#sorry for the lack of gif stamps

[sexy-monster-fucker]

Burgeon

Logan Howlett x Reader Sex Pollen

Summary: Reader works in the science lab at the mutant academy. Trying to grow a new plant from a mutated seed they had found. When the bloom puffs a cloud into her and Logan’s face they both begin feeling strange.

CW: oral m!receiving, oral f!receiving, biting, p in v, creampie

a/n: sorry this took so long to write I was depressed :D also surprise its today

~~~

You rested your head on your hands as you watched the plant in front of you slowly yet rapidly bloom a gorgeous, wine red bud. The way the flower held itself closed mesmerized you. How small bumps decorated the stem and the leaves along it were a dark purple color.

Logan, a.k.a. The Wolverine stood next to you. Piddling with one of the enclosed flora that was under surveillance. Not all that interested in the details of your work, but enjoying spending time with you. Especially when the big blue fur ball was not around to distract you. Dusk was approaching as it shined through the greenhouse windows. A beautiful color painted the sky as the darkness of the night approached.

“Oh, Logan! Look the bud is about to bloom!” You wrapped your arm around his pulling him over to you. He groaned as you pulled him over to you. You watched closely as the petals fought each other to release. Taking their sweet time to reveal the beauty within.

“Sure is taking its time,” Logan huffed, eyes fixated on you now. Loving how happy you looked awaiting the new flowers arrival.

The petals dispersed. Revealing the most beautiful black center of the flower. A large cloud of purple dust coming out with it. Before you could say anything, you and Logan both inhaled the fumes. Covering your mouth and coughing aggressively as the pollen stuck to the inside of your mouth. You wide eyed the plant, shocked at what came out of it.

“What the hell— that thing isn’t poisonous is it?!”

“I… I don’t really know,” you meekly whispered.

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I mean we found this thing, noticed it was displaying some irregular behavior for a seedling of its type. And we decided to monitor it. I didn’t know it was going to cough up smoke at us!”

Logan stamped his foot. Frustrated by the lack of caring on your part. Pacing in a small circle next to you with the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

“Okay! We just have to stay here for the next 48 hours. Keep us under supervision just in case we feel any side effects. We go about our days like normal, just can’t leave the Academy,” you rubbed your hand up and down your arm. Logan irritably took a seat, head down with his hands folded over his lap. You grabbed the pod and placed it in a holding chamber all of its own. Walking over and kneeling down in front of Logan.

“I’m sorry. If I had known—“ you reached your hand out to rest it on Logan’s leg.

“You don’t have to be sorry. We can forget all about it at the party tonight. Celebrating whatever the hell Charles was on about,” Logan grinned at you.

You smiled, “I’ll celebrate anything if it means free drinks.”

Logan left the greenhouse while you finished up cleaning and double checking everything. A sudden hot flash washed over your body. Pulling a sweat from every inch of you. You fanned your hand in front of your face, your clothes feeling oddly tight suddenly. Maybe someone turned the heat up in the greenhouse. You walked over to check the thermostat. Nothing about the number had changed. As long as it was reading right you were comfortable leaving it be.

Walking up to your room. Heat engulfed you, a minor ache on your body now approaching. Choosing to ignore the problem entirely. Changing into something more comfortable for the evening ahead. Looking at yourself in the mirror when a sudden, promiscuous image flashed in your mind.

Logan.

Behind you. Both of you completely nude as he pounded into you. Watching yourself take him in the mirror. His hands splayed out on your chest, lips on your neck.

Your face flushed with your arousal. Unable to fight the feeling forming deep down inside you. Aching at your core. Leaning over your bed as you writhed.

The feeling of his hands grabbing your hips. Buried completely inside you. Your back arching to meet his thrusts. Head thrown back in pure ecstasy.

You gasped at the thought. Unsure of what was happening to you. Uncontrollably desire was taking over your body. Your hand found your aching core in an attempt to cool yourself down. Scrunching up your face at the feeling. It felt good, but not right. It was not what you needed. You needed him.

Your face was completely flushed with thoughts of Logan. Trying your hardest to make it less noticeable before going downstairs.

“Just stop,” you told yourself.

Heading down to the common area where all your fellow teachers had gathered. An adults only party, all the students were off away. You smiled as you greeted your fellow mutants. Getting stopped by Hank. His warm smile and soft eyes pulling your attention to him.

“Hi, Hank,” you smiled as you walked over to him.

“Hello, beautiful,” Hank grinned, fangs decorating his bright white smile. You thought about how his teeth would feel against your neck. Blushing at the idea of the large monster on top of you. Your thoughts suddenly morphing to fit Logan into your fantasy. Fangs nipping at your skin as strong hands held yours above your head. Panting as he thrusted into you. Sweat dripping down his forehead.

“Everything going good with that mysterious plant of yours?” Hank questioned, breaking your fantasy.

“Uh— Yeah, kinda. It bloomed today but some purple pollen came out it. Not sure if that’ll have any effect on me,” you droned off as you saw Logan enter the room. Completely fixated on him now. Seeing his bulging muscles revealed by his tank top. His broad shoulders and strong brow bone indicating he was some form of frustrated. His eyes finally caught yours. Awkwardly you turned back to focus on Hank as you continued on about the beauty of the mysterious flower. Unable to keep Logan in your peripheral. Excusing yourself from the conversation. Walking into a corner so you could scan the entire room. Unable to spot Logan anywhere.

Muscular arms wrapped around your waist. Almost calming the burn trickling down your nervous system. Nose finding its place in the crook of your neck, taking a deep inhale. Your hands meeting those around you, feeling the veins popping out. Smell of musk and cologne overwhelming your senses.

A silent feeling that he understood exactly what you were going through.

“Smells so good,” his gruff, low voice rang in your ear. Your head leaning back against his shoulder, eyes straining to look at him. Black eyes stared at you. Pulling you flush against him, his semi-hard cock pressed into you. Chills ran up you. Rolling your hips to grind against him. A low groan, almost a growl, vibrated against your ear.

Hands inched down closer to the place you ached most. Fingers grazing the sweet spot causing you to arch backwards slightly. Circling your mound as his eyes scanned the room.

“Everyone is in here,” you whispered, a soft moan on your tone.

“I know,” he grumbled, kissing below your ear.

Both of you silently enjoyed the feeling of your bodies pressed together for a moment. How perfectly your body melted to his front. How the smell of him sent goosebumps down your body. The sound of his breathing in your ear pooling inside you.

“Saw you over there with furrball. He not tickling your fancy tonight?” Logan’s fingers dug into your skin, a hint of jealousy on his tone.

“No,” you simply said.

“Haven’t been able to stop thinking about you,” Logan groaned into your ear, “I could smell you from my fucking room. Need to rip these clothes off and get inside you right now.”

You choked on air. Realizing Logan was having the same feelings you were. Unsatisfiable desire.

“Didn’t matter how fucking good my hand felt, wasn’t right. It wasn’t you,” he purred. His fingers danced along the line of your pants, daring to dip under your clothes. Feeling your pantyline against his fingers, the softness of the lace continuing his desire. Your hand met his, intertwining fingers with him. Looking over your shoulder to meet his gaze. Lust blown eyes stared into yours. He plotted an escape route to make sure none of your coworkers watched you slip away together. Grabbing your hand and dragging you behind him.

His touch tingled against your skin. Your sensitive body being thrown into overdrive as you headed down the hallway together. Pulling you into a stairwell and turning to face you. His entire face was red, sweat beaming down his brow. You blushed. Eyes locked together, blown pupils matching each other.

“Dunno if I can wait much longer,” Logan growled as he palmed at himself through his jeans. You fell to your knees instinctively. Tugging at his belt, pulling a deep sigh from him. Releasing his fully erect cock from its confides. It sprung up, tip swollen and leaking. A thick vein wrapped around the underside. You felt your pussy clench around nothing, your mouth salivating at the sight of him. Doed eyes stared up at him, your hand grasping around his member. Lips pressing against the tip in a kiss. Logan moaned at your touch. His fingers tangled in your hair as he guided you down on him. Choking around his girth.

“That’s it,” Logan praised as he lead you up and down on his cock. Hollowing out your cheeks to take him all the way. Tears pricked at the corner of your eyes, fighting off your urge to gag. Feeling him twitch in your mouth, knowing it would not take long for you to get him there.

Logan’s eyes squinted shut as he finished in your mouth. A grunt as he held you in place. “It’s not enough,” he moaned. Eyebrows knitted together as he looked down at you. Reaching a hand down to help you up, “I need to be inside you.”

His words melted into your core. Igniting a primal feeling in you. You wrapped your hand around Logan’s leading him up the stairs.

“My room’s closer,” you answered the question you knew he was silently asking himself. A grin painted his face as he watched your ass bounce going up the stairs.

Hurriedly typing your code to access your room. Logan’s fingers rubbed circles on your core through your clothes. You arched your back into him, feeling his still completely erect dick. “‘M gonna fuck you so good, doll,” Logan purred in your ear pulling at the button on your pants. You bit your lip finally getting the door open. Logan practically shoved you inside.

Attaching his lips to yours immediately, hands cupping both sides of your face. His tongue penetrating your mouth as your teeth clinked together. You hooked your fingers under his tank top, pulling it over his head. His hairy, muscular chest was completely drenched in sweat. His lips attached onto your neck, tongue coming out to lick a stripe up your sensitive skin. “What’s going on with us?” Logan asked against your skin.

“I’dunno,” you moaned when his teeth grazed a spot you liked, “I just want you.” He smiled at your response.

Logan pushed you onto your back on the bed. Ripping your pants and panties off you. A gasp fell from you. “You’ve got plenty more,” he growled as he kneeled at the side of your bed. Pulling you so that he was directly in front of your core. Soaking the blanket underneath you as arousal took over every sense you had. Logan chuckled as he lapped at your core, “Tastes so good.” You arched your back off the bed at the sudden contact. Pushing yourself closer into his mouth. Furrowing your brows because — GOD — he felt good, but it just was not enough to cool the fire inside you. Grinding yourself against his face trying your damndest to reach your high. Logan latched onto you like an animal devouring his last meal. Fingers digging into your thighs, bruising the soft skin there. Hooded eyes stared up at your face admiring how you scrunched up your nose and hung your mouth open. The soft moans and squeaks pouring from your mouth like music to his ears. He rolled his hips into the side of the mattress, desperate to fuck you. But more desperate to get you off first.

Your nails dug into the soft blanket below you. Riding his tongue through your orgasm. Body jolting and legs shaking. His name a scream on your lips. Logan pulled away, his face soaked in your juices. Dropping his pants to the floor. He stroked himself as he stared at your entrance. Your body still basking in the afterglow of orgasm. Logan pounced on top of you. Gently removing your top, lips finding their place on your exposed breasts. Biting through the fabric of your bra to play with your nipples. Licking and sucking the thin material. His hand pinched at the opposite one. Lips dancing up your neck, biting at your jaw.

Rolling his exposed cock into your soaked entrance. The first bit of relief you had felt all day. A shaky moan escaping you. Logan smirked above you, leaning his head back feeling how your body begged for him. Sliding his member through your slit, collecting all your wetness on him. “My pretty girl,” he praised, “I’m gonna fill you up to the goddamn hilt.”

Easing his way into you. Your walls practically pulling him in. Both of you moaned in harmony, throwing your heads back. “That’s more like it,” he cooed. Easy himself back before slamming back in. Setting himself at a brutal pace. The sound of skin smacking together filled the room. He panted above you, keeping his eyes locked on yours.

You leaned forward to catch him in a kiss, Logan’s body slouching so that your front were pressed firmly together. Curving his arms under you, holding you tight as he fucked into you. A huff of breath falling from him with each snap of hips. He held you close, lips pressed against your neck. An occasional kiss being planted there. “You take cock so well. I’m gonna fuck you stupid,” he growled against your skin.

You clawed at his back. Desperate to hold him closer. Scratching down his body, pulling a moan from him. His pace was growing sloppy as he approached his own high. Your pussy still sensitive from your own. Walls clenching when he’d hit deep inside you. “Gonna be so full of me aren’t you? Little cum slut,” Logan grunted with each of his thrusts.

Logan attached his lips back to yours desperately panting and moaning as he felt himself about to finish. Sheathing himself fully inside you as he shot his seed. The feeling of him soothed the burn you had been feeling. Relieved by how perfectly he filled you up. You felt him grin against your skin, slumping all his body weight into you momentarily.

“Could stay like this all night,” he whispered in your ear. You petted his back, kissing him on the cheek.

“Yeah?”

“That way I can already be inside you when I feel like I gotta soothe the feeling again,” Logan playfully bit at your cheek.

~

[END]

// Thank you so much for reading! I know this fic has been a long time coming so I hope it was a great read! I plan on writing quite a lot for the month of October, so if you have any requests send them my way! My next Logan fic is gonna be a Werewolf!AU //

{tags}

@toogaytofunctiondangit ~ @goodness-gracious13 ~ @figsnpassionfruits ~ @gretavankleep37 ~ @shinysam29 ~ @sunnyfranc ~ @savy-luvs-dilfs ~ @ayamenimthiriel ~ @megangovier ~ @its-in-the-woods ~ @father-of-2cats ~ @atthediscowithoutpanic ~

[iwaizumis-bitch]

𝔦 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔴𝔢 𝔤𝔢𝔱 𝔣𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔨𝔶 𝔬𝔫 𝔠𝔞𝔪𝔢𝔯𝔞~

𝔰𝔶𝔭𝔫𝔬𝔰𝔦𝔰: haikyuu men and reader (you!!!) getting freaky on camera

𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔫𝔱 𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: f! reader, degrading names, creampies, photography during sex, tummy bulging.

𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 1182

KIYOOMI SAKUSA

it was a well known fact amongst all of kiyoomi's closest friends that a polaroid photo of you sat in the front card slot sakusa's wallet. it was a photo of you with a nervous smile and a large bouquet of tulips, taken the night of one of you and kiyoomi's first dates. you smiled at the photo, remembering the memory fondly.

just as you were about to fold the wallet shut, the border frame of another polaroid sticking out the top caught your eye. you'd flipped through kiyoomi's wallet countless times, whether it be grabbing some change to tip the doordash driver or to grab his coffee card to stamp, but never once had you noticed another polaroid.

you let out a small huff of confusion, pulling out the photo. your face immediately warms up as you're greeted with the sight of your own face, only this time your tongue was out and painted with streaks of white. your eyes were squeezed shut from the flash and a slender hand was wrapped around your bitten neck. you remembered sakusa told you that night, 'you look like a bona fide cumslut', and there was no doubt about it.

you felt an ache between your legs as you remembered all the things kiyoomi had done to you that night. all the filthy praise and condescending names he called had you take a sharp breath in. and like a predator drawn to its prey, you felt a looming presence behind you and a hand coming up to slide the polaroid next to the on display polaroid of you.

'everyone knows you as such a sweet girl', he coos into your ear, stroking his thumb over the bouquet of flowers. your heart skipped a beat as you felt his erection grind up against your ass, his nose nuzzling against your hair.

'but only i know the real you'.

HAJIME IWAIZUMI

'shit', iwaizumi groaned as his hips stuttered, slamming into your ass one more time as he filled your cunt with his cum. his hips rolled against yours, teeth gritted as he made sure to release every drop inside of you. his biceps trembled, finally letting himself plop down on top of you, kissing against the side of your neck. as blissful as he felt like this, he was a gentleman before anything and quickly began on aftercare.

he slowly pulled out, trudging to the en suite to fetch a washcloth. after running it under the tap, he gently moved your hair from your neck, placing the cool cloth where he could see you were sweatiest. he let out a little laugh at your hum of relief, watching the side of your face disappear into the fold of your elbow.

he moved down, gently spreading your legs apart watching as his cum started to trickle out and down your thigh. his cock immediately perked up again, rubbing his thumb over the skin of your inner thigh. it was such a pretty sight, he wanted to be able to see you like this whenever he wanted. his eyes snapped to his phone, nestled among the bedsheets, and a perverted idea came to his head.

'y/n?', he asked gently, hand resting on your lower back. it wasn't uncommon for you to fall asleep after being bred, especially after a long day of work. at your lack of reply he grabbed his phone, quickly swiping to open his camera. he tapped to make sure the camera was focused, he softly spread open your pussylips, taking a photo of your thoroughly spent pussy, and cum covered thighs.

'whatcha doin?', you mumble, tilting your head back to the side, having been woken from your light slumber at the sound of a shutter clicking. a small smirk was playing on your lips as you saw hajime's shocked face, clearly not expecting you to catch him in such an act.

'sorry', he mumbled, cheeks flaming. 'i'll delete it, you just looked so hot i-', he fumbled around his words, licking his lips.

'mmm, show me', you hum, looking at him expectantly. he pauses for a moment, before moving to lay down on his side beside you, hesitantly bringing up the couple of photos he had taken. he watched as you start to nibble on your lip, zooming into the photo.

'that's hot, keep it', you say, blatant and unashamed, smiling sultrily up at him. 'but please just clean me up so i can go to sleep', and who was he to deny you of anything he asked, he thought, nodding quickly as he grabbed the washcloth, but not before saving the photo to his favourites folder. he kisses atop your head, mumbling against your skin.

'how about you take some of me next time?

WAKATOSHI USHIJIMA

you had photography to thank for everything in your life, after all, it was how you had first met your husband. as a photography major at your local university, you were one of the few students selected to photograph the Schweiden Adlers season opening match. you were too entranced trying to focus your lens to notice the volleyball flying towards you, only realising the dire situation you were in when one of the players you were supposed to be photographing ran out in front of you, batting the ball away.

well now, wakatoshi was the one too entranced on trying to focus the lens. you knew not to boss him around, but you really wished he'd hurry up and twist the focus ring. you were both laying naked on your bed, you lying on your back with him between your legs, fiddling with the camera. you can't help but let out an impatient whine, reaching out and grabbing his cock.

his eyes snap to yours, jaw locked as he set the camera down. he grabs your chin, rubbing his thumb against your lip. 'where, oh where did my good little girl go?', he teases. his gaze doesn't break as he watches you squirm in fear, albeit he's not stopping you from jerking his cock.

you grab the head of his cock, shuffling forward to press it against the entrance of your pussy. 'i'm here', you mumble around his finger, ashamed of your impudence. before you can even think to start to beg for him to fuck you already, wakatoshi sheathes his entire cock into you in one quick motion.

immediately, your eyes rolled to the back of your head then squeezed shut as a needy moan sounded from your quivering lips. he held your hips in place to stop you from squirming around, and just relished in the feeling of your pussy wrapped so snug around his pulsing cock.

he took his time picking up the digital camera, his other hand resting over the obvious bulge poking out of your lower stomach. 'breathe baby', he reminds you, watching you flounder around in your aroused state. he snaps a quick photo of your stomach, with his hand resting on your him. he scoffs when he hears you whining again, feeling your pussy twitch around him. he chuckles at your desperation, leaning down to whisper into your ear

'how do i video on this thing, i wanna make you my personal pornstar?'

thank you for reading!! likes, reblogs, follows, and general feedback are all appreciated♥️

[randombush3]

ubi amor, ibi dolor

alexia putellas x reader

part one

words: 11455 (SORRY THERE WAS A LOT TO FIT IN)

summary: alexia and you as posh + becks part two x

content warnings: it’s gets a little sad but tbh the next part is the one you should be worried abt 🤘

notes: this one covers 2017-2019. i apologise if it’s a bit jumpy because if i covered EVERYTHING you’d be sat here reading for days. also, this part was so slow to be finished because i abandoned it for ages and only just decided i should probs get to finishing it. the next part is the last one!

It’s about three months later, and there is not a silence that can’t be filled with the sound of Alexia’s voice. You don’t know how to prove this, because you leave none to be filled, instead seeking to occupy every spare second granted by your tour schedule to call her, to text her; to talk to her. 

You spend your nights on balconies all over the continent. Your smoking habit is worsening but the excuse of getting some fresh air to do so is a perfect way to weasel yourself out of parties and clubs and late-night chats with your friends. You much prefer to spend your time finding out more about the woman you quickly become obsessed with. She often verbalises her disdain for your disregard for your lungs – something that transcends the language barrier with an overwhelming clarity – but she is glad that you are talking to her either way.

