#seems like some of you had the same idea before?? because it was out of stock for some time

[dumbbbg]

FOR YOU 4

Pairing: Anakin Skywalker x Padawan!reader (Later will turn into Unburnt Vader x rebel! reader)

Full series

Previous chapter - 3

Next Chapter - 5 (Not published yet)

Warnings (For the whole series): noncon, dubcon, dom/sub dynamics (basically filth)

Warnings (for this chapter): Noncon touching + kissing. Anakin being scary. Anakin being possessive. Humiliation. Anakin also being kinda...nice? Calm?

. . .

For the millionth time, you couldn't believe you were in this position. You were placed on Anakin's lap, his one arm wrapped around your waist, his chin brushing the top of your head as he flew the ship. His large hand was resting on your waist, rubbing it up and down so casually like he was doing something he always did, something very ordinary.

Soon, the ship was in hyperspace, and Anakin relaxed on his seat, pulling you till you were forced to lay on his chest. You kept your eyes fixed on the beautiful hyperspace, trying to ignore the monster holding you captive.

"Little one," he murmured. "You look beautiful with the light of stars on your face." His mechanical hand cupped your face and pulled at it till you were forced to meet his eyes. His eyes were only slightly yellow, somehow gentle for the first time. His lips pressed against your forehead. "My love." His lips brushed your cheek gently.

He did that for a while. You held your breath. His lips brushed all over his face, kissing as if worshipping. For a few moments, he was the soft Anakin you sometimes watched from afar. When he was normal.

"We should be there in a few hours," he said. "You should get some sleep." He moved you till you were lying sideways on his lap, your head resting on his chest.

"I-I can go to the co-pilot seat-"

"No." Yellow flickered in his eyes. "Sit still."

You did.

Slowly, his steady breathing and the slight noise of the ship lulled you to sleep. The last thing you vaguely remembered was Anakin pressed his lips against you in a brief kiss, zooming through the stars.

. . .

"W-what are we doing on...Alderaan, master?"

He helped you down the ship, basically carrying you in his arms. "Some business with Senator Organa. Come on."

You both walked inside and were warmly welcomed. You smiled shyly, answering the questions that the senator and others asked during dinner, and before you knew it, you were in a guestroom, wondering what business Anakin had with the senator. But, no matter how curious you were, you would never ask.

You had to find a way to get out of being his apprentice. You didn't know how that could happen. He had even taken your lightsaber and your ass was bruised because of him. He had taken full control of your life in mere weeks.

Telling Obi-Wan always seemed like a good idea, but at the same time, Anakin was close to him. What if he didn't listen? What if you were just labelled as a liar by the whole Jedi order? People worshipped Anakin while they tolerated you. You might be beautiful but strength with the Force is power in the Jedi Order.

The door opened.

Your eyes fell upon Anakin as he entered and casually closed the door. "Why aren't you sleeping?"

"I-I couldn't, master. It's a new place."

He took off his robe, leaving himself in his trousers. He set his lightsaber down beside his neatly folded robe and walked towards you with unhurried, intimidating steps. You gulped at the showcase of strength his body was, his dark mechanical hand a contrast to his skin. His abs were easily defined, and a few scars littered his body. He was a general who was fighting in the Cole Wars; of course he was built to the bone.

It made you terrified. It made you nervous. In no aspect whatsoever could you ever overpower him. Force. Physical strength.

"A-are you going to sleep here?"

"Yes."

He got into the bed, pulling you to his side easily, his arm curled under your waist, dragging you to his chest.

"I-I can do to the other room if you l-like this one better-"

He chuckled. "I like my little Padawan sleeping on me." His large hand travelled down and grabbed your ass. You winced. Your ass was still tender from the punishment he had given you.

He didn't react, he just petted your ass, keeping his hand there. Slowly, he fell asleep while you lay tensed in his arms, biting a hole through your bottom lip in anxiety.

Only when the morning came did your exhausted eyes finally drop into a troubled sleep filled with flashing yellow eyes, dark smirks and, for some reason, a muscular, giant hand holding a red lightsaber.

. . .

Anakin was a shadow you could not shake. If he wasn't following you, R2D2 was. The little white and blue droid followed you everywhere, and sometimes both of them were there, watching over you.

The trip to Alderaan proved to be some preparation for a humanitarian mission the Jedi were to be given, to go around some Separatist blockade to apply food to a small planet. The mission was for your master and Master Kenobi. You would just tag along.

Soon, the plans were finalised, and before long, you and Anakin were back in his ship, with your sitting on his lap, and back in hyperspace. Now, he was tense. The yellow of his eyes was obvious, and now you knew enough to know that he was about to do something brutal.

"Are you tired?" Maker, even his voice had deepened. It rumbled through your body, making it tremble in fear.

"No, master-"

His giant hands landed on your thighs, and before you knew it, he had spread your legs, pulled your robes open, and somehow immobilized them in a way that you could only move your knees, not your feet.

"W-wait- what are you doing-"

"Spread."

"What-"

"Spread."

You spread your knees, trembling like a leaf. His large hands ripped your trousers and pulled your tunic up, exposing just your simple panties covering you.

"Do you know-" he began, his rough, large hands resting on your soft inner thighs, rubbing up and down, "- how many men were looking at you, little one? How many of them couldn't fucking tear their eyes away from my padawan? They wanted to fuck you. They wanted to bend you over and use all your holes." You whimpered at the words, shaking your head, small hands trembling with the effort to not grab his hands and try to tug them away.

"W-wait- they weren't- t-they-"

"I could feel it," he said. "The Force tells me everything, little one. Their desire, your fear."

His finger brushed your pussy, and you flinched at the touch. His lips pressed against your ear, and he tugged a finger inside your panties, touching your bare hole.

"So small," he muttered. "Let's stretch this cunt out, yes?"

. . .

Lmk what you think of the story so far <3

[biancadoes1]

✨THEORY TIME✨ THE SWITCH UP

Everything I say here is pure speculation and theory. Don’t like it don’t read.

I think we’re seeing a role reversal.

I think we’re seeing Nicola get the Luke Summer 2024 hate pile treatment.

And I think it’s intentional.

Just hear me out.

Luke was put through the fucking wringer online after the London premiere. Like senselessly and from the same fandom that was boosting him just the week before.

Shit got messy. It looked messy at least between mid June and early August. Then it started to die down. The Luke hate started to fizzle out and by the time December rolled around it felt like things really changed.

Sure, when he popped up with Antonia again it kind of started in some but not nearly as bad as it was at the end of the press tour.

Because Luke fell on the sword. And now? Now I think Nicola is doing the same.

If you look back, Nicola got the “he’s not good enough for you anyway” treatment. The girl that got rejected idea. She got uplifted and put on a pedestal and had to delete nasty comments about Luke on her IG posts because things looked a certain way.

So what are we seeing now? Nicola and Jake. Polaroids. Spoon reflections. Overshadowing of certain accomplishments with his presence. A media push (albeit pushed by other reasons but still serving this purpose) of a fake relationship with the most sibling energy ever.

And she’s getting hate from all corners. I’ve even gotten a few “Luke deserves better” asks that I won’t publish after Thursday. Admittedly I was even like GIRL WTF.

But what makes more sense to me, and why she’s seeming to go against all the shit she said she didn’t want and low key picking at fandom lore and Jake stepping up his trolling, is because she’s taking her turn now.

Because what would it look like if Nic and Luke came out with everything and she looks like she got off scot free? And what if there’s some guilt there associated because she’s had a great 2024 from what we’ve seen publicly and on SM. She’s still having a great 2025.

What if she’s ensuring she’s got the same kind of hate under her belt to even things out? We’ve already seemingly got Boss 2.0. Was Cannes the equivalent to Luke’s BAFTA?

The hate is suffocating. It feels like summer 2024 again but more people are scratching their fucking heads.

All that to say this…

Luke kicked it off last summer, Nic is gonna close it out this summer.

[castieldelamancha]

Dean hits the side of the vending machine getting more and more frustrated with each passing second. He pointedly ignores the pain he can feel in his hand now.

Inside the machine the chocolate bar he has been trying to get for the last ten minutes stares back smugly at him. It doesn't even have eyes to stare back, or a face to look smug, but Dean can feel its condescending judgment anyway, same as those stale chips watching from the second row that probably expired back in 1986.

"All these stupid motels with their stupid, ancient, vending machines." He mutters.

He is well aware in some corner of his tired brain he isn't this mad about something as insignificant as a damn chocolate bar, he is frustrated because he hasn't slept more than two hours in a row, he is angry because neither him nor Sam seem to know what they are after, the trip here was long and the case seems overly complicated.

Right when he is about to give up with an exhausted sigh and go back to their room to stare at their files again, he hears that telltale flutter of wings he is so familiar with at his back.

He turns around, his exhaustion and frustration all but forgotten at the sight of Cas.

He looks tired too, but he is smiling at Dean, that small, private thing he has only for Dean and that makes his eyes shine bright. His trench coat is a bit wrinkled, as is the white shirt he is wearing underneath, he is not wearing a tie today, and Dean hopes Cas isn't annoyed at him for taking the blue one he prefers to use with him the last time they saw each other to wear it with his fed suit.

Cas doesn't say anything, he does stares past Dean at the offending vending machine, squinting his eyes at it, Dean turns around once more to look at it too when he hears the sound of something falling on the tray at the bottom.

"My hero," he exclaims, a little out of breath, he had wanted it to come out as amused but he sounds too in love for the joke to land, "thanks babe." He throws a glance and a cheeky wink at Cas over his shoulder before bending down to retrieve his loot. "Awesome." He had been sure he had lost his money and the chance to get any food but Cas has miracled him a bunch of bars and some water.

They could debate if his grace was intended to be used this way and then Cas would get that intense look on his face and say some shit like "it was created to help humans, to care for them, and I love doing those things for you, no better use for my grace, Dean." and Dean would get all teary-eyed and he is too tired for all of that.

He simply stands straight again and looks at Cas.

"Of course, Dean, always." He always, always, replies that to Dean whenever he shows he is thankful.

Dean transfers all the drinks and food he is carrying to the crook of his elbow, freeing one hand that he closes around Cas' own hand, allowing the angel to tangle their fingers together and slowly rock their hands back and forth as they walk back to Dean and Sam's room.

"You gonna stay for a while or is this just a quick visit? Because, huh, we need some new ideas and perspective for this case and all," he wants to smack himself, this is Cas, for goodness' sake, no need to act like a nervous teenager with a crush, he can just tell him 'it would be nice to have you around.' and Cas would be delighted.

Luckily for him Castiel's inability to read any human interaction or its meaning doesn't apply to Dean's own lacking communication skills, he just smiles again and nods once, "I would love to be of assistance." and what he means is 'it would be nice to be around you too.' Dean's heart can't almost take it.

"Cool, gotta tell Sam to get his own room, though."

[the-rodent-gentleman]

With another tale to spin.

So many days spent working on this...and it was worth it.

A lineup of the main cast for a Talespin reboot set in the 1990s. I had to do quite a bit of research into the fashion trends of that decade to ensure everyone fit in. To be frank, I'm impressed with how easily (almost) all of them take to the aesthetic.

As for how this sort of reboot would work as a show, I have a few loose concepts I might consider posting in the near future, both for reimaginings of classic episodes as well as crossover events, considering I envision this taking place a few decades before the events of the 2017 Ducktales reboot.

Here's some information on what they'd be like along with my thought processes on the character designs from left to right:

Baloo von Bruinwald - Papa Bear here wasn't particularly hard to pin down. I just had to jazz up his wardrobe a bit with a jacket and glasses, really. If I could pick VAs in real life, I'd go with James Monroe Iglehart because not only does he have that deep bouncy voice that invokes the perfect blend of devil-may-care and warmheartedness (Lance Strongbow from Tangled: The Series) but the man can also sing (Asmodeus from Helluva Boss), something we should have gotten more from Baloo in the original Talespin. Besides, it'd be interesting and fun to explore a Baloo with black coding on top of the German ancestry the original Talespin gave him as well as his original Indian heritage from the Jungle Book.

