexia’s hand on your back.

The moment you opened your eyes, the man was looking at you with concern and regret while, when you turned your head to the side, Alexia and Elisa were obviously distressed.

“I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

You held a hand up before the man could hurt himself. “It’s alright. They come back to me sometimes without being reminded so you don’t need to apologise. And thank you for your concern.”

More than willing to change the topic, you jutted your chin at his camera, “Are you a photojournalist, too?”

“That’s the plan. I’m only working freelance at the moment and I’m not really sure which branch to pursue. I can hear conflict photojournalism calling to me, though.” He said, rubbing the back of his neck. In his answer, you sensed a ‘but’ so you asked as much.

He casted his eyes down for a moment before he regarded you again, gaze wary. “But… I’m scared I won’t be able to handle seeing those things in person. And I’m scared of being hurt, of being killed. Just like what you saw and what… what happened to you. I don’t know if I could survive it.”

From the corner of your eyes, you could see and feel the weight of Alexia’s stare–a burning question that branded you–and you clenched your fist as guilt flooded your veins. Foolish! You should’ve told her yesterday. She deserved more than hearing about it like this. But no matter what was done was done–the moment had passed–and the only thing you could do now was to tell her after this. 

Despite your inner turmoil, you focused on the man, and smiled at him softly for you understood what he was going through, the same place you once stood before you answered the call of that very wind.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s a difficult choice to make. The camera cannot shield you from the danger and the violence and, well, death, but it can bear witness, and can show the world what’s happening. You have your whole life ahead of you, you don’t need to jump in just yet. And if you hear that call again a bit later and find yourself ready, then, why not?”

At that, the young man’s demeanour brightened. Then his brows scrunched up, now seemingly worried, his question spoken with a light, enquiring air, “You mentioned in your book that this was the closest you’d ever come to dying, do you think you’ll ever get back into conflict photography?”

With the uncouth way it was posed, the question made you flinch with its directness. You had half a mind to reprimand but you recognised this–the journalistic instinct to question, to uncover, even if certain situations shouldn’t warrant such intrusions–so you let it pass because as was the case for every learned skill, interviewing demanded the same amount of practice to develop. He was young, he still had so much to learn and time, as was the case for everything, would be his teacher. 

A shuffling sound drew your attention to Elisa who was standing close to Alexia, clutching your lover’s hand with both of hers in a firm grip, her wide eyes fixed on you upon hearing what the man said, a sombre question reflected in her eyes, ‘Are you going to leave me, too?’ 

Although the call was very much there–the need to be the echo chamber for those who’d lost their voice still strong in your soul–you found yourself now tethered: to love and responsibility, so you shook your head, more so for Elisa’s sake than the man’s.

“It’s selfish, I know, but I have so much more to lose now. But, as I said, the call will always be there and I can’t control what the future brings, so who knows, really?” You shrugged, smiling at the man.

Satisfied, the man retreated but not before you gave him a business card for you and Derek’s firm; with a little bit of guidance and experience, he had potential to do good–although you did warn him that a spot for him wasn’t guaranteed, but he still accepted it gratefully. Once the man finally left, Elisa approached you, her shirt bunched up at the hem from the firm grip of her fists, eyes wide as she gazed up at you.

“Are you okay, Mom?”

You cupped her cheek and brushed a thumb under a glassy eye–Elisa was upset.“I’m alright, honey. How are you feeling?”

Elisa’s chin quivered and a tear ran down her cheek, and when she spoke, her words were whispered in haste. “Are you going to leave? Please, don’t, I don’t want you to get hurt again, I don’t want you to die. I–” 

Oh, Elisa.

Immediately you took her into your arms in the hopes that you could ease her distress and when she clutched at your shirt as her tears soaked through the fabric, your heart began to ache and your eyes burnt as well. 

“I’m not leaving, ladybug. I’m not. I won’t leave you behind, I promise.”

The ride to the house was a silent affair; even the short walk that led up to Alexia’s car was suffused with silence. After getting in the car and putting her seatbelt on Elisa immediately dozed off–from the emotional toll on top of the physical strain she’d endured during the day–and it was relieving. Alexia on the other hand…

Ever since she’d heard the words from Ben–the photojournalist–she completely receded and everything she did, seemed to you, were performed on autopilot; her every movement mechanical, stiff. Her face remained stoic: her brows formed a flat line, the light in her eyes so ineffably dim made it known to you she was somewhere far away; the way that her hands shook as she gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles told you which plane Alexia had found herself in–a hellscape. 

It hurt seeing Alexia like this and you felt like you had to say something but you bit your tongue and instead, you placed a gentle hand on her right knee and applied just enough pressure to hopefully pull her back from her thoughts. It seemed to work for when she glanced at you, her mask of passivity cracked with the way her gaze softened, her lips now pressed into a thin line, almost quivering. The moment only lasted seconds but it left a profound mark in your heart, made all the more indelible when Alexia took your hand in hers–even with the heat from Barcelona’s summer evening, you felt her palm cold as ice–and intertwined your fingers in a firm grip while the other remained to steer the car until you reached the house.

By the time you arrived, the last vestiges of the sun tinged the skies in its sombre purple and pink, the tangerine glow from within the house a stark contrast to the growing darkness. When Alexia parked the car, the front door opened and more of that warm light spilled out and a shadow stretched long in its wake, and at the end of it, the familiar, large frame of Derek.

While Elisa immediately jumped out of the car to greet her uncle, Alexia’s hands remained on the wheel despite the lack of engine, now gripping for a different reason, her eyes trained on the imposing figure of your brother. To be fair, who wouldn’t? With the top of his head nearly grazing the doorframe and the width of his shoulders, just by looking at his stature alone, most wouldn’t even consider the words ‘soft’ and ‘sentimental’ to describe him. So the reflection of anxiety in her eyes was not new to you, but this was different because this was Alexia.

You placed a hand over one of hers on the wheel, coaxing her attention by squeezing her hand. “Alexia?”

She looked at you, blinked. Then a strained, “Yeah?”

“You’re going to be fine.”

Alexia looked at Derek again before she whispered through her teeth, “Are you sure about that?”

“Yes. Hey,” you brushed your thumb over her cheek before you tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, Alexia’s eyes flicked back to you. Then you took her hand, pressed your lips on the back of it. “Alexia, breathe. You can do this, and I’ll be right here with you.”

True to your words, the moment Alexia gathered the courage to walk up the porch, Derek’s face broke into a grin that thawed the ever-present ice in his demeanour, enveloping Alexia in a hug. Despite Alexia’s tall frame, she looked almost like a child next to Derek, needing to crane her neck to look up when it was usually the other way around with you, as they chatted.

Then Derek finally took note of Alexia’s demeanour now that she was past Derek’s defences, and he voiced with concern, “Are you okay, Alexia? You look a bit pale. Do you need to stay over?” 

The reminder almost made Alexia a ghostly apparition by how much more her colour drained out from her. She pressed her lips in a thin line, dug her hands into her short pockets, while the muscles in her back coiled so much that you could see the planes of her muscles through her jersey. She replied tersely, “I’m alright and no, I’d rather not disturb you.” 

At what she said, you knew what you needed to do. You went to Derek and said in a voice enough for only him to hear.