A few times, you go as far as to hop on a secretly booked flight. You never step outside the airport, leaving Barcelona very much stamped in your passport but not on your list of places you have explored, but Alexia is more than content to pursue your hooded figure as you lead her into hidden corners of the arrivals lounge she begins to associate with the racing feeling in her heart when she sees you. Kissing against walls and on hard airport seats is not what feeds most budding romances, but you don’t care. You happily fly to her whenever you have a spare five minutes, and she is more than content to make the time spent physically together worthwhile.

The tour is nearly over. Five shows in three weeks, and then you can traipse back to London to fight off the delayed hangover in the comfort of your own home with meals cooked by your parents to keep you going. One of the worst things about being on the road is the food (or lack thereof), and your athlete gi… Alexia, is unimpressed with your nutrition. You find that she does not agree with most of your lifestyle, yet she seems captivated by it; like she is discovering a different, scarier world, and she can’t close her eyes.

Alexia’s birthday is soon. 

She has enough dread for the event to have communicated it far more efficiently than usual, with most conversations needing to be doubled in length to get past the all-too-familiar grunts of unrecognition. The streets of Barcelona are filled with whispers of a women’s league, and she is unsure of the pressure that is starting to grow on her shoulders. A birthday is inconvenient, she claims, though you only laugh. 

You tell her about Virgil – she knows you love him, she knows you love most things to do with him – and his famous quote. “Labor omnia vincit,” you say, finding it ironic that you are only able to talk to her right now because you skipped out on soundcheck and a run-through with the backup dancers. “Work conquers all. It reminds me of you.” 

Her lilting Spanish laughter fades as she actually thinks about it. 

“Es verdad,” Alexia replies, and you are glad to understand. “Quiero ser la mejor del mundo así que ‘labor omnia vincit’.” 

“You’re speaking Latin with a Spanish accent.” 

“You love my accent.” 

You smile. It’s true. 

…

It hasn’t settled in Alexia’s mind that you, who calls her whenever you can because you miss her opinions and her jokes and the face that you can picture when she speaks, are the same person as the one she sees on Jenni’s phone as the team crowds round the screen to watch a viral video from your concert last night. 

“A birthday present for you, eh, Ale?” Jenni jests, clinging on to Alexia’s admission months ago about her crush on you. She doesn’t know about the reality of it all. No one does, as of yet. 

“Who puts them in these outfits?” asks Leila, mildly outraged at the bedazzled lingerie you’d been dressed in. “There’s nothing to them! They might as well go on stage naked.” 

“It’s fine. They get hot while they’re performing anyway,” Alexia dismisses, not wanting to delve into your issues with your stylist. Well. Her issues with your stylist, who seems to not care about dignity or have any faith in the world’s imagination. (That, and Alexia is not sure she likes this idea of sharing, though she is aware that nothing defines you as hers.)

“Oh, did they tell you that themselves?” She glares at Jenni, and shoulders her way out of the huddle. It’s not Jenni’s fault that her mood has been easily soured, because tomorrow is Alexia’s birthday and then, the next day, she has to get to Madrid for her national camp. The Euros later this year is going to be in the Netherlands, and her dreams for her country are currently far-fetched. It hurts, and you’re well aware of her misery.

In fact, you are so aware that you are on a flight from Oslo on the fourth of February. It’s too special a day to miss. You have once again abandoned soundcheck. 

Alexia receives a text as she slides into her mother’s old car, considering flinging the device out of the window at one of her teammates’ heads after they sang to her at training without the mercy of letting her forget that she is one year closer to the end of her career. At this rate, the career will be full of wasted potential. She is in a terrible mood about it. 

And then she looks at her phone. 

You have really tried to up your game with the Spanish of late, enlisting the help of a private tutor who Skypes you twice a week with new phrases and grammar that mildly resembles that of a dead language you carry more than a passion for. 

You: Estoy aquí!

The only thing she can think to do is slam her index finger on the call button of your contact, nail bending painfully on the glass of the screen. 

Your instructions are clear: “Airport. Now.” 

She drives. 

She drives at an embarrassingly desperate speed, because just over a week is too long a separation and her day has been awful and there is something so magnetic about your presence that she would be going against nature to do anything other than find you. Obviously, find you she does: right in the arrivals lounge, same black hoodie as always disguising your identity. It’s not any busier than usual, and you catch sight of her the minute she pushes her way to the front of the crowd of expectant faces. 

With a weary grin, you walk towards her, and she knows that this game is only temporary. There will be privacy close by, and you can speak then. 

She turns with a nod, and you follow as she takes the usual route, but suddenly there are fingers intertwined with her own and you are stopping her in front of everyone. 

“Feliz cumpleaños,” you say with a pronounced failure and a hilariously concentrated expression. Alexia giggles, and the storm cloud above her dissipates, but the kiss she wants to press to your lips will have to wait. There’s somewhere empty just around the corner, and she tugs your hand to get you to come with her – to match the same haste she has – but you don’t. “Al coche. So we can go to your casa.” 

Her eyebrows raise. 

“It’s your birthday,” you explain, stepping towards her so that the people around you see a couple instead of two women walking in a vague direction. Alexia swallows, body tingling at your proximity. Her body always tingles when you stand near her like this. “It’s your birthday, so I am here for the night. My flight is tomorrow.” 

She understands you entirely. 

She all but drags you to her car. 

Alexia does not even remember what it’s like to be miserable. She is set alight by your presence, by your lips, your hands, your soft greeting that you whisper in her ear when she pulls away to drive you to her flat. It’s a new place, and she is free from the fuss of her mother. 

You smile when she pulls you out, taking your bulging handbag in one hand and grasping yours with the other, and she kisses that smile as she presses you against the mirror in the lift. The bag hits the floor with a thud, your overnight things spilling out because of her carelessness, but you pay the rolling Dior lipstick no mind, too caught up in the way her tongue swirls in your mouth. How her hands grip your waist. 

She’s stronger than last time. She gets stronger every day: she is going to be the best footballer in the world. She is dedicated to her sport. 

Your palms travel up the back of her t-shirt, cold from the metal you’d previously had them pressed against. Alexia flinches as your fingers brush a particular spot, the skin there slightly raised. 

“¿Que pasó?” you ask, head tilted to the side as she draws back, panting. “Are you hurt?”

She examines your eyes. Deeply inquisitive. Full of something that may resemble love in the future. 

Alexia smiles – an expression that she wears mostly when she is thinking about you. You watch as she turns around, the lift jerking to a halt as if to hurry up her slow movements. As she lifts up her t-shirt, you eye the tattoos you are aware decorate her back. There are going to be more someday, she has always been clear about that. 

And, oh. 

You’re not usually so attached. Alexia, it’s apparent, is a complete exception.

She asks you if you like it. You lean forward, and kiss the four words (she must have researched the quote, because you excluded the last when you mentioned it), tongue running over the redness as if you are going to heal the irritation. She moans quietly, more surprised than anything else. 

“Do I get the credit for it?” She shakes her head, which you catch in the mirror opposite, and, before you can voice your protest, she is facing the right way again and kissing you as she leads you to her door. “You know, there’s another quote from him that I much prefer to that one. ‘Labor omnia vincit improbus’ is… Do you know the word workaholic?” Again, her head shakes. She backs you against the wall next to her door, lips attached to your neck as you keen under her touch. 

She slots her leg between yours, and you forget your next sentence. 

It’s a heated kiss. It promises tonight’s activities to you, and you cannot wait for her to unlock her door. 

Your lips run along her neck as she jams her key into the lock. You suck and bite, spurred on by the moans she bites back with a clenched jaw. You find it sexy: her determination to get you inside. And it’s her birthday, after all. She deserves it. You have another gift for her in your bag, but she is grateful for this anyway.

“Inside,” she gasps as you smooth your tongue over the newly-created hickey you just gave her, kicking her door wide open and hauling you through the gap. 

The flat is pitch black, but Alexia knows it well enough to chuck your bag towards the dining table and have you on your way to the bedroom without needing to switch any lights on. But your hands wander, and she gets distracted. She stops you in the middle of the flat, only half a second into your journey, and her life feels so full (especially when you moan like that). The room feels so full. 

The room is full. 

The room is…

“Moltes felicitats, moltes felici–” sings (and abruptly stops) a whole choir of Alexia’s friends and family, the lights switching to bathe the two of you in total mortification. 

Alba’s hand covers the eyes of her cousin’s six-year-old, whose mouth has formed a perfect circle.  

Silence washes over what looks to be a surprise birthday party. One which Alexia was assured yesterday was not going to happen. By multiple guilty attendees! 

Alexia looks helplessly between you, her mother, and the shit-eating grin on Jenni Hermoso’s face, remembering herself promptly when Eli’s eyes drop to the placement of her hands on your bum. She almost jumps away from you. 

“Fuck off,” you mutter under your breath, stewing in the terribly awkward silence as Alexia’s eyes only grow wider and wider. “Alexia.” 

She breaks from her frozen state, thawed by the husk of your voice. 

“Jo…” 

The crowd explodes, and you let the tsunami of Catalan wash over your ears. There is so much noise, and so many people, and you can only watch as Alexia tries to answer all of their questions. She shakes her head, nodding at the same time, switching between two different languages to cover the shrieks from Jenni and the absolute bollocking her mother is giving her in front of everyone about dignity and respect. You are famous, says Eli, and you do not need Alexia’s horny motives to embarass you like that. 

“She’s a celebrity,” Eli chides with a glare at her daughter, eyes softening as you continue to stare at the sea of faces blankly. You are backed against a wall with nowhere to run. “Alexia, introduce us to your girlfriend. Now.” 

“You guys don’t need to be introduced to her!” Alexia replies like a petulant child, nearly crossing her arms and stamping her foot. “You know her name, and you’ve seen her. So you should all leave, really. Mami, I told you I didn’t want a party.” 

Eli’s hands fly from her body to halt the departure of the guests as they catch on to how unwanted they are. “No, we are still going to have this party,” she insists. It’s the final decision. “So, go on. Introduce us.” It’s definitely not a question. 

You clear your throat, wanting to save Alexia somehow. “Hola,” you begin, and every face breaks out into a beaming grin. “Um. Soy Y/n. Y… soy de Inglaterra?” 

“Sí,” Eli says with a swell of encouragement that you can feel from two metres away. 

 “Alexia,” you plead. 

“Guys, this is Y/n. She doesn’t speak Spanish, and she definitely does not speak Catalan, so either you practise your English or we cut the cake Mami has made and then you–”

“I am a big fan!” Jenni squeals, accented words loud and piercing as she surges towards you, sparking the movement of the entire body of people. No one listens to the rest of Alexia’s declaration. 

… 

There is a reason you are so well-liked, Alexia determines. She can see it as you interact with her family and closest friends. You smile and you listen and you remember things about people that they would deem insignificant. And it helps that you look breath-taking while doing it all.

Sitting at her dining table, Alba on one side, her mother on the other, she watches you flit around her flat with a talent for socialising, charming every person you speak to. 

“She doesn’t know how you feel, does she?” Eli comments, noticing the hesitation in her daughter’s expression. 

“I don’t know how she feels,” is what Alexia replies, because there is no way you can ignore the emotion she pours into your conversations. It exceeds that of a simple crush or hormone-fuelled desire. “She is incredible. I am me.” 

“You are Alexia Putellas.” 

“And she at least likes the way you kiss her,” Alba chimes in, her contribution unnecessary but making Alexia blush at the memory. The fact that her entire family saw that, most of them knowing where you were heading, is something she might be tossing and turning about at night for a while yet. 

“Your father would love her.” 

“I think so too,” Alexia says, chin resting on her palm as the world melts away, your eyes briefly meeting with hers as one of the children giggles at the face you have just pulled behind their mother’s back. A pang of disappointment reverberates in her chest as she grieves momentarily over the loss of her favourite person on Earth, wishing he could have shared the traumatic experience of today. He would’ve laughed so hard at her face when the lights went on.  

“She seems lovely, really. Very polite. Is it because she’s English?” 

“She is very…”

“I suppose the Latin came from her?” Alba asks with a smirk, prodding the fresh tattoo over the thin material of Alexia’s t-shirt, grinning as her sister hisses in pain. 

“Next time, we can go somewhere quieter and talk properly. I know that you’ll be busy when tonight is over.” 

Both Alexia and Alba shudder. “Mami!” her little sister groans, suppressing her gag. 

“Sex is nothing to be ashamed of, Alba.” 

“Never say ‘sex’ in front of me again,” Alexia tells her smug mother.

“Well, never get so caught up in the moment that you don’t notice the balloons taped to your flat number.” 

Alexia bolts outside to check, and hates herself when she sees them. 

…

“Dance with me!” 

You grab Alexia’s hand, pulling her towards you. The party has lasted longer than she’s happy with, and you have seemingly forgotten about what you could be doing. You love to dance. You love music. 

The little boy who’d been your partner up until now sticks his tongue out at Alexia, and she reciprocates the gesture. She is the birthday girl, after all. 

You don’t understand a word of the music, but the beat flows through your hips as you move them against her. She runs her hands up and down your sides, your tank top now the only layer between your skin and her impatient fingers, hoodie having been stripped off the minute the party became interesting. 

“My mother likes you,” Alexia whispers into your ear as you sway in time to the rhythm. Her lips brush your ear lobe, and you shiver despite the growing heat between you. 

“This was very much a surprise,” you giggle in response, possibly answering wrong because her Spanish didn’t quite catch.

“Mhm.”

“I can’t wait for them to leave.” 

Her eyebrows furrow. “You are not having fun?” 

“I am,” you reply with a nod, a smirk slowly creeping into your content expression. She holds her breath, reminding herself of the presence of her family as you grind into her. “But I also can’t wait to fuck you.” 

Alexia shudders.

“I will tell them to go.” 

They cut the cake. 

They sing again, completing the lyrics this time. You are even taught them before-hand, pushed out to the side of the crowd, very much silently told that you currently hold no place in Alexia’s life in comparison to these people. They all love her. You aren’t there yet. 

But, she values your presence. 

Alexia doesn’t care much about the people here tonight. She sees them almost every day, and she knows they are constants. What she does care about is you. 

You, in that tank top. You, with your hair down, face fresh even though your day must have been exhausting. You, with a red mark on your collarbone that no one knows how to point out to you in English. 

Soon, everyone is gone, and you are panting underneath her. Her lips capture yours, muffling the groan that comes with the movement of her fingers inside you. Your legs wrap around her body tighter, heels digging into her back. 

Her hair falls around you; encapsulating you, surrounding you with only her. Her smell, her taste, her fingers. 

You moan as her determination to destroy you becomes apparent. She hits every spot that has been neglected for the past few months, and though it is the first time the two of you are doing this, it’s as if Alexia has studied your body for years already.

She breaks apart from you as you come, your back arching off the mattress, chest pressing against hers. She wants to see your face for the first time. If she had a camera, she would have used it. You look beautiful. 

Nothing on Earth compares to the cliff you have just been pushed off, and it is as if you are falling for eternity. 

She goes again, and again, and again. She’s an athlete. 

She ruins you, but her strong arms hold you together afterwards. 

You fall asleep, for the first time in a while, with someone by your side. Whose hands find purchase on her favourite part of you, pulling you on top of her as she whines at your own tired attempt to make her feel good. Alexia whispers that she has been given enough, that she doesn’t need it, and she thinks you fall asleep to the sound of her incomprehensible, breathy Spanish. You cling to her. 

…

The tour ends. 

You couldn’t be happier. The final show is a blessing, and the tears in your eyes are of joy. You, Gio, and Anya are going home at last. 

However, the well-decorated flat you walk into lacks everything possible, because there is no Alexia standing in the middle of the living room. She can’t be here, though you wish things were different. The season has been successful for her so far, and she is busy. 

You really miss her. One night wasn’t enough. It will never be enough, and you are starting to realise the gravity of your blushes. 

You like Alexia, and you have fallen hard and fast.

“You’re not coming back with us,” your brother says knowingly, skiing beside you down the picturesque blue run in Les Gets. You have come here every year since you were eight. April is a little later than usual, and the snow often turns to slush towards the afternoon – though one could argue that is simply a cue to move onto apres-ski – but it is pleasant to be on holiday with your family. People try to bother you, but it is easier to pretend you don’t see their waves when you have your ski goggles pulled over your eyes. 

Your brother coughs, not pleased that you are ignoring him, reducing him to ‘everyone else’. (His ego, far too preened, far too large, cannot handle the idea of that.)

In front of the two of you, your father turns with precision and great technique. You can’t relate: you’re drunk. You have been since this morning. 

“Sorry?” Your innocence is pretence and he rolls his eyes behind his Oakleys. 

“Your flight. I saw it was booked to take you somewhere else. Somewhere you’ve been going a lot.” 

“You’re not subtle.” 

“You’re not subtle,” he replies, skis dangerously close to yours. You have to swerve, sending you onto the off-piste section of the run much to your irritation. With the excuse of tackling the jumps, however, you are lucky to evade further questioning, watching as he glides off into the distance, reaching the banner and skidding to a halt to wait for you and your mother. Your mother prefers to drink more than ski. She is always holding up the rear. 

When you return to the chalet, bought by your parents a decade ago to solidify their roots in Les Gets, your brother seems to have remembered your conversation from earlier. Your parents have gone out for dinner, leaving the two of you to make something for yourselves. He is glad to have you alone. 

“You don’t like lads, do you?” And, in truth, it’s an insightful question by his standards. He cares; he just does not know how to show it. 

Pausing the construction of your sandwich for a moment, you allow him to see you for who you are. He’s your brother, after all. “Not at all,” comes your response. 

He hums. “Thought so. You’d have gone out with half of England’s football team otherwise. God knows that they don’t mind.” 

“England has a women’s team.” 

“Gross.” His lips purse as he thinks about his little sister’s love life, and he decides that he would like to know more about Barcelona. “Are you buying a villa?” 

“What?” 

“Well, you go to Barcelona a lot. Are you buying a villa with the girls? Is that what celebrities do?” 

You roll your eyes. “Mum and Dad buy villas. It isn’t just celebrities who splurge on property.” 

“You’re not answering my question.” 

“I wish you’d never become a lawyer.” 

He laughs – hearty and deep. His laugh reminds you of dark forests for some reason; tall trees that dwarf your body, but keep you safe nonetheless. “I wish you’d never gotten famous. My life would be so much quieter if half my mates weren’t trying to squeeze something or other out of my connections.” His pride is profound in his misery, and you smile, blushing. “You’re not buying a villa.” 

“Well done, genius,” you taunt, assembling your sandwich once again in hopes that the baguette will kill the buzz in your mind. You can’t really think when you’re drunk, and, recently, when there is nothing else to occupy you, your mind wanders to Alexia. What is she doing now? Does she miss you? Is she excited to see you in three days? 

It dawns upon his face with an amusing animation. “You’re seeing someone,” he accuses. 

“Maybe,” you shrug. “She’d be one lucky girl.” 

“One unlucky girl, you mean. I’d better find out who she is and tell her to run for the hills. You’re about two decades overdue for an exorcism, and it shows.” He swiftly appears behind you, despite his lumbering limbs, and flicks your ear as your teeth sink into your dinner. You squeal, pushing backwards to get him away from you. “What’s her name? Who is she? What does she do?”

“She is… classified.” 

He reaches for his phone. “I’m going to find a list of Spanish names and see which one turns you into a tomato.” 

“She’s still classified.” You prod your index finger into his shoulder.

“Hey.” You retract your finger, surprised by the tenderness of his tone. “You can tell me, you know. You’re my little sister. I really don’t give enough of a fuck to spread it.” 

With great shame, you absolutely do not need to be told twice to talk about your favourite Spanish woman on the planet at the moment. He actually has to beg you to stop. 

…

Things with Alexia are good. 