Rebecca Cunningham - Now Becky here definitely got the biggest makeover in terms of redesign. As much as I don't mind her original look, it really needed her personality and VA's performance to do all the heavy-lifting and felt like a product of the time. That's why I decided to depict her and Molly as Plains Cree (hence the added ponytail), not merely for the sake of diversity but to help introduce conflicts that feel genuine and less forced with a nonwhite-coded character. As for voices, Deedee Magno-Hall would work well as her time as Pearl on Steven Universe shows she can do motherly figures but also depict that neuroticism that's key to Rebecca's character flaws.

Bagheera - Yes, that's right. Baloo's original spouse is here like he deserves! Like any rebooter worth their salt, I had to figure out how he'd fit into the universe, especially since I want to incorporate his friendship with Baloo and the other Jungle Book characters - so I decided to make him a former S.H.U.S.H. agent who now works as Higher for Hire's second pilot. There'd be a whole arc centered around him having to confront his past because of F.O.W.L. causing trouble and everything. Now for his design, I decided to go for simple by giving him a very "dorky dad" look as way of making him seem unassuming. Personally, I'd pick Riz Ahmed (Ballister Boldheart from Nimona) as the VA as I headcanon Talespin Bagheera to be Indian-Pakistani. Plus, Ahmed is a dedicated rapper and the idea of Bagheera dropping a diss-track is just too good an idea to pass up.

Shere Khan - Nothing changed. Aside from the flower and cane, nothing about this man changed at all. Really, it's stupefying how little formal business attire has changed between the 30s and 90s. So, I added in an orange gerbera (a symbol of strength and resilience) and a badass cane for extra flavor. I also headcanon him as Chinese-Indian by the way, so make of that what you will. Now while I know none can truly replace Tony Jay, I believe Christopher Judge (Kratos from God of War 2018 and Ragnarok) would come pretty dang close on account of his intimidatingly booming voice and the way he delivers dry wit.

Don Karnage - As time consuming as he was (the teeth especially), I think Karnage's redesign is by far my favorite. Something about him in that flowing coat with the open chest fur just works. In terms of lore, Don Karnage would stay more or less the same, albeit he'd be like that old man struggling with all the doohickeys cropping up. He'd be voiced by John Leguizamo (Sid from Ice Age and Bruno from Encanto) who can do surprisingly good villains, like in Violent Night, yet can still come off as hilarious.

Wildcat - To be honest, I'm not entirely sure if I'm OK with the look I gave him, but I do like the idea of Wildcat rocking a beanie, so I'll keep him this way for now. Other than that, I'd prefer to keep Wildcat as much of an enigma in terms of backstory as the show did, just to preserve that sense of amiable chaos he's so good at bringing. By the way, I'd let his original VA Pat Fraley keep voicing him cuz if it ain't broke don't fix it.

Molly Cunningham - Other than giving her pants longer legs and getting rid of the bow, Molly's not too different. The most noteworthy detail I added would be the cuff bracelet on her wrist. I based it off of this trinket posted on Facebook a while back based on traditional Plains Cree beadwork since I figured that'd be easier for me to draw. For a VA, I'd give her Dani Chambers (Molly from Epithet Erased and Becky Blackbell from Spy x Family) since she's pretty good with voicing cute yet sassy young girls. Kit Cloudkicker - Ah Kit, the one the Ducktales reboot did so unnecessarily dirty. Not to worry, he's still as much of an aviation prodigy here as ever. Besides, it'd be far more interesting to explore a Kit who tries too hard to instead emulate Rebecca, even if unintentionally, to the point of burnout. As for his fit here, I simply switched out his beloved sweater for a nice two-toned jacket. For voices, I'd go with Justine Lee (Ken Amada from Persona 3: Reload) who can pull off sounding like a young spirited boy quite well. Simon Zhong - The only original character in this lineup. Ya'll who follow me might recognize him from all my Kit x Simon art. He's mainly here to serve as a nice chaotic counter to Bagheera (the two of them will parallel Baloo and Kit naturally) as well as a living bridge to potential conflicts with F.O.W.L. I decided to give him a grunge look since black is so prominent in his design, not to mention a Pac Man ghost shirt to hint at his fixation on video games. If he were to be a character in a real-life reboot, despite being pretty laconic, I'd go with Charlene Yi (Ruby from Steven Universe and Chloe from We Bare Bears) since she's got that crackling voice that has its own unique charm.

Louie - Yeah, I gave the main man the Florida treatment. Honestly, I think he looks even better this way. Aside from deeper lore on his history with Baloo and the other Jungle book characters, I wouldn't change much else about him. On that note, like with Wildcat, I'd stick with his original voice actor, Jim Cummings in this case.

Marcos - And now for the guest of honor. Say hello to Don Karnage's singing, prancy, and oh so theatrical nephew (who may or may not take over as captain one day). Because yes, yes this kid will in fact grow up to become the Don Karnage we see in the Ducktales reboot! Between an uncle who keep berating for "not acting like a real pirate" and a one-sided rivalry with his uncle's former protege, Kit, poor Marcos has quite the chip off his shoulder. In light of that, Alanna Ubach (Manny Rivera from El Tigre and Mamá Imelda from Coco - God that woman has range) would be his VA as she can pull off voicing a bratty and overconfident Latino kid pretty well.

Overall, this would be a pretty stacked cast.

As for the background, I'd rather hold back on explaining that until I start posting some more of my concept art. But I'll give you a hint: Memphis style. And that's all ya'll are getting from me (for now).

Talespin, the Jungle Book movie, and all relevant characters belong to Disney. I only own Simon and the idea of this reboot.

[89pedri]

How Did It End?

⤑ Summary: As Pedri's relationship quietly unravels, all that remains is blurred memory, quiet grief, and a question no one can answer —how did it end? Angst, just angst.

⤑ Word count: 7,800+.

⤑ A/N: Inspired, obviously, by How Did It End (one of my surprise songs 🤭). Sooooo long lol, if you stick around and read ily.

Her mind performed a silent autopsy of their love, retracing the quiet decay hidden in half-forgotten moments.

She sat alone at the small kitchen table, staring at the empty coffee cup in front of her. The ceramic was still warm against her fingertips, a lingering heat that reminded her of his palm against the small of her back. Outside, Barcelona stirred with morning light, the sounds of the city slipping through the slats of half-closed blinds. 

She should have been working — answering emails, tackling assignments — but she couldn't. Not today. Not when the apartment still smelled faintly of his cologne, clinging stubbornly to cushions and curtains she couldn't bring herself to wash.

She thought about Pedri — about how he had always been... different from what she needed. He had grown up sheltered in protective warmth, his world shaped by routines, family dinners, and a clear sense of place.

The way his grandmother still called him every Sunday at exactly 7 p.m., how he kept his cleats arranged by colour, how he ate the same pre-game meal with religious precision. He didn't like surprises, changes, or plans being disrupted. She remembered the time their flight was delayed by three hours — the way his jaw clenched, his fingers tapping out a restless rhythm against his thigh until she reached over and stilled them with her hand. His life had always been about control, about predictability. About knowing what came next.

She, on the other hand, thrived in chaos.

When she moved to Barcelona, she wasn't just searching for a new city. She sought adventure in the narrow alleys where tourists rarely ventured, in the peeling paint of ancient buildings, in the taste of unfamiliar spices. Her spirit thrived on the unexpected — spontaneous beach trips with nothing but a towel and a dog-eared book, or tossing clothes into an overnight bag and driving until the map ran out. Some mornings, she'd wake with an urge to escape routine, trading deadlines for altitude and fresh air. Unplanned moments were oxygen to her lungs.

Once, she'd woken him before dawn, already dressed, two steaming coffees in hand, eyes bright with urgency. "Let's watch the sunrise from Tibidabo," she'd whispered. He'd groaned, reminded her he had training, that he needed rest. But he went, reluctantly. And when they reached the summit, the city stretched below them in a haze of golden light, she'd turned just in time to catch him staring — not at the view, but at her — his eyes full of something soft and unguarded, like wonder.

Pedri existed in straight lines while she moved in spirals.

She revelled in being outside the box — the one he was so desperately trying to build around her. Like when he'd suggested they move in together after only six months, presenting her with a folder of apartments he'd already researched, each one carefully vetted for proximity to Joan Gamper.

She'd declined, not out of hesitation but because the idea of sharing a space felt like surrendering too much, too soon. Yet, even so, their places became inextricably linked. His hoodie, the one that carried the faint scent of his cologne, would end up draped over the back of her couch, as if it had always belonged there. Her half-empty travel mug — the one she'd left in haste — would find its way to his kitchen, sitting beside his carefully arranged espresso machine. These quiet exchanges, the way they left pieces of themselves in each other's worlds, became a delicate compromise. They wove their lives together in subtle ways, but never fully converged.

And at first first, their differences seemed small, insignificant, charming even.

Pedri's need for structure had always made her feel cared for — grounded. There was comfort in the way he anticipated things, how he quietly made sure everything was under control. The night before an important interview, she'd come home to find her favourite blouse freshly pressed, laid out on the bed. Next to it was a note in his neat handwriting: "You'll be amazing tomorrow. I've set three alarms for you. Breakfast is in the fridge." She'd laughed, touched by the gesture, even as she rolled her eyes at how perfectly him it was — thoughtful, meticulous, endlessly steady.

And for him, the unpredictability had somehow grounded him in a way he hadn't realized he needed. It showed in the way he'd look at her during team dinners, when she was mid-story, gesturing wildly, making everyone at the table erupt with laughter. His teammates noticed the change, too — how he started showing up to training with mismatched socks sometimes, how he'd started taking different routes to training, how he'd developed a taste for street food he once deemed "unsanitary."

It was as if, by stepping outside his carefully constructed world, he'd discovered something about himself — a freedom he hadn't known was missing. She remembered the night they got caught in a sudden downpour, how instead of rushing for shelter, he'd grabbed her hands and spun her in the middle of Plaça de Catalunya, both of them soaked to the skin, his laughter louder than she'd ever heard it.

But with time, what once felt exhilarating began to wear differently.

Her spontaneity, once his favourite kind of surprise, started to unsettle him. The day she'd surprised him at training with tickets to Paris for the weekend — his face had fallen, eyes darting to his coach before forcing a smile. "I can't just leave," he'd whispered, and she felt the weight of disappointment settle in her stomach. Over time, her love for unpredictability found no place in his need for order.

The first fracture appeared so subtly she almost missed it.

They were walking through the narrow streets of El Born on a crisp winter evening, the soft hum of conversation and the clink of glasses spilling out from tapas bars around them. Pedri reached for her hand, but instead of the familiar warmth she'd come to rely on — the kind that had always warmed her on nights like this — his touch felt distant, almost foreign. The fingers that once slipped between hers so naturally now felt stiff, deliberate, as though each movement was carefully calculated.

It just wasn't the same. It wasn't him anymore.

She remembered how those small gestures, like the way his hand would find hers without a word, had once been her birthright — a quiet, reassuring sign of love, so natural it couldn't have possibly belonged to someone else. The way he used to trace circles on her palm with his thumb. But now, those same touches felt intrusive, like a stranger's hands brushing against her skin.

The second fracture — deeper, more pronounced — was impossible to ignore.

It was in the way Pedri withdrew after the crushing loss to Real Madrid, retreating into himself the moment the final whistle blew. He needed the silence to process it, to shut out everything, to hold his thoughts behind a wall that she couldn't penetrate. She waited three hours in the parking lot, watching other players emerge with their families, until, finally, he appeared — eyes hollow, shoulders hunched in defeat. In the car, he didn't speak. He stared out the window, the streetlights casting harsh shadows across his face like prison bars, separating him from everything and everyone, even her. She wanted to talk, to share in the sting of the loss, to remind him that one game didn't define him, that it was just a moment. She needed to connect, to feel like they were in it together, but every time she reached for him, he recoiled. His need for solitude had become more insistent, more suffocating. The silence in the car that night, broken only by the low hum of the engine and the sound of her swallowing back words that would never reach him.

She thought back to a time, not long before then, when it hadn't been that way. Like the night he called her at 1:12 a.m., his voice ragged, frayed at the edges, after another painful defeat. "I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts," he'd said. Without hesitation, she'd slipped out of bed, driven through the empty streets to find him sitting in the dark, still in his mud-streaked jersey, the weight of the game heavy on him. That night, she'd held him in silence, her fingers weaving through his hair as his breath slowly steadied against her collarbone.