“Derek, could you help Elisa start packing her things? I need to do something.”

“Okay.” A question was clear in his eyes but like the many times he did before, he didn’t press you for any information, only nodded, squeezed your shoulder, before he went back inside but not before he enveloped Alexia in a farewell hug and told her to get some rest. Then you walked back to where Alexia stood, still as tense as you left her, and you pulled at her arm gently, coaxing her towards her car–to the passenger seat.

“Alexia, give me your keys.”

Alexia looked at you, still pale but her eyes now held confusion, and maybe a hint of defiance, in them. “Why?”

“I’m not about to let you drive home by yourself like this.”

“No. I’m well capable of–”

You fixed her with a stern eye. “Give me your keys. Now.” 

Alexia regarded you with a wary eye but she sighed, finally relenting, and dropped her keys in your open palm. She sat in the passenger seat, an elbow up against the window and chin propped up on her knuckles, quiet apart from the occasional direction to the way to her apartment. The silence was heavy, but you found yourself not entirely too bothered by it for it gave you a chance to gather your own thoughts–to try and find the words to explain–but you couldn’t help but take furtive glances at Alexia, who was looking more and more dejected by the minute as the streetlights casted shadows on her face and made her demeanour excessively morose, the sheen in her eyes prominent in darkness. 

You arrived and Alexia let you in, dropping her keys in a little dish on a cabinet by the door, the air still and silent apart from the clink of metal against porcelain and the soft breath of clothes rustling as the two of you padded into Alexia’s apartment. Briefly, you allowed your eyes to explore the space but as you entered the living room, your palms began to sweat as the nerves began to set in. 

Alexia was hiding behind her stoicism again, sitting on the couch seeming as calm as ever, fixing you with a look that betrayed the placidness of her demeanour. You sat too, opting for the space by Alexia’s side as opposed to the lone loveseat as you knew that the nature of what you were about to reveal required the lost distance between your bodies; for her sake and yours.

For a long moment, you couldn’t speak; you opened your mouth a number of times but you stopped short for fear that the words would fail you. Alexia waited patiently and only when she took your hand in the space between hers did you find the courage to begin, placing your other hand over hers; she was with you, you were with her.

And so, you told her.

From the night you left, when you were about to tell her what you were going to get yourself into, to your arrival and the conflict you needed to cover. About being caught in the middle of fire, about the nature by which you met Elisa. And then, finally, you told her about what happened to you: the shots, the hospital, and your recovery. You watched, as this enfolded, the way Alexia became increasingly tense, she’d taken your hand in a grip at one point, and you felt the warmth in her hand dissipate into cold sweat, could feel the way she trembled. By the end of it, Alexia looked paler than you’d ever seen her before, wide eyes red and glassy; fragile in all sense of the word.

The silence that followed was like a fog, heavy and suffocating, and the words that bounced against the walls made the fog even thicker that your chest began to ache.

“When were you planning to tell me?” Came the even question.

“Yesterday, but I changed my mind. I should’ve just told you.” 

Another pause, her demeanour remained the same. And then, “How bad was it?”

You considered lying; considered telling her that it wasn’t that bad to appease her, to protect her from that knowledge but there was a plea that shone in her eyes that stopped you. So, with a shaky breath, you whispered, “I… they said that my heart stopped. Twice.”

Alexia inhaled sharply and you winced when her next words were spoken in a broken tongue, a lone tear running down her cheek.

“Why didn’t you say something?” Alexia whispered. 

“I didn’t know how to bring it up. I didn’t know how you’d take it.”

“You nearly died!” Alexia shouted as she stood up suddenly, eyes wide and frantic, while she threw her hands in the air before she dug her fingers into her hair. She must’ve realised how loud her voice was because she spoke her next words in a lower tone but it was restrained all the same, tight and thin as a string on the brink of breaking. 

“There was no other way I’d take it! What if I’d lost you and I didn’t even know?” Then her eyes widened even further, realisation clear in them, and then her breath caught, words coming out in a sob. “No, I did lose you, didn’t I? Your heart stopped! Your heart–”

Alexia’s knees buckled beneath her and you barely caught her in time. The weight of her against you brought the both of you down to the ground, the softness of the rug doing little to lessen the fall, and it left you cradling Alexia’s head in your arms, her ear against your chest, as you tried, to no avail, to ease her pain.

Alexia had always seemed like an immovable mountain to most people, strong and collected in the face of adversities, especially so to her supporters who’d only ever truly seen her display an air of vulnerability a handful of times, so to witness her so broken like this–prone and weak on her knees, spine contorting in an anguished arch under the heaviness that you put in her chest, the weight too much for her to bear–and knowing that it was you who caused her to feel this much misery… Oh, how the pain seared through you like a burning lance! 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” You whispered this litany of lamentations against her ear, your voice thick with tears. But, in your mind, you were apologising for more than that; for all the mistakes you’d made, for leaving, for almost leaving into that endless night.

Alexia twisted your shirt in a grip, the fabric now soaked with her tears, gnashing her teeth in a fierce display of guilt. “And I wasn’t even there for you. Fuck, I wasn’t even there. I–”

“You cannot blame yourself for this, darling. I won’t let you.” You said, voice firm despite the gentleness of it. And you proceeded, “And you think you weren’t there but you were, Alexia. You saved me.”

It was the truth that Alexia needed–that you needed her–to hear. She was your light in that darkness: in that sleep and the haze that came after it, and even more so now than ever. You tightened your grip around her, kissed the top of her head, and brushed her tears away.

“You were there, Alexia, always. You just didn’t know it.”

You were drying your hair with a towel on the bed when Alexia entered the bedroom, hair still dripping from her shower that left dark spots around the collar of her grey shirt, the skin around her eyes remained rosy but now faint, her short shorts barely appearing beneath the hem of her shirt, and–

“Is that…?”

Alexia followed your gaze and looked down at the string around her left ankle, the silver of the charm glinting in the low light. “Yes.”

“You kept it…” You whispered as emotions caught in your throat. 

“Of course, I did. It…” Alexia bit her lip, casted her gaze to the side for a moment, before she met your eyes again, eyes so openly sincere you longed to kiss her right then. “It makes me feel more at ease while playing. It makes me feel safe.”

At that, you grazed your thumb over the string around your wrist. “I know the feeling.”

A silence fell over you as Alexia stood just a few paces away from the foot of her bed, feet shifting beneath her as she gnawed on her lower lip. She looked so small like that, so young and unsure. So you shifted your weight, and made space for her as you said softly, “Ale, come here. Let me dry your hair.”

That seemed to be what Alexia was waiting for because she finally shuffled forward, and sat down between your legs with her back turned to you. Gently, you began to dry her hair, loving the way she craned her neck back as you did so. Once it was only damp enough now, you ran your fingers through her hair, carefully untangling the knots between the strands, before you moved your hand lower, to the nape of her neck first then to her shoulders, putting just enough pressure there with the intent to release the tension in her muscles.