Not just in terms of your relationship, but in general, too. Walks are more enjoyable, and so are mornings, afternoons, evenings. She likes that you feel comfortable to chill in her flat while she goes to training. She likes that she comes home to you. She likes that you spend your days with a pencil between your teeth, a blank page set out in front of you. 

Now that the tour is over, it is clear what comes next. The new album will be the best ever made, you have decided, because you might finally understand the lyrics that you sing. They could resonate. 

They will resonate. 

Alexia asks you to be her girlfriend when she drops you off at the airport. Your plane is private and she can kiss you goodbye when you agree. 

You love being Alexia’s girlfriend. You repeat your new identity over and over as you fly back to London, and it is a mantra that plays on loop in your mind as you get on with life back home. 

The girls tease you mercilessly when you spill it. All three of you are on the balcony, though this time there is a joint placed between your fingers rather than a cigarette. Slightly high, more so giddy about Alexia, you confess. They’re happy for you, but Gio can’t help but text Anya later that night. 

Gio: Have you seen the new plan? 

Anya: What plan? 

Gio is sitting upright in her bed, ensuring that her panic is quiet so her new boyfriend does not wake up. Her fingers hover over the keys shamefully, but she has to tell someone and it can’t be you.

Gio: The publicity plan. 

It’s at your studio session the next day when all comes to light. Your manager/publicist appears, which is honestly quite rare. She’s not fond of the claustrophobia of the small room, nor the darkness it becomes shrouded in when you, Gio, and Anya are trying not to murder each other. 

Dave swivels around on his chair, bored with the bickering. You aren’t sure about a lyric, but they disagree, even if Anya knows you have a better point than the third member of your group. 

Your manager clears her throat. “Y/n, may I speak with you? It’s quite important.” 

“Do this lyric without me,” you grit out to Gio. 

“It’s your solo.” 

“I don’t care.” 

With that, you follow your manager into the corridor. 

They hear your protests from the studio, the shout of frustration piercing through the small gap underneath the door, overcoming the supposedly impregnable sound-proofing. 

There are tears streaming down your face upon your return. Fuck her, and fuck him. 

Anya and Gio can’t look at you. Their chins dip to their chest as they slump in place, succumbing to the predetermined guilt they discovered last night. 

“It’s not fair,” you cry to them as they refuse to turn around, throwing yourself onto the sofa with a heaving sob. “It’s not fair, it’s not fair. She’s going to hate me — she’s not going to love me anymore, and I… I love her.”

Anya’s mouth opens with a sob of her own. She had thought Alexia was a dalliance. She hadn’t realised. 

It’s fun to have someone, she knows, but it is painful to love them. 

You are clearly not enjoying yourself now. 

“You love her?” she asks, though she is sure of the answer as another gasp leaves your body with a chilling desperation. 

“Yes, I fucking love her. It was obvious.” 

“But you—”

“Because I’m not out!” 

“So what did she tell you?” 

“They want it to last a few months. Enough to draw the attention away from my aversion to men and his relationship with some blogger.” 

Anya gulps. A few months is a lot to endure, especially for the footballer whose heart you’ll be breaking. “You’ve said no, right?” she tries, paling as she grips onto the mic stand, trying in vain to remember the harmony she is supposed to sing. “You’ve told them… You’re you, of course you’ve said no!”

“Of course,” Gio adds, equally in denial. 

You can only shake your head. 

You were not given a choice. 

Telling Alexia is hard, and not just because of the tears running through your words as you try to get them out over the phone. 

In Barcelona, her head hangs in disappointment. She is never going to be good enough for you, she tells herself. The world will soon slot you by the side of another celebrity, and you will be pictured together as many times as humanly possible. No one will know that she is the one you call when you need to talk to someone, or that it is her rose that is pressed between your favourite copy of Little Women, saved from Sant Jordi. No one will be any the wiser to the girlfriend you keep in Spain, nor assume that you are visiting the country for a reason other than tourism and partying with your favourite foreign men’s football team. 

It goes like this for months. 

It sours the second- place finish in the league even more; makes the Champions League semi-final exit soul-destroying; and completely ruins her joy about winning the Copa de la Reina (worsened by a picture of you and him released the morning of the final). 

She is still your girlfriend, but she is always one step behind you. She is in the shadows of the crowd when you sell out Wembley for the first time, and is just out of frame in the picture captured backstage of you and your lover embracing. His muscles do not feel the same as Alexia’s, but he becomes a friend, you guess. He isn’t fond of the arrangement either. 

Then, when Alexia feels as though she might explode from the jealousy she harbours, she is tested once more as you go radio silent for a day. It’s unbearable. You usually text her every hour. 

She misses hearing you greet her with ‘I took a smoke break’. She misses the taste of your lips, and the heat of your breath, and the swell of emotion you cause inside of her when you show her that you really care. 

It’s a hard day. The Euros have started, and Spain has won their first two group stage matches. Vilda is terrible as usual, but it is nothing in comparison to the cavity left in her chest where you have carved out your notifications. Alexia has never wished to be distracted from football before, but today is clearly Judgement Day. 

“Is this about your girlfriend?” Jenni pesters, mocking Alexia’s frown by exaggerating it on her own face. “She’s not pinging your phone every five minutes and now you’re inconsolable.” 

“I have many things to be upset about,” Alexia replies moodily, though Vilda’s earlier berating has had no effect on her mood because it simply cannot get worse. “Our coach is shit, and we don’t get treated like England or Holland does.”

“And your girlfriend hasn’t texted you.” 

“Yes, Jenni. She hasn’t texted me.” 

She sighs. 

Jenni is repulsed by the fire in Alexia’s belly seemingly having been put out. Her grimace is noticeable as she bends down to unlace her boots, glancing around the shoddy locker room, imagining what Alexia claims a few of the other teams have. 

“Maybe she’s busy. She is, like, famous. She could be out for lunch with Shakira!” 

“No, that was last month.” 

Jenni pauses for a moment, awestruck at her friend's seriousness, before collecting herself and trying another approach. “Why don’t we do some shooting practice while you wait for her to call? That way, Spain gets more goals, and you’re…” 

She doesn’t get to finish, cut off by the alarming brrrp of Alexia’s phone. Her friend saddens at the volume, pitying Alexia for how loud she has turned her ringer up just in case she had been missing your notification all along. 

Alexia swipes her phone up from the bench, and hurries into the toilets. 

Throughout the five months you have been dating, Alexia has become increasingly more aware of your intense reactions to emotional situations. You feel when you feel. She admires you for your work ethic, as you do her, because you fly from Barcelona to London and back again, all while writing songs, humming melodies, and holding together your high-profile life. Unfortunately, your determination and tendency to give everything and more has bled into every aspect of your life. And you are a wreck when she finally gets a word out of you. 

“Tranquila, cariño,” she tries as you suck in a pathetically shallow breath. She knows exactly how many kilometres away from her you are, and she wishes she could sprint the distance. “Tranquila. What has happened?” 

“I… I fired her.” 

“Who?” 

“My manager.” Alexia’s hand balls into a fist and she quietly celebrates. Well, until you sob again. “I mean, we all fired her. But now we have no manager and Dave is concerned about the structure of our group and the album sucks and it’s shit and HE tried to kiss me yesterday, even though he’s got a girlfriend too!” 

“Búa, más slower, por favor. I’m not inglesa!” 

Life, even if you are upset right now, starts to look up. You even get to spend a month with her, practising your Spanish (mejor-ing your nivel de español), meeting her family in a more appropriate context, and even watching the first match of the 2017-2018 season. Which Alexia is adamant they will win. 

…

She proposes in November; a year after you kissed. 

It’s not a hard decision to make. Not when you have built IKEA furniture together, and spent a week in Menorca with her, her mother, and her sister. Not when her English is littered with your vocabulary and references to Virgil and the like, and your family can all shout at you in Spanish because they’ve heard her do it so many times. Not when ‘I love you’ is the easiest sentence she’s ever said. Every minute of her life that she gives you is like exchanging part of her soul for pure, complete bliss. 

You’re fucking freezing, and befuddled at the fact that Alexia has requested to take a walk in the park near your flat. Your Spanish girlfriend, the same woman who finds summer too temperate in England, has somehow turned into a snow-lover, even if there is only damp grass and a biting wind. Alexia wishes England had white Christmases, but it’s a myth, she has discovered. 

The ring sits in her coat pocket. She chose it with Alba before she left the warmer climate of Barcelona, and her sister did not ask her whether she was rushing into things. It’s not too soon; if anything, she should’ve asked a year ago. 

“Fuck me, it’s cold,” you groan as you shiver. She takes your hand, her woollen gloves itchy against your bare skin, but it warms you up. “We could be inside, in bed. There’s a new series we could start, or, I don’t know, don’t you have some football game to watch?” 

“I hate watching football with you.” 

You part your lips to respond, but she is not lying and she has said it before. Some bullshit about you supporting all the wrong teams. 

“Well, I hate it when you drag me out into the freezing cold for no reason. If you want a dog to bring on walks, just say so. We can go to Battersea before you leave tomorrow.” 

“Don’t,” she murmurs, halting you both near the inky water of the lake you have been circling for the past five minutes. It sucks that her visits are temporary, even if you are technically moved into each other’s homes (she has your keys, you have hers). With the remaining time left before her flight tomorrow at noon, she has worked up the courage to do it now. 

It’s like scoring a goal: receive the pass; dribble; gear up for it; shoot. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Her free hand reaches into her pocket. “Nada.” 

“No, you’re acting weird…” You blink a few times as if to adjust better to the dim light coming from the distant lampposts. A plop sounds from the water, and she jumps. She’s on edge.

“No.” 

“Yes. Jesus, you haven’t decided to break up with me in the middle of a park at night, have you?” Your question packs an unnerved insecurity, and she feels a little guilty about the suspense. She fiddles with the ring in her pocket, and then she takes a deep breath. “Hey,” you try tenderly. “Seriously, Ale, what’s wrong?” 

“Te lo dije. Nothing.” 

“So what’s in your pocket?”

“Nothing.” 

“Are you sure?” 

She sighs, “here,” and she grabs your hand to press it into the soft warmth inside. And there’s a piece of metal, heated by her fingers. With a chunk of rock on top of it. It feels like an engagement ring. You’re probably not getting broken up with tonight. 

“Are you proposing?” 

“Are you saying yes?” 

“Yes.” 

“Hòstia.” She frowns, and you consider pushing her into the lake. “I am going to say it now.”

“But you already—”

A quick display of her athleticism, for the muscles exist despite being buried underneath all those layers, and she is down on one knee. Her joggers will have wet patches, and she hates the squelch of the mud beneath her, but she has a perfect view of your surprise. Your tears. 

“Bueno. Your brother helped me to… write the speech,” she starts, and her rehearsal is adorable. Although, honestly, you don’t hear what she has to say because you have already made up your mind. 

You tell her yes in as many languages as you can. 

And she thanks you with breathy moans into your mouth as you guide her towards a bench, and then your flat, and finally your bed. 

When you are finished, well into the early hours of the morning she will have to leave, you climb out of bed, missing the firm grip of her toned arms the minute you’re out of it. There is a burning, overwhelming sureness inside of you that you can’t escape. You know it is soon – probably too soon for most – but there is a person out there for everyone, and yours is right in your bed. 

Your guitar, slightly dusty from the neglect because of your frequent visits to Barcelona, rumbles when you pluck it from its stand, collapsing into the armchair beside your bed with a groan, feeling the ache of your muscles that only affirm just how good a time you’ve had with your fiancée. 

You don’t play anything interesting, but the noise is enough to rouse Alexia from her heavy slumber. She lifts her head from where it has been buried within the silk pillows of your bed, and watches as your fingers pluck the nylon strings with vague allusion to one of your older songs. The weight of her ring – your engagement ring – does not seem to affect your playing: in fact, Alexia realises your hand was naked without it. You hum, fingers beginning to itch for a cigarette the minute the guitar starts to bore you, and she clears her throat. 

Her grin is self-satisfied and certain. “Me voy a casar contigo,” she says into the dark stillness of your bedroom.

“I love you,” you reply.

…

Being engaged is fun. 

Like, really fun. 

You stay in Barcelona in December, hiding from the bitter chill of England. No one questions it, and the absence of a manager grants you so much freedom. The girls pop to the city one weekend to brainstorm a song, but, other than that, you are content to forget your own identity and become Alexia’s fiancée, one of the regulars at the increasingly more popular Barça Femení games (only the team know you’re there, able to see through the caps and sunglasses). 

There are still rumours circulating about you and him, though their credibility has lessened ever since he revealed himself to have been in LA for a while. To the world, you’re sort of MIA. They catch you occasionally when you return to London for photoshoots or just to chat with your friends and family, but they get nothing more. Your Instagram posts are few and far between, and the most recent paparazzi picture is of you leaving Gio’s house to buy her a pregnancy test. 

When the test is positive, something is tweaked inside of you, and you return to Barcelona – a place that is now your home too – carrying a lead-ish guilt. 

Alexia loves her football, and Alexia is obsessed with her career. You are too, but you have done what you can, really. The BRIT nominees will be announced tomorrow, and you know that you and the girls are on that list. You have your fame, you have your money. But Alexia has neither, and she should. Especially when her male counterparts are raised high and mighty on large, golden platforms. 

You know just how ambitious she is, and that is why you lack surprise when you enter her flat to find her hunched over her iPad at the dining table, replaying the same twenty-second clip over and over until she has identified every single fault and created a plan to correct them. 

She barely registers your presence, but you don’t mind how absorbed she is in her footage. It is nice to make the ever-composed Alexia jump when you slink up behind her, pressing your lips against her neck. She dissolves herself in the fuzzy feeling you give her.

“Hola,” she says, regaining control when she spots another mistake, grasping her pen tightly as she scribbles down Spanish words you can’t be bothered to read. 

“Hola,” you reciprocate, though you are a lot more enthusiastic about it. “Tengo una pregunta.” 

“Oh no.” You wrap your arms around her shoulders, and she relaxes. Your ring reflects the light from her screen as if to remind her that you are hers, and that softens her previous sternness slightly. Another kiss to the skin behind her ear, and she is more open to talk. 

Clicking your tongue, you think of where to start. “Okay, first, I have news.”

“About Gio? Is she okay?” 

“She’s… pregnant.” The emergency you were recalled to London for was actually a pleasant surprise for her and her boyfriend. You’re unsure about how committed they are to each other, and whether a baby is a great idea, but you held your tongue when Anya shook her head at you. 

“Uf. Pobrecita, ¿no? She loves tequila.” 

“She does love tequila,” you agree with a chuckle. You extend your hand slightly and press pause on the footage. Alexia pushes back against you. Her chair scrapes against the wooden floorboards, but there is a gap between her and the table now. She motions for you to sit in her lap. 

She tilts your chin up and kisses you gently: a welcome home kiss. “¿Qué pasa, mi amor?”

“What would you do if I told you that I was pregnant tomorrow?” 

“I would ask you if you have been cheating on me with a man,” she replies instantly. You laugh, head falling forwards, resting on her shoulder. She runs her hands up your sides, fingers firm, thighs tensing underneath you. 

“But hypothetically. If it were possible,” you continue, a smirk working its way onto your lips, guilt forgotten. You may have spent your plane journey scrolling through pictures of Alexia with the various babies in your life. It was a self-indulgent act, and it has very much led you to now. 

Her eyebrows furrow with the adorable crinkle in between them, and she is seriously trying to work out if she is missing something. You go to London, you come back, you want a baby? 

But she loves you. And she is very intrigued. 

“Is it mine?” 

“Yes, it’s yours.” 

She watches the smirk on your face blossom into a smile, and she feels a matching one tug her lips upwards. “Is it going to support España or England?” The latter is pronounced in your accent, and you make a mental note to ask Jenni if she has been doing impressions of you to her teammates. 

“It can choose when it’s older,” you say, waving off her stupid football question. Since dating her, your interest in football has decreased. She has sort of put you off. You only really watch it to watch her now, or when United are playing an interesting game and your father is antsy enough to text you every minute. 

“No, it can’t.” You blink. She pulls you into her. “It chooses now. Spain or England, and Manchester United or Barcelona. There are right answers.” 

“Manches–”

“Wrong! I think I will have to make sure the baby is not brainwashed.” 

You panic for a moment. “Wait, you do know I’m not really pregnant, right?!” 

Alexia is not the most ready for children, but she is always prepared to give you everything you want. “If you want a baby, mi amor, let’s make a baby. Sin chicos.” You giggle coyly as she hoists you up – the display of strength exuding an unbearably sexy cockiness. “And after,” she says in between kisses as she stands, “we can look on the Internet for options.” 

“¡Vamos!”

…

The Barcelona women’s team congas its way back into the Home team changing room of the Joan Gamper, following a 7-0 win. Alexia kicked off the goal-laden game in the sixth minute, and she is on cloud nine. Victory is the sweetest taste in her mouth, and one where she knows you are watching is even better. 

Mapi flicks her shoulder as they dance to the music bursting from someone or other’s speaker. “You’re so happy,” she says, her grin wide and eyes shining. They dance topless, most of them, but Alexia has subtly been rushing to get dressed and find you. Barcelona is a beautiful city, and she has promised that you can take her to dinner somewhere now that your morning sickness has subsided and only started to affect you when it is supposed to. 

“We just won,” she explains over the shouts of joy from her teammates. 

María León joined from Atleti this season, but she has known Alexia longer than that, and she can tell when there is something more to football in her emotions. Though it is a well-kept secret, Alexia has two obsessions, and you are one of them. 

“Yo sé. But you have been very happy recently, in general. Except, you don’t come out for team nights or hang back to practise more after training, so it is definitely to do with Y/n.” Alexia’s absence in her teammates’ lives is actually unusual, seeing as you are very encouraging and a firm believer in the ‘work hard, play hard’ mentality. Your urging is what sends Alexia to bars and clubs with the girls, though she has neglected all of these outings ever since you showed her your positive pregnancy test (best belated birthday present ever). “So… what’s going on?” 

“You’re so nosy.” 

“I’m interested. I love her, and I want to know how she has made it so that you haven’t had a bad day for the last three months, even when we lost to Bilbao. Is it sex? Does she suffer through–”

“No!” Alexia interjects, cheeks reddening. Mapi smirks at the twenty-four-year-old, proud to have embarrassed her. She still claims that she is not a prude. Her phone buzzes on the bench – you’re asking how long she is going to take.

Mapi swipes Alexia’s clean clothes from her grip, holding them behind her back as she giggles at her friend’s exasperation. “Tell me, or go outside like that.” 

“Good thing it’s May,” Alexia shrugs, grabbing her phone and bag, knowing you won’t at all mind spending time with her in just her sports bra. She is pulled back by Mapi, who has hooked her finger into the waistband of Alexia’s shorts and yanked hard enough for them to have stretched. 

“Ale, tell me.” 

“No. You’re a gossip.” 

“I’m not a gossip.” 

“You so are.” 

“Am not.” 

“So it wasn’t you who told Leila about Patri’s crush when I made it clear that we weren’t even supposed to know?” Mapi shifts uncomfortably, letting go of the shorts. “And it definitely wasn’t you who let everyone find out about my engagement because you don’t know what an inside voice is?” 

“Hey, you never specified that you were going to be sneaky about it!” she defends, as she has done ever since the entire canteen went silent in shock and then, two seconds later, broke out into a clamour of pleas to be bridesmaids and to get Bad Bunny invited to the wedding. 

“It was implied,” Alexia shoots back with a glare. 

“Fine. Be annoying. I’ll just ask Y/n.” 

“She doesn’t want to talk to you. She’s got better things to do.” 

“Ouch,” Leila says, patting Mapi on the back as she shoves her way into the conversation. The two are partners in crime, and Alexia hates that she is now outnumbered. “But tell us. Please, Ale.” 

“We’ll even not nutmeg you for a week.” They love to try. It’s their highest priority mission.

“A month,” Alexia negotiates. 

“Yes! Just tell us.” 