But as weeks passed, his emotional withdrawal deepened, the weight of the season's exhaustion pressing down on both his body and soul. Fer would catch her in moments like these, his gaze quiet but knowing, as if the weight of the unspoken hung between them. There was no need for words — just the subtle way he watched her, as though asking if she was still holding on to something that had long since begun to unravel.

Despite their differences, there had been a time when they had tried to move in sync, instinctively, as though their connection could bridge the gaps between them.

For a time, they found a rhythm — or at least it felt that way. The morning he taught her to make his grandmother's croquetas, standing behind her at the stove, his arms wrapped around her waist as he guided her hands. The rainy Sunday afternoons when they'd build elaborate pillow forts in the living room, watching films with the volume too loud, sharing a tub of ice cream between them. The lazy mornings when he'd wake her with soft kisses along her spine, murmuring "buenos días, mi amor" against her skin.

But really, it was mostly her, adjusting her steps to match his, trying to keep pace with a beat that never truly belonged to her.

Cancelling plans with friends when he needed quiet. Learning to cook meals that fit his strict nutrition plan. Spending weekends watching football matches instead of exploring the hidden corners of the city she loved. She thought that's what they needed — his rhythm, his steadiness. She convinced herself that if she moved carefully enough, if she mirrored his tempo, their lives would flow in quiet harmony.

But one person can only bend so far.

The night she missed her best friend's birthday celebration because Pedri needed her at a team event, something inside her cracked. Standing in a corner of the lavish ballroom, watching him charm sponsors with practiced ease, she felt herself disappearing, becoming nothing more than an accessory to his carefully crafted life.

They didn't notice the subtle shifts at first — the way the air changed, the tension building like pressure beneath the surface. What once felt like harmony began to fracture.

The ground beneath them shifted, too quietly at first, then all at once. And eventually, they weren't moving together anymore. They were still moving. But the directions had changed.

She remembered the night she'd attended her thesis defense alone, having insisted he focus on his Champions League match the following day. Three hours in, as Professor Roig praised her methodology in rapid Catalan, she caught a flicker of movement by the door. There he stood, hair still damp from training, uniform partially hidden beneath his hastily thrown-on jacket. His eyes swept the crowded reception hall until they found her, and for a heartbeat, everything else blurred away. That magnetic pull she'd always felt toward him surged through her body — familiar, visceral, undeniable. But as she excused herself and moved across the room, something shifted between them with each step. The space separating them seemed to transform from mere physical distance into something more profound. When she finally stopped, three feet still between them, neither moved to close the gap. His hand twitched at his side, as if remembering the habit of reaching for hers, yet remained where it was. They stood suspended in that moment — close enough to feel the warmth of what had been, yet unable to bridge what had become.

And so the distance grew.

Not because they wanted it to. But because they no longer knew how to bridge it. Or maybe, deep down, they didn't want to try. Because when one person does all the adjusting, it stops feeling like a dance — and starts feeling like a surrender.

Love, as it turns out, is complicated.

They had both believed they'd stumbled onto something rare — that one in a million chance, the kind of love that felt like it was meant to be. The way they found each other still felt like divine intervention sometimes — a twist of fate, a fleeting moment where everything seemed to align. She had been lost in the backstreets of Barcelona, navigating the chaos of her second day in a new city, weighed down by textbooks and the pressure of academic life. He had been riding the high of an 89th minute match-winning goal. The rush of the game still hummed beneath his skin as he walked into the bar, the energy of victory now softened into a quiet pull, a need to unwind after the storm of the match. Neither of them had any reason to believe that night would be anything more than ordinary, but somewhere between the clink of glasses and the hum of the crowd, their paths crossed — quietly, almost imperceptibly — and the world around them shifted, unnoticed by anyone but them.

But whatever celestial force had pulled them together — whatever quiet god had orchestrated his triumph and her impulsive decision to leave her textbooks behind for fresh air — didn't stick around to show them how to stay. The universe spent its miracle on their beginning, giving them that perfect collision of souls, then left them adrift, without a guide. And the gravity that had brought them together wasn't enough to keep them from drifting apart.

Love, as it turns out, is a lot more complicated when the whole world claims ownership of your story.

They could be sitting in a quiet corner of a café, the warmth of morning light filtering through the windows, their laughter filling the space between them as they sipped coffee. His fingers would play with the silver chain around her neck — a gift from his first away game, a delicate compass pendant "so you'll always find your way back to me," he'd whispered when he clasped it around her neck. Their hands intertwined across the table, completely lost in their own world, so easy to forget that anyone else existed.

Until the click of a camera broke the illusion.

A stranger, inconspicuously slipping a shot, capturing their moment of quiet togetherness for the world to see. Before she could blink, she was already hearing the headlines in her head: "Trouble in Paradise?" Just because Pedri hadn't smiled wide enough or because she'd looked away for a moment too long.

And then, of course, the tabloids would catch up — blurry photos, meaningless glances twisted into scandal, stories spun out of nothing. The worst part wasn't even reading the speculation about models, or teammates' girlfriends, or nameless fans. It was that a small part of her had started bracing for it, expecting it, as if preparing herself could somehow soften the blow.

At first, she told herself it didn't matter.

It was just noise. They knew the truth. The outside world's opinions couldn't shake them. But there were moments, quiet moments, when the words on the screen wormed their way in, sitting heavy in her chest. Like the night she found herself scrolling through comments at 3 AM, reading strangers' assessments of her appearance, her worthiness, her place in his life.

It wasn't the headlines, not really. It was the doubt.

The questions that no one dared to ask but that she could feel hanging in the air. Was it love? Was it the persona? Was she with Pedri because of who he was — the footballer, the golden boy the world adored — or was it because she truly loved him? The way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, the scar on his left knee from childhood, how he hummed off-key when cooking, the fact that he always slept with one foot outside the covers.

She saw it, sometimes, that flicker in Pedri's eyes — the hesitation.

A split second where the warmth in his gaze would falter, like a thought was catching him off guard, the question unspoken but clear. The night after a particularly venomous article suggested she was using him for fame, they'd made love with a desperate intensity, as if trying to prove something to themselves. But afterward, in the darkness, he'd held her too tightly, his heartbeat erratic against her back. His smile would dip just a little, and his hand would hover before it reached for hers, as if unsure whether it was real or something expected. As if even the simplest touch could be questioned. As if it should be questioned.

Barcelona offered no sanctuary.

Even in the quieter neighborhoods, walking side by side felt like performing on a stage neither of them had auditioned for. The city buzzed around them — scooters zipping past, voices rising from balconies, the rhythm of daily life pulsing through every street. But all she could hear was the click of camera shutters. Phones tilted subtly in their direction, strangers pretending not to look while recording everything. Pedri's hand would tighten around hers whenever he caught a lens pointed at them, his jaw locking in that familiar way — the one that meant he'd gone into public mode.

But it wasn't just Barcelona. They had learned the hard way that privacy didn't follow them anywhere. Not in Madrid. Not in Paris. Not even in Tenerife.

The day a paparazzo trailed them all the way from the airport to his parents' doorstep, Pedri had lost it — confronting the man with a quiet rage that startled her. That night, in his childhood bedroom, surrounded by trophies and old posters curling at the corners, he broke down in her arms. "I just wanted to give you normal, just once."

Every gesture, every glance became public property.

The weight of those eyes — those unseen but ever-present eyes — was suffocating. It was more than the occasional stares from fans; it was the feeling that nothing they did could be private anymore. The more they tried to slip past unnoticed, the more impossible it became. Eventually, they stopped going out together as much. Movie nights at home replaced dinners out. Private beaches instead of public parks. Their world shrinking, constricting, until they were just two people trapped in beautiful cages of their own making.

They had tried, especially in the beginning, to so desperately protect what they had. To keep it between them, away from the prying lenses and the insatiable curiosity of strangers. The codes they'd developed— squeezing her hand twice meant "I need space," his fingers brushing her wrist meant "I'm here" — small gestures that belonged only to them. But the world had a way of finding its cracks. The cameras weren't just the problem. It was everything outside of them— the expectations, the constant pressure, the rumours — that wore them down.

It wasn't that they couldn't love each other enough.

The world demanded more of them than any two young lovers could give. the game they were playing wasn't just against time or distance. it was against the entire world. The night she found him staring at his phone, the screen casting that awful blue light over his face, she knew. He didn’t even look up. "Do you ever wonder," he asked quietly, "If we'd be better at this if nobody was watching? She didn’t answer. She didn’t know how

It wasn't that they couldn't fight for each other, but that they couldn't withstand everything else. In the end, however, she couldn't truly say if that was the reason it all fell apart.

The certainty others claimed about their relationships eluded her. After matches, she'd observe the partners of his teammates —women with diamond rings that caught the light, women secure in their roles without second-guessing. Their confidence in declaring absolute trust felt alien to her uncertain heart.

"My husband would never look at anyone else. I trust him completely," one of them would say, a light laugh escaping her lips as she glanced at her partner, lounging with the men, at ease. The confidence in her voice like a knife between her ribs — not because she didn't trust Pedri, but because she'd never felt that unwavering certainty about anything in her life. She would smile politely, swirling her wine glass as the conversation swirled around her, a current she couldn't quite navigate. The way they spoke about their partners —with such possession, such assurance — made her wonder if she was doing something wrong. She longed to feel that sense of security, that unshakable trust, but the weight of her own uncertainties, of his uncertainties, made her feel like an outsider.

In nights like those, her eyes would drift toward Pedri across the room, and their gazes would briefly meet. He looked happy, content, but there was always that small part of her that wondered if he was truly happy with her. The way he sometimes fell silent mid-sentence, his eyes distant, as if he'd suddenly remembered something important he'd forgotten to do. She trusted him, sure — when they were together, sharing quiet moments or late-night conversations. But when he was on the road, training or traveling for matches, a quiet doubt would gnaw at her. Not about fidelity — never that — but about whether what they had was enough to withstand the constant pressure. Whether she was enough.

She also couldn't help but compare herself to those who came before— those who had more roots in the parts of him she had only come to understand through stories. The girls from his hometown, the ones in faded photos on his mother's mantel, smiling with braces and school uniforms. They had a comfort she couldn't touch, a history she couldn't share. The afternoon she'd helped his mother sort through old albums, coming across a photo of teenage Pedri with his arm around a pretty girl at a school dance. "Ah, Maria," his mother had said, a warm fondness in her voice that made her stomach twist. "She always knew he would be something special."

She had her trust, yes, but it sometimes felt fragile — like a wine glass in hand, smooth and whole until the slightest pressure could shatter it. It wasn't that she didn't have faith in him. She did. It was just that, in this world they shared, trust often felt like something you could only hold onto by the tips of your fingers. One misstep, one weak moment, and it could slip away entirely.

The night before he left for a month-long pre-season tour, she'd watched him pack, folding each item with precise movements, and found herself counting the days in her head, wondering if the distance would finally break what they'd been struggling to hold together. "Come with me," he'd said suddenly, pausing with a shirt half-folded in his hands. The words hung between them, unexpected and heavy with implication. "Just... come with me this time." She'd felt her breath catch, the simplicity of the invitation belying its weight. For a moment, she could see it: the two of them against the backdrop of foreign cities, perhaps finding themselves again in unfamiliar places. But then reality crowded in — her responsibilities, their maladies that wouldn't disappear with a change of scenery, the unsettling feeling that it would be a Band-Aid, not a cure.

His teammates' girlfriends, they chatted excitedly about following their men across continents, about hotel rooms and tourist spots and the glamour of it all. They'd go home to their husbands, to their partners, secure in the simplicity of what they had. She, though, would return to the silence of her apartment, a silence that felt thick and heavy. There was no certainty in her heart — just the space where it used to be, a quiet question that never fully went away: What if it wasn't enough?

The aftermath hit like a tsunami — not the first wave, but with what followed.

It started a week after the breakup. Before she could process her own grief, the world demanded access to it.