Alexia sighed deeply, tilting her head sideways so you could move your hands more freely. And a moment after, she turned and looked up at you, eyes lidded and shining with vulnerability and… something else that you couldn’t quite decipher but your heart ached all the same from the depth of it, and then slowly, she rose, and then the warmth of her breath caressed your cheek, her lips on yours. The kiss was tender and sweet in its lightness and before you knew it, you were eased down to the bed, her warmth washing over you as if her body was the sun and you were the earth being graced by her light.

You cupped her cheek, feeling the line of her jaw, savouring her lips when a wetness burnt against the skin below your eye, tasted salt on your tongue, and felt the stutter in Alexia’s breath. Soon, Alexia broke the kiss entirely, sinking into the crook of your neck where she wept silently, and you could do nothing but wrap your arms around her frame to shelter her, to assure her that you were still here and that, truly, the worst had passed. You held her there until sweet repose, at last, eased her into a place without pain and you waited for sleep to come, while regarding her countenance and relishing the soft caress of her breath on your skin, when not a moment later, you joined Alexia in slumber; your heart finally beating in time with hers.

It was still dark when you woke several hours later with a comforting warmth pressed against your back and the weight of Alexia’s arms around your waist, her breath warm against the nape of your neck. You shifted closer to the source of your comfort and placed your hand over hers. From the way her hold on you tightened, you knew she was awake.

“Can I confess something?” Alexia whispered, voice raw.

“What is it?”

She took a deep breath. 

“I waited for you.” A pause. “Until I saw you at the Olympics, I was still waiting for you. I knew the odds of you coming back to me were against me, but I hoped you’d come back.”

“Thank you for waiting.” You murmured.

“Thank you for coming back.” Alexia choked out, arms tightening around your waist. “Thank you for coming back to me.”

You needed to see her, so you peeled her hands from your waist, turned, and wrapped your arms around her waist.

“I’m here, Alexia. I’m right here with you.” You caressed her cheek, wiping the tear in the corner of her eyes before you whispered against her lips, “If I have to spend my whole life thanking you, so be it.”

Saying goodbye was a difficult affair for everyone–well, except for Derek, of course. Despite Alexia’s offer to drop you, Derek, and Elisa to the airport, you declined, reminding Alexia she needed rest for tomorrow, chuckling lightly at the pout she gave you when you said it, which made you inclined to kiss it away. 

(You ignored Derek’s smirk; you spied him over Alexia’s shoulder looking all too smug for his own good.)

And Elisa, after spending the past few days in Alexia’s company, clung to her waist, lips quivering and eyes glassy with unshed tears, while Alexia tried to appease her. It seemed that Alexia’s celebrity factor had diminished for Elisa and now it dimmed to a newfound word: a friend. You smiled as you watched them chat for a bit longer, before Elisa went inside the car.

When it was your turn to hug Alexia, you sank into her arms, and she in yours, as your heart already longed for her at the thought that in a few minutes, you two would be parted again. It was difficult but you managed to pull away, kissing Alexia on her cheek, then her lips. 

It was your last kiss but as your Uber took you away and as Alexia’s figure shrank in the rearview mirror from the growing distance, this kiss, you felt, held the promise of a future; of something more.

And that, to you, was everything.

You took the call immediately after you saw Alexia’s name on your screen. 

“Alexia, what did you do?”

It was currently late October, over two months since the last time you’d seen her in person, but the both of you–and occasionally Elisa would join the both of you if she was able to catch you after her practice–remained in contact be it through messages, calls, or video calls. So to say that you missed her was more than an understatement and you found that the calls that used to relieve you of your longing for her–although they still very much did–now only served to deepen the growing cavern in your heart that resembled the woman who it belonged to; it was no longer enough, you wanted Alexia. 

But that was not to be the topic of your conversation right now. 

Alexia’s chuckle met your ears, brows crunching up in amusement. She was in a loose shirt, half of her face glazed over in a low, warm glow. “Is this about Elisa’s trial?” 

“Please, Alexia, if you had something to do with Elisa getting scouted, tell me now.”

“I didn’t do anything.” Alexia said, even and light with laughter, but she enunciated the words with an air of seriousness. “I didn’t do anything. Although I admit I did a little digging that day I went to La Masia when you guys were here, remember? I heard Jona say her name in passing and when I checked the list, Elisa’s name was one of the best candidates. Your daughter has talent and a promising dedication to the club, the scout saw that.”

And as her word sank in–as you believed in your bones that Alexia was speaking truthfully–you let out a sigh, sagging into your open palm. 

“Okay, I believe you. I’m sorry, babe… I just had to make sure.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Alexia waved a dismissive hand, and then, “So, what happened?”

“Well, I picked Elisa up today and her coach handed me a brochure and started talking about Elisa’s eligibility for a trial to get into Barça’s youth team.”

“And how did Elisa take it?”

“She’s unusually calm about all of it and that’s exactly the reason why I wanted to call you.” You sighed, “I’m worried she believes she didn’t get in because she did well and that she got in because of her connection to you.”

A pause and you watched as a pensive look passed over Alexia’s face. “Do you mind if I talk to her?” 

“No, not at all. I think that’s a good idea. Hold on.” 

You muted the call and then padded your way to Elisa’s bedroom, then knocked on her door. 

“Ladybug, Alexia is on the phone.”

A moment later the door opened slightly, and Elisa looked through the tiny gap, her brow scrunched up in confusion before she widened the gap enough that she could step out. 

“Alexia?”

You tucked a strand behind her ear. “Yes, honey. She wants to talk to you, only if you want to.”

Elisa gnawed her bottom lip, casted her gaze down for a moment, before she finally nodded. You gave her your phone, watched her close the door, before you made your way down to the kitchen to check on the food you were cooking. It was nearly half an hour later that Elisa joined you, phone in hand, eyes only just a bit raw, which she handed to you after giving you a hug. And when she pulled back, the smile she gave you was small but radiant, and you felt relief as you let her slip back into her room but not before you reminded her that the food was nearly ready. 

“I don’t know what you said to her, but she looks better. Thank you” 

“She just needed a little pep talk.” Alexia smiled at you, soft, “And anytime, my love.”

Two months later, Elisa’s club topped their respective league, won a major regional and national tournament, and Elisa… Elisa passed the trial.

Elisa was going to Barcelona.

‘Come over when you’re done for the day?’

The message was sent about an hour ago. You ran your fingers through your still damp hair, wiping your clammy palms on the fabric of your jeans, as you sent, ‘I’m coming up.’

Two days after Elisa received the news from Barça, you flew by yourself to Barcelona to sort out some paperworks. Derek already offered for the both of you to remain at his place–insisted even, so you wouldn’t get stressed out, which was sweet of him–and you accepted, but you promised you’d find someplace else after you and Elisa settled into your new routine. Alexia knew about all of this, of course, her schedule was filled today so she wasn’t able to be with you. Well… until now.

Now faced with Alexia’s apartment door, to say that you were nervous would be an understatement; you hadn’t seen your lover in the flesh for months, how could your heart not be in danger of leaping out of your chest at the promise of seeing her again soon?

You knocked on the door and only seconds passed between the moment you saw a shadow through the peephole and the door being flung open, and before you could fully comprehend what was happening, you were being pulled inside by the collar of your cardigan and slammed against the door as warm lips pressed on yours, hungry and full of ardour. 