“Y/n is pregnant.” Three months down the line is not necessarily when she wants to announce her personal business to the entirety of Spain, but you both know that it’s safe to tell people now.

Mapi laughs. “Ay, Alexia, you don’t have to lie to us.”

She looks at her friends blankly, having not expected this reaction. When she told her mother, the woman at least had it in her to take it seriously (albeit with quite the cautious ‘are you sure?’). “I’m not lying,” she then says, more to Leila than the giggling Mapi in front of her.

“You’re not…?” Leila tries, grappling with it. Two pairs of eyes drift down to Alexia’s crotch, squinting at the material as though some previously concealed appendage is going to jump out at them.  

Alexia clears her throat. 

“I’m sorry. How?!” 

“The normal way most lesbians–”

“She’s, like, actually pregnant? Like, de verdad, she is pregnant?” 

“Or she’s smuggling a lime under her shirt.” Her nod is small and she has the glimmer of a smile on her face despite Leila and Mapi’s gobsmacked expressions. Her phone buzzes: it’s you again. “And, if you two don’t mind, I don’t want to leave her waiting for me outside.” 

“Because she’s…” 

“Exactly.” 

When she finally escapes the changing room, she climbs into her car. With heartbreak from both you and your dad, you have sold your i8 in favour of getting Alexia a Land Rover. Most of your money is in savings. You earn loads, but it is hard to find things you want to spend it on, and a lot of it goes towards private jets to get you to and from Alexia. 

You are sitting in the passenger seat. “Jugaste bien,” you say as her hand moves up from its instinctive resting place on your thigh, settling on the growing swell of your stomach. “I’m so hungry. I could eat a horse.” 

“A horse?” 

“Or a house. Or, I don’t know, an entire cavalry. Feed me.” Her alarm — a mistranslation — causes her to almost run over the steward directing her out of the car park. “Tengo mucha hambre, Ale.” She nods with a roll of her eyes. She’s been warned about pregnant women. 

…

In the bustling excitement of Estadi Johan Cruyff, which has slowly filled with more and more fans in the time you have known the plastic seats and improving pitch, you find yourself in the midst of an unexpected turn of events. With your due date approaching and Alexia’s insistence that you are surely made of glass, you have been forced to part from your sisters (Gio and Anya) and live in Barcelona. She wants the baby to be born here. You’ve negotiated that the next one will be had in London. 

Alexia’s mother notices the deep breath you take in, well-acquainted with the horror on your face having worn that same expression twice before. ¿Estás bien?” she asks you, the steadiness of her voice comforting to the flurry inside your head. 

The whistle blows and the game kicks off. This can’t be happening now. 

It’s too early. There’s a… What are they called? Braxton-hicks? 

“Sí,” you affirm with a curt nod. The not-contraction doesn’t hurt that much, you tell yourself. You settle in the seat and focus on the match in front of you, using the rhythm of the crowd’s cheers (it can now be called a crowd!) to keep you grounded. With a reassuring smile, Eli offers you her hand. You take it and try not to crush her metacarpals. 

It’s definitely possible that you are in actual labour, considering the increasing intensity of your contractions, but you are not about to leave the match. Alexia would notice your absence. This game is important for her team – it’s the last before the Christmas break. 

At halftime, Eli quietly reassesses you, tricking you into seeing the team’s medic when guiding you to the ‘toilet’. Already briefed on the situation, the medic asks you a few questions in accented English, much like that of your newly trilingual fiancée. “Don’t tell her,” you beg quietly through a huffed sigh, gladly taking the seat offered to you. “I’ll wait until it’s finished.” 

“There is another hour left.” 

Your ears burn and another contraction shoots through you. You shake your head, fending off the pain while you do so. “He can’t be a Barcelona fan,” you insist. Eli grins at the knowledge that her first grandchild will be a boy, but you do not see it, too focused on convincing the medic to keep the child’s other mother in the dark about what is currently happening in the Barcelona medical room. “I’ll wait.” 

Eli hands you your phone per your request. You call Gio, whose daughter is only two months old. “Don’t tell me,” she starts when you fail to greet her. The sound of her voice, her accent, her tone is relieving, though you are incredibly grateful for the woman who continues to hold your hand as though you are her own daughter. “Nah, nah. Where are you? I’m gonna jump on a flight, alright? I’ll call Anya and we’ll be there soon.” 

“Don’t… rush,” you groan. 

“Babe, we are going to rush. Where are you?!” 

“A match!” You try to remember the breathing exercises you learnt for this exact moment. “Her match. Second half’s only just started. She… She doesn’t know.” 

Gio’s loud, boisterous laugh rings out, and you can tell that she is not at home. No one with a newborn baby can afford to make noise at that volume. “Fucking hell. Ever heard of sense?” You don’t respond, embarrassed that you are in too much pain to think of a comeback. “I’ve left Mia at my mum’s, so don’t you worry. Want me to bring anything from home? Cadbury’s, maybe?” 

“One of those massive bars?” 

“Yep, done deal.” She pauses. “Hey, babe, I’m gonna ring Anya now, alright? Call your mum – or your dad, if you two haven’t yet made up. I’ll see you soon. Tell Alexia her baby’s on the way!” 

Your protests are cut off by the final beep of her hanging up, and your head drops back as another contraction, your body squeezed as though some giant rubber band has just snapped back into place. Eli stands up, worried now. 

Before you can tell her that you are alright, a gush of water hits the sterile floor with an unnerving splatter. The prospect of having to care for another life suddenly becomes very real. “Tenemos que ir al hospital.” 

“No.” 

“Soy la abuela. Yo sé que hacer.” Even the medic, who has nervously stayed by your side, much more experienced with ACLs than broken waters (and stubborn pregnant women), looks intimidated by the firmness of Eli’s words. “Por favor”: she softens her blow. 

You glance around the room, slowly descending into agony and helpless against the wrath of rationality from your fiancée’s mother. “How long’s left of the match? ¿Cuántos minutos quedan?” 

The medic holds up all ten fingers. You grapple with your body, begging the baby to sit tight for a moment. “Let her finish. We can go when the whistle blows.”

Your contractions get closer together. 

Eli’s frustration leads her to ask God for the baby to not have inherited your stubbornness. She also loves you more for it; admiring your insistence to keep Alexia from missing everything. 

You don’t call your own mother. You simply type out a shaky text to the family group chat; blunt and to the point. ‘Baby. Now.’

Half of your universe storms the web, booking flights to Barcelona. Anya and Gio are almost at the airport already — a few steps ahead of your panicking parents and your brother, who has been enjoying dinner at the Savoy with his clients. Those who serve as your planets, revolving around you like you are the sun, do you a favour, letting Dave know that you probably won’t make it to the Skype call scheduled for tomorrow morning. Dave, in turn, now expanding into management, informs your newly-hired publicist (good riddance to the old one). The world has expected a pregnancy announcement ever since you failed to appear at your most recent awards show, despite winning in your category. 

It's almost an eternity later that Alexia, football boots clacking against the floor, flings open the door of the medical room. Eli calls out, warning her daughter about slipping on the sizable puddle that has spread out beneath you. 

Your fiancée is valiant in her attempt to mask her sheer panic. 

“Have you called an ambulance?” she asks her mother, stepping over your amniotic fluid and placing her hand on your shoulder. You squint, trying to open your eyes though this contraction has been the most excruciating so far. 

“We were waiting for you. She was adamant that you finished your match.” 

“No football match is more important than her!” If you understood Catalan (and weren’t in labour), you’d have teased her for being a sap. “Call an ambulance, Jesus Christ. Look at her — she needs a doctor.” Her composure revisits her fleetingly, and she turns to the medic. “Thank you for looking after her.” There is no answer because it is drowned out by her barking more orders her mother’s way. 

“No ambulance,” you declare before your mouth opens in a silent sob. “Drive me. Not an ambulance.” 

The last glimpse the Estadi Johan Cruyff gets of Alexia Putellas in 2018 is her carrying you to her mother’s car, your face buried in her team-issued jacket in case anyone is waiting outside to take pictures of the players. 

Eli drives; something she doesn’t like doing often but feels is necessary with the nervous bounce of her daughter’s legs in the backseat enough to convince her that they’d speed like the Flash if anyone else ended up behind the wheel. She knows Barcelona, can navigate it with her eyes closed, and you are at the hospital before you can begin to tell Alexia how much you think you can’t do this. 

“I really fucking can’t do this!” you cry out, situated in the delivery room. Sweat rolls down the side of your face, already dampening your hair. Alexia thinks you look beautiful, and she has been made proud of the last two hours. You’ve also helped her a lot with English swearwords. 

“You can.” 

“I can’t.” You’re told to push again. “Alexia, you are having the… next… fucking… beach ball.” Each word is punctuated by a guttural moan. 

Waves of intense pain contort your face in agony, and the midwife continues to talk you through your task as though instructing you how to park a car. “Estás haciendo muy bien, mi amor,” she tells you, ignoring the possibility that you may have rendered her left hand boneless. 

“There’s a baby coming out of my vagina,” you shout, “don’t even try to test my Spanish, you twat.” 

The midwife shoots your fiancée a pitiful look. “She’ll take it back,” she says in Catalan. 

“She’s getting quite inventive.” 

“There’s been worse.”

You can imagine the conversation taking place in the middle of you delivering her literal child. “No, I won’t! It’s breaking me in half.” You grip her hand harder. “Never. Again.” 

But, with a final, visceral (and heavily encouraged) push, the room is filled with the sound of life. Nico comes into the world screaming at the top of his lungs. All Alexia can think to say is, “definitely yours.” 

…

Life is a lot more tiring trying to juggle being a mother and a pop star. 

The press have a field day when you announce the birth of your son with a simple Instagram post, your engagement ring second only to the swaddled lump on your chest. The caption (‘ours’) sparks debate on who exactly is the other parent. Well, father. Alexia’s teammates, while waiting to finally be allowed to meet your bundle, spend a good two months teasing her mercilessly about it. Most notably, Alexia almost loses La Reina to Papi. 

2019 comes with change — a lot of it. 

You hire a new manager so that Dave can focus fully on the last album 2sday will produce. The group has been together for six years, and you have made your millions.You seek neither money nor fame, but it comes knocking on the door of your quaint apartment in Barcelona anyway, along with a record deal only for you. A solo act.

Between Nico crying, Alexia playing football, and you trying to write songs that don’t end up criminally depressing, the contract on your dining table slowly becomes forgotten about. Alexia is too stressed about the impending World Cup to grant you a moment to breathe. You spend your days in Barcelona with a baby attached to your hip, the question of his parenthood still a mystery to the public, and, ever so slowly, you begin to resent your life. 

It could be postpartum depression, but you have no time to really investigate the symptoms. 

Alexia, two weeks before she needs to leave for her national camp and then the World Cup in France, comes home to an eerily silent apartment. 

She calls out your name, wondering if you have perhaps gone to her mother’s house. The terrible sinking feeling comes with your reply. “Can we talk?” you ask. 

She finds you perched on the Egyptian cotton sheets that cover your double bed. The sheets are out of place here, greatly exceeding the original budget of the decor, and, where Alexia sees this as you adding to her life, you feel you are somewhere you don’t belong. It is fine when she is next to you, holding your hand, claiming the other half of the now six-month-old baby boy gurgling in his carseat. When she isn’t there, though, the vacant space taunts you. 

“I have no friends here,” you tell her quietly. The gravity of the mood settling over you pulls her onto the mattress, not caring if the sheen of sweat she wears as her outermost layer of clothing dirties the expensive creamy white beneath her. “I have no friends, I don’t speak the language, and I think that I have played at being a normal person for long enough. I mean, it’s great to watch you and to be there for you, but, darling, that’s not who I am. This,” you gesture to the loungewear you have on, stained with dribble, “is not who I am.” 

Alexia hears what you are saying. She understands; she remembers the nights where you’d call her, a cigarette rasping your voice, sparkles shining in the valley between your breasts. She has seen this coming. It would be impossible not to notice the dimming of such a strong love between you: still present, yet slowly fading away. 

“They want me to sign a new deal. Alone.” The suitcases lined up in the corner of the bedroom become glaringly obvious. Nico is in his carseat for a reason. “I think it would be good for me to go back to London. I need to feel like myself again, and my parents are willing to watch him. I sold my flat – I’ve bought a house in Highgate.” Tears sting your eyes as you speak, and you know where Alexia’s shoulder is without having to look, resting your head against it. “I love you. I love you so much, but I just can’t do this anymore.” 

It’s as if the ground crumbles away beneath her. Your words hang above Alexia’s neck like an axe, waiting to execute her, waiting to end everything. She can’t look at Nico, whose face crumples at his mother’s clear heartbreak. 

The world, once vibrant, lays in ruins. Her funny story from training dies on her tongue, and her question of whether you wanted to visit her mother before she left for camp disintegrates, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. 

“Do you still want to marry me?” she asks, and you hate the way her voice cracks with uncertainty. “Are you moving permanently?” 

“I haven’t called anything off. It’s still going ahead as planned.” She senses the but. “But I… I can’t think here. I can’t be here. I want – I need – to go home.” 

“Okay.” 

“Okay?” 

She is going to be at the World Cup anyway. You and her will always find your way back to each other. She is going to be busy. 

She is going to be busy. 

She is going to be busy. 

“Yeah. It’s okay. Take all the time you need.” 

She is going to fall apart without you. 

[worldserasingandcreatinginmymind]

Bloody Beetle | Part Eight

Summary: you and Layla race to free Khonshu, before Harrow frees Ammit

Pairing: none really

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: Ammit being manipulative, Harrow being Harrow, death...

A/N: can't lie, I barely proof read this because I just wanted to get it posted. im sorry it took so long!! as always spelling and grammar are not my strongest skills so please be kind :)

Part Seven | Series Masterlist

- - - - -

“Layla?” Your voice sounds as weak as you feel as you look up at Layla. Her face full of concern as she moves the blanket that Harrow used to cover you. 

“Oh thank God” she breathes a sigh of relief, helping you to get up out of the car. “What did he do to you?” 

“I’ll explain later. We have to stop him!” 

Layla explains her plan to you as the two of you make your way up the side of the pyramid to the opening created by Harrow. Get inside, find and realise Khonsu. Hope that he can somehow bring Marc back. The weakness in your body caused by his staff makes you stumble on the bricks a few times, but Layla helps you and eventually you make it inside the pyramid. Avoiding Harrow and his disciples you find the place where Khonshu’s ushabti is kept. You peer around the wall to see Harrow smash Ammit’s ushabti on the ground. Bright purple smoke swirls through the tomb as the giant crocodile goddess appears. Harrow and his disciples kneel before her. She is terrifying. 

“Got it!” Layla say as she grabs Khonshu’s ushabti, places it on the ground and stamps on it. Smoke pours out of it and forms a tall figure with a bird skull for a head, holding a large crescent moon staff. He looks down at the two of you. 

“I do not sense Marc Spector in this world. He died fighting no doubt.”

“Fighting your war!” Layla replies angrily.

“Can you bring him back?” You ask.

“I don't know. If Marc is truly gone, I am in need of an avatar. Would you Layla El-Faouly protect the travellers of the night…”

“Are you joking?!” She hisses. “You turned Marc’s life into a waking nightmare. Why would I ever sign up for that?”

“Because you won’t win against Harrow and Ammit alone.” 

“I’ll take my chances.”

Khonshu looks at you and you just shake your head. He sighs. 

“Marc was in crisis over you two. His lack of focus got him killed. You need a plan, little bugs. What I offer…”

“I don't care what you can offer. Marc didn’t trust you. We don't trust you.” Layla takes a step closer to him now. “We will work together without you enslaving us.”

“We must rebind Ammit. Only an avatar can do it.”

“We said no.” 

Khonshu sighs before disappearing in a swirl of smoke. You peer back around the wall again in time to see Khonshu appear in front of Ammit, blocking her and her disciples from leaving. Harrow looks around. 

“There’s someone else here. Find who released him.” Harrow orders and his disciples split off to start searching. 

“Khonshu’s just given us away. We don't have much time before they find us.” You whisper to Layla as you move back behind the stone wall. “We need a plan.” 

Layla takes a look around the wall before turning back to you. “Osiris’ avatar is still alive. If I could get to him he may be able to help.” You move closer to her, peering around to see the injured man struggling to drag himself across the ground. Looking around you see two of Ammit’s disciples getting closer. 

“They’re getting closer.” 

“We need a distraction.” Layla thinks out loud and you get an idea. You don't like it and you're not totally sure it will work but it’s all you’ve got right now. 

“Okay.” Is all you say before you move to step out from behind the wall.

"What are you doing?” Layla grabs your arm. “They will kill you.” 

“He won’t.” You look her in the eyes. “Harrow won’t hurt me.”

“He already has, I mean, look at you. You can barely stand.”

“What other choice do we have? If they get to that man they will kill him. If they find you they will kill you too. But Harrow…” you pause, not wanting to admit what you're about to say “Harrow has feelings for me. He admitted it. He won’t let them hurt me.”

“Are you sure about this?” Layla asks after a moment. 

“What other choice do we have?” You repeat, sadder this time and Layla just stares back at you. She knows you're right. “Do what you can to save them.”

Layla nods and gives you a hug before you pull away and step out. You take a few short painful steps before the two disciples spot you and come running over, harshly grabbing your arms and dragging you away. You glance over your shoulder just in time to see Layla pulling the injured avatar to safety. At least the distraction worked. 

— — — — 

“We found her.” 

“Y/N?” Harrow looks at you in horror. “How are you here?” 

“Guess I’m stronger than you think.”

“And who do we have here?” Ammit clicks and the disciples holding you push you to the ground, forcing you to kneel. You wince as your knees hit the cold stone floor and you keep your head down, not wanting anyone to see the pain on your face. You feel a clawed hand stroke the back of your head. “Look at me, little weakling.” When you don't do as she says, her fingers grip your hair and pull you head back so your forced to look up at her scaly green face. Her yellow eyes piercing into yours. “I recognise you. I’ve seen your scales before. And yet here you are, still breathing… Why is that?” 

She whips her head to the side to face Harrow, but her grip remains firm on you. 

“My goddess, forgive me.” Harrow says. You glance at him, he looks visibly shaken.

“You kept this one alive?” Ammit asks and Harrow nods. “ Despite my orders. Explain yourself.” 

“He kept her alive cause he fancies her.” A voice in the crowd calls out before Arthur has chance to speak, one of the disciples steps forward. “I’d have happily done it for him, but he told us anyone who hurt her would be dead.” You understand now why everyone avoided you at meal times and around the camp. Harrow had threatened them. 

“It’s true, I do have feelings for her.” Harrow says. “My heart cares for her more than anyone I have encountered before. And that has stopped me from carrying out my duty to you, my goddess. I understand if you decide that I am unfit to be your avatar and choose someone else to carry out what lies ahead.”

“Hmmmm” a low, almost growl like hum comes from Ammit as she loosens her grip slightly, caressing your hair as she thinks. “You are only human.” She moves her hand around to stroke your face “All humans have weakness, and she is yours.” She lets go of you and you slump down slightly, your body aching still kneeling on the ground as she walks toward Harrow. “Up until now you have proved yourself to be loyal, you have judged a great many unbalanced souls in my name. Therefore you won’t be punished.” 

“Thank you goddess-” Harrow starts but Ammit places one of her large fingers on his lips.

“But there is something you must do before we continue.” She leans down close to him and whispers something, causing Harrow to widen his eyes as he stares at you. She holds out her hand. A small ornate dagger appears in it. 

“I can’t.” Harrow is shaking.

“You must.” Is all she says as she hands him the dagger and steps back to watch. He looks at you and you know what she has told him to do. 

He has to kill you. 

“You don't have to do this.” You say quietly as he begins to slowly walk towards you, gripping the dagger tightly in his trembling hands. “Remember what you said to me in the car, what you told me. Why you kept me alive.”

“She doesn’t deserve this, she hasn’t done anything wrong.” Harrow says, turning his back on you to face Ammit.

“But she will.” Ammit replies.