Not with the quiet sadness she had braced herself for, not with the hollow calm of finality, but with noise — the sharp, hungry kind. Rumours moved faster than truth ever could. She hadn't even finished folding away the last of his things — a faded training jersey she'd stolen months ago, still smelling faintly of his skin — when the story was already everywhere. The headlines, the gossip threads, the DM requests — all of it hit before she'd had the chance to feel anything real. Before she even knew how to explain it to herself. Her phone exploding with notifications while she sat on her bathroom floor, clutching the jersey to her chest, not yet ready to let it go.

"I'm so sorry," her phone buzzed. Over and over. People she hadn't spoken to in years suddenly remembered her name. An old classmate who'd ignored her for months: "Just checking in." A cousin she barely liked: "Thinking of you during this difficult time." The messages read like condolence cards — brief, polished, polite. But between the lines was something else. Something cold. The curiosity was louder than the care. The afternoon she met a childhood friend for coffee, only to have the conversation immediately steer toward Pedri, toward what happened, toward details she wasn't ready to share — she'd left her coffee half-finished, making up an excuse about work.

In public spaces, she felt the pauses. The way conversation dipped when she entered a room. The glances that clung just a little too long. It wasn't sympathy — not really. It was something colder. Curiosity dressed as concern.

The day she'd gone to her favourite café, the barista who usually greeted her with cheerful familiarity had handed over her usual order with pitying eyes, whispering, "On the house today. You deserve it." As if a free latte could fill the Pedri-shaped hole in her chest. She wasn't a person anymore. She was that girl. The headline. The one who'd been left — or the one who had walked away— depending on which version made for the better story.

The first intrusion came without warning — a stranger's voice slicing through her mundane day.

"How did it end? You and Pedri?" The words pulling her back to that final night, to the weight of his forehead against hers, to the silence that had said everything they couldn't. She froze. The words landed like a slap — not hard, but sharp enough to sting. Her mouth parted, then closed again. In her basket: pasta, jamón serrano, tomatoes, a bottle of wine meant for one. Suddenly it all felt too personal, like someone had cracked open a window into the quiet mess she was trying to rebuild. She didn't answer. Couldn't. The girl just stood there, clutching her phone like a microphone, expectant, waiting for the soundbite she could carry home like a souvenir. When it became clear none would come, she let out a short laugh and stepped back with a shrug. "I always thought you two were endgame," she called over her shoulder as she left, the words tossed like something harmless.

The bitterness in the words — How did it end? — clung to her ribs like damp air, heavy and inescapable. By the time she stepped outside, her hands were already searching her coat pocket. She uncovered the crumpled pack, pulling a cigarette free and lighting it with a quick, familiar motion. It was a habit she'd buried months ago — he'd made her, gently but firmly, the way he always did when he worried. Said he couldn't stand the taste of smoke on her skin, that she didn't need it, not when he was there to hold her through the worst of it. And for a while, that had been enough. But not today. Today, the weight of it all pressed too hard, and this was the only thing that seemed to make the silence bearable.

She remembered that evening — late October, the air crisp with autumn's first true chill. They'd been walking back from dinner, her shivering slightly in that dress he loved, the one that caught the streetlights in its subtle shimmer. She'd reached for her cigarettes without thinking, a reflexive response to the cold. "Don't," he'd said, so softly she almost didn't hear him. "Please." When she turned to look at him, his eyes held something more than disapproval — concern, yes, but something deeper. Something that made her pause. "It hurts to watch you hurt yourself," he continued, taking the pack from her unresisting fingers. His thumb brushed over her knuckles, warm against the night's chill. "I can't stand knowing what it does to you. The way you use it to hide." "I'm not hiding," she'd protested, but they both knew better. Pedri — always so careful with his body, so deliberate about what he consumed, how he rested, how he moved through the world — had taken her hand and placed it against his chest. Through the thin material of his shirt, she could feel his heartbeat, steady and strong. The rhythm of discipline. "This is yours too," he'd said. "Everything I am — I share it with you. So when you..." His voice had trailed off, and she'd been struck by how vulnerable he looked then, this man who could command thousands with his talent, suddenly at a loss for words on a quiet street. "When I smoke?" she'd offered, something between defiance and guilt coloring her tone. "When you need something to take the edge off and you don't come to me instead," he'd corrected her, his fingers interlacing with hers. "It makes me feel like I'm not enough for you." And there it was — the truth that neither of them had fully acknowledged. His need for control, for order, extending beyond the pitch and into their shared life. Her unpredictability, that wild streak that had first drawn him to her, now something he sought to tame, to protect, to save. She'd let him take the cigarettes that night, had let him pull her close as they walked home, his arm a shield against the world.

For months afterward, whenever the urge came — after a difficult exam, during deadlines, on those nights when anxiety clawed at her throat — she'd call him instead. And somehow, miraculously, he'd answer. No matter where he was — training, team meetings, even once during a post-match interview when he'd excused himself to take her call. He'd made himself available, her steady anchor in the storm. Until he hadn't. Until those calls started going to voicemail. Until his texts became shorter, his presence more ghost than man.

Her friends became anthropologists of her grief, studying from a safe distance but never fully engaging.

They watched for signs of regression — dark circles makeup couldn't conceal, the scent of smoke in her hair — exchanging concerned glances when they thought she wasn't looking. The night of her first group dinner post-breakup, everyone had walked on eggshells, carefully avoiding any mention of football, of Pedri, of relationships at all —until three wines in, someone slipped. "Did you see Pedri's assist last night?" A horrible silence had fallen, all eyes turning to her, waiting for her to break. The candles on the table flickered, casting long shadows across the white tablecloth, illuminating the fear in their faces — fear that she might shatter, that they might have to gather the pieces. But she'd just taken another sip of wine, ignoring the way her hand trembled slightly against the glass. "No," she'd said simply. "I didn't watch." She hadn't told them that she still had his jersey — the one he'd given her after that match against Benfica, still carrying the faint scent of grass and sweat and victory. How she'd almost reached for it that night, almost tuned in to see him play. How she'd stood in front of the television, remote in hand, before setting it down and walking away. Some wounds — too fresh to touch.

They wanted pieces — just enough to satisfy their interest without carrying the weight of it. So she gave them curated fragments — yes, it was mutual; no, there wasn't anyone else; yes, she was doing fine. Half-truths that were easier to swallow than the messy reality: that she still reached for him in her sleep, that she couldn't bring herself to delete his mother from her contacts, that sometimes she found herself at his favorite café without meaning to go there. That she'd started smoking again, each inhale a small rebellion against the person she'd tried to become for him.

The call that broke her came unexpectedly — his mother's gentle voice across the line.

"Hola, cariño. Me acabo de enterar… no sabía nada. ¿Cómo termino? ¿Estás bien?" (Hi, darling. I just found out… I didn't know anything. How did it end? Are you okay?)

That call broke something fundamental — that Rosy — who had welcomed her into their home in Tenerife, who had taught her to make Pedri's favourite stew, who had once slipped her a small box containing a family ring "for when the time is right" — had to find out like that. Through headlines. Through whispers. Not from her. Not from him. Not gently. She had sobbed after hanging up, curled on her bathroom floor, the cold tiles pressing against her cheek, the full weight of what they had lost crushing her chest. Because it wasn't just Pedri she had lost — it was his family, his home, the future they had planned in quiet whispers on Sunday mornings. In moments like that, she'd wanted to call him, to ask if he'd told Ferran, if he'd explained to his father why she wouldn't be at Sunday dinners anymore. But her phone remained silent in her hand, his number undialled.

Some questions were better left unasked. And some, were better left unanswered. Because she hadn't even found the words yet, hadn't told a soul. And still, somehow, the world had spoken before she could. Their private ending, dissected in public before she'd had the chance to understand it herself.

The questions pursued her like shadows, impossible to outrun. And when they persisted, she told no one.

Because no one could understand, not even herself. Because how do you explain a slow death? A love that unraveled thread by thread, a relationship that faded out over time, instead of exploding in a single dramatic moment? How do you explain that there was no single reason, no single incident that marked the end? That sometimes love just isn't enough, that sometimes two people can want each other desperately and still not know how to stay.

Their final night carried no dramatic revelation — only the quiet weight of inevitability.

The apartment held its breath as Barcelona continued its nightly symphony outside. She could feel it in the air, the unspoken weight of the end. Neither of them had said it aloud, not yet.

But everything else — the distance between them, the coldness in his touch, the way their eyes never quite met — had already spoken the words they both feared. The way he'd come to her home that night, dropping his keys in the bowl by the door with a finality that made her heart stutter. How he'd moved through their space like a ghost, barely disturbing the air. She watched him from across their shared universe, now light years away. She turned over, her movements slow, as though not wanting to disturb the fragile moment they were sharing. He was lying there, staring up at the ceiling, his face unreadable, the soft light from the window casting shadows across his features. The moonlight caught in his eyelashes, in the curve of his jaw — features she had memorized, had traced with fingertips and lips, had loved with an intensity that sometimes frightened her. There was a quiet resignation in the way he looked at the ceiling, as though he was already someplace far away, a place she couldn't follow him to. The rhythm of his breathing, once so familiar it had become the soundtrack to her sleep, now seemed foreign, irregular. She felt the space between them — the space that had always been filled with shared moments, whispered jokes, and the comfort of simply being near each other — was now as vast as an ocean. Though their bodies lay just inches apart, there might as well have been continents between them. The warmth that once radiated between them, now replaced by a chill that no blanket could remedy.

Words failed her, trapped behind the ache in her throat. She didn't even know what to say anymore. All the words they hadn't said, all the things left unsaid, crowded around her, suffocating her. The conversations they should have had months ago, the fears they'd both ignored, the slow drift they'd pretended not to notice. But now, the silence wasn't a lull in their connection. It was the death of it. She could feel the coldness between them creeping in, spreading between them like ice across a lake. It wasn't anger. It wasn't betrayal. It was... nothing. An emptiness that neither of them knew how to fill anymore. She thought of all the times they'd lay in this same bed, bodies tangled, heartbeats synchronized, whispering secrets and dreams into the darkness. How many nights had they fallen asleep with his arm draped across her waist, her back pressed against his chest, so close that she could feel his heartbeat against her spine? Now, the memory of that intimacy felt like a cruel joke. She wanted to reach out, to bridge the gap, but the space between them felt untouchable. His back was turned to hers, and though they lay only inches apart, it might as well have been miles. She stared at the curve of his shoulder, remembering how it once felt beneath her fingertips, the warmth of his skin, the way he would shiver when she traced patterns there. Now, she couldn't bring herself to cross the invisible boundary that had formed between them. Her thoughts were racing, but there was no clarity. No answers. She couldn't bring herself to say what needed to be said, and she could tell he couldn't either.

The night stretched on, each second feeling like an eternity. He didn't reach for her. She didn't reach for him. Neither of them had the strength to move, to fight for something that had already slipped away. They had already given everything they could, and now, it was over. The realization hit her with a force that took her breath away —they were saying goodbye, in their silence, in their distance.

Then came the moment that would replay in her memory for months.

He turned slowly, the movement so quiet it almost felt like the world had paused. The sheets whispered beneath him, and suddenly, he was facing her, so close she could feel his breath on her face. His eyes met hers, and in them, she saw the same thing she felt — a deep, aching understanding of what was happening. There was no anger in his gaze, no resentment. Just a sadness that felt like the finality of a dream. Without saying a word, he moved closer. The space between them felt impossibly small now, and yet, it felt too far. He cupped her face gently, and for a moment, it was like nothing had changed. Like they could go back to the way it was, back to the moments when they had shared everything. But then, his lips pressed against hers. It wasn't urgent, wasn't desperate. It was soft, tender, and final. A kiss that said everything they couldn't say aloud. Goodbye. I love you. I'll miss you. I'm sorry. She surrendered to the moment's terrible honesty. She didn't pull away, didn't try to make it last longer. She let the kiss linger for a moment, letting it wash over her, knowing it would be the last time. The weight of it settled in her chest, pressing on her heart, and she understood — this was it. This was the end. Not with a bang, not with anger, but with the quiet, inevitable collapse of something that had once been so alive. When the kiss ended, he didn't pull back right away. He lingered, forehead resting against hers, both of them silent in the kind of way that said more than words ever could. It was in that silence that she understood the finality of the moment — there was nothing left to say. They had already said it all.