You moaned at the heat of Alexia’s tongue searing the skin of your lower lip, her teeth napping and pulling, before her tongue swept over the same spot, to soothe and salve and sear all over again. Standing on your toes, you wrapped your arms around her neck while you pushed your chest up, seeking her warmth, and you loved the way Alexia’s arms tightened their hold around your waist, pressing you further into the firmness of her body. Then her hands ventured downwards, setting your skin afire in their wake, and you gasped into her mouth the moment she took your ass in her grip and squeezed, the pleasure turning your blood into an entity of potent desire. 

To your surprise, Alexia suddenly pulled away from the kiss and she ripped her hands away from your body, planting them instead on the door to hold her weight. And you had never hated distance more than the mere centimetres that separated your bodies just then.

Alexia looked down at you with lidded eyes, pupils blown so wide that the hazel in them were covered in black, while her breath came out stuttered.

“Wait–I’m sorry, I know we’re taking it slow but I just missed you so much and I–” 

You let out a sound that was between a moan and a groan as you pulled the collar of her hoodie down, swallowing her next words in a deep kiss. Your hand crept under the fabric of her hoodie, her stomach deliciously taught beneath your fingers and you didn’t fight the urge to drag your nails over her smooth skin to make your intentions clear–an action that made her swear against your lips. You took her lower lip between your teeth and pulled slightly, the sound she made–obscene in every sense of the word–and the curse she let out sent scorching heat straight to your core; nothing turned you on more than the proof of Alexia’s ever-present composure slipping. 

It mattered not how the both of you arrived at the bed; one second you were pressed up against the door, the next you were surrounded by soft sheets with Alexia on top of you, nipping and licking along the column of your neck, while the room filled with pants and gasps that came from either of you. She pressed her knee against the juncture of your thighs and the pressure made you keen Alexia’s name in a wanton cry, which Alexia responded to with an approving hum that you felt on your lips. 

Her teasing continued on until the fabric of your underwear clung to you like a second skin from the slickness of your core but when you felt her fingers playing with the hem of your shirt, you surged up and gently pushed Alexia to the side, laying her down on the bed with a deep kiss while you moved to straddle her stomach. 

Then you leant back after a moment to look at her, and the sight you beheld took the breath from you. 

There, she lied: with her light brown hair fanned out wildly on the sheets, a stark contrast against the lightness of the linen; her skin glowed from the incandescent light from her lamp; her hazel eyes beautifully dark and lidded with need; her cheeks graced with a rosy tint of the same shade as her supple lips which were slightly parted; the strong column of her neck, her broad shoulders, her large but gentle hands… there, while she lied and gazed at you, you basked in the radiance of her earthly beauty–her character even more resplendent in nature. And there, your chest crowded with emotions–lust, desire, wonder, amity–but a resonant call from your heart encompassed the immensity of this singular truth. 

You loved Alexia. 

Oh, how you loved her so. 

With reverent hands and eyes that bore the zeal of your affection, you kept your gaze on hers while you dragged your fingers over her clothed ribs down to the firmness of her stomach, admiring the way the strength in them yielded into a softness so inherently familiar, adoring the way her lips parted further, the way her brows rose ever so slightly as the depth in her eyes seemed to stretch into a vastness that called to you. 

She was beautiful. 

So, so beautiful.

All of her exalted you to no end: the sound that she made when you kissed the valley between her breasts after you’d helped her undress; the feel of her skin on your tongue, from her collarbone, to her rib, to her hip, and her thigh; the taste–finally, again–of her need, her pleasure, and her ecstasy. Everything that she was revived you; she stoked the embers of your mortal flame into a star that shone for her, and only her. Every breath, every word, every look… these were the things that–in their divine simplicity–endeared her even more to you; the divine simplicity of her state of being was more than enough to move you, to make you fall deeper into your love for her.

As she came undone beneath your touch, the echoes of your heart longed to be heard, filling your throat with the words of a confession. But instead you whispered, in a cadence similar to that of a litany, that she was beautiful. 

Soon after she came back to herself, she sat up and in a second, Alexia had you in her tender and appraising arms as you remained on her bare lap, kissing along your jaw as her large hands roamed over your still clothed body, her touch both gentle and fervid. But when she grazed the hem of your shirt again, you stilled.

Alexia pulled away, eyes lidded but concern reflected brighter in the darkness of her eyes.

“What is it, darling?” She asked as she brushed a strand behind your ear, gaze intent, searching your countenance for an answer.

Instinctively, you crossed your arms over your chest. You opened your mouth a few times as you tried to find the right words to say, and then finally, you admitted quietly, “My body… it–I’m not like how you remembered.”

“Darling, your body will always be beautiful. You don’t need to hide yourself from me.” Alexia took one of your hands and pressed a kiss on your knuckles, earnest in the way she spoke and looked at you. Your heart ached.

“I know, it’s just… I don’t think I’m ready,” you trailed off, “And I’m worried you’re not, too.”

“You don’t have to worry about me.” Alexia squeezed your hand, encouraging.“I’m ready when you are.”

Unbidden, the image of Alexia in anguish after you told her about what you went through flashed through your mind and the same vulnerability–that thinly veiled fear–you’d seen then, you could see now reflected in her eyes. It was one thing to hear the words of injury, and it was another to see the physical proof of it; if the words had profoundly affected her so, how much more would bearing witness to the tangible mark of your narrow escape from death would cause her?

“Alexia…” 

You began to sigh, ready to offer a rejection, but Alexia cupped your cheeks into her palms, making you look into her eyes. Then she whispered, “Please, let me see you. I want to… I want you.”

There was much desire and tenderness in her voice, and you found yourself calming down knowing that you could trust Alexia with this. So you nodded. 

Alexia smiled at you softly before she whispered, “Thank you. Just let me know when you want to stop.”

You nodded again and then, Alexia’s lips were back on yours, sweet and light as her hands returned to your waist. She was gentle, murmuring words of reassurance on your temple, your jaw, your collarbone, as she eased your cardigan off your shoulders. She placed one light kiss on the column of your neck before she laid you down on the sheets, her hair cascading over you like a silk curtain. 

Alexia journeyed down your body, placing butterfly kisses over your clothed sternum, her breath breaching the thin barrier between your skin and heated your blood into a gentle simmer. Then she stopped, her lips on your stomach, and when you looked down at your body she was gazing up at you with imploring eyes, fingers playing at the button of your jeans, a question clear in her eyes. 

Your lips parted at the sight of Alexia’s lips made red from kissing, her blown pupils dark with ardour, her brows tilted up in silent affection. Your heart, for all of its beating, was tranquil under the weight of Alexia’s hands and eyes, and so, you nodded.

Alexia gave you a smile and then she kissed your navel as her fingers unbuttoned your jeans, taking it off slowly. Then her hands skimmed over the newly exposed skin of your thighs, leaving goosebumps and heat in their wake, and you gasped when you felt her lips ghosting above your core over the fabric of your underwear. You anticipated more, canting your hips upwards, but Alexia had already moved away by then, a gentle squeeze on your thigh, you perceived, was her form of apology. 

And then her fingers were drawing circles on the exposed skin of your navel, just below the hem of your shirt, as she bent down, capturing your lips in hers, before she rested her forehead against yours.