“Spare her. Please.” He stands in front of you now, almost shielding you from her view as you cower on the floor behind him. “I beg you goddess, spare her life like you spared mine and I will never question you again.”

“She has to die.”

“WHY?!” Harrow shouts now. “What could she possibly do in the future that is so bad that she deserves this?!” 

“She will be the one to kill you.” 

An eery silence falls on the room.

“No” you say quietly as you try to stand, your legs wobbling under you “no, no, I- I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t kill anyone. I couldn’t, Arthur I would never-”

He turns to face you, the shock making you stumble backwards, you trip over yourself and fall back down.

“You love her, but she doesn’t love you.” Ammit says. “I’ve seen in her heart. She doesn’t even like you. She pretends to tolerate you so that you’ll keep her alive. But in the end, she will betray you. And it will be your undoing.”

“She’s lying.” You stare up at him as he stands over you. There’s pain and betrayal in his face. He believes her. “She’s manipulating you Arthur!” 

“How long have you known me? How long have you known her?” Ammit purrs as she comes to stand behind Harrow. “When have I ever lied to you?”

He continues to look at you without speaking. 

“I’m not going to kill you.” You say, shaking your head. “Please… Arthur…”

He holds his empty hand out for you to take. You let out a small sigh, placing your hand in his. He gently pulls you up so you're almost standing face to face with him, and you give him a small smile.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, a quick flash of purple light in his eyes.

Suddenly the wind is knocked from you as the dagger plunges into your stomach. You place your hands where the pain is, looking down to see them coated in red.

“Arthur…” you look back at him again in shock, Ammit’s face smiling over his shoulder as you drop back down to the ground, curling up on yourself into a ball.

“Now you have proven your loyalty to me, we can begin to cleanse the world.” Ammit says, turning her back on you and walking towards the exit. Harrow continues to look down coldly at you for a moment before turning away and following Ammit out of the tomb, leaving you to die. 

You hear your name and roll over just in time to see Layla running towards you before you can no longer keep your eyes open and you finally slip away into darkness. 

the end

...just kidding... Part Nine :)

Taglist :  @sleepylunarwolf / @ahookedheroespureheart / @sleepyamaya / @spicydonut25 / @kult6 / @uncle-eggy / @malaanii/ @toracainz / @pinkiestwinkie / @galacticstxrdust / @mateihavenoidea / @xmariakx / @oscarissac2099 / @whycantwebefriendz / @parkeepingparker

(if you want to be added to the taglist please let me know!)

[adrianzzzz]

I kind of desperately need lil Cal graphics uhm ples

lil cal graphs(stamps) comin right at ya

F2U !! i made these myself :D

I'll make more later if wanted, sorry for the lack of graphics nowadays schools eating me alive :,)

[imfromthedeepblueunderworld]

:33 < I am SO SORRY FOR DOUBLE REQUESTING BUT,,,

:33 < could I get some proship / proshipping isn’t bad meowskulls stamps? or maybe even a blinkie? I’m redoing my strawpage and I just need a few,,, sorry again!!

I couldn't do much cuz idk the character, I have other requests I gotta get to, and I'm lacking creativity rn but here u go

[iwashieonhiatus]

𝑷𝑹𝑰𝑽𝑨𝑻𝑬 𝑹𝑶𝑶𝑴 (18+)| GOLDEN KAMUY

ft. Ogata Hyakunosuke

∗  ˖࣪ ໒꒱  ˚₊· synopsis: you work in a lodging and end up attracting Ogata’s attention, who prefers to share a room with you.

･ﾟﾟ･｡　wc: 2.7k + warnings- mdni, nsfw content, f!reader, 20+ characters, petnames(dumb doll), face-fuck,ing vaginal sex, rough sex, squirting, breeding/creampie, one night stand, implied cnc. (also on ao3 )

--------------------------------- ☆------------------------------------------

Karafuto, for lack of words, was a change of plans. So many things got out of hand, happened, and Ogata felt so many things, things that changed within him. Now he was back with Hijikata’s group, looking for the most beneficial place for him and this brought him back to Sapporo in the lodging where you worked.

The way he stared at you, his eye roaming every bit of your body, focusing on the volume of the kimono on your breasts and the bars raised, showing off your thighs; his only eye, on display, fixed on your figure, as if it could consume you right there. The grin he gave you shivered you and made you cover your body with your arms, but your insides warmed with the intensity of that stare.

After Karafuto, Ogata was a new man, with feelings exploding within him, and perhaps Ushiyama was right about pouring those feelings into the prostitutes. Perhaps, that was why Ogata- after spending much of the time he spent in the lodging, eating you with his eyes, smiling every time he noticed you looking away and face red-, was leaning against the wall, waiting for you to come back from the bath.

“That’s a beautiful sight...” You were startled to find the man who had been driving you crazy all day, leaning against your bedroom door. You wrapped the towel around your body, trying to hide your skin from that dark gaze.

“What do you want?” You stared at that man from top to bottom, your insides twisting every time you noticed how handsome he was, even carrying the gun and with that feline manner. “I’m sorry, but if it’s problems with the room, I can’t do anything. We’re full.”

Ogata leaned off the door and stopped in front of you, his tall stature shadowing you, making you swallow dry and lift your head to face him. That warm feeling in the middle of your legs with his presence so close, his breath hitting your face.

“Then I can only sleep in your room.” You cringed at his speech as he just smiled, the intense gaze descending your towel-covered body. “The customer’s need first, isn’t it?” He moved closer, his pectoral glued together with your arms holding the towel and a hand of his went towards your pinned hair, pulling you face to face with him.

“I can satisfy your needs, too.” You sighed faintly as you felt his nose close to your cheek, his raspy voice chilling you and the hand caught in your hair running down your back, making you bite your mouth to cover a moan. “Just say it.”

You squinted, resting your head on his shoulder, thoughts between pushing him away, demanding respect and pretending it never happened, especially the heat in the middle of your legs increasing with his caresses, or accepting that apparent soldier who stared at you like you were prey ready to be devoured and killing that thought of having him touch you with the same intensity he stared at you.

You couldn’t deny that from the moment the group walked into the lodging and you stared at each other, your body reacted like it hadn’t in a long time, an uncontrollable heat coursing through your body and the shivers that look gave you, turning those sensations into impure thoughts with that stranger, heat pooling in the middle of your legs. And now, there he was, offering to fuck you the way you wanted.

You lifted your face; the heat warming your cheeks, whether from embarrassment or horniness, by the way he slid his hand up close to your ass and up to your neck, the decision stamped on your face.

“Be quick, soldier.” You pushed him into your room as he let himself be guided, a tiny smile on his scarred face.

As soon as you closed the door, you were pressed against it, your back slamming hard and the man’s mouth drawing you out of air in a hungry, toothy, bitten kiss. You entwined your hands around his neck and pulled him closer, gluing your bodies together as you returned the urgency of kissing.

His hands tore off the towel, exposing your body to the icy air and calloused, rough hands that roamed every corner, squeezing and scratching, marking the soft flesh with his ferocity. You moaned against his mouth as he slapped your ass and squeezed the soft flesh. His mouth went down to your neck, sucking and biting every bit of skin he could, making you grumble in pain and clasp your hands on his clothes.

“K-kind, please.” You grumbled, feeling him scrape his teeth on your collarbone. He pulled his mouth away from your body, a hand coming up to your chin, forcing you to face him; the dark eye glowing with something more than a desire that made you shudder and squeeze your legs.

“I’m not kind, dumb doll.” He laughed softly and cupped one of your tits, sucking, biting, licking as he pleased, making you feel pain. But even with all his rudeness, the horniness spread through your body, wetting the middle of your legs.

He was being just as you thought, rude and feverish. The way you liked it.

You bit your mouth, suppressing the moans and the smile that formed with each rude way he touched you, turning you on more and more, pinning his face against your body.

He sucked your breasts like a madman; His tongue and teeth flicking your nipples as he sucked hard, making loud noises and hands squeezing your thighs, rising to your ass which was also treated with force.

You couldn’t help but push his head down towards your wet, blinking pussy in need, and entwine your legs around his body, sighing loudly at the heat of his mouth.

Ogata came down as your hands pushed his head down and his hands played with your thighs, fingers very close to your wet, aching pussy. You shuddered as you felt him huffed against your belly as his fingers got wet, sliding down your folds, shaking you and clinging to him.

“Open your legs.” He commanded, kneeling down, and you did, feeling his hands squeezing the inside of your legs, his head burying in you, drawing out a loud moan as soon as he licked a strip, his tongue covering your pussy.

You grabbed his hair and shoulders, your head against the door and your back arched as the man licking you sucked on your clit and stuck his tongue along two fingers inside your gummy, hot pussy, squeezing him tighter and tighter.

Ogata hummed against you, amused by the way you moaned loudly for more, fingers buried in the black strands and swayed your waist to his face, choking on a moan as he folded his fingers and nibbled on your bud.

His moves were so fast and rude, and it had you melting, moaning for the soldier kneeling between your legs.

“Close! Close!” You pinned his head against you, a trembling leg caught around his neck as he ate you willingly; licking patterns, circling and sucking on your bud, fingers buried and gulping all your juice.

He ate you like a starved man. And he really was. It had been a long time since he’d played like this with a woman and feeling your taste was driving him crazy.

Ogata pulled away from you, making you grumble about being close to cumming and missing the stimulus. You opened your eyes, staring at his wet face, the red mouth, the smirk. You pulled him back, controlling the kiss, hot breathing, saliva and your taste on his tongue.

You ran your fingers through his clothes, undoing any knots and buttons, hurriedly removing the thick clothes, moving down to his belt, sliding down his uniform pants and loincloth, all still kissing him willingly and his hands pinned to your waist, pinning you against the door.

Ogata smirked between kisses, rubbing his waist against yours, making you gasp and shudder as you felt his hard cock against your skin. You slid a hand down his muscular body, down to his cock and around it with the tip of your finger, making him shiver and hold you tighter, biting your mouth.

“Bed, now.” You pushed him onto the bed, eyes locked on him, walking on his back until he fell into the soft of the covers. You eyed his body, biting your mouth as you found the defined muscles scarred, his dark happy trail denoting the thick, enormous cock dripping pre-cum from the fat head.

You licked your lower lip and rested your hands on his knees, kneeling between his thick thighs on the edge of the bed. Your insides rolled in horniness. That man was entirely hot and thick; you didn’t know if you were going to handle that cock, but it turned you on even more.

“I don’t take orders, dumb doll.” He said, staring at you in the middle of his legs, kissing one thigh and caressing the other, climbing up to his cock, and a hand wrapped around your hair, pulling you close to his face, pain plastered on your face. “I command here.” You nodded, closing your eyes in pain and digging your nails into his thighs.

He pushed your head against his cock and released you, opening his legs wider for you to settle. You stared at his impassive face and moved down until you were face on his balls, slowly licking each one, sucking before moving up licking the length of his cock, your smooth tongue playing with the underside of the head and wiping the pre-cum with your tongue.

You went up and down licking the big, thick cock, having a hard time wetting the entire length.

He watched your every move, smiling as you couldn’t with the thickness of his cock, nor with the help of your hands could you do it all.

Your jaw ached, and only half of his cock was inside your mouth. You drooled on his cock, spreading the saliva with your hands and went down on him; your tongue skirting the pulsing vein and half the length of his cock as your hands covered the rest.

You stared at him through half-open eyes, your mouth sucking his cock willingly and masturbating the rest, alternating movements, drawing gasps from him staring at you. You were doing your best sucking on him, playing with the fat head on the roof of your mouth and licking the extension, saliva dripping down your chin.

You closed your eyes, pleasure sprouting through your body, knowing he was big enough to make you gag, wondering what it would be like when he fucked you, moaning on his cock.

Ogata grunted at the sensation, waist shaking and he brought a hand to the back of your head, forcing you to swallow his cock, the tip slamming into the end of your throat, making you gasp and grab his legs as he sighed heavily at the tight feel on his cock.

“Stand still.” His two hands holding your head as he shoved his cock down your throat, going deep and repeating until you choked on it, saliva dripping along with pre-cum and making you cry, hands stuck on his legs, forming marks of your nail.

Ogata fucked your face hard and fast, sighing heavily, watching you swallow his cock with difficulty and tears mingle along with the saliva on your red face.

You were running out of air and his hands were holding you in place, forcing his cock into your throat, making you let out strange noises and shudder, your pussy dripping in arouse.

Ogata stopped pushing his waist against your face and the hands still in your hair threw you onto the mattress, pulling you by the legs and forcing your ass into the air as you coughed and choked in the air.

You tried to get up, a hand extended to him and still coughing, tried to speak. “Huh, did you choke on my cock so well you can’t speak?” He let out a laugh, his hands strong on your body.

“Wait.” Your throat burned and coughed more. “Name... What’s your name?”

Ogata raised an eyebrow, soon understanding what you wanted. “Ogata. But don’t worry, because you’ll forget while I fuck you.” He slapped your ass and got you into position again, hands caressing your ass and thighs, slapping your wet pussy, making you jump and moan.

You widened your eyes and opened your mouth, a faint moan coming out as soon as his fat head came in, stretching you until you had him inside you, the thick, enormous cock making you close your eyes in pain and pleasure, squeezing him.

Ogata grunted loudly, feeling your warmth and the way you squeezed him, rubbing your ass against his waist, smiling openly and pressing his hands on your waist, going in and out deeply.

You grabbed the covers and moaned loudly, feeling his waist slam against your ass hard, the tip of his cock slamming into your womb, having you roll your eyes and moan loudly, squeezing and wetting his cock more and more.

“Squeezing so well...” Ogata said with gritted teeth, sinking inside you, making his cock disappear and shuddering you with each thrust.

You sank your head into the bed, muffling the loud moans, your hands white from the force holding the cover, pleasure spreading across your body from the way Ogata was fucking you.

The sound of skin slapping against skin, the wetness of your pussy engulfing his cock, the bed creaking and slamming against the wall, your muffled screams and his heavy gasps.

You lifted your head as you felt him spit on your ass, a scream escaping as his thumb penetrated your ass, curving upwards, holding you in place.

Ogata fucked you hard and fast, one leg up on the bed, hands gripping your waist, forcing your upper body into the bed and your ass in the air, swaying with his cock sliding in and out of your tight, wet pussy.

You let out screams, his name forgotten in the back of your head, white fingers clinging to the cover, drool and tears wetting the thin fabric, your back aching from the way he held you, ass burning from the force his waist and balls clashed with your soft flesh and belly had a bulge from where the fat head of his cock slammed; The good feeling of being fucked rudely making you clench his cock and the knot in your stomach tighten.

“O-Ogata! Ngh... Close, Ogata!” You warned between screams and saliva, squinting at the sensation exploding inside you; a loud moan escaping your plump lips and the cum squirting on his cock and lower body, which continued to abuse your warm, gummy wall.

Your cum continued to squirt into him, driving you crazy, the sore muscles, the heavy breathing, head dizzy and hooded eyes grumbling for the man inside you.

Ogata grinned as he made you squirt, pussy receiving him so well that he felt that sensation on the tip of his cock, going deeper and faster, his thumb still stuck in your ass.

Ogata cummed hard inside you, hot, thick liquid painting your insides white as you squeezed him. He came out of you with a grunt, slapping your ass, seeing his cum running down your legs, and you sliding tiredly on the bed, feeling your eyes plume.

You grumbled as you felt Ogata’s hand on your neck, pulling you into a lip press and soon your heavy body fell onto the bed, eyes closing.

When you woke up, your face was swollen from crying, your voice was just a squeak, your body had marks all over the place, your legs were still shaking, and you could still feel Ogata’s cock inside you, drawing a faint smile from you.

Ogata seemed to glow in the middle of the group as a very tall man tapped his shoulder and laughed loudly. The eyes of the man who fucked you the night before following you everywhere, that smirk on his face. The other customers looked away from you and the owner of the lodging couldn’t look at you without turning red. 

--------------------------------- ☆------------------------------------------

© iwashie 2023, please do not translate, modify or republish my works

[mysticficti0n]

Heyyy! I know you haven't written in a while but I was wondering if you could write a story on like Tom and Y/n having an argument because Y/n saw him flirting with one of the girls in the bar and her band (yes y/ns in a band) and Tokio hotel don't know they're baso together so they're egging it on and then Y/n storms out and is followed by tom and they carry on in a screaming match until Tom kisses her and then Blah blah the bands find out

luv you n merry Christmas! we miss you B

love this idea!!

(but first let me explain my absence 😬- so I have literally been lacking in the creativity department and really had just no energy to do anything, which I am sorry about ive been so stressed with work and family- but guess who's back bitches- me, its me- also I hope you all had a good Christmas!)

It was meant to be secret

∞༺♥༻✧✧༺♥༻∞　　∞༺♥༻✧✧༺♥༻∞　

warnings- swearing, smoking, drinking, cheating(ish)

words- 1000

I swayed my body to the music, throwing my head side to side with my eyes closed just feeling the rhythm, it was the first time in a while I'd had a night off from tour, It was great though being on tour with not only my band but with Tokio Hotel too, they're like the male equivalents to us so we worked amazing

"Y/n!" a voice broke me from my music trance and my eyes snapped open to see Rosa grabbing me "look over there" my head followed where she pointed and there was Charlie. Charlie making the biggest fucking heart-eyes at Tom "they're so cute!" Rosa smiled sipping her drink

"aha yeah" I frowned- nobody knew... they couldn't know for now. I went to the table where I felt my drink and bag and snatched it up finishing whatever vodka shit I had left "I'll be back" I smiled, I pushed through the crowd but it wasn't long till I saw other familiar faces

"where you off?" Georg called grabbing my wrist pulling me closer to whisper in my ear so I could hear him "not leaving are you?"

"no no- just gotta call someone quickly" he gave me a look to which I gave a smile to and he let go of me. I carried on my way out but decided to turn and just look back and there he still was, closer than ever with Charlie "dick" I spoke before I walked out.

I unzipped my purse and pulled out my cigarets, lighting one and holding it to my lips- why would he be so close with her, I mean I know they're friends but surely... thats to close, one cigaret turned into the pack each puff helping stop any tears falling from my eyes. "Hey hun you okay?" a voice asked, I looked up to see another girl, bleach blonde hair, circles of mascara under her eyes and lipstick smudged on her cheek

"yeah just seen my erm... boyfriend I guess getting cozy with another girl" I laughed stamping out the bud

"ugh boys are the worst- you're beautiful so he's making a huge mistake" she slurred but I could tell it was all coming from a nice place "keep your head high beautiful" she came over and wrapped me in a hug- who knew a hug from a random drunk women would make me feel better?

"thank you" I breathed watching her walk away, I stood just staring out at the street until I decided I should probably go back in. I fixed myself and went to push open the door and as I did- who appeared

"oh babe I've been looking for you everywhere" Tom smiled but all I could do was sigh and try and walk past "woah whats up?" he spoke but I had no time to hear him out, not now. "Y/n" I felt his hand wrap around my forearm and bring me back out with him and pulled me to stand in the alley with him

"Tom not right now" I complained trying to get past him and his face dropped "just let me go in"

"no what the fucks wrong you've been out here for ages, obviously something isn't okay!" he said sternly and he wasn't wrong "did someone do something?"