How did it end? The question haunts her on mornings like this, when the sun touches the corners of her bed where she used to trace his freckles.

Sitting at her kitchen counter, staring at half-burnt toast, she attempts another autopsy on their love. Slice by slice, memory by memory, she searches for the cause of death but finds no obvious culprit. She wracks her brain, tracing the timeline of their demise, but can never pinpoint what died first, or who. No matter how carefully she examines their memories, the answer remains elusive.

She revisits their past — those quiet afternoons in Tegueste, where the smell of fresh bread from his family's restaurant mixed with the crisp mountain air. How Pedri's laughter rang louder there than anywhere else, unburdened by the pressure of the outside world. How they'd climb the hills nearby, laughing as they reached the summit, overlooking the patchwork of green fields below. When Pedri, with that quiet confidence, would joke that they'd one day run his family's restaurant together — turning it into something more, something that would outlast even them. That Christmas with her family — how nervous he'd been, how carefully he'd chosen their gifts. The antique compass for her father, the hand-painted silk scarf for her mother. How naturally he'd slipped into their traditions, as though he'd always belonged there. The way he'd learned her brother's recipe for bread, flour dusting his dark hair as he concentrated with the intensity he brought to everything that mattered. These preserved memories that once felt so alive now lay flat, like pressed flowers between pages — beautiful but no longer living.

She revisits all those promises they'd made — a wedding on the cliffs overlooking the Tenerife Sea, three kids (two boys and a girl, he'd insisted), two golden retrievers named Andres and Iniesta. A future together. She had imagined it so vividly: his nervous smile as she walked toward him, their hands entwined under an arch of wildflowers, their families laughing and dancing together until dawn. She'd even sketched their home on napkins during long dinners — a terrace garden, rooms filled with light, space for her record collection and his books. It was supposed to be their forever. But now, all of it felt like a beautiful eulogy for something that had quietly slipped away.

In these mornings, with anger and frustration simmering beneath her skin, she also revisits the ugly moments. The night he'd missed her grandmother's birthday, the text arriving three hours late with excuses that felt hollow. The time when he'd given her earrings so unlike anything she would wear, revealing how little he'd come to see her. The arguments that began about nothing — dirty dishes, unfolded laundry — how they became about something.

His absence left everything slightly altered, like a home after someone has moved out — familiar yet irreversibly changed. The coffee shop where they'd meet for Sunday morning pastries now felt like a museum of what had been. Her favourite record store on Carrer de Tallers, where she'd spend hours flipping through vinyl while he watched her face light up with each discovery, now a place she crossed the street to avoid. She lived among memories that refused to be packed away. She saw echoes of him in the curve of someone else's smile at a bus stop, on a men's watch ad as big as the city of Barcelona itself, heard whispers in songs that used to be theirs, felt his presence in the yellow of a sunrise he had once called her colour. The loss remained, a healing wound still tender to the touch.

He's still there, lingering in the quiet moments. Like when she considers a last-minute trip to Cadaqués, and hesitates, hearing Pedri's voice in her head — not encouraging spontaneity but cautioning against it. "Is it in the budget?" he would have asked, frowning at the calendar. "What about your deadline next week?" Always practical, always measured, never one to leap without looking. She remembers how he'd vetoed weekend getaways for practical reasons, how he'd check the weather forecast three times before agreeing to a picnic, how his cautious nature had once felt like stability but eventually became a cage. She doesn't book the ticket. Maybe one day she will, but not yet — not while she's still learning to trust her own impulses again, to believe that joy need not always be planned, budgeted, approved.

And she wonders if he carries her with him. When he passes a street performer playing violin, does he still hear her voice urging him to stop and listen? When his teammates suggest after-work drinks at a new bar, does he remember how she taught him that the best stories begin with "yes?" When he walks past that tiny theatre where they watched experimental plays that confused and moved them, does he still feel her hand squeezing his during the unexpected moments that took their breath away?

So each time, each morning, she tries to perform an autopsy, her hands tremble over the corpse of what they'd been. Memories flicker like a death rattle — breathing, laboured and uneven, then silenced. Perhaps there is no single cause, no moment of death to pinpoint.

Perhaps love doesn't die dramatically but fades like twilight —gradually, inevitably, until darkness has fallen and you can't remember when you last saw light.

She gathers the artifacts they've left behind — photos in frames, the ticket stubs from concerts framed on her wall, the sweater he forgot that still holds the faintest trace of his scent, gifts never returned —beautiful evidence that she hadn't hallucinated their love. Proof that once, they had been real, alive, in love with the present and the future they'd planned.

On quiet nights, when city lights drown out the stars, she can picture it — her and her beloved ghost — perched on the edge of a rooftop memory, feet brushing against air where time used to live.

And all that lingers is the echo of her voice, whispering into a silence that she'll never get the chance to answer: How did it end?

[restlesscrybaby]

Your ring a ding hc post is genuinely so awesome I’m on my hands and knees thanking you for feeding us please give us any and all nsfw content you have of this beautiful man PLSSS YOUR WRITING IS SO GOOD 😭😭😭

Awhh thank you, anon!! I have a small fanfic idea I've had in my skull, but I've never posted a fic on Tumblr!! Maybe one day! For now.. I have more headcanons!!

!! MR. RING-A-DING / LUX IMPERATOR !!

-- NSFW HEADCANONS!

! ⚠️ This post contains NSFW. You've been warned. MDNI. ⚠️ !

He has a very prominent side vein. But, he can switch it from one side to the next.

If he plays his cards right, he's able to mold into shapes, like they did in old cartoons. So.. Put an image in your head, sweet users...

Due to him being light, he loves the light being on during sex, as I said previously. Why would he want the light off when he can view your stunning face, and admire your beautiful body? Every curve, quirk, flaw.. Naturally human!

FOR FEMALE READERS - He likes sucking on your boobs. It's weird, but bending over for him when you're riding, he'll do it immediately. It's harsh and fast, and his movements speed up. Woah mama!

FOR MALE READERS - He likes tracing you inch by inch. His rubbery digit glides up your cock, doing a small tiptoe motion, sound effects included. He presses his thumb against the tip and all, a playful 'HONK!' Plays. Woah!

He's mainly a dom. But, he doesn't mind being submissive!

... He can change the taste of it. Yes. You heard me right. He can.. Weirdly enough. Change the taste of it.

You worked your mouth against the rubbery cock of the toon, your eyes shut as you felt his cock invade the warm surroundings of your mouth. He tasted... Alright. He wasn't a certain taste or anything just ... A taste.

You must've made a sort of sour face, because suddenly, a sad, violin played. Your eyes opened and looked up, his eyes wide, some big tears flooding the bottom.

"Awhh, darn! You don't like my taste..?" His pig nose sniffled out, his head gently tilting as the sound increased. When you went to pull away to answer, his hand suddenly grabbed the top of your head, pushing you onto it more. His tears seemed to dry immediately as his heart started to beat from his chest. Tacky, you must admit.

"HH-- Here! Try thisss-" He panted, as he snapped his fingers, and you watched him shiver. His skin suddenly gained stripes, that changed color, going down to his cock. Before the color went away.

And suddenly, all you tasted was sugar... It tasted so good. You started to try to taste as much as you could...

That seems to be what he wanted, his head tilting back as stars began to circle his head.

"WOOAAAHH, MAMA!!" He howled out, his heart beating out of his chest, his antenna curling up into a heart shape.

When going soft, he makes a sad little deflating sound.

His soundtrack? Yeah. It gets louder when he busts, and it starts going haywire.

When he's done, and you look at him, he has stars around his head, and heart-eyes.

During the act, he commonly has the same issue. Heart-eyes. All the time.

He's a drooler. If you're in doggy, you'll feel his drool dripping onto you.

He uses the pictures and video of you he has to get off when you're not around.

He isn't too greedy, thank Gods. But, he does get TOOOO into it.

Which means overstim.

When he wants something, he takes it. Trust.

He loves lipstick prints. That is all I'll say.

Yes...

You get some photos and videos of him too. Enjoy, 'sweetie-pie'!

Favorite positions are commonly spread-eagle and doggy-style! He likes the openness and the control! Plus, it's easier on his size!

He doesn't mind being ridden tho..

Be warned! Riding him means he will wrap his arms around your waist and hold onto you closely!

Pet-names galore. In and out of bed. 'Sweetie-pie', 'toots', 'baby', 'babes', etc!

He thoroughly believes you are his. He will make sure you know this. And he won't let you think otherwise.

He's a bit obsessive and possessive. It shows during sex, how he talks to you, 'all mine!', all of that.

Bleghh!! Thank you anon for asking for more, sorry it took so long and it's more short!

I'm glad you guys like my writing! Mwah!

As always, ignore any fuckups!

[car-o-line]

"Hi! Hello! Sorry for bothering you, but I have a request. It's okay if you don't want to, but I really like your headcanon, and it seems to be the closest to canon ❤

Anyway, could you write about Doey's reaction to the Reader (who I imagine as female) finding a guitar in Safe Haven and using it to sing a comforting or cheerful song to lift everyone's mood ?

Literally tysm for the compliment, ik i say that all the time but they really make me more confident in my writing😭 AND BEING THE CLOSEST TO CANON MADE ME KICK MY FEET ISTG😭😭😭

Doey with a fem!reader who sings and plays a song to the experiments

Ok, so I’m not gonna write everything that lead up to you meeting with Doey and getting into Safe Haven because it’s just basically how Player met him🤩

Poppy wanted you to get the Omni-Hand to fix the generator but Doey was more worried how tired you were, he thinks that even just killing one of those monsters needs a great nap but killing 5(I think) would need a whole rest day.

He was also worried about letting you out of Safe Haven too fast because of the Prototype, he was around there somewhere near Safe Haven so if you just left immediately after coming in he’d definitely get to you.

So alas, Poppy reluctantly agreed to Doey’s plan. There was nothing she could really do to stop him, I mean he’s like a 900 pounds of dough while she’s just a doll-

But she’ll get over it when you do get the Omni-Hand after resting.

Ands that’s how you got to where you are as of now, Doey insisted everyone should take a rest so that they can have the energy to play more games tomorrow(to run faster if yall get cooked by the Prototype), the toys weren’t too reluctant by the idea of sleeping. For they’re already exhausted from hunger and the pain they’ve endured.

And while sleeping away the hurt easier for others, some of the experiments didn’t have the same outcome.

“Doey...my head hurts, I can’t sleep with it like that.”

“Can I have an extra pillow? My leg is hurting when it’s low on the ground.”

“Too hungry to sleep..”

Clearly, a few of the experiments were having trouble falling asleep, or into a placid state. So you decided to try and relax them yourself. But what to use..?

“Y/n..what are you doing? Go back to the tent and get some rest.”

Startled by the blob of dough, you took a few steps backwards and accidentally bumped into a stack of various entertainment items of junk. You turned your head to look at the pile and noticed something that caught your interest, you gently picked it up.

“A guitar?”

“Seems like it to me!”

Staring at it you smiled and turned to Doey, asking if he thinks that the experiments would like a small song played for them to help them go to sleep.

He said they’d like it but he was hesitant about it, you were still so tired but you seemed so ready and pumped about it. And he couldn’t just say no to that.

So he slowly said you could and you immediately jumped at that opportunity to quietly get some of the still wide awake toys and try to get them to circle you as you sat on the ground with the guitar.

A few were confused, some interested, but gradually all of the remaining toys awake sat in front of you, Doey sat too, just in the back because he too was also curious about what you had in mind for them.

With all the others in front of you, you started to slowly play the guitar. A gentle melody, it was soothing to even the toys who couldn’t even get a blink of sleep.

And with one part of song you started to sing, softly and calmly yet so it looked so naturally, like you do that everyday.

Doey never knew you had played guitar or even sang before, he always just thought you were an employee who for some reason had excellent resilience. But he never thought you had hobbies, well actually. He knew you HAD hobbies, just it was that he never thought of what kind. It made him sad honestly, and he swore he’d think of you more as a friend and not as an acquaintance. Because with friends you know what they like, know what they don’t like, and know what they don’t care about. And he knew none of those.