“Are you ready? Just say the word and I’ll stop.” Alexia whispered on your lips.

You inched away so you could cup Alexia’s face in your palm, grazing your thumb over her cheek, as you replied with absolute certainty. “I’m ready. I trust you, Alexia.” 

She caught your hand in hers as you began to take it back, pressing her cheek into your palm as she said, “Thank you.”

Slowly, Alexia began to take your shirt off and, once it was tossed aside, you waited with bated breath for her reaction upon seeing your scars. Would she turn away just as you tended to do sometimes whenever you saw yourself in the mirror? Would she touch you still–would you sicken her? You probably would, wouldn’t you? You–

A choking sound tore you away from your spiralling thoughts, your vision focusing on Alexia’s face contorting. A part of you screamed, ‘Look how you’ve appalled her!’, but clarity came over you and you recognised then that it was pain that marred her face. Alexia’s lips quivered as she took you in, eyes drifting around the more prominent scars on the right side of your torso–one on the top of your shoulder, on the skin just below your ribcage, and finally, the one just beside your breast–and her brows creased, and when she met your gaze, her eyes had reddened and now held in them, along with the desire–albeit now dimmer from the intensity of the other emotions on her face–a mixture of relief, regret, and agony. 

Then she gathered you in her arms as she leant down, her arms wounding their way around your ribs, her nose brushing against your collarbone, her fingers delicate in the way they splayed on the skin of your shoulder blades, while the strength of her body draped over you and the softness of her breasts–her warmth–offered, even without words, shelter and healing. And you basked in it, arching your back to further feel the press of Alexia’s body, wrapping your arms around her neck and in response, Alexia’s hold on you tightened as she whispered your name in a tone fit for a rhapsody.

Alexia lifted her head and looked into your eyes. You wiped the trail of a tear that ran down her cheek, tucked a loose hair behind her ear, traced the line of her brow, and then the bow of her lips which trembled at your touch.

“You’re here and you’re mine.” She stated softly although the intonation in the end made her sound unsure, as if she didn’t–or couldn’t–believe that the both of you were there together, skin on skin, flesh against flesh, breathing the same air in the same moment in time; alive. 

“I’m with you and I’m yours, Alexia.” You whispered with conviction. “Take me.” 

As you said this, you reached behind you to grab one of her hands so you could kiss her knuckles, watching her as she watched you, before you took her first two fingers into your mouth. You relished the way her lips parted with a gasp while you guided her fingers down to your core, pushing the fabric of your soaked underwear aside so you could press Alexia’s wet fingers against you, sighing when you finally felt her there while Alexia moaned out her desire.

And so, she took you. With one last fervid kiss on your lips that took your breath away, Alexia ventured downwards, brushing her thumb over your clit as she did, while she nipped on the expanse of skin you offered her. And then her lips were on you and you were lost–and found again.

She moved with an air of divinity; with each touch from her supple lips, you felt as though you were closer to grace; and with each swipe of her tongue and thrust of her fingers, you could feel a warm radiance washing over you, simultaneously stripping the strength away from your bones and restoring you to a wholeness you never knew you could feel.

You gathered enough strength to open your eyes to peer down your body and when you did, the sight that greeted you nearly pushed you over the edge. There between your legs, Alexia was looking at you with lidded eyes as she worked on you, catching a glimpse of her tongue every now and then, and the sheen of wetness on her lips and chin. And her eyes… Oh, her eyes had the power to unravel you with one look.

The need to feel her close rose in you as you felt your peak creeping closer. You had meant to say, ‘Come here’, but the words were lost on the way to your mouth and what came out was Alexia’s name. But Alexia understood enough it seemed for she–without so much as losing the pace of her fingers–moved up your body and kissed you, your wetness fresh on her lips and chin, your taste heavy on her tongue.

She kissed your cheek, then your temple, and then you felt her warm breath on your ear. Then she whispered low and dark as sin, “You look so beautiful like this… feel so good. Love the way you’re so wet for me.”

“Ale… Alexia…” You moaned at her words, dragging your nails over her back as you found yourself losing purchase; the edge of euphoria, you could feel, only just a breath away. 

“That’s it. Come for me, darling. Let me feel you come.”

The heat of it all–Alexia’s words and the warmth of her breath, that hot friction from her fingers, and her safe, sheltering weight on you–finally lit the fuse and ecstasy set every nerve in your body afire, and a sense of fullness filled your chest–a state of grace–that called to the woman before you. 

And so, you didn’t stop the words. 

You sighed against her ear, “I love you.” 

Alexia tensed but she didn’t stop until you’d finished, until your cheek was pressed against the sheets, eyes closed from the sheer pleasure that she blessed you with. When she dragged out her fingers from you, you whimpered.

And then you felt her palm on your temple, wiped the sweat away there, before she eased your head away from the pillow as she whispered your name. You opened your eyes to her doting countenance, her brows graced by a hopeful tilt.

“Do you mean it? Truly?” Alexia asked softly.

You felt no fear when you replied in the same soft cadence. “I do.” 

Her breath stuttered, her next words were so light you barely caught them. “Say it again. Please.”

You smoothed her hair, traced the tail of her brow, before you looked deeply into her eyes.

“I love you, Alexia.” 

Her face broke into a small, reverent smile that bore all the warmth in the world before she caught your lips in a kiss so tender you nearly cried.

Then you parted, but Alexia’s forehead remained against yours.

And with tears in her eyes, she whispered. 

“I love you, too.”

[iveriee]

escape.

— tom riddle x gender neutral ! reader

—IN WHICH, you conduct an experiment. how would it feel date everyone's ideal student? he really is a riddle (pun intended) and you mean to solve him.

— toxic and obsessive behaviour. (yandere ) .masturbation (reader's genitalia is not specified). drugging. manipulation. smutty. overly flowery writing. mutual pining ? ?. stalking. dd;dne. murder attempt (?) an open ending lol. 2.4k ish words. angst. reader is a horny shit. not proofread, i just pulled this out of my drafts.

DATING TOM RIDDLE IS STRANGE,

he scares you—he really does.but not for the reasons one would think. he is not a monster with sharp claws that will dig into your flesh or a haunting, grey ghost that will glare at you.  infact, he is rather handsome with his flawless visage—with his high cheekbones, neat, precise black hair, and hazel eyes so dark that they are almost black. he is the kind of person you cannot look in the eyes—divine, pristine, unattainable, adored by the professors, and idolized by his peers.

you are sure he knows it. he knows—he knows that with perfection comes intrigue.  they cannot help but sink—fall, turn into mush, drown. they might aswell have been stabbed in the chest. but even with the hot, fresh blood gushing out of them, they do not question it. who are they to question him? he is beyond perfection—he allures them in and seeps into their bones. they are fish on land and he is water.

but you are guarded. you do not  melt when he smiles that smile of his. you do not blush when he gently takes your hand, his touch tender like the light caress of a feather. you do not feel warmth when his lips brush gently against yours, as if you were a fragile vase that he was trying not to break. it is a facade weaved of pure, soft silk. silk that would sharpen and snarl around you anyday he wanted.

of course, you aren't interested in being choked to death. but you are interested in him. his touches become even lighter and he looks at you so, so gently. his eyes soften when he sees you and you are not sure what he is thinking.  he stares at you almost as if you are an angel— precious.

but there is not merely 'love' in those dark eyes—when you hold his hand with trembling fingers or give him a piece of your treacle tart, his grip tightens and there is something so strange about his gaze. he looks at you with syrupy longing this time. pure longing. as if you are a polished treasure. his eyes grow heavy-lidded but they never leave you; as if you are his entire world and he might aswell sink to his knees and taste and lap at your every inch. he seems to want to devour you anyway.

you do not know how you feel about that.

