#terr writes

[snowseasonmademe]

La terre a besoin de l’océan (chapter 1)

word count: 1,341

pairing: Jules Koundé x Imani Taylor

summary: Poet and new mother Imani is navigating life after birth, co-parenting her daughter with the man she once thought she’d marry—Barcelona footballer Jules Koundé. Though their relationship ended, the love between them never truly disappeared, simmering beneath shared responsibilities and lingering touches. As they rebuild trust and reimagine their future, Imani must decide if the life she walked away from is the one she’s meant to return to.

fc: @/ tatyanaalii_

tag list: @sucredreamer @irishmanwhore @dexastres @coffeevacation @goldenngt @btslover117 @kennaskorner

@leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro

@jessnotwiththemess @thepointlessideas

note: i will make this quick :) the recurring dream i’ve been having made me write this and there’s so much to the story it couldn’t just be a one time fic! as always, enjoy and tell me what you think🤍!

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

The scent of jasmine tea drifted through the apartment, curling into corners and settling in the silence of the early morning. It was quiet in a way that only homes with babies could be—calm, delicate, filled with the weight of knowing at any moment that stillness could be interrupted by a single cry.

Imani stood in the kitchen wrapped in a soft robe, a warm mug cupped between her palms. Her braids were pulled into a loose ponytail at the back her head, a few baby hairs framing her face. There were faint shadows beneath her eyes, not quite from exhaustion, but from thought. Her days always started like this now—quiet reflection before the real world called.

She sipped slowly, eyes flickering toward the hallway, just in time to hear the low creak of the floorboards. Jules appeared a moment later, barefoot with black sweats and a block top, Danielle nestled sleepily against his shoulder. The baby’s tiny hand clutched at the fabric of his tank top, her cheek pressed against his warm skin.

His voice, low and rough with sleep, filled the kitchen like a melody she hadn’t heard in a while.

“Morning.”

Imani glanced up at him, a tired smile tugging at the edge of her lips. “Morning.”

Danielle made a small sound in her sleep, a soft exhale, and Imani reached for her automatically. But Jules hesitated, just for a second, arms tightening around their daughter. He pressed a kiss to her curly head, eyes soft before he passed her into her mother’s arms.

“You should still be in bed,” Imani said, cradling Danielle against her chest. “Didn’t you get in late last night?”

“Had to hold her,” he murmured with a shrug, running a hand over his face. “She was crying, and I think she wanted her papa.”

Imani’s gaze lingered on him longer than she meant to. His locs were still damp from a shower, and his skin glowed from sleep. Fatherhood looked good on Jules. It always had. Even when things between them shifted, that part never changed.

She turned away.

Jules moved to the counter, pouring coffee with familiar ease. His body was cut in soft, defined lines—his back, his chest, the thick strength of his legs. Imani had spent so many mornings tracing them with her fingertips, back when their love was still brand new and electric. Back when everything had moved faster than they expected.

Six months into their relationship, she found out she was pregnant.

The news hit her like a wave—gentle but overwhelming. She’d been in Paris for a poetry event, heart still humming from the high of another sold-out reading when she took the test. She was six weeks along. The call to Jules was quiet, breathy. Her voice trembled.

He didn’t panic. He didn’t even sound shocked. “Okay” he said after a pause. “Let’s figure it out.”

Two weeks later, he helped her move into his apartment in Barcelona. Her 24 and him 25. No idea what they were doing, but determined to do it together.

Their relationship hadn’t always made sense on paper. She was a poet with three globally acclaimed books, her words dissected in academic circles and Instagram captions alike. He was a world-class athlete, intense and private, but wildly devoted. Somehow, it worked. She’d be in the front row at his matches, sunglasses on, not always knowing what was going on but always clapping the loudest. He’d be backstage at her events, leaning against the wall in all black, smiling quietly every time someone asked him, “Are you the Jules she writes about?”

They laughed easily. Fought rarely. Cried when they needed to—once about a major mistake he made, once about her father’s absence, once about nothing at all. He had a way of peeling her open without trying. And god, the sex. She used to joke that his Scorpio placements should be studied. But it wasn’t a joke. He was intense. Focused. Tender in the way his mouth moved against her skin, feral in the way his hands gripped her waist.

That last time they were together like that—intimate, raw—Imani was 26 weeks pregnant.

It had been a long night. They’d just set up the nursery. She was tired, but he was looking at her like she was magic. It was slow. Reverent. Her body swollen, but beautiful in a way neither of them fully understood yet. Afterward, they lay there in silence, her hand resting on her belly, his arm wrapped around her shoulders.

Neither of them said it, but they both knew it would be the last time.

They hadn’t touched like that since.

Their breakup wasn’t a rupture—it was a decision. A quiet one. They both agreed before the baby was born that they didn’t see forever in each other, not in that way. But they loved each other deeply. And that mattered. They’d remain close. Best friends. Parents. Partners in a different kind of way.

Now, they lived together still. For Danielle. For her stability. Imani had suggested it when she was eight weeks pregnant. Jules didn’t hesitate.

They planned to stay under the same roof until Danielle started elementary school—at least. Imani adored living in Spain, but she often thought about moving back to New York when Danielle was a little older. She wanted her daughter to know the rhythm of the city that raised her. To walk the same Brooklyn streets, to feel that pulse beneath her feet. But not yet.

Not yet.

Jules leaned against the counter now, watching her move across the kitchen with their daughter in her arms.

“You’ve been working out again” he said, voice casual, but laced with something warmer.

Imani raised an eyebrow. “Why? You checking me out?”

He didn’t even blink. “Always”

That was the thing with Jules. He never pretended. He still thought she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever known. Her body had changed. Softened. Filled out in places she hadn’t expected. She was self-conscious about it sometimes, but Jules? He loved it. He hadn’t seen all of it—just glimpses. The curve of her hips under a towel, the way her thighs pressed together when she lounged in one of his t-shirts, the occasional flash of cleavage when she dressed up for a book signing.

He saw her. And he noticed everything.

Her face had matured too. Her eyes carried more weight now, her cheekbones a little sharper. He adored it more than he admitted.

And him?

Somehow, he’d gotten finer. His arms had grown thicker, veiny and strong from training, the kind that made Danielle look even smaller in his grasp. His legs—she noticed them too. And his face—clean-shaven or scruffy—was almost unfair. That sharp jaw, those deep-set eyes. Even more beautiful now than when they’d first met.

But neither of them did anything about it.

Because co-parenting came first. Always.

“She looks more like you every day,” Imani said suddenly, gaze soft as she looked down at their daughter. “It’s kind of unfair.”

Jules tilted his head, eyes never leaving her. “I think she’s got your spirit though. The fire. That soft heart underneath. She’s gonna be a poet too.”

Imani laughed, rich and full, the kind that came from the belly. The kind that made Jules smile before he could stop himself.

“You really think that?” she asked.

“Yeah, I do.”

There was a pause. A silence that felt like something sacred. A breath of all the things they didn’t say. The past. The love. The not-quite-gone desire.

They lived in that in-between now. No longer lovers. Not quite just friends. Co-parents, yes. But so much more than that. The way he noticed when her tea was almost out. The way she remembered his favorite post-match meal. The way they spoke without speaking. The way their lives were still wrapped around each other, just a little looser than before.

Maybe it wasn’t forever. Maybe it wasn’t love in the way it used to be.

But it was real. And for now, it was enough.

[bluberimufim]

Help me settle an argument!

Leave any strong opinions in the tags! Have fun!

And reblog for bigger sample size, of course

[enigmatic-mystery-777]

Haunted

There's a ghost in your apartment, you're