Soon the experiments had fallen into a deep sleep with your song, you were pleased but even more satisfied when you saw a big thing of doughs eyes start to close.

“Goodnight Doey..”

Jack was obviously thrilled by your singing talent, it was clear he was when you started to sing and he’d try to hold in his excitement but failed miserably as he started to shout praises(Matthew had to cover his mouth so it wouldn’t spoke the experiments if they heard him-)

Matthew was neutral on it to be real, he definitely liked it don’t get me wrong but he thinks of it more as a hobby than a necessity. Though even with that he felt comforted when you played and sang, it made him feel like he was getting eased by a mother.

Kevin really did not care in the slightest at first, but once he saw how happy Matthew and Jack were he relaxed and begrudgingly tried to enjoy it himself to. He’d never tell anyone that though.

[thebroccolination]

I've got a question about kudos/comments/views on ao3 and I hope you can give me an opinion on it. What do you think of the way some writers get hundreds of kudos/comments while some other in the same fandom get ignored. Does that mean the story is bad or is it just bad fan etiquette. It's messing with my confidence as a writer.

I know I'm not good at it but seeing my kudos drop from 300 hundred when the show had just finished to a few years later when I'm lucky to get 20 kudos is really messing with my head and making want to quit writing or just keep anything I write to myself because everyone thinks it's bad. Should I just stop writing anything.

Considering the way some fics you see aren't even in character get so popular just because the person writing it is popular in the fandom feels a little unfair. That sounds so childish but I thought fandom was supposed to be supportive of all fic writers. I mean that from the point of view that to me it seems fandom only wants a select few writers and ignores everyone else even when the fandom is mostly dead and people spend the whole time on twitter complaining about the lack of fics and demanding fics to read. Meanwhile I'm still here like an idiot writing everything I can think of but getting ignored for it because I'm not one of the popular writers that fandom seems to have picked for all their twitter followers to read. I'm one of the last few writers in the fandom I'm in and I just want to quit and keep everything I write for myself.

I know I sound petty and I'm sorry for that but I know you still write and I wanted to know your thoughts on it. Also I used to read all your WinTeam fics years ago before Between Us aired. I loved them so much even though I've left that fandom.

Okay. Whew. I read this a few hours ago and I've been thinking of how to answer, because I could talk about this for hours.

First of all, you don't sound petty at all, so please don't feel any kind of negativity about yourself or how you feel. Writing can be an immensely emotional process, and presenting your heart to a blank and silent audience is a devastating feeling. I just hope I can alleviate some of it with some numbers of my own and how I've come to see the whole kudos/comments/views thing myself.

Just…forgive me for going on a bit of a tangent first.

The "why is this fic popular" phenomenon has been around at least as long as I've been in fandom. So like. Almost thirty years. Subjective taste is obviously a factor, but also, like…. Y'know how "Twilight" and romantasy spawned that joke that they're "for girlies who missed their Wattpad era"? I think sometimes people just want specific vibes regardless of the writing quality involved.

And now the rest of it:

FANDOM USED TO BE DIFFERENT

I think it's safe to say that fandom spaces have been profoundly affected by the same immediacy bias permeating so much of modern life across the globe nowadays. Fandom is people, and people live in the world, and the world is just a whole fucking lot right now. It would be shocking if fandom hadn't changed from how I knew it when I was younger. The internet used to be a hobby. Fandom used to be a hobby.

When I was a Youth, you had to find fandom spaces online. It wasn't part of The Culture the way it is now. Most people wouldn't have had any idea what fandom was. When I was in university, right before Obama was first elected, a fandom friend of mine drove to my campus to visit me and when my suitemate asked how we met, I told her, "We write porn on the internet," and my friend visibly regretted driving ten hours from Michigan to see me. I've always been a basket of horrors to my introvert friends, and I apologize to all of you. Then we had to explain to her what fandom was. To someone our age. Because fandom was a subculture where the weirdos hung out, and my suitemate had never stumbled onto those corners of the interent. None of my suitemates had, and if they did, they certainly didn't announce it the way I did.

What I'm saying is that fandom used to be a shadowy hideout in the forest where you'd meet in secret with freaks of all ages to discuss your very, extremely serious headcanons for your favorite fictional children, and most of us adhered to fandom etiquette rules like "Don't Like, Don't Read" and "Dead Dove, Don't Eat" and "Ship and Let Ship."

Now, fandom feels like a noisy hallway in a massive high school where thousands of insecure people side-eye the comics on the inside of your locker and loudly tell each other while smirking how weird it is to have comics inside your locker.

At some point (and I've seen debates about when exactly), Normies invaded fandom spaces, and Normies don't like Weirdos, so it seems to me that fandom is having a bit of an identity crisis.

I'm in my thirties, and I silently joined fandom spaces when I was nine years old. If you were a minor in fandom, you very much shut the fuck up about it and didn't announce yourself, because fandom was an Adult Community. Maybe because of this, as well as the more limited technology, fandom moved much, much slower than it does now. People consumed canon in real-time, of course, but watching/reading/experiencing something right away didn't really matter. You could still hop on the fandom train months or even years after the source canon ended and still find active fans. Honestly, most of the good fic was written after the source material ended because people had time to reflect on the source material. Read meta, have conversations with other fans, read other people's fics and take inspiration from them, etc. It was communal.

Like I said earlier today, Voltron's klance fandom is still around, and that feels like a miracle to me. Even though Voltron ended fairly recently in 2018, I remember seeing fans emotionally begging each other not to leave fandom once the show ended. I was baffled by this, but I chalked it up to younger fans who'd never been in fandom before and didn't understand that once the source canon ended, that's when fandom got good. That's when you created meta and fanwork events and all the real meat and potatoes that made fandom such an incredible community space.

But I was the one who didn't understand, because things were changing from how I'd always known them.

When I was a fandom infant in the nineties, people posted fic to Yahoo mailing groups and their own Angelfire websites. Recommendation sites were a huge thing back then, and the people who made those fic rec lists were precious contributors in any fandom. Before fanfiction.net, we found fic to read by perusing rec lists. It was communal. You needed people to find fic. Sure, you could put a pairing name in a search bar and look it up on Yahoo. Maybe you'd stumble across a fic site, but to really navigate through a fandom to find fic, you needed to follow fan-made bridges from website to website.

Now we have AO3, which was built by people for whom that was once the norm.

I say all this because my opinions about fic engagement and etiquette were formed in A Bygone Era.

Let me show you some numbers.

NUMBERS

My highest kudos'd fic is "If It's You" a "Yuri on Ice!!" fic I wrote and posted in May of 2017. It's a 14k* one-shot about Viktor trying to convince Yuuri to do a gravure photoshoot for a Japanese magazine he's become obsessed with, and it's exactly as ridiculous as it sounds. I wrote it in days and threw it onto AO3 expecting a good reception, but nothing like what it's gotten. :') * I added a 2k smutty addition when it hit 2k kudos.

But there's a reason for it doing that well. It's good, sure, but a ton of those numbers are down to timing. "Yuri on Ice!!" ended on December 22nd, 2016, and I posted this fic about five months afterward, when the fandom was still extremely active and people were devouring fic and fanart and meta, etc. etc. etc. (YOI was a beautiful fandom to be part of.) However, I guarantee you that if I had posted this exact same fic in 2018, it wouldn't have reached anywhere near the same kudos, hits, or comments. I just happened to post it early enough.

And the same thing applies to every recent fandom I've been in. The earlier I post, the higher the engagement I get.

I wrote "Home Again" in a few hours back while "Not Me" was airing, and it racked up 1k kudos almost overnight. I was playing around with how Black's return could play out in canon before the show had gotten that far, and the tone of the fic is silly and fun despite the serious tone of the show.

(That same month, I posted a DanYok fic that only got 201 kudos, and since Dan was a controversial character in English-speaking fandom, I think DanYok fics didn't do as well as SeanWhite.)

Likewise, my WinTeam fics all saw their highest kudos/hit count in the two years between "Until We Meet Again" in 2020 and "Between Us" in 2022.

Here's the top eight:

"Who Am I to You" June 2020, 1.9k kudos "Win the Friendly, Win the Deadly" November 2020, 1.6k kudos "Power Play" October 2020, 1.5k kudos "You Can Cry" February 2020, 1.4k kudos "Gentle Learning Curve" July 2020, 1.3k kudos "MUSE" November 2020, 1.1k kudos "the only exception" December 2021, 1.1k kudos "Nobody's Burden" March 2022, 1k kudos

I'm not saying being early and picking a popular pairing is all there is to it (especially if in bigger fandoms), but they're massive factors in fandoms these days.

Take "MUSE": it was a long crossover fic featuring our popular darlings WinTeam, and it got massive engagement while I was writing it in 2020.

The amount of encouragement, comments, outside feedback, and theories that people brought to me while I was writing "MUSE" got me so excited to work on it, I completed it at 143k in about five months. It wasn't even a challenge to do because I was so happy to work on it. I was hurrying to finish tasks for my job and chores at home just so I could write more "MUSE." I added the interludes because I didn't want to leave this world people were enjoying as much as I was. And I knew that when I posted the next chapter, people would comment their reactions and their favorite lines and their guesses of what would happen next, and I loved the little community that built up around this work-in-progress I was increasingly proud of.

Meanwhile, my more recent crossover fic "Heart Like Gold" has had a much, much smaller reaction years later in 2024/2025. Which is understandable!!

There's nothing wrong with "Heart Like Gold" compared to "MUSE." It's mostly down to timing and fandom activity. The three fandoms included in "Heart Like Gold" (SOTUS, Be My Favorite, and Until We Meet Again/Between Us) are all pretty inactive on the English-speaking side nowadays, so any engagement is naturally going to be much lower than what I was getting while writing "MUSE" during a global pandemic for readers stuck inside depending on fic and the promise of WinTeam's series for their hope and joy.

Buuut lower engagement means lower motivation, so I've only written about 23k of "Heart Like Gold" in the year or so since I started it. That's not to say I'm not grateful for the feedback I have gotten. It just highlights the difference between what feedback and engagement can do for a writer's motivation. When "Heart Like Gold" didn't "take off," I decided to put "Heart Like Gold" on the back burner and turn more of my focus on the book I've been working on instead.

That doesn't mean I'm bitter about "Heart Like Gold" or that I'm going to give up writing it. The lack of engagement definitely contributes to a lower interest in working on it, but I do still love it, and I'm lucky enough to have readers that do leave feedback when I update, so I've given myself permission to work on it when I can muster the motivation on my own.

I had an idea for a comment carnival a few months ago, but I didn't get any reaction to it, so I've put that on the back burner as well. I need to figure out how to structure the event better and try again, because we could have so many more incredible writers doing their best work if we could just…tell them more often that they're making people happy with their work.

I only used myself as an example since I have access to my own statistics, and I thought showing how my own numbers dropped over time would show that it's happening to others, too, regardless of how many you got at first.

I don't quite know how to wrap all of this up in a comprehensive way. When I started writing and posting fics online at eleven, there were encouraging people on fanfiction.net who told me what they liked and then asked me to write more. That early foundation of expecting good things to happen when I shared my writing had a formative influence on me. I went into the fic-writing experience very young, so I easily could have encountered hate (or "flames"—when was the last time you heard that?) that would have soured me on the whole experience.

I don't know if this is viable for you, Anon, but if at all possible, try to find a small group of writers, or just one friend who loves your writing. (If you don't already have them.) It may be that you'll find your happiness in your next fandom. Maybe the next fic you write for your current fandom will be the one that earns you the happy glow of "I connected to this person through my writing."

I truly hope this helped in any way. I'm about ready to crash into bed, so I apologize if I stopped making sense toward the end. Essentially, "write for yourself" is fine and good if it's a diary, but fanfiction is communal, and you're not wrong at all to want and miss that element of it.