                                 —

unfortunately, your layers are peeled back aswell and you slip away; you begin to smile whenever you see him—an unplanned burst, a summer flower when the sun kisses it. then, his scent of sandalwood wafts into your nostrils—a terrible, terrible thing, really.

you can smell it when you the sun's golden rays melt into your dormitory and the birds chirp.

you can smell it when the professor's words fly over your head.

you can smell it when your hands flow and you do not know what you are writing with the quill. you smell it everywhere but, it really emerges when you lay on your head on your pillow.  it slips in between your legs and what can you do but kick it out with your fingers?

it is lust then;  you want to fuck him.  and it is mutual aswell then; he wants to fuck you too. or that is what you think.

                  

                             —

it takes time to brindle up the courage but you do. maybe you shouldn't have.

"tom, would you mind fucking me?"

heat blooms in your stomach and it comes with a tight, sick knot of dread. you are scared. merlin, you will never admit it but you are scared. you scared of what he will say—you are scared of his lips curling into a scowl—you are scared to see disgust in his eyes, you are scared to never feel his soft touch again and you are so scared that you cannot speak further. how could you?  your throat is a dry, parched thing. you should've never said it.

his lips part and his eyes are blown wide. it is not comforting to see him shocked. he pauses to consider and the heavy, burning knot in your stomach tightens. you have done it. you have fucking ruined it.

his expression is then still; he does not smile or scoff—impassive, flawless. but this is not the time to admire him. you've made him uncomfortable at the very least and it lodges itself  between your lungs until you cannot breathe. are you so vile that you made the ultimate manipulator speechless?

"of course I will." he finally says, still unsmiling. your lips quiver and you slowly run your fingers across his face. his skin is velvet smooth, unmarred. you feel his warmth bleeding into your fingers and it's spring's kiss. the budding of plush, glistening cherries or the slick, red honeysuckles that flower when the snow softens into the soil.

again, you are a summer flower and he is the sun. he is only saying this because he doesn't want to upset you and you can't help but fall into it. he stirs your fingers away from his face and intertwines them with his own slender ones. "but," he pauses, lips brushing your fingers. "not today."

"why?" you ask. it's a stupid question. you are no one to question his autonomy but then again you do.

"because," he muses, hands slowly falling away from you. "i want our first time to be special and today is not exactly an extraordinary day, is it?".

"oh." you say. "i see."

but you don't. you don't see.

—

the days are restless.  and the nights — god, the nights? they are worse. was it not bad enough already? you think.  they are heavy, slick, and scorching. vicious, maybe. but that is alright. you'd love being viciously fucked — him pushing you beneath him in the bed, ignoring your soft whimpers and cries  and taking what he wants. his head buried between your thighs, your hands pulling harshly on his hair as your eyes roll back and—and—

in short, you ache — ache for him and the only substitute is your hand. even that is turning meagre. you cannot be satisfied with burning, lewd fantasies and a limb. and it is not as if he'll fuck you.

the heat spreads — a blazing scorch that fries your insides and boils your cheeks when you catch a whiff of that familiar sandalwood.

but even that is rare — he avoids you, turns the other way when you're both in the same hallway,  buries himself back into his studies if you ever bump into eachother in the library and pretends as though you are not there. no words are exchanged ever since that 'i see.'

it is a clever trick. and you willingly fall for it.  because maybe, just, maybe,  he is doing this to make you desperate with rotten, depraved longing — to make you want him back. yes, that is the case. he must doing this to make you as equally as stalker-ish as he is.

but you are not that naive. there is always a ghost that haunts your roaring masturbation.  it lingers, a depraved voyeur, and snickers as you wail out his name. it curves and twists and coils and blows into your ears as you clean your mess up with a handkerchief that smells of sandalwood — when will he come back? will  he even come back? did you make him uncomfortable? is he....disgusted?

and after every self-fuck, you shudder violently. how do your cheeks fare now, that his fingers don't trail across them? how are your lips now, that he does not bruise them with kisses? how is your waist, now that he does not wrap his arms around it? and how are you?. how the fuck are you?

you reach for something to hold on but there is nothing. you open your mouth to speak but there is no one. you lean in to kiss but there are no lips. how could you have ever survived his love? how could you have stood still as he gazed so, so heavily upon you? how could you have inhaled the sandalwood? merlin, you don't know because that was not you. who were you?

and, who are you? a summer flower in the sun, maybe. petals pale and withering, red leaves dull and withering — just a crunch beneath someone's feet. dancing in the autumn wind in search of that summer breeze.

—

he is excellent and you hate him for it. you hate his gleaming, polished record of perfection. you hate his poise, how he speaks so eloquently. you hate his disarming smile with dimples on the left. you hate all that because it is not yours, but it was once.

was once, you remind yourself as Slughorn partners you both in potions. does the old geezer know somehow? you think, as you make the pain-staking journey to his seat. it's in the first row, of course. goody-two shoes.

your feet are being prickled with nails, perhaps — because every other step needs another intake of breath. your chest is a heavy, taut band and it is sick — oh so sick that you do not feel your eyes sting. the air hits your cheeks like a violent punch as you sit down. fucking sandalwood.

what will you say? there is so much and yet no words form as your lips part. an apology, maybe. or a confrontation. both do not sound logical and you want something that is — you cannot afford to spill your tears infront of him.

and him? he does not look your way, no, he remains impassive; still, eyes focused on his potion, long slender fingers working with effortless grace. he is beautiful. so, so disgustingly beautiful. the perfect curve of his nose, the way he towers over you, and something else — not quite there —. the phantom of a frown that marrs his lips as you continue to glare at him.

you snap your head away and wonder if he'll grip your face and turn your gaze back towards him and then whisper into you ear that you're all his. you still remember it. that murky look of longing he gave you. it is impossible to describe wholly, too depraved, too deep for words. his eyes, narrowed with aching, never left you. almost as if he was a starved man, hungry and ready to devour.

it makes you tingle.

it will not happen again, you decide midway through mixing your ingredients. so you must do it yourself.