"yeah- yeah they did" I said looking him dead in his dark eyes "they got to fucking close to someone who's meant to just be a friend- didn't they Tom" I spat shoving him off me

"What! what are you on about you're fucking delusional"

"oh fuck off Tom, like you don't know- you and Charlie should just fuck on the floor huh, you know I really thought you liked me being that I'm your fucking girlfriend" I watched as his tongue poked his cheek, hands dropping to his side "yeah I saw- so go fuck yourself Kaulitz"

"yeah- I'll fuck Charlie while I'm at it as well then?" he taunted

"I dare you" his eyes flicked looking me up and down, his tongue now playing with his lip-ring "you're such a fucking cunt- how could you do this"

"your hot when your angry" he soothed

"fuck you" I yelled going to walk away before hands on my waist dragged me back and he pressed his lips against mine, my hands went against his chest to push away but I quickly melted

"you know I don't want anyone but you right" he spoke between the kisses I nodded "you're the only one I care about and the only one I want to do everything with" my arms now wrapping around his neck pulling him back in "you're so beautiful Y/n" he moaned

"thats great but please just kiss me" I grinned seeing a smirk appear on the boys face, he snaked an arm under my leg and spun us around my back against the brick and him between my legs, I felt him push on me "fuck Tom" I groaned as his lips moved down my neck

"I have no clue where- Oh Tom! To- HOLY SHIT" I herd the yell of Megan and me and Tom broke away "NO WAY!" I looked to Tom then back to Megan who was now with Charlie, Rosa, Bill, Gustav, Georg too

"shit" I whispered hiding my face in his chest

"whats happening here then?" Bill quipped with a laugh, Tom looked to me and back to his brother "wait really?" Tom nodded and we all stood there confused

"wait you guys haven't even spoke what the fuck is it?" Gustav asked sipping his beer

"can I?" Tom looked down to me and I nodded, he pressed a kiss to my head before looking back to the crowd of our friends "Me and Y/n... well she's my girlfriend" he smiled and everyone yelled and ran over asking question after question

"can't believe you never said anything!" Rosa laughed shoving me

"it was meant to be secret!"

[yandere-genji]

Heyo! Could you do some headcannons for Ashe and Cassidy realizing they're after the same darling? Bonus points if the darling is highly skittish or elusive.

Ashe and Cassidy have a complicated relationship, to say the least. As the leader of the Deadlock Gang, it’s Ashe’s responsibility to keep everyone in check. And Cassidy has always been a rebel, he thrives as a lone wolf. When they were young, Ashe was always trying to tame him. She would bark at him for not obeying orders and he would flash her that signature smug grin of his with a half assed “sorry” and a chuckle. But she had to admit, Cassidy’s aim and quick wit was unmatched among her crew. He got away with shit nothing else would be able to. Still, his confidence and disobedience was spreading to them like a disease and she was determined to stamp it out. 

Cassidy got a kick out of Ashes tantrums and would always tease her about them. He was the gasoline to her fire. And when she was fired up, she was near unstoppable. As far as he was concerned, he was doing her a service by entertaining her anger. During his time in the gang, they saw their most success. It was no coincidence, it was their synergy that they were able to make a name for themselves. But they got sloppy, the gang got caught and Cassidy was absorbed by Blackwatch. 

Years later, they met yet again, facing each other head to head when Cassidy retrieved Ashe’s stolen contraband. And they realized nothing had changed. Ashe was still as stubborn as an ox and Cassidy was the same smug bastard as ever before. 

However defiant Cassidy was out on the field, he was always on his best behavior when it came to you. Keeping a respectful distance, but never missing an opportunity to breach it. That is to say, he’ll play by your rules until he can coax you into playing by his. And he’s charming, it’s easy to let your guard down with him, and you do. You’re slippery as an eel, though, and it’s hard for him to pin you down when you’re vulnerable because you shy aware from him when you are. He’s like a hunter patiently waiting to snare you in his trap. 

Ashe is different. She’s impatient and forceful, she lacks the graces that Cassidy has but has some of her own. She can’t lull you into security like he does, but she’s a natural born leader and it’s hard to say no to her when she gives you an order. You find yourself doing as she asks without even realizing it. She loves your obedient nature, adores how easily you fold under her. She’s never really had to seduce anyone before, she’s so used to getting what she wants just by asking for it. But she has to go through the song and dance with you and she’s terrible at it. She usually has all the graces of a socialite but loses it when she realizes her weakness is you. 

When the two discover that they’re both pining for you, things get…out of hand. Ashe is absolutely livid and you have to beg her to drop her coach gun and listen to reason. It doesn’t go far and it isn’t long before she mets Cassidy out in the barren desert and threatens to snuff the life out of him then and there. Cassidy calls her bluff, saunters out to meet her, hand hovering over his peacekeeper. He stops, about 20 feet away from her, positioned as if ready to draw in a moments notice. 

He’s in his element. Cassidy knows that out of the two of them, he’s easily the most suitable romantic partner. So he faces the conflict as confident as ever, rest assured in his ability to woo you. But that’s not what Ashe is concerned about. It didn’t matter if you prefer Cassidy or not, she was going to take you regardless. But he always had to make himself an obstacle in her path, one she still couldn’t best. Because of him, nabbing you is going to be much more difficult than expected. 

In the midst of their fighting, you make yourself scarce, eager to remove yourself from the situation. You weren’t sure how you got into this mess, but now you had the two most notorious outlaws in the New West on your trail. Still, you weren’t completely hopeless. Having been so close to Ashe and Cassidy, you discovered their blind spots and could evade them for a considerable amount of time. When you slipped through their fingers, Ashe jumped at Cassidy’s throat, accusing him of some kind of plot to steal you away. Cassidy was caught completely off guard. He was ready to win your heart for good, defend your honor and you just up and left him to fend for himself. Neither of them were happy with you scurrying off. 

Just like the old days, they teamed up again on a mission to search for you. And when they find you, they work together in punishing you for wondering off. It’s in these moments that you belong to the both of them, pushed towards Cassidy and pulled back into the arms of Ashe. They find their camaraderie again in torturing and toying with you. It quells their conflict, if only for a moment. But there’s no way they can share you like this for long. 

Cassidy is a passive combattant at first, still confident that you’ll be running to him by the end of this. He’s an experienced playboy that can play your body like a fiddle. But Ashe is more emotionally invested in you than physically, and her sincerity is touching. Sure, she’s harsh and controlling but she cares for you like a doting mother. If he finds you’ve grown more partial to her, that’s when hell breaks loose. 

Then, the situation becomes more dire. It’s turned from a playful show into a fight for your favor. Now that bedding you hasn’t worked, Cassidy is much more forceful and violent in his approach, and Ashe doesn’t like this one bit. He might put his hands on you if you misbehave, and if she sees any marks that aren’t hers, these two will spend all day screaming at each other. You’d never seen Cassidy invested in these arguments until now, but it seems like he’s taking this more seriously than before. 

There are plenty of times when you slip away from them, but they always find you. Cassidy used to be impressed with your evasiveness, he seemed to get a kick out of your little game of cat and mouse. But once things turned sour, he was swift to make an example of you. Ashe was never entertained, though, and is happy to punish you once Cassidy hardened up a bit. 

If you ever feed into your Stockholm syndrome and they break you in, you’re basically their baby. Cassidy will soften up towards you and spoil you rotten, Ashe will still be the disciplinarian that barks orders at you. They still fight over you, and sometimes one or the other will take off with you by themselves for a while. But they always come back to meet each other in the middle, if only to please you.

[rose-and-thorn-fanfics]

“The Vanity Of Virtues” a CQL (Xue Yang x Fem! Reader) Fanfic: Part 2 (TW: SEX SCENE)

“You killed an entire village?” Qiān Qiān gasped. “That’s definitely way worse than me killing a man in self defense. Yes, maybe I went overboard…but-“

Xue Yang grinned. “Killing is killing. There’s no righteous way to do it. That’s what makes it so much fun in the first place, sweetheart.”

“If it’s so effortless and comes so naturally to you, how do I know you won’t kill me?” Qiān Qiān scoffed.

“You don’t. I’m not going to guarantee you anything. But if it helps, for now I’ll keep you around. I’d like to corrupt you before I slit your throat.” Xue Yang said, his thumb tracing a line across Lan Qiān Qiān’s throat.

She shivered. His fingers felt good on her skin. Despite this, she pulled away. “Nice try. I’m not looking for that kind of corruption. Besides, why would you want a girl from a prestigious clan? You’d get your way with random whores on the streets perhaps, but not me.”

Xue Yang feigned an expression of hurt, getting up and walking towards the place where Qiān Qiān’s horse was tied. “Will you at least let me travel with you to the nearest town?” He asked, stroking the horse’s mane.

Qiān Qiān laughed. Xue Yang was so quick to change his demeanor. Now he had the tone of a pitiful lost child. “Fine. You can come along, but you need to behave yourself.” She got up, dusting herself off and making her way over to where the horse was. “I ride front. And we only stop for water.”

“Riiiight.” Xue Yang said, watching his companion’s ass as she mounted the horse.

“What exactly are you looking at?” She huffed, frustrated. “Mount the damn horse, or walk.”

Xue Yang snickered, climbing on behind her and muttering some remark about a Lan clan girl cussing in front of him.

Qiān Qiān took the reins, untying the horse and digging her heels in to get it moving. She felt Xue Yang’s arms slip around her waist, hands resting over her midriff. She blushed, grateful he couldn’t see her cheeks turning red. ‘What a filthy vagabond.’ She noted silently. Then smiled.

The hot hours of the day passed by, with the sun high in the sky. Occasionally Xue Yang instructed Qiān Qiān to make a right or left turn. They stopped for water twice, and by the time they could see a village and its lanterns in the distance, the sun was setting a rusty red over the mountains to the west. It was a blessing, entering the village at nightfall, as their raggedy appearance and bloodstained clothes were less apparent in the dark.

After dismounting the horse and tying it near an inn, Xue Yang and Lan Qiān Qiān entered through the doors of the clean but simple Inn that had a tavern connected to it. No one else was there except the owner at the front table and (presumably) his son sweeping the hallway. Xue Yang approached the owner with confidence. “Are any rooms vacant?” Qiān Qiān asked, hurrying her steps to catch up with her cocky travel companion.

The old innkeeper smiled, but his eyes were filled with suspicion as he eyed the stains on Xue Yang’s clothes. “I’m sorry. There aren’t any rooms without guests. Maybe try the next town?” The man suggested. Qiān Qiān frowned. Her back and butt ached from riding the horse many tedious miles. Xue Yang turned to her, taking in her tired posture and sleepy expression.

He turned back to the innkeeper, unsheathing his knife and holding it to the man’s neck in a single effortless motion. “You’re lying, and my girl here is tired. Give us a room, friend.” He said, synthetic curtesy laced in his tone. Xue Yang use his other hand to pull out a paper with the official Wen Clan symbol stamped on it.

The innkeeper scrambled, stuttering and agreeing to prepare them a room. Xue Yang didn’t sheath the knife til the old man led them to their room and closed the door behind them.

Qiān Qiān didn’t know whether to feel appalled or grateful at Xue Yang’s lack of manners. Was Xue Yang working for the Wen Clan? At this point, she was too tired to care. She flopped on the bed in the corner, immediately falling fast asleep.

That is, until she felt Xue Yang climb into bed next to her. She bolted upright, completely flustered. It was then she realized there was only one bed.

“Something wrong? Xue Yang said getting comfortable.

“I-I- what do you think you’re doing??!” She stuttered, snatching the pillow out from under him and smacking him with it.

Xue Yang observed Qiān Qiān for a moment, then nodded smugly, as if a piece of the puzzle was falling into place. “If it flusters you that much, there’s always the floor, my little Qiān Qiān. I understand girls need to save certain things for later if they wish to be wed.” He remarked, lying back down and closing his eyes.

Qiān Qiān felt anger boiling in her stomach. “What makes you think I’d settle for any man in marriage or otherwise?!”

Xue Yang smirked, eyes still closed. “If you’re so disgusted by the notion I can only assume you’re a virgin. How very Lan Clan of you.”

Still furious, Qiān Qiān climbed out of the bed and reclined on the floor. She tried sleeping, as the moon rose high in the sky and peaked through the windows, changing the shadows on the floor. Her back and neck began to cramp. She cried softly to herself. This felt like Lan Clan level of punishment. The hard floor was unforgiving at best, torture at worst with its splinters and creaking. ‘It’s not that I’m disgusted by him… or the idea of…’ Qiān Qiān paused her thoughts. ‘If I’m honest I’m just scared. Scared i won’t be good enough, or that he’ll hurt me if I show that kind of trust. I just met him, and it would be completely foolish to trust Xue Yang with my body like that. He killed a whole village!’

She rolled over one more time on the wood floor. Then sat up in anger and defeat, climbing into bed next to Xue Yang.

His body was warm and she settled in quite easily, back to him, but eventually she felt his arms wrap around her, pulling her closer. The dull ache in her heart subsided. This wasn’t so bad. She expected things to go farther. But eventually fell asleep, waking up with a feeling of both relief and disappointment that sex hadn’t happened. Qiān Qiān frowned. ‘How naive of me to think he’d be into me like that. He’s a heartless killer. I’m a foolish girl.’

Xue Yang stirred, sitting up and stretching. He acknowledged her with a half hearted “good-morning” that turned into a yawn. After going to the tavern for breakfast (which was free for guests), hardly enjoying the plain sticky rice and tea, Lan Qiān Qiān quietly returned to their room. Xue Yang had offered to go to the market and get better food for their travels. She decided not to accompany him. ‘Best if I distance myself from that man.’ Qiān Qiān thought crossly. An hour passed of her lying in bed, sulking and still aching from her time on the floor.

Xue Yang returned, entering the room and laying some clothes out for her that weren’t blood stained or torn. “You’ll look more trustworthy in these clothes.” He said, staring at Qiān Qiān expectantly. She dragged herself out of bed, silently changing in front of him. A small part of her hoped he’d see her as desirable if he saw her naked. The rest of her was numb with exhaustion. She struggled to tie the elegant and simple peach colored robes. Xue Yang stopped changing, still shirtless, to help her tie the back part she couldn’t reach very well.

When he was done, she spun around, letting the sleeves catch the air and swirl around her. She felt slightly better, and even managed a weak smile. At least now she didn’t look like the ragged runaway that she felt like inside. Xue Yang clapped playfully at her little dance, and the ache returned to her heart. She wanted him so badly, and couldn’t get the feeling of his warmth against her in bed out of her mind, or the self-hatred that came with it. ‘What a fool I am….’

When evening came, a very old cultivator woman arrived at the tavern and the residents of the inn flocked to her table, all clambering to have her do a special tea divination for them. Xue Yang and Lan Qiān Qiān watched from their table. The elegant older woman quietly got up from her table and left the crowd behind. Much to both of their shock, the cultivator sat at their table. Qiān Qiān greeted the woman respectfully, but Xue Yang rolled his eyes, sipping his jar of liquor in silence.

“You must be really renowned for tea readings!” Lan Qiān Qiān said, acknowledging the woman in awe. Divination was a very special practice that she had hardly seen in the Lan Clan.

“If you want I can show you your fate?” The woman offered.

“But what about those people who asked you first?” Qiān Qiān said, surprised.

“They all will ask me boring questions, in all honesty.” The wise cultivator answered. “You two seem more interesting. Perhaps you’ll ask me something that will challenge my skills.”

“In that case… I would love to witness my fate!” Qiān Qiān said enthusiastically. “If it’s not too much trouble,” she added.

The woman nodded, pouring the loose leaf tea. Into the cup. She proceeded to have Qiān Qiān drink it, leaving only the tea mulch left and none of the liquid. The woman flipped the tea cup over its tray and then flipped it again, examining rhetorical remains of the tea leaves and herbs and what shapes they formed.

Her expression tightened, and she was silent. Qiān Qiān waited patiently.

Finally, the woman spoke. “I see a butterfly. I also see a spider lily next to it. Transformation, death, and lots of turmoil. That is what your future holds. You and your companion will face these things soon enough, because the spider lily flower and the butterfly are closer to where each of you sit. That is all I can tell you.” The woman said. If she was uneasy, she gave no sign of it.

Qiān Qiān burst into tears, slumping in her seat. “Can you please tell me if there’s something else? I don’t want to die! Not yet!” She cried softly. Xue Yang groaned in irritation. The woman glanced disapprovingly at the two of them then got up and left.

“You do know that divination like that is complete nonsense,” Xue Yang sighed, taking another swig of his drink. Lan Qiān Qiān didn’t stop crying. Xue Yang frowned. He set down his drink, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her closer to him. “There, there… no use crying over tea leaves. I’m not killing you tonight anyways.”

She continued bawling, ignoring his efforts to comfort her. That is, until he leaned in and started gently kissing her neck. Qiān Qiān paused her crying, letting out a whimper of pleasure. Taking this as a sign, he scooped her up out of her seat and carried her back to their room at the inn.

When they arrived in the room, he set her down on the bed and immediately started undressing. “What…. What are you doing?” She said shakily, blinking back tears.

Xue Yang removed his boots and took off his pants, carelessly tossing them on the ground. Qiān Qiān’s jaw dropped, taking in the sight of his rather large package. “Isn’t it obvious? Besides… You heard the woman, we don’t have much time left. Might as well have some fun!”

Qiān Qiān’s cheeks turned bright red, and she felt a pulsing wetness between her legs she couldn’t ignore.

Xue Yang began untying her dress.

“I thought you didn’t believe in that divination stuff?” Qiān Qiān said, feeling the layers of her dress falling to the floor. There was only one layer left.

Xue Yang slipped his hands into the final binds of her robes , quickly untying them. “Any excuse to ruin a girl from the prestigious Lan Clan…” he whispered in her ears. The clothes fell to the ground, leaving her exposed.

That was it. Lan Qiān Qiān couldn’t think of any excuses. She laid back on the bed and closed her eyes. “Please go easy. I’ve… never done this sort of thing.” She said submissively.

She waited, and felt Xue Yang join her in bed. He pulled her close, kissing her soft skin, sucking on her nipples, and fingering her clit gently until she begged for more. Qiān Qiān cried at first when he slid his cock into her. It hurt a bit more than she had expected. It stretched her so much and she felt how tight her pussy was against Xue Yang’s length. He pulled out and plunged it back in repeatedly, becoming merciless and passionate in the way he caressed her. Finally, he left it in, beginning to cum inside her as she wept and buried her face in his chest.

“Shouldn’t you pull out?” She said, breathless and wet from arousal.

Xue Yang kissed her on the lips, and she melted, mind going blank as she began to grind up against him instinctively. He moaned with satisfaction.

In that moment, Qiān Qiān felt like she belonged. He craved her. He wanted her. That was more than she could ever have hoped.

“Xue Yang…” she moaned, exhausted after a full hour had passed of pleasure. “I’m tired. If it’s ok… can we do this again tomorrow?”

“I guess I can let you live until then…” Xue Yang said playfully. “It’s a deal.” He ran his fingers through her long hair, smiling shamelessly.

Thanks for reading! Plz reblog if you want more!

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From The Ashes- Chapter 10

Note: Sorry for the wait. This is probably the longest chapter I've written so far. And the next chapter is a bit bigger. More Daryl, Kismet, and Pheonyx interactions. Thank you to @garlic-the-gnome and @loganlostitall for reading my drafts and giving me advice and corrections. I'm super grateful for it. Also, don't be like Daryl. If you think someone is trans and want to ask, don't. If you have to, ask their pronouns. If a trans person wants to reveal themself as trans to you, they will. By asking, you're putting them in a shitty spot. Not only does it imply they don't pass if you have to ask, but some people just don't want to talk about it. Daryl isn't verse in this stuff though. Pheonyx can forgive him for that.

Banners by: @liminal-creations

Dividers by: @firefly-graphics & @omiyours

Chapter CW/TW: talk of drug-addict/abusive/neglectful parents, shitty childhoods in general, denial of sexuality, anxiety, PTSD, hate crime mentions

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The damn mutt wasn’t as stupid as he looked earlier. As soon as Pheonyx had him sniff Sophia’s shirt and gave him the command, the dog shot off after the little girl’s trail. Originally, Daryl had been skeptical of the pup’s skill. The only word that he could think of to describe Kismet was goofy. His muscled body was all limbs and he crashed through the underbrush and bushes with no regard for noise or tact. It was hard to believe that this dog would be trained to do more than drool and sniff his own butt. The hunting dogs that lived in his trailer park growing up were more refined. They could be noisy, especially once they treed a coon or squirrel, but when they were working in the woods, they were damn near soundless. Still dubious about the dog, he had stopped them a few hundred yards behind  the area where he and Rick had first started tracking Sophia. He wanted to see if Kismet would follow the same path they had when she first got lost. And he did. The dog held his nose to the ground and started following the area they had walked through 2 days ago. Pheonyx watched the dog with a proud look on his face before turning to Daryl and motioning towards the direction Kismet was going. 