If you have any follow-ups or questions about incoherent things I threw in while yawning, please send me another ask. :)

[coupsctrl]

Overworked.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

GENRE:

fluff, overworked reader, emotional

WARNING(S):

mild swearing (out of frustration)

TAGS:

@jiwoo127143 , @eumpappasmom , @minghaofied

It has been a really hard few days for you. With the amount of schoolwork piled up, especially since exams are happening in a week. And your boss, who makes you work extra shifts, just to pay the same amount he does regularly, sometimes even less. You don't know how you even got through this week, well, you have one idea. Seungkwan. Ever since you started getting stressed about everything, he has been by your side since day 1. He always makes sure you have what you need, even if it's just some cuddles to get through the night. Like this night.

You both are sleeping in your shared apartment. Seungkwan's chest is against your back, with his arms wrapping around your stomach so protectively & tightly. You two cuddle every night, and you always feel so safe & warm in his tight embrace. But tonight, it's different. The stress has caught up to you, and you are finding yourself not even able to sleep. Your eyes are open, staring at the wall in front of you, as well as the slightly open room door which you can see some light through. After a while of laying in your own thoughts, you decide to quietly get up, feeling like even sleeping is hard to do right now.

You quietly shuffle in the bed, trying to get out of Seungkwan's firm embrace. You move one limb at time, it seeming impossible because of how his arms were draped heavily across you. You wiggle enough to slip one leg free out of the bed, making him murmur something unintelligible, but he doesn't wake. As you hold your breath, you gently slide your arm under his, finally escaping his cuddles.

2:03 am

You make your way into the kitchen, grabbing yourself a cold glass of water. Running your hands through your hair, you feel exhausted. Your eyes are drooping, and you unconsciously yawn as you look around. You walk over to the window in the living room, looking at the view of Seoul before you. Some street & building lights are still on, and you notice some cars whirring through the quiet streets. As you're stuck up into your own thoughts again, you hear a soft, quiet voice cut through. "Hey."

You turn your head, looking at a very tired & groggy Seungkwan. He runs his hand through his messy hair, trying to tame it as he walks closer. You suddenly feel guilty, "Did I wake you?"

He shakes his head, his voice gentle. "No, I woke up and realized you were gone." He studies your face, noticing the guilt and tiredness in your eyes.

"Sorry." Is all you can get out, turning back to the view out the window. Seungkwan shakes his head. "You don't have to apologize, Y/N. What's wrong?"

You turn to face him, looking up and noticing his worried expression. He reaches out and gently touches your arm, offering a piece of comfort to get you to open up. "I just...can't sleep and It's frustrating." you sigh, before continuing. "I...I had such a long day and-" As you speak, you feel yourself getting more & more choked up with emotion. Your vision suddenly gets blurry, and you notice your eyes filling with tears.

Seungkwan feels his heart squeeze at the sight of your tears. "Hey, hey." he softly says, reaching out to cup your face. "Take a deep breath."

You sigh, trying to steady yourself as you follow his instructions. Seungkwan watches you intently, noticing your shoulders visibly relaxing. "Good," he whispers, his thumb stroking your cheek in a slow, soft manner. "Now exhale."

You listen, exhaling slowly, as you look up at him. "There you go," he says, his voice gentle. "just breathe in and out. I'm here, I got you."

Just as you're about to finally settle, you feel guilt creep in, and a pit in your stomach. You look up at him, feeling sorry that he has to do this when he should be sleeping. "I'm sorry... you can go back to bed if you wa-"

"No." Seungkwan says firmly, his eyes focused on you. He shakes his head. "I'm not leaving you like this."

His determined tone and soft gaze makes you break down further. You look down, sniffling as you feel more & more tears falling from your eyes and onto the wooden floor. Seungkwan looks at you with an expression of concern. He tilts your head up so he can see you, his thumb gently wiping away a stray tear. He can tell that there's something more to what you said, something that's causing you distress. He takes your hand and moves you to sit down on the couch and he takes a seat beside you. "Talk to me." he says softly.

You take another deep breath, closing your eyes for a moment. When you open them, you look up at him, your eyes glossy from tears. "I..." you start, your voice barely above a whisper. "My boss has just been so fucking frustrating and I'm tired Seungkwan, so fucking tired." you finally manage to get out.

Seungkwan listens intently, his concern deepening as he hears the desperation and frustration in your voice. One of his thumbs continues to gently brush your cheek, to offer a gesture of comfort. "Tell me what happened." he encourages.

You sigh, feeling more confident to speak up. "He has just been giving me so much more tasks than usual and I feel like I can't catch a break. And I'm so grateful for you but I feel like I'm disappointing you because I haven't been able to spend time with you...a-and-"

His heart breaks and he shushes you. His eyes are locked on your face as he interrupts. "Hey, hey. You're not disappointing me, at all."

You close your eyes, another tear rolling down your cheek as you try to believe his words. But you can't. You open your eyes again, looking up at him. "But I am..." you whisper, your voice breaking. "I'm not giving you the time you deserve."

Seungkwan's heart clenches at the look of your face, seeing the guilt in your expression. He moves closer to you on the couch, his hands gripping your shoulders gently. "Hey," he says firmly. "look at me."

You lift your head, meeting his gaze with your glossy eyes filled with tears. His expression is serious, but still gentle. "You're not disappointing me, Y/N, stop saying that. I want you to be at your best, especially at work. You're still so young, please stop being so hard on yourself."

You nod, wiping a tear. "But what about us?" you ask, your voice small. "I feel like I'm not enough for you."

He sighs, shaking his head as his grip on your shoulders tighten slightly. "You don't owe me anything. I don't want you to feel pressured to give me anything. I'm so happy, Y/N. And I want you to be happy too."

You nod again, trying to believe his words. But the guilt and frustration you carry still linger. You try to open your mouth to speak, but you stop yourself, biting your lip instead. Seungkwan notices the hesitation in your expression, the lingering tension still in the air. He squeezes your shoulders gently, giving a silent encouragement. "What is it?" he asks, his eyes never leaving yours.

"I-its just..." you start, your voice getting quieter as your eyes drop to your lap. "What if.... you'll stop loving me?"

He freezes at your words, his eyes widening in surprise. "What? No." he says firmly, his voice stern. "How could you ever think that?" He notices how you're still looking down at your lap, your expression looking drained and even more guilty than before, and his heart breaks. He turns you gently, so now you're facing him completely. "Look at me."

You slowly raise your gaze to meet his. You feel the weight of his gaze, how he doesn't loose focus for a second. "I love you." he starts, his voice rough. "There hasn't been one moment that I've stopped loving you. You, Y/N," he grabs both of your hands and collects them with his. "are the sole reason I try so hard everyday. Whenever I'm at work, you're the only person I think about, and want to return home to. It's not about the time we spend together, it's about the quality of the time we have together."

He cups your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. "I fell for you for who you are, not about the amount of time we'll spend together. And I plan on loving you, until the very end. No matter how much time we spend together, or how much we don't."

Your eyes well up with tears, incredibly touched by his words and reassuring tone. "Promise?" you whisper, your voice trembling.

He smiles softly. "I promise." he whispers back, resting his forehead against yours. "You're stuck with me"

[iicehoon]

GYM TIME | BF!SUNGHOON X READER ︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶︶⠀୨♡୧⠀︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

warnings : none (unless you think there are let me know)

There was nothing more aggravating than watching your boyfriend, Sunghoon, drenched in sweat from across the gym while feeling completely helpless.

Firstly, you were in public, so you couldn't just approach him and start making out with him if you wanted to. Second, it wasn't practical to run across the large gym and jump on him while he was lifting weights; that would be dangerous. Lastly, you were pretty sure you wouldn't be able to keep your composure if he ever found out what you were really thinking.

The small smirks he gave you affected you more than you could possibly imagine, and he knew exactly how he made you feel inside and out. You sighed as you grabbed your water bottle and made your way over to Sunghoon.

However, halfway there, you were stopped by a guy who couldn't seem to take a hint. He approached you with a smile, scratching the back of his head. "Hi, I saw you across the gym, and I usually don't do this," he said, “but you were so pretty that I wanted to shoot my shot."

You awkwardly laughed, squeezing your water bottle tightly in hopes of not yelling at him to get away.

"That's nice of you," you started, smiling awkwardly. "However, I'm here with my boyfriend, and it wouldn't be best for you to try anything."

The guy scoffed in disbelief. "He isn't even with you! What kind of boyfriend is he?" he asked, making your eyes widen. "If I were him, I would never leave you alone like, ever, in hopes that nobody would try to talk to you."

A shadow loomed over the guy in front of you, and you looked up to see Sunghoon raising an eyebrow, his gaze shifting from the guy to you, "Well, I'm not with her because I know I can handle any guys if needed," Sunghoon's voice interjected confidently.

The guy's eyes widened, hearing Sunghoon's deeper tone, slowly turned around. "I guess I'll take my leave now," he said with a hint of fear, quickly walking toward another room of the gym.

"Hey, Hoon," you smiled, wrapping your arm around his bicep.

"I'm going to need you to grab your duffle bag and let’s go," Sunghoon huffed. You tilted your head in confusion. "But you're not even done with your routine."

A small chuckle escaped his lips as he bent down and whispered into your ear, "I can do something else to substitute my routine."

A blush spreads across your face, and your smile widens with joy as what you had been dreaming of from the very start finally comes true.

You let out a laugh and grabbed his face and gave him quick pecks on his cheeks and then on his lips before hurrying into the locker room to grab your things.

As you walked outside toward the car, you could feel Sunghoon staring at you, and you began to sway your hips even more, enjoying the attention you were receiving.

In a flash, he was by your side, pressing you gently against the car. “You have no idea how hard it was to finish my last set with you looking like that,” he whispered, one hand resting on your waist, the other brushing a strand of hair from your face.

You blinked up at him, heart racing. “Oh, I had some idea.”

He smirked, that same infuriatingly sexy smirk that started it all back at the gym. “Then let me show you what happens when you keep teasing me.”

a/n: idk the last time I wrote anything,, I wanted to do smth because I am LITERALLY procrastinating my finals..... I really wanna get back into writing / smau but I have 0 ideas.

NOT EDITED

[burningfudge]

thunderbolts* spoilers

I liked the movie, but I feel like I already watched it ten years ago. It was a movie called Guardians of the Galaxy. A group of misfits who are aimless and feeling lost, regret, and loneliness, and then band together to fight a threat. This is the Earth Guardians 😭

Bucky and Ava had nothing to do lol. This was pretty much Yelena and Bob's movie, but they were fantastic. I did want to see more of Ava, but her character wasn't fleshed out that much compared to the others, which I found disappointing.

I was open to the idea of Congressman Bucky before watching the movie to see if they did something with it but they did absolutely nothing. It seemed like an out of character decision anyway. Like the same man who went on the run from the US government is going to turn around and then become a part of the government? Steve should’ve just signed the Accords in that case lmfao.

The scene with Bucky on the motorcycle was sick though. Loved it!

I didn’t get a good look, but was Bucky’s new outfit in the post credits a Revolution-inspired outfit from the comics? I’m like 85% sure that the red star design is like his Revolution one. I’m glad Bucky’s going back to the red star design.

Bob beating himself up :( My boy. I had such a big soft spot for him when I read New Avengers for the first time, and while they changed the Void from the comics, I really liked this interpretation.

"Taco shield" lol Walker was so funny in this movie. He even kept the taco shield in the post credits scene. His stupid little beret cracked me up too.

Walker’s “Bobby” became so endearing by the end too. They give me big brother and little brother vibes.

Valentina shooting a snide remark at Ross during the hearing is so funny because he's the one who appointed her as the Director of the CIA lmaoo. They were both up to shady superhuman things and trying to "bring the Avengers back".

And Congress holding a corrupt government official responsible? Unrealistic. At least Bucky's the right age to become a Congressman.

New Avengers is my favorite comic of all time, so I have mixed feelings about the name. But it's funny that Norman Osborn's Dark Avengers storyline was given to Valentina, with Valentina manipulating Bob and taking over Avengers Tower just like how Osborn did. Ox Corp even sounds like Oscorp.

Did Tony sell the tower to Ox Corp or something?

I think Abomination would've been a huge plus in the movie. He, thematically, fits in with the rest of the team, and they would've gotten a Hulk on the team too. Because let's be honest, the team is a little weak on the power side, and Sentry's pulling all the heavy weight. Doom's going to slaughter them in two seconds.