"riddle..?" you say, his last name an unfamiliar pang on your tongue. "did i...did I do something wrong?

he doesn't hear you — atleast that is what you think. of course he wouldn't respond — what were you thinking? there is no reason for him to. you are a stranger; a pathetic creep, a perverse fool. blind. stupid, even.

and maybe you are being a fool again but — that look could not surely not be erased in a matter of days. surely he could not have discarded you like a torn piece of parchment or, more accurately; the pulpy, rotten stem of a summer flower.

but oh he did. he did do that. he threw you away and now you want him to take you back. "...riddle?" you repeat.

he turns to you. and it is the blossoming of flowers again. the gentle rebirth of the summer flower, squashed in damp mud, slender stem sprouting out of the ground — wet. tiny. fragile. he is once again divine, pristine, unattainable.

with his flawless pale skin, jet-black hair that falls in gentle waves above in his forehead, dark eyes lightly rimmed with lashes, and a perfectly carved nose, he scares you again; how can one be so beautiful? his lips quirk but he does not  smile. "no." he says. "you haven't done anything wrong, you could never."

ah.

you melt into heated goop. light, dreamy and weightless. your fingers tremble to reach out take his hand but you do not. you cannot. when was the last time you felt your cheeks burn in this way? you don't remember but honestly you do not care and besides—

Potions ends and so does your excitement.

your legs sprint on their own, perhaps, because you did not mean to bump into him in the hallway. (or perhaps you did.) huffing out for breath, you take his hand before he can turn away. his hand is so warm — long and slender. you could hold it forever and let the heat crisp you. you are surprised by your own firm grip as his eyes widen. he raises a brow but doesn't pull away.

"tom," you whisper. "please. please. don't go... don't leave me alone again. not after what you just said. for fuck's sake." you croak out. "please?"

his lips curve into a thin line and your lips are trembling already, afraid that a sob might crack through. he still does not pull away. "come here." he coos as though you are a pet. and maybe you are because you do as he says.  you bury yourself into his chest and consume that sandalwood. god. you inhale it deeply until it's wafting inside your nostrils — so poignant that you're drowning.

you're drowning and his neck is the only thing you can hold on to, and hence you wrap your arms around it. his fingers trail across your hair and you shiver. it is as if you are floating now. a sob howls through and another and another — and you cry. until your cheeks are wet and slick with hot tears and the front of his robes are soaked.

"sorry." you say. "so sorry for ruining your uniform." he does not smile at the jest but he instead takes a strand of your hair and kisses it, like he always does. a sweet gesture, perhaps but there is something else. something you cannot quite put your finger on. a storm clouding his dark eyes, just like that syrupy look. except, he remains still. nobody could notice it, besides you because you know  his stares.

he lowers his gaze, looking at nothing in particular. you feel his nails digging into your flesh as he leans in and whispers, his breath hitching. "you are mine." he bites your earlobe and you wince — but you do not mind the sudden pang of pain. it is, in it's own twisted way, alluring. a strange kind of allure. "all mine." he is right, you are all his and you'd be happy to be that all your life

and then you feel something prick against you. he raises his wand and presses it against your throat.

what the fuck.?

you go cold — throat parched, lips parted. your stomach squeezes uncomfortably tight and you can feel the bile splashing beneath your tongue. your ears ring with an indescribable echo. why in— no, what is he doing?  "tom..? why are you-"

"shh," he murmurs, pressing his lips to your sweat-drenched hand. "be quiet." you open your mouth to speak but no words come out. no matter how much you try, it is as if there is some invisible barrier that does not allow you to speak. "do you not understand?" he asks, but it is not an question. "so desperate and blindly in love, aren't you?" he grabs your collar and a smile, if you could call it that, graces his lips. you cannot breathe.

"but I like that. it is amusing, really, to see how lonely and touch-starved you are." he muses, his hands tightening around your throat. fuck. fuck. fuck. you thrash your legs but it is of no use. how could you have ever  idolized him? how? "but you are not mine. not yet, at least."

something sweet trickles down your throat, leaving fire in it's wake — you kick and silently scream as your lungs burn saccharinely with an ache. scorching to your core, lighting your heart on sizzling candy.

a love potion, you think as your eyes turn hazy and the world spins — why is everything so..far? tom himself feels as though he's miles away from you, his voice is but an echo, and his touch is numb. not there at all. so much for an experiment. why, you think. you already loved him.

even if that treacle tart you gave him had poison in it. on second thought, this love potion might aswell.

[ktsumu]

RESOLUTIONS (this year is different) tw: alcohol consumption

This year, you wait for January in an apartment that is packed full.

You’re familiar with everyone, for the most part, all people who have played with Ushijima over the years, all people you’ve watched in one jersey or another. Everyone is laughing, happy — even Wakatoshi himself who, normally quite reserved, laughs with one of his teammates, a glass half-full in hand.

This year is different, you tell yourself. 

You know that, whenever you're all drunk enough to call it a night, you’ll call a cab and go home, probably kiss on the way there. He’ll lean on the bathroom counter and giggle while you smear your makeup away with a wipe, then take it from you and do it himself. He’ll be so much worse at it, but he’ll be gentle, and you’ll let him.

This year, you’re going to let yourself be loved. You’re excited to let him.

You watch Wakatoshi from your place on the couch, a small smile on your face. Happy looks good on him; he’s handsome when he’s free. His smile gives him lines around his mouth, his eyes crinkle. His laugh is saccharine. 

He doesn’t notice you’re watching, either, it’s not often he does. It’s not hard to be subtle — your eyes typically find him, anyway, golden boy wherever he goes.

This year, I’m going to let myself be loved.

You met him years ago, sort of in a situation like this. You were both in a bar in Tokyo, you think, and he stuck out like a sore thumb; freshly twenty and new to this, surrounded by teammates who made it obvious he’s never been to a bar before.

They also made it obvious he was new to a lot of things, likely why they made it so obvious in how they were jabbing his side with their elbows, nodding to you sat a few seats down. Go talk to her, she’s totally into you, she’s pretty!

(He didn’t even talk when he first sat down — you offered him a shot he probably needed and he took it.)

The rest is history.

It feels weird to think about going home. Home. You live with him, the bills get paid. He has smile lines and stretch marks on his shoulders. He’s going to take your makeup off for you because he’s seen you in every way you come. You have a house and you have a home — your friend said she thinks he might propose this year.

Growing pains are scarier when they’re not in your knees.

You only notice he’s moved when the couch sinks beside you. Wakatoshi sits next to you, a close-lipped smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and he rests a hand on your thigh.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and it’s just the two of you.

You look over his face, his flushed cheeks. You smile, too. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

Wakatoshi is gentle when he guides you towards him, his hand on your nape, kissing you like you’ve never done it before. He tastes like Tennessee, and like a resolution. 

This year, I’m going to kiss him more.

“I love you,” he murmurs. “I’m glad I’m here with you.”

Whatever dread you carried before, it’s going away now.

“You are?” you tease, pulling back to really look at him. An anonymous hand walks by and ruffles his hair, like he’s scoring his first girl, and carries on. He doesn’t look up. 

“Very.”

“Mm,” you hum, leaning your head on his shoulder. “I guess I’m glad I’m here with you, too.”

“I mean, I would hope so.”

“Hah,” you snort, “I’m excited to go home, too.”

He scoffs, as if he isn’t typically the reserved one; as if he wasn’t the one you had to convince to make a show here. “You want to get out so soon?”

“What, you’re not excited to deal with me at home?” you giggle, craning your head to look up at him. “Not excited to spend, like, a fat hour getting ready for bed?”

He snickers again, taking a sip of his drink. He squints like he drank it too quickly. 

“Like last year?”