“After you, Apollo.”

An abrupt snort left his nose. Apollo. The Greek god of archery. Of all the nicknames he’d ever been called that was probably the nicest by far. It was much preferred to Merle’s nickname for him, “Darlena.” Merle mostly did it to annoy him. But it was also a jab at his manhood. Mostly due to the fact that he didn’t pant after women like some kind of sex fiend but partially because he had a streak of kindness in him that Merle always lacked. Most people didn’t know, it wasn’t something the brothers talked about much, that Merle was Daryl’s half brother. His momma was one of the many junkies that their father went on benders with. Merle spent the first 5 years of his life being shuffled by social workers back and forth between his momma and their Pa. Each of them going through cycles of getting clean and then relapsing shortly after. They didn’t get clean for their son though. It was simply for the welfare check and food stamps that came along with having custody of a child. Right before his 6th birthday, Merle watched his momma OD. He was locked in the tiny apartment with her body for 2 days before the neighbors were able to get the cops to investigate the constant screaming of a child. From there, his brother lived solely with his father. Their Pa got better at playing a sober, loving father and Merle got better at hiding the bruises and lashes. Eventually, social services left them alone. It was just the two of them until Will Dixon married Daryl’s momma in one of his brief moments of sobriety. While she treated Merle like he was her own, the damage to his emotional well-being was already done. His brother spent years all alone. He never had anyone who truly cared for him and the only love he ever received was a facade for social workers and cops that always seemed to be snooping around. Daryl suspected that neglect was why his brother had such a hard time maintaining any sort of relationship. And his obsession with being manly, therefore not weak, was entirely due to the brainwashing their father had instilled in him. So, Daryl couldn’t entirely blame his brother for his constant bullying and name-calling. He would happily take “Apollo” over any of the ones his brother had come up with. Especially if Pheonyx was the one calling him it. The name sounded so sweet coming from his lips, and honestly it made Daryl feel wanted. Aside from his brother, he never had friends growing up. And friends gave each other meaningful nicknames. Was that what this was? Was Pheonyx trying to be friends with him? Or was there something else? He did wink at him earlier. Didn’t he? No. He couldn’t have. He must have had something in his eye. That’s all. There is no possible way that a guy like Pheonyx would be trying to flirt with a guy like Daryl. For one, Daryl was older than him by at least a decade, if not more. Second, Pheonyx was incredibly attractive. Obviously, Daryl wasn’t gay but he could objectively say that the other man was beautiful. Even with the world the way it was, he was attractive enough that he could have anyone he wanted. There was no way he could possibly want someone like Daryl. An old redneck who spent the majority of his life chasing after his older brother. The idea that Pheonyx might, though, made his cheeks and ears turn red. Swamped with embarrassment, he gripped his crossbow tightly, reassuring himself of its comforting presence. 

Daryl ducked his head, hiding the heat of his face from Pheonyx’s eyes, and began to follow after Kismet. Despite the fact that he was out of sight, the dog was easy to trail. He left a path of destruction in his wake that was akin to Godzilla destroying a city. Broken branches, trampled bushes, and large paw prints smushed into the mud were like a line of breadcrumbs that led straight to the fumbling beast. If that wasn’t enough, Kismet sniffed out the trail like he was a pig at the state fair. Each inhale was a long snort and exhaled out with a loud wheeze. The sound was like a homing beacon to the dog’s location. Daryl hoped that the everpresent sound of windchimes around them would confuse walkers enough to keep them from following after the dog, and subsequently the two humans on his trail. 

He followed Kismet’s path for a minute before he realized that Pheonyx wasn’t next to him. Looking over his shoulder, he called out,

“Ya comin’, Firebird?” 

Daryl wasn’t entirely sure where the name had come from. The word slid off his tongue like it was something he had been saying for years.  It could be just a play on the other man’s namesake. Maybe it was the fire he had seen in Pheonyx’s eyes when he was standing up to Shane earlier. Either way, the name fit him well. Since Pheonyx had given Daryl his own nickname, it seemed only fitting to have chosen one for him too. 

They spent almost two hours following after Kismet. The speckled dog was very intent on the trail, only breaking his trance to jog back and smell the shirt hanging off of Pheonyx’s belt. After he reminded himself of the scent he was supposed to be tracking, he would trot back to the area he stopped and correct his direction to follow the scent. Pheonyx knew he was on the right track though, occasionally he would catch glimpses of small footprints in the moist forest floor and broken branches at a height that was equivalent to a 12 year old girl. Daryl must have noticed those things too because he didn’t voice any objections to their pathing. 

The afternoon sun was high in the sky, and even the shade from the forest canopy wasn’t enough to mute the heat from the blazing rays. Sweat was dripping down Pheonyx’s face and creating dark spots on his gray tank top. Daryl didn’t seem to be immune to the heat either, his face was glistening with perspiration, making the dirt on his skin darker and more pronounced. Kismet was also panting heavily. He didn’t break from his job though. In past training sessions, they didn’t usually stop until the dog found the scent he was tracking. This was very different than making Jimmy run around the yard with a squirrel skin dragging behind him though. As much as Pheonyx wanted to find Sophia right away, he needed to advocate for Kismet. The pup needed a breather. 

“We need to take a break,” he said, wiping his hand across his forehead to sop up some of the sweat that was tickling his skin. 

Daryl didn’t pause though. He looked back at the younger man with a frown and a slight glare. “Nah we gotta keep movin’. Wastin’ daylight just standin’ around. Sophia could be jus up ahead.”

“If she is, we’ll find her. 10 minutes. That’s all I ask. Kismet needs water and to relax for a minute. We’re no good to Sophia if we pass out from heat stroke and dehydration,” Pheonyx said, standing his ground.  

The archer was silent for a moment, but he realized the truth in Pheonyx’s words. “Fine,” he muttered in defeat. Once he glanced around the surrounding area and concluded there were no walkers or other dangers lurking, he leaned against the nearest tree and began to bite on the skin around his thumbnail. It was a habit of his from childhood he’d never seemed to break, no matter how much Merle told him it made him look like he was sucking his thumb. 

Pheonyx smiled at him in thanks before whistling to recall Kismet. It only took a few seconds for the Tasmanian Devil to burst through the brush, his tongue hanging out in an attempt to cool his overheated body. Pulling off his backpack, Pheonyx knelt next to him and began to scrub the dog’s neck, whispering to him, “You’re doing so good, handsome. Gotta take a break though. You thirsty?” 

Daryl tried to ignore the way his body shivered at the softness in Pheonyx’s tone. He tried not to watch the small beads of sweat slide down his toned arms, making the images on his skin glisten and come to life. He tried not to notice how the neckline of his gray tank top gaped a bit from the angle the other man was kneeling and he was able to get a glimpse of raven wings across his chest.  Instead, he focused on his movements. Pheonyx pulled out three water bottles and a dog bowl from his bag. The younger man opened one up, emptied the bottle into the bowl, and placed the vessel on the ground for Kismet to drink. 

Half a smile overtook Pheonyx’s face as he watched Kismet go to town on the water. Lapping loudly, more water ended up on his muzzle and the surrounding ground than in his mouth. It was still enough to cool him down a bit though because his panting was less heavy as he sprawled on the ground afterward. Shaking his head at the ditzy dog, Pheonyx stood up and handed one of the water bottles over to Daryl, who took it gratefully. He also pulled out one of the bags of jerky from his pocket and held it out to him. 

Daryl felt a wave of reluctance. It wasn’t that he wasn’t hungry. He was. The group’s food supply had dwindled over the past few days, and he hadn’t been able to properly hunt since he was busy looking for Sophia. He’d only managed to swallow down a small stale granola bar before they’d made the short drive to the Greene farm. The idea of being indebted to anyone though, didn’t sit right with him. Nothing in life was free. Especially not for him and Merle. That had been a lesson he’d learned early on. Parents were supposed to provide for their children. Food, clothes, love. But Will Dixon was only a parent in the biological sense. Nothing he ever gave the boys had been from the kindness of his heart. At first, his Ma did her best to put food on the table and clothe them. Once her depression took hold though, she couldn’t work and barely managed to get out of bed everyday. He and Merle took care of themselves the majority of the time. Food was swiped from the local grocery store, picked out of the dumpsters behind restaurants, or stolen from the local food bank donation bins around Thanksgiving time. Clothes were appropriated from lost and found bins around town, or purchased from a thrift store using the meager amounts of money the boys were able to make doing chores for the older folks in the trailer park. Despite the world falling, things hadn’t changed so much for Daryl. He still did his part to earn his food and clothing within the group. If he took the food from Pheonyx, he would owe him. Or at least, he felt like he would. The water bottle he had taken without hesitation but that was different. Water was a bit more common to find, especially on a farm that likely had a well. Food was more of a scarcity and therefore more valuable. So, no matter how much his chest was telling him that Pheonyx wasn’t like that, that he wouldn’t hold some jerky over Daryl’s head, his brain was winning the fight.  

Pheonyx could see the apprehension on Daryl’s face. 

“I swear I didn’t poison it,” he said, still holding the bag out. 

“Ain’t that,” Daryl mumbled, ducking his eyes in embarrassment, still trying to win the inner battle with his mind to just accept the damn food. “Don’t want any charity is all.”

Understanding dawned on Pheonyx and he nodded his head. During the first 8 years of his life, his mom had been an insurance agent and the bread-winner of the family. She was traveling 3 weeks out of every month and, even when she was home, her attention was mentally in the office. His biological father was a “stay-at-home dad”. Which meant he stayed home drinking most of the day while Pheonyx did his best to avoid his wrath. Despite this, the family had been middle class in their finances. So, he hadn’t gone without material-wise. While love had been lacking during that time, he always had a full stomach and always had fairly decent clothing. Moving with his mother and brother to live with Hershel, hadn’t changed that. His step-father was more well-to-do than they had been previously. A lot of the money was generational but most was from Hershel’s veterinary practice. Being one of two practices that specialized in large animals, in a farming community like Senoia, brought in quite a bit of money. They lived humbly despite the financial padding. Pheonyx could understand Daryl’s reluctance though. He knew it was hard to accept help, it created a sense of weakness, a feeling of helplessness. After he left Georgia, Pheonyx struggled immensely. Most of it was mental, but the physical results of that night also plagued him. At the time, he didn’t want to ask for help. He didn’t want to be a burden. He didn’t want to owe anyone. By asking for help, his body wouldn’t be his own. It would belong to someone else. Because people didn’t typically do things without expectation of payment. He had already lost ownership of his body that night. He didn’t want to give anyone else the opportunity to take it again. Aaron had been there to help him when his problems became too much but he had been at his breaking point then. There hadn’t been any other option. 

“I promise it’s not charity. And I’m not looking for anything in return. Mom raised me to be a gentleman. And that means sharing when I have the means to. Maggie packed enough for all three of us,” Pheonyx shook the bag a little and raised his eyebrows. 

Again, Daryl hesitated but after a moment he tentatively took the plastic bag of jerky. He waited for Pheonyx to take a bite of his own portion before he popped a small piece of the dehydrated meat into his mouth. Now, Daryl Dixon was no stranger to jerky. Growing up in a house where hunting was as natural as breathing, meant that smoked and dehydrated meat were a staple of his diet. His parent’s money issues meant that fresh, healthy foods weren’t always available. There were days when all Merle and he had to eat was jerky and wild mulberries that grew rampant on the outskirts of the trailer park. The jerky he was currently chewing though, was nothing like the overly salty, yet still bland, meat he was used to making and eating. That meat was a means of survival. This felt like an indulgence. Despite the lack of moisture, the jerky was still tender and almost melted on his tongue, releasing a myriad of flavors. It was sweet and peppery with a hint of smokiness that rounded out the blend of spices. A small bit of gaminess let him know it was rabbit meat, which wasn’t his favorite overall, but if it was prepared anything like what he was chewing on, his opinion was likely to change. 

Apparently he made some sort of face because Pheonyx looked at him questioningly. Daryl averted his eyes, ears turning a flaming red, embarrassed about letting his emotions show. 

“It’s good,” he mumbled. 

The brightness of the forest seemed to increase tenfold with the proud smile Pheonyx gave him and those damn moths fluttered in his gut again. 

“Thanks! I make it myself. When people evacuated they took all their canned goods. But no one thinks to bring the spice cabinet. So, I’ve got an abundance of stuff to create different flavor profiles. My personal motto is that just because the world ended doesn’t mean you can’t have good food. Just have to know how to use what’s at your disposal.” 

At Zombie Ink(an ironic name considering their current circumstances), Pheonyx’s boss held a bi-weekly potluck for the staff, which consisted of many ethnicities and cultures. Every meeting was a blend of new flavors and cooking techniques to be learned. It was one of the few times that Pheonyx felt like he could interact with people, even if it just meant sharing recipes or learning about different cultural nuances, and had helped him make some friends. He had been trying to recreate those flavors and dishes with the monotonous food supplies they had. 

Silence lapsed as the two made quick work of the food. Pheonyx alternated between eating his own and tossing pieces of the unseasoned jerky to Kismet, who ate it enthusiastically. Daryl tried to keep his gaze averted but he kept getting drawn back to the man a few feet from him. His mind was playing through the events of the day up until that point. And he knew he had to ask Pheonyx something. He was pretty sure he already knew the answer, but he had to make sure. 

Popping the last piece of meat into his mouth, Daryl broached the subject bluntly, “Ya a guy, right?”

Pheonyx dropped the piece of jerky that he had been about to place in his mouth, a choking noise of shock leaving his lips. Kismet dove and caught the meat before it could hit the dirt near his owner’s knees. Fear and anxiety was flitting through Pheonyx’s veins, or else he would have been worried about how the spices would affect Kismet’s stomach. He knew where the conversation was going. It was probably inevitable but the fact he was alone in the woods with the man upped the terror of the situation. While he felt comfortable around Daryl, he couldn’t help the images of the past that floated through his mind. 

“Uh yeah- I mean yes. I am.”

Daryl felt the fear in Pheonyx’s eyes like a knife to the gut. His hands twitched with the need to reach out and soothe his worries. But he didn’t. Something told him that any movements towards the other man would make things worse. So he kept his face blank, and averted his gaze to the surrounding woods. He was starting to think he shouldn’t have started this conversation, based on the other man’s fearful reactions. But there was no going back now. 

“Ya were born a girl, though?” he asked calmly, trying to make his deep voice as un-intimidating as possible. 

Pheonyx considered lying. It would be the safest option. He’d grown up around guys like Daryl. Rough conservative types. And they were usually the ones who reacted violently to anything in the realm of ‘other’. But the archer was so calm. The question had been asked so nonchalantly. As if he were discussing the weather. His words weren’t laced with accusation or scrutinizing countenance. He was just gazing calmly into the woods and fiddling with the now-empty bag that once held their afternoon snack.  

“Yes,” the whispered word slipped through Pheonyx’s mouth before he could stop it. He hoped that he hadn’t heard him, but the archer’s ears had been honed after years of hunting. 

Daryl’s eyes locked with Pheonyx’s and he knew the other man had heard him. Pheonyx flinched, eyes slamming shut, bracing himself for the pain. His heart was slamming against his chest, like the shadows did on the barn door when he walked past. Sweat coated his palms and soaked into his shirt. His breathing picked up a bit and Kismet crawled over to him, whining. The big dog pushed his nose into Pheonyx’s hand and sidled his bulky body up next to his masters. 

Pheonyx waited, barely even noticing Kismet’s attempts at calming him. 1 second, 10 seconds, a minute. He waited for the pain, whether it be vile words or physical hits. But they never came. Instead, there was a crumple of plastic and a deep, “Okay.”

A part of Daryl wanted to offer more words, to say that Pheonyx didn’t have to worry. That he wouldn’t hurt him. Because he knew that was why Pheonyx had reacted that way: sweating, flinching, practically hyperventilating. Someone had hurt him. Badly. Anger filled his body and he wanted to turn around and punch the tree he had been leaning against. That would just cement Pheonyx’s fears though. He tried not to think about why he had such a fierce reaction to the idea of someone hurting the younger man, someone he had only known for a few hours. Instead, he crumpled up the empty bag he had been holding and shoved it in his pocket. 

 Pheonyx’s eyes shot open and he gaped at the other man in shock. “Okay? That’s it? Just okay?”

“Ain’t my business what ya got goin’ on in ya pants. Just didn’ wanna make assumptions,”  the older man said simply. Like he was giving the answer to 2+2. 

It took a moment for his words to soak in. Daryl wasn’t going to hurt him. Daryl wasn’t going to yell. Daryl wasn’t going to break him. Daryl wasn’t going to try to “fix” him. Daryl wasn’t like the demons from the alley. Daryl was different. 

And Pheonyx wasn’t sure how to feel about that. He wasn’t used to people just accepting him for who he was. Maggie and Aaron had been the only ones who accepted him whole-heartedly, no questions asked. There was always some kind of push back. People asked him if he was sure, or if it was just a phase. Or telling him that god didn’t make mistakes. Or saying they accepted him but continually messing up his pronouns. So, he just cleared his throat, patted Kismet’s head, and stood up. He adjusted the cutlass on his hip, making sure all his other weapons were attached and in place. 

“Are we ready to go?”

The old Miller house had been abandoned for almost 50 years. Originally, it had belonged to Hershel’s great great aunt. She lived there with her husband and two kids. When her kids died from a severe illness, haunting memories caused the married couple to move out of Georgia. After that, the house had occasionally been offered up to farmhands and their families but nothing permanent in going on four decades. For years it stood, withering and decaying, on the far edges of the Greene property. 

The white house had two stories and faded red shutters. Paint was falling off the sides of the structure and the front awning was one wind gust away from caving in. The front door was closed with a red x spray painted across the front. At one point, it was beautiful. Now, it was just an embodiment of memories. 

Pheonyx’s hand gripped onto Kismet’s leather collar tightly. The dog whined and tried to pull them towards the house, indicating that the scent trail led there. 

“Stay, Kismet,” Pheonyx murmured to the pup. A grumble came from Kismet’s barrel chest, indicating his displeasure at being called off the search. To appease him, Pheonyx pulled some unseasoned jerky from his pocket and gave it to the dog. Wet slobber coated his palm as Kismet gobbled it down before flopping onto the ground, much akin to a dead fish. Grimacing, Pheonyx wiped his hand on his pants and looked over at Daryl, who was checking the strings on his crossbow. 

“That yer doin'?” Daryl asked, pointing at the red X on the door. 

“Yeah. I mark all the houses I search and clear. I can tell you right now that someone’s been here. Even without Kismet chomping to follow the scent.”

“How’s tha’?”

“The side door’s open. I always make sure to shut the doors when I’m done with a house. Don’t want any shadows finding their way in there and surprising the next people who make their way through,” Pheonyx explained, shrugging. He unsheathed his cutlass, the sharp edge making a slight zing as it rubbed against the metal supports of the casing. The light weight of the weapon felt comfortable in his hand, and he felt its aura of safety engulf him. 

Daryl led the way towards the house, readying his crossbow when they stepped up onto the porch. He turned his head towards Pheonyx, nodding his head at him, gauging to see if he was ready or not. Pheonyx lifted his cutlass up, slightly above his midline, and jerked his head once back at him. Daryl used that as his cue to kick the front door open. Dust flew up as the rotting wood hit the wall with a resounding bang.  

“The door was unlocked. You could have just opened it, Apollo.” Pheonyx whispered to him, in a slightly scolding tone. 

Daryl rolled his eyes but kept his attention on the house in front of him. That was probably true, but he wouldn’t admit that to the younger man. The place had obviously been abandoned a long time ago, but some furniture and knick knacks still remained. A thick layer of dust coated everything, but he was able to make out small footprints on the weathered wood floors. He wanted to call out for Sophia, his heart pounding at knowing she was, or had been, there. But they hadn’t checked the place for walkers yet. Even though there was no scent of decay, there was still a possibility of one of those geeks popping up. 

“Let’s split up,” he murmured back. 

“Let me guess. It’s not you, it’s me, right?”, Pheonyx joked, still keeping his eye on the quiet house. 