Idk why Sam is upset about the name. Like dude, your Avengers team is just you and Joaquin. What Avengers team does he have? Go call up some of your friends first, at least the New AvengerZ are actually a team. He didn’t even call Bucky to join his team 😭

Poor New York. They just went through a blackout, riots, and looting, and now they were in the Void. At least Fisk probably saw his traumatic childhood memories again, which is a plus. But Matt probably saw Foggy's death again :( And poor Peter probably saw Aunt May and Tony dying.

FANTASTIC FOUR MY BABIES I CAN'T WAIT. It's going to be really funny that the first people the FF are going to meet in the MCU are going to be the Thunderbolts lmao. I think Alexei and Ben will get along really well or absolutely hate each other. It can go either way. Walker and Johnny would 100% get on each other's nerves, though.

But did they spoil how the movie ends? Everyone basically knew that they're going to travel to the main MCU universe eventually, though. RIP FF universe, Galactus probably found the planet delicious.

ADFHJKL IM SO EXCITED FOR THE FANTASTIC FOUR

I’d give this movie a 7/10. For post-Endgame movies, I’d rank it right below No Way Home and GotG Vol 3, and on par with Shang-Chi.

[rhenuvee]

Happy birthday to my beloved! This is Part 2 of Diluc in AUs, Part 1 here. Comment which Diluc is your fave!

A/N: Idk why it went a little angsty in some of these (I thought I was a fluff/crack blog but clearly I'm emotional)

Agent!Diluc who despite his dangerous and secretive line of work, becomes absolutely soft for you. You are much different from him- asomeone who would likely never cross paths with him and live a peaceful life. And yet, here he is fallen in love with you, having an extra feeling of heartache when he has to leave you late at night to conduct his secret missions. It's even more annoying when his colleagues (cough Wriothesley and Childe) tease him about him being sappy. Not to worry, he's willing to take it as long as he makes it home to you.

Barista!Diluc who unknowingly goes viral and is seen on every foodie/influencer’s page. The cafe and bar he runs became successful from his creative ideas for new drinks that he was sure to slowly attract customers. But once social media notices the existence of a tall, handsome, and single bartender, the people start flooding in. Or at least they think he's single. Nobody seems to notice a certain person sitting closest to him on the bar, who seems to have his full attention and yearning. His eyes lighting up like never seen before, all because of little ol' you.

CampusCrush!Diluc who seems quite untouchable- everyone's been talking about his good looks, his stoic demeanor adding to his air of superiority- so you give up on the thought of him quickly. However, everything changes when he approaches you in the library. He leans down, his cologne close enough for you to get a whiff of. Worst of all, he compliments you. He compliments your humming of a familiar tune, saying that he taught his pet bird to sing the same one. And though you swore to forget about him, you somehow end up being invited over to his residence where he shows you his bird.

Violinist!Diluc who takes his performance very seriously. He plays with his soul, hoping that the beauty of his music can rival his father's painting abilities. However, his cunning brother seemed to notice how the usually routined Diluc had not been practising at home or in the rehearsal room- but instead outside... with you. You've both been pining over each other for a while, as if Diluc giving you a private violin performance wasn't a big give-away. Little do you know that the handsome redhead was busy blushing and being teased by his brother on his obvious feelings which you somehow do you notice. Worst of all, his father who notices, starts inviting you to his performances, his son unable to deny him.

Knight!Diluc who does nothing but worship you. You push him off, feeling conflicted from your feelings that sprouted for your protector. Diluc instantly worries, thinking he hurt you somehow and tries to coax you into talking to him (but little does he know, this only makes your heart ache more). He follows you making sure you're safe, though you refuse to make eye contact with him. Diluc does anything he can to try and make you smile again- your favourite pastries, the flowers you liked in the garden, the trinket store you like to visit. And when you finally spill out worry after worry, he immediately pulls you into an embrace. It doesn't matter how many problems you encounter,

[featherlight-touches]

Still a little Wisp

Zhongli/Venti/Xiao

a/n: I wrote some more wisp venti because the idea wouldn't leave my head and it's fun to write this dynamic - enjoy! 💚

★・・・★・・・★・・・★

Venti, in his wisp form, was a menace.

Zhongli was no stranger to the bard’s antics and carefree personality, but this only seemed to increase when he was such a small creature.

A missing spoon, Venti.

A pen moved, Venti.

The disruption of Zhongli’s peaceful retirement, Venti.

Though despite it all, Zhongli couldn’t seem to send the wisp on his way, to deal with the large world alone. Venti was an old friend, after all. He knew as well, that if the roles were reversed, and Zhongli was in a lesser form, Venti would offer the same help to him.

One evening, Zhongli returned to his abode after a long day’s work and was curious to see how his temporary houseguest had spent the day, praying silently that Venti had decided to not fill his home with treacherous hurricanes.

When walking through the door, instead of destroyed furniture, he was greeted with the sight of the wisp perched upon Adeptus Xiao’s shoulder, munching away at what he could only assume was part of the apple that Xiao held in his ungloved hand.

Xiao’s attention snapped to the open door, and he bowed his head in respect. “Welcome home, Zhongli.”

“Thank you, Xiao. How nice of you to visit again so soon,” Zhongli removed his jacket to place upon the hook situated by the front door. “My thanks to you for keeping Venti company, as well.”

Venti bounced up and down upon Xiao’s shoulder, creating a small jingle sound as his happy chirps greeted Zhongli before he used his tiny hand to gently pull at a strand of Xiao’s hair, indicating that he is ready for another apple slice.  

“It’s hardly anything worthy of your gratitude,” Xiao cut off another tiny piece of apple using a knife and gently held it up to the wisp, who took a huge bite out of it. Xiao had already scolded the little guy for trying to eat a whole slice before, so it explained why the Yaksha watched him intently while he chewed.

“Well, regardless, it’s still appreciated,” Zhongli concluded, checking the house over for any notable damage but was thrilled to find that the house was just how he left it, minus a few objects moved around. “Any insights for this transformation? I have had no luck in deciphering it myself.”

Xiao shook his head, watching Venti happily munch on his apple slice. There were no clear indications as to why Venti chose this form as of late, but this was something they would patiently await the explanation for.  

“No matter, I’m sure the time will come when he is feeling more like himself again.” Zhongli reached out a finger to gently pat the small head, though to Venti, it felt like he was getting smacked with a rock over and over.

He made small chirps of protest and bit down on the imposing finger. Of course, this created no pain whatsoever for Zhongli, but it did stun him for a moment as he stared at this small act of aggression.

Xiao too found himself raising his brows at the sight, watching the wisp hang from Zhongli’s gloved finger by his little mouth latched on to it, emitting some small growls.

“Won’t you join us for dinner, Xiao?” Zhongli asked, having decided that this little tantrum had received enough attention.

“Huh?” Xiao was pulled out of his observation. “Oh. There’s no need to trouble yourself, M- Zhongli.”

“It’s no trouble at all. Why, I even have the ingredients to prepare some Almond Tofu should you wish to have it.”

Xiao found it impossible to refuse and gave a nod of his head. “Then I shall. Thank you.”

“Splendid,” Zhongli smiled which morphed into an amused expression once he looked back down to his hand. “Are you quite finished?”

Venti continued to growl around Zhongli’s finger.

“This is the gratitude I am given for my assistance,” Zhongli sighed, trying to wiggle out of the wisp’s grasp, but it seemed like Venti didn’t plan on letting go. “Come now, Venti.”  

Zhongli lifted his finger upwards, then to the side, then the other side, but Venti seemed to just dangle no matter which way he was held up. He was certain he heard Xiao huff a small laugh at the scene.

“The Anemo Archon,” Zhongli scoffed, though a simple jest as he used his other hand to gently grab onto the wisp, pulling him away. Though Venti seemed to still be latched to the glove, which he started to glide off Zhongli’s finger the more he was pulled away. “Barbatos. Let go.”

The use of his Archon name only increased the tantrum it seemed, as Venti began snarling and rapidly shaking as if fighting with the glove.

“Oh, come now, really?”

Xiao watched intently before balling his ungloved fist around Venti, trapping him in his palm and with a squeeze of his hand around the wisp, Zhongli felt the glove release from Venti’s grasp and managed to pull away at last.

“Thank you.”

“It’s – Ack!”

Zhongli startled at Xiao’s sudden outburst. “Is something the matter?”

“N-No, he…” Xiao cleared his throat, but it was mixed with a breath of laughter as he opened his palm once again. Venti, who wore a mischievously happy grin, had started to wiggle his tiny hands against Xiao’s palm, tickling the Yaksha.

Zhongli blinked at the sudden discovery. Xiao had ticklish palms? How unusual. Though it did bring a small smile to the Geo Archon’s face.

“E-Enough!” Xiao tried to shake Venti away, but he was just as stubbornly attached to Xiao’s hand as he was to Zhongli’s. The wisp made little happy chirps as Xiao began to let out some more quiet laughs.

“What are we going to do with you, Barbatos?” Zhongli sighed, crossing him arms across his chest as he watched the scene unfold. Thankfully, Venti took the bait and stopped to glare his tiny eyes up at Zhongli for using the wrong name again.

Xiao took this opportunity to get revenge on the little wisp and used a finger to tickle at Venti’s tiny body. His happy chirps of laughter rang out as he wiggled around in Xiao’s hand, he hovered upwards and try to fly away but Xiao was quick to give chase.

“Try not to make a mess,” Zhongli chided, heading towards his kitchen area. “I’ll get started on dinner.”

[mita-vittua-olivia]

yes i’m so deep into the käärijä brain rot that i will order some punainen marli now

[always-a-slut-4-ghouls]

I just looked at the price on the back of a book I’ve had for a bit over a decade and it was four. fucking. dollars. Just four with no taxes. No extra 97cents or something before taxes. Just a round number that you would add taxes to.

I googled the price of a new edition and it was almost thirteen! Not an even thirteen, it was like 12.96 or something. Close enough that it’s basically thirteen but if you’re adding multiple items together to try and get the price on a purchase with more items it would add more confusion.

[itsoutrageouss]

It’s the first time Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley sees you cry that something in him changes profoundly. You had always had your different skill sets out on the field, it was what made you such a powerful duo for the task force. You were sly, agile, a killer in the dark and he was a brute show of force and strength, able to kill with his bare hands. You argued a lot, though. Your differences that made you work so well also made you clash time and time again. He found you annoying. You found him arrogant.

But after a mission, Ghost finds you collapsed on the floor in an empty building— Crying. He’d never seen you do that before, but he knew you were a softer more sensitive soul, you were just good at hiding it.

He was moving before he realised it, crouching down in front of you, eyes narrowed as he tried to find your gaze that was lost in a heap of warm tears. His hands got clammy and his throat dry because how could he make it stop? It was like the sight had reached in and seized a part of him long gone, maybe one he’d never found before now.

“Stop crying.” He said foolishly, but his tone had lost its usual edge, and the very rare lilt of pleading had laced into his voice. Why did he suddenly grab your shoulders and press your trembling body into his? He had no clue but he wanted to shield you from whatever had made you look so vulnerable before him.

A part of him didn’t like seeing this, didn’t recognise the garbled sound of soft sobs, the way your body’s strength seemed to evaporate into a fragile, soft one that he wanted to pick up and put back together. Another part of him was sucking in this moment, afraid it would get lost and maybe feeling a bit guilty about it. But this feeling of… was it protection? Protection, yes. He’d never had it like this before. Usually, protecting means killing and hurting. Right now it meant nurturing as your small hands reached around his neck and you curled into him. He reacted immediately, sitting down and scooping you into his lap.

He closed his eyes, his chin resting on your head with a sigh. He had no idea what came next. This had to change your dynamic in some way because he couldn’t ever look at you the same. He saw your softness and maybe he fell in love with it right there, and wanted to be the one you showed it to. Only him.

“Im sorry” You whispered into his chest. His hands flexed around you, fighting the urge to smother you even more against him.

“Dont say that. Just keep holding onto me.” His voice was more hoarse than usual as his fingers unconsciously combed through your hair.

Whatever had happened, he was sure you felt it too, or you would’ve never let him this close. And he wished for everything you would let him again one day.

series masterlist