“Yup. Except, I don’t know about the last part. I’m gonna pass out the second I hit the mattress, ‘Toshi.”

“That’s okay, I’ll tuck you in.”

Your chest warms, and you both laugh. One of you starts it, but you don’t remember who.

“You’re gonna tuck me in and take my makeup off, huh?”

“Like last year,” he confirms. “And get you water — get us both water,”

“Mm, you’ll need it, big guy.”

“I am fine.”

“Yeah, I know. As long as you can see where my face is, that’s good enough for me.”

“I can find it blind,” he says simply, smoothing your hair back and out of your face. “But yes, I can see it fine.”

You smile all crooked — he tilts his head like he wants to see it upright. 

“We’re gettin' older, huh ‘Toshi?”

“That is how years work, yes.”

“Going home,” you say; your thoughts are all out loud. “Going to bed.”

He smiles — he loves it. “Unless you want to stay out?”

“No, no, I want to. I’m just,” you take a deep breath, “thinking. This’ll be how many years?”

“Not enough,” he says simply. “I wanna do this forever.”

“Hah, well, I have no doubt your body could sustain years of New Years Eve parties—”

“I meant going home,” he interrupts. “Taking off your makeup, getting you water, and kissing you goodnight.”

Your heart swells to the point of being uncomfortable, the lump in your throat impossibly there. His hand hasn’t left your thigh, it hasn’t risen higher, it just sits there. His touch is warm like a swaddle, unmoving. It’s so familiar that you lean into it like you're being carried to bed.

Wakatoshi grins; it’s crooked and you tilt your head to see it upright. “Every year, I think I love you a little more.”

(The dread you had is gone now — why you ever had it, you don’t know for sure.)

This year is different, you tell yourself. This year, you’re gonna grow.

There’s a cheer throughout the room, all this laughter becoming a dull muffle when the room seems to reach the sound capacity the little space has. There’s kazoos, glass clinking, goofy hats falling to the floor — people are singing:

“Happy new year, love,” he murmurs, and he captures your lips again.

This year, I’m gonna grow.

I’m gonna let him love it, and maybe I’ll love it, too. 

[everybodyshusband]

uhhh in My Feels™️ so woe, ansgt be upon ye !!!

disabled rain, angst, hurt/not much comfort, it's just sad and a bit weird and bad i'm sorry ksdfjnsfkdf divider by the icon that is @/wrathofrats

Rain is a jealous ghoul. He’s always known it.

It’s fun, sometimes. Fun to let his packmates play with his jealousies until he just can’t help but snap. Until he’s got one of them over his lap, turned on beyond belief, skin red hot, as they beg for his mercy. As they apologise for daring to belong to anyone but him.

So yes, his jealousy is fun, but he never expected for it to manifest like this.

The first time, he thought he was just overtired. Anger boiling inside of him caused by lack of sleep the previous night rather than jealousy of one of his packmates. After all, this is a stupid thing to be jealous about, and the night before, well… He’d been rather too busy being taken apart inch by painstaking inch by Zephyr to really have had any modicum of decent sleep at all. So again, why was he jealous? Why is he still jealous? What motive did he have to be jealous of the ghoul that was in his bed only the night before?

It wasn’t until Aeon was summoned that he figured it out. Until the sensation of his blood boiling could be tied to more than just an abstract feeling of annoyance bubbling under his skin. With Aeon, he’s never felt his usual jealousy—the quintessence ghoul is in his bed more often than not, so why would he? What he has felt however, has been that awful, sick feeling of hatred every time that new ghoul stumbles. Complains of his ailments. Asks to borrow one of Zephyr’s old canes or pairs of forearm crutches for stability on a particularly bad day.

That’s when it had all clicked together. Aeon. Zephyr. Sometimes even Mountain or Cumulus.

But never Rain.

His jealousy stems from the fact that they get help. They are allowed to be in pain, to be uncomfortable. They have a reason. They have been seen by Omega, by Aether, by the team in the infirmary, and they all have something different about them.

Rain doesn’t.

Rain, with the hyperextended legs that apparently cause him no medical difficulties and yet still stumbles during practice or onstage. Rain, with the perfect iron count whose vision still turns to static when he stands up. Rain, with joints that ache, bones that pop, a head that never quite seems to be able to pay attention as well as the others, but he’s fine. No matter how hard he presses that something is wrong, he’s fine. Nevermind that he’s been Up Top for years, nevermind that he’s done all that he can to treat this on his own. Nevermind that he’s getting worse. He’s fine, at least that’s what Aether had told him the last time he took a trip to the infirmary.

So yes, he’s jealous. He’s jealous of Zephyr’s chair on their bad days and the fact that Aeon feels no shame in asking to borrow mobility aids from ghouls that aren’t using them. He’s jealous that Cumulus only needs to ask Aether for a wrist splint before one is in her lap, being meticulously fastened by the quintessence ghoul himself. He’s tried to reign it in, the intensity of his emotions about this, but no matter how hard he tries, he just can’t. He knows it’s not anyone’s fault, least of all Aeth’s or Meg’s—they’re just doing their jobs, there’s protocol they have to follow—but that knowledge doesn’t stop the jealousy, the aggravation, the hatred of his beloved packmates for simply existing in a way that he’s not allowed to. For getting help in a way that he’s too scared to ask for.

He often thinks that perhaps this is why he’s so angry, so jealous. It’s his own fault he can’t—won’t—ask for help from any of them. He knows he’s allowed to. He knows that Aether and Omega would be more than happy to bend the rules a little to help him out, or that Zephyr wouldn’t mind lending him a (literal) something to lean on when Rain needs it. But he’s scared. Scared that if they can help, he won’t be in pain anymore and he’s been lying this whole time. And scared that if they can’t, that he’s unfixable, untreatable. That this vessel is just another one of God’s mistakes that Satan never bothered to fix. Maybe it is. Maybe there’s no fixing him. No helping him.

He hopes that’s not the case. As much as getting whatever this is fixed scares him, he knows he can’t go on like this forever. His pack knows it too. Zephyr had noticed it first. They’d sat him down one day in their room and had simply waited until it had all come pouring out in a mess of tears and snot and helplessness. Since then, the pack have known what’s been happening and as a collective, they’ve been doing their best to help him. It’s nice, he thinks. For them to be so kind to a being as broken as himself. One day he’ll try his best to repay them all. For now though, he just needs to work up the energy to swing his legs over the edge of his mattress, to muster up the courage to call Aeon and ask for his help, and maybe a cane.

Or maybe he’ll just stay in bed a while longer...

[fleetways]

Chapter 14: Preparations

get snowed on idiot

[silvyavan]

The "take Asta to the therapist" post

Asta "I am constantly thrown at odds with my desires and beliefs and upbringing against both my enemies as well as my allies. I am thrown into major catastrophic events that actively challenge my desire to be good and kind and protect the people I love. I have been in a state of self destructive positivity in an attempt of keeping up the facade of my beliefs and in denial. Current events have made my weakness so apparent I almost died. I am afraid of both becoming so weak that I cannot protect my loved ones and so dangerous that I am an active danger to them. My idols and role models are all murderers. If I hear that i was born to be a demonic force of nature that kills all, I will actually kill myself." Of Hage.