If it was anyone else, Daryl would have snapped at them for fooling around while doing something so serious, but he found himself enjoying the playful side of Pheonyx. Compared to the terrified man he’d seen only a short while ago, he would gladly take the playful one. Daryl wasn’t sure how it was possible, but even more blood rushed to his already overheated face as he thought about the syntax of the joke.  Of being in a relationship with Pheonyx. 

“Stop,” he said weakly. 

A light chuckle sounded next to him. “Sorry. Couldn’t help it. The second floor is unstable so I don’t recommend going up there,” Pheonyx motioned with the short sword to the broken wooden stairs. 

Daryl nodded, glancing at the rotted steps across from them. “Ain’t seein’ any tracks up there anyways. She prolly stuck ta the first floor.” 

Pheonyx nodded at him. “I’ll check right.”

With that, they both began to search on their respective sides of the house. Daryl slowly aimed his crossbow right and left as he checked each room, glancing down slightly to track the small shoe prints imprinted on the dusty floor. Light creaking from across the house let him know that Pheonyx was also taking steady steps as he walked through his section of the first floor. Daryl was impressed at how quiet the younger man was. Both in the woods and in the house. Daryl pulled his mind from thoughts of Pheonyx and made his way through what used to be a living room. The only furniture in it was a torn couch, that something had obviously made its home evidenced by the slightly rustling cushions. Next was what he assumed was a dining room, as the only thing left in it was an overturned wooden chair and a broken bar cart. From there, he entered the kitchen area. This had more furniture left than the other parts of the house. Old cupboards lined the wall opposite a wide window, a thin door to the right indicating some sort of pantry. A rickety table was askew in the middle of the space, dirty cutlery scattered on the surface. On the wall across from the door was an old wooden hutch with dirty mason jars and random kitchen utensils. Adjacent to it was an overflowing metal trash can. A heavy fish scent led him over to the bin. Sitting on top of old crumpled newspapers and empty glass bottles, was a can of anchovies that was open and empty. It was newer than the trash it resided on, and the juices in the can hadn’t dried. Holding it towards his nose, he tried to smell any scent of spoiling. There was a slight sourness to it that meant it was just beginning to go bad. It was probably about a day old. The soured fish scent would be heavier if it were any older, especially with the high temperature in the days past. 

Glancing around at the floor, Daryl noted the plethora of tiny shoe prints that stippled the worn panels. Most of them congregated around the pantry so he stepped slowly towards the door. Keeping his crossbow raised, just in case of surprises, he pulled the door open quickly. There wasn’t anybody inside but in the small area, beneath the main shelves, was a tiny nest of blankets. The area was tight and only someone shorter than 5ft would be able to cram themselves in there comfortably. A sense of relief filled Daryl. He was upset that Sophia wasn’t there, but they were on the right track. She had been there. And if the can was any indication, she was there recently. 

A squeak of the floorboards had Daryl whirling around, aiming his crossbow directly at the source of the noise. Instead of a walker’s milky white eyes, he was met with fern green irises. Pheonyx, in the middle of sheathing his cutlass, raised his eyebrows at the other man.

“Calm down, Apollo. Just me. The rest of the house is clear. You find anything?”

Daryl lowered his weapon. He grunted in affirmation and inclined his head towards the nest of blankets at the bottom of the pantry, “We’re ‘bout a day behind her. Found a fresh can in the trash.”

A look of deep concentration came over Pheonyx’s face and he turned to one of the built-in cupboards next to the pantry door. He opened the door to the bottom-most cabinet. It was empty.

Daryl was curious about what the man was looking for but his mind went blank as he watched Pheonyx bend over. His mouth went dry and his grip tightened on the weapon in his hand. He’d never been much of an ass man(hell, he didn’t think he was any type of man before this) but the way Pheonyx’s backside filled out those jeans had him thinking thoughts that were confusing for someone who obviously wasn’t gay. 

A large smile overtook Pheonyx’s face and Daryl pushed away the troubling fantasies he was having. 

“Your girl’s chance of survival just went up.”, there was a slight squeak of excitement in the younger man’s voice that he couldn’t help. 

Daryl narrowed his eyes at the other man in confusion, so Pheonyx explained. “A month ago, I set up twelve supply drops with bug-out bags. Just in case something were to happen at the farm. One of those was here. Each bag has enough supplies to help survive a week, or more if rationed right. MRE’s, pop-up tents, water bottles, water purification tablets, survival blankets, firestarters, maps, compasses. There’s even a hunting knife in each bag. We may not have found her today but her mom should feel a little better knowing she's got some supplies."

The relief that Daryl felt was palpable and Pheonyx was glad he could at least offer him something. 

“I’d say let’s keep going but we need to start heading back now if we want to be at the farm before it gets dark,” Pheonyx said. He noted the flash of anger in Daryl’s eyes and continued softly, “Kismet and I will head out at first light tomorrow.”

The older man grunted in frustration and brought his thumb to his mouth to chew on his nail. His train of thought stopped and focused on the phrasing of the other man’s words. Thinking back he remembered Pheonyx saying they would only work together for the day. While it would probably be better to have more people spread out looking for Sophia, his stomach clenched at the idea of splitting up from Pheonyx. Obviously, because it was safer to work in pairs. Not because he was attracted to the younger man. That would be weird because he obviously wasn’t gay.  “Ya ain’t going out alone, Firebird. Me, you, n’ the mutt can search together. Might need ta talk ta Rick ‘bout his ideas fer tomorrow though.” 

Running his fingers through his sweat soaked hair, Pheonyx nodded. “Yeah, I don’t know how Kismet will do if we have a bunch of other people in the woods searching too. He did good today, but with a bunch of other smells he might get confused. I also worry about other people getting lost. Shadows aren’t the only things in these woods that can hurt you. No offense but the others in your group didn’t look like they had much experience with the outdoors.”

Daryl snorted, “Yer tellin’ me. Buncha city-slickers.”

They both headed out the back door of the house and Pheonyx whistled his three note recall to Kismet. While they waited on the dog, Daryl called out to Sophia. It was a long shot, he knew that. But he had to try. There was no response though. The only sounds he heard were the warbling melody of frogs and the distant burbling of the creek. And the chaotic sounds of a huge dog barreling his way towards them. Both men watched as Kismet, unable to stop his momentum once he reached them, slid into a boxwood bush with a loud crash. 

“For fuck’s sake,” Pheonyx grimaced, “You okay, Kismet?” he called out.

The leaves and branches shook for a moment before Kismet’s speckled face popped out from the green foliage. His tongue was hanging out, panting happily. He shook himself off before trotting over to them. A quick glance over told Pheonyx that, aside from some dirt on his sides, the dog was unscathed.  He turned his head to ask Daryl if he was ready to head out, but the words died on his lips as he watched the man pluck a Cherokee Rose from the thorny plant neighboring the boxwood that Kismet had just slid into. The story of the flower was something he was very familiar with, having learned about the Georgia state flower in elementary school. 

“You getting that for her mom?,” he asked the archer softly, taking a step to run his fingers over one of the roses still on the bush. 

Daryl nodded, “Sophia’s all she’s got left. Lost ‘er husband a week ago. Weren’t no real loss there. Guy was a prick,” he was silent for a moment, “Them girls ain’t deserve none a this shit.”

While that was a true enough statement, he couldn’t tell the truth, the real reason he was so determined to find this little girl. He couldn’t even admit it to himself. He couldn’t admit that when he saw Carol, he saw a reflection of his own mama. That first day in camp, Merle had taken to calling her “Mouse” because of how skittish and meek she was. Her husband had such a tight hold on her, every move she made was followed by a look over her shoulder to make sure Ed wasn’t there to beat her down. He’d seen the same look in his own mama’s eyes many times. By the end, the fear had torn her down so much that she was only a shell. A walker before walkers existed. 

And he certainly couldn’t admit that he saw a bit of his childhood self in Sophia. Sophia was merely a ghost. People would see flashes of her blonde hair out of the corner of their eyes, but she’d be gone by the time they’d turn their head. While Carl was a chatterbox, Sophia was damn near voiceless. Daryl had probably only heard her speak two or three times that he could remember. Just like her mom, looking at Sophia had him staring back into the past. The little boy, he used to be, lived a life of invisibility. The less he was noticed, the less pain he had to endure under his father’s belt. He spent more time hiding in the kitchen cupboards than in his own bed. But unlike him, Sophia’s abuser died. She had a chance at a normal life–as normal as one can be with the dead walking around. He needed to find her. For Carol. For his mama. For that little boy that he used to be. 

Pheonyx wanted to reach out to the man, maybe place a hand on his shoulder, but he stopped himself. Instead he gave him words. “We’ll find her. I don’t like to make promises but I will now. You and me. We’ll find her,” a grumble came from his side and he rolled his eyes, “ Kismet will help too.”

Plucking a rose from the bush, he handed it to Daryl, a physical contract of his words. Calloused hands brushed against his own and blue eyes locked with his green ones. Blood rose on both of their faces and they both looked away at the same time. Nothing more was said. 

The two men walked side by side, with a speckled hound between them, one holding a Cherokee Rose and a promise. 

Taglist: @edgyboi10000 @yoongibaybee @dixonsboy19

[sotwk]

I'm sorry your headcanons and other fanwork contributions often go so unappreciated. They are all so vibrant and well thought out and they make the world/au you've created so rich and three dimensional❤️

Is there anyway I can stamp this kind reminder to my eyeballs so that I can see it every time I feel discouraged and get tempted to whine like my toddler about lack of attention?

Thank you for your kindness and above all, your patience with me on my "down days"! <3 Every single thumbs up just letting me know the time and effort I spend on writing Long Detailed HC Posts aren't in vain, HELPS SO MUCH. I cannot stress that enough!

I hope every writer becomes fortunate enough to have friends (Anon or not) like these.

[bucking-mustangs-with-wings]

4. Share a dark thought

Well this has opened up a whole BIG can of worms that I don't think the universe could properly contain, but if I'm gonna be honest, a dark thought I often have is 'what am i doing with my life? where am i going, is it even worth pursuing my interests if i'm only gonna live another 30-40 years?'

Being a type one diabetic since I was 3 has honestly stamped down a lot of my lust for life, knowing that the average lifespan for us is 62-73 years old (so I'm a third of the way there at 26) and thats IF you have perfect 100% control throughout your life with the ailment and I've never had good control since I was first diagnosed (not from lack of trying my ass off). And if you know anything about type 1, you know that with poor control a LOT of complications can arise from it (I'm talking loss of limb, kidney/organ failure, heart attack chance increase, nerve damage/loss, the list goes on).

So I'll often find myself just wanting to enjoy my time I have on earth knowing that tomorrow isn't promised for me in the sense that someone else my age is, I know it's bleak but I find it hard to throw myself into things like employment or long term relationships knowing what I know.

Sorry if that got a bit dark.

[my-secret-shame]

🔮 please!

🔮THE FATES HAVE DECIDED🔮

Your soulmate is: Jack

And you met: at the golf course

(I'm so sorry if you don't like Jack, I know he's not everyone's cup of tea. HOWEVER I LOVE THIS PIECE OF TRASH.)

So I've just been chating with the Fates, and they're telling me this:

Cutting through the golf course shaved about twenty-five minutes, give or take, off your time. Technically, it was private land. But everyone did it. The route so worn in that the golf course had actually paved the path so that it wasn’t obvious that the grass had been routinely worn down. 

There had been one point, a few years back, when the owners had tried to put a metal gate around the course. (Within a day someone with access to a heavy-duty vehicle had yanked two metres of the fencing out of the ground and laid it neatly on the grass. The owners didn’t try again.) 

Everyone tended to mind their own business. Golfers ignored the ‘trespassers’ and people cutting through didn’t interrupt their games. 

Most of the time. 

The sound of arguing cut through the music playing on your headphones, you paused your track out of curiosity. (And the ingrained sense of self preservation of being aware of your surroundings.) 

A man (obviously a golf player) was in an animated discussion with another man (most likely not a golf player.)

“You can’t just come in here and talk golf balls! That’s stealing!”

“I’m not stealing anything brother, these are just laying around here with no one to claim them, I’m just taking care of lost things.”

“You. Are. Stealing!” The man stamped his foot as he spoke. You don’t know why you took such an instant dislike to him, but you did. He was clean shaven and neat, to the extreme point of it being possible to draw a perfect outline of him. Even as he moved not a slight hair moved out of place. 

The other guy was the living opposite of him.

“Now, listen,” He took a step closer to the golf player, there was an air of malice in his movements. Something of a predator in his wide smile. Something the golf player was obviously missing. 

Richer people often lacked a self of self-preservation. 

“He works for the club.” You said, your voice loud and strong enough to carry without being a shout. You surprised yourself. The need in your gut to act bypassing your usual ‘keep your head down’ attitude. 

Both men turned to you, previously unaware of your presence. 

The golfer looked flabbergasted, needing a moment to digest the information. 

The other man just gave you a small smile. 

“He, he works for the club?”

“He’s employed to collect all the abandoned golf balls, so they don’t mess up the place?” You frowned, putting on an air of annoyance. “Haven’t you played here before? Everyone knows that.”

“I, er, no.” The neat man turned, “why didn’t you just say you worked here?”

“Why does he have to explain himself to you?” You answered before there was a chance he would speak and mess your little plan up. 

“Erm, yes, of course.” The neat man straightened, apologised again and pushed a note into the other man’s hand for ‘his trouble’, before he walked away back to his game. 

You were left alone with the stranger. He grinned at you wolfishly. 

“Are you in the business of helping out folks?” 

“I just didn’t want to see you murder him on the green.” 

It was a joke. But the glint in the stranger’s eyes caught you off guard, maybe your jest wasn’t as far from the truth as you wanted it to be.

He nodded. “Well, I’m not usually on the receiving end of a tip,” he moved a little closer to you. Small, languid steps, giving you plenty of time to walk away. You held your ground. 

He stopped barely an arm’s width away. 

“I’m Jack,” he inclined his head, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

His grin widened when you told him your name. 

“I’d say at least half of this is yours,” he held up the note, “what do you say you let me buy you a drink?”

Thank you so much!

My Secret Shame's Little Party

[popdesign-vent]

ayo mod would u be willing to break down yuru (desmous) style ?

Yeah!! let's do this :) I'm gonna assume you meant toyhouse user Yuru (who's account is now closed) if thats not who you mean then im sorry that you're getting a style breakdown of a random user. Oops <3

so what we have here is a style that's very inspired by early 2000's work, more 'amateur' techniques used by younger DA artists. This style seems to favor palettes of white with a few saturated accents, or a neon palette with a few neutrals and a black for contrast. We have a lot of long bodies and sharp lines, with hair and fur texturing that's very 'stringy' for lack of a better word.

the artist seems to favor what i referred to earlier as 'amateur' techniques but they're used effectively!! the gradients, crunchy color fills, airbrushing, and messy linework is clearly purposeful and draws inspiration from the old emofur stylings. The eyes are very kemono-esque and the hair is often very reminiscent of older manga and anime.

I say that a lot of this is purposeful use of "amateur" technique to evoke nostalgia because in the cleaner ref sheet shown below, we see a slightly cleaner style with less airbrushing and more intentional shading and even some nice rendering on the hair.

So to summarize we have a style that utilizes these key ideas

Emofur/early 2000's nostalgia

young/amateurish aesthetics

thin messy line work

white + neutral + black + 1 saturated accent palettes

neutral + black + saturated rainbow palettes

mspaint asethetics (the out of place texturing, stamps, gradients, etc

for my personal opinions on the style! I find it very effective at what it does, it's clear about its intentions and does what it wants to very well. The one thing I would like to criticize is that a lot of these characters are lacking in unique and recognizable silhouettes. Even if you keep the same body type across your style, I think it's important to consider how you can implement props and unique outfits to create more unique designs. This also might sound odd, but yuru, if you're reading this, consider getting into 3d modelling!! I think your style would be very well suited to 3d character modeling, look at folks like dreamalgia's 3d models for examples of what i'm talking about :]

I think overall, while many people will not find this style to their tastes, it's well executed, consistent, and clear about what it wants to do. I would encourage the artist to branch out and experiment further (should they wish to do so)

I especially would encourage further exploration with the use of unique texturing and patterns, recognizable silhouettes, and different color combinations. Some of these designs feel a bit confused about where the 'central detail' is supposed to be focused on. Balancing your negative space vs occupied space more consciously would really tie this style together.

My hat goes off to this artist, i'm sad they've deactivated otherwise i would subscribe to em.

[asexual-spongebob]

new pinned post! Cuz it’s the one year anniversary of this blog! :D

Ahoy!!! My names kitty!! But u can also call me kit!

I’m a minor, I’m not going to state my exact age but just know that I’m old enough to use this website lmao. And that I’m a teenager. I may make mistakes.

my pronouns r she/they/it/mew + neos !

Wail Of The Siren AU master post!

this playlist has my fav songs and artists!! (NOTE: I do not support the actions of every artist on this playlist!

Other Information:

I have a tendency to cuss a lot in my posts, feel free to ask me to tag it! I also block people freely.

I ship ZaDr and TaGr, and other human/irken pairings. However I am NOT pr0sh1p. I view Zim, Tak, Skoodge, Tenn etc as kids and I view them as the same age (or close in age in Gaz’s case) as Dib, Gaz, Keef etc.

If that makes you uncomfortable, please just block me and leave. I do not have the time nor energy to engage in ship discourse for a show that’s over 20 years old. Do not send me anon asks trying to debate with me, because I will just block you and delete your ask. Thank you.

Also, like I said, I view the irken invaders as kids. Please do not say suggestive things about them on my posts.

Sometimes I post art or writing with more darker subjects such as mental health issues. I just figured I’d through that out there, however I do try my best to tag those things. oh and I’m also alt (scene, emo, goth and grunge.) and have a love for alt culture and fashion! (which is something I’ve been trying to get into have been learning more about.) :) I love making my own stuff, it’s very fun :)

Tags I use

# kitty giggles - general talking tag

# kitty answers - ask tag

# kittyz scribblez - art tag

# wail of the siren au - tag for my invader zim au

# wots: next gen - tag for the next gen portion of wail of the siren. # wots irl saga - photos of my siren dib plush and other iz plushies I’ve made!! :3

# invader tak au - tag for my other iz au.

DNI (link is 2 my straw page!)

and also:

Please Dni if you hate zadr with a burning passion . (Not liking it / disliking ZaDr is fine btw. Just please be nice about it.)

but if you constantly make posts about how much you hate it, harass its shippers, talk about how you want to do violent things to zadr shippers, or if you believe that all zadr shippers are nasty people, do not follow me. I will block you on sight if you do so.

i have adhd and anxiety. I also I have trouble figuring out tone in text so sorry if I misinterpret something! tone tags are very much appreciated! please use them!

I am an artist and fanfic author, I’ve written fanfiction and drawn fanart for a variety of fandoms, mainly kids shows tho.

if someone named @/kittysboba follows u thatz me lol! that’s just my main.

I made the Blinkies in this post using Blinkies.Cafe (expect for the invader zim blinkie, which I found on gif cities!)

I also made the stamps as well :)

I’m also a multishipper (which means I ship the same character with multiple different characters). When it comes to most characters or fandoms. I tend to like most ships as long as they aren’t illegal.

Fandoms:

Currently I’m most active in the Invader Zim fandom (specifically the ZaDr and TaGr side of it) and maybe Gravity Falls as well? but I also like Strawberry Shortcake (2003) SpongeBob SquarePants, Jimmy Neutron, Fairly Odd Parents, The amazing world of Gumball, Danny Phantom, Ed, Edd, ‘n Eddy, Over The Garden Wall, Angry Beavers, and Ruby Gloom.

I used to be apart of the Octonauts fandom but I left due to lack of interest and personal reasons. This is no longer an Octonauts blog. I might come back to the fandom someday, but for now I think it’s best that I stay away from it for a while.

I used to be in the H2O: JAW fandom a while ago but I’m not in it anymore.

Im kittysboba or asexual_spongebob on pretty much everything! (I’m K1ttysb0ba on da tho).

Thanks for reading! Enjoy ur stay! :3

(ZaDr kiss gif is by MKLier on Deviant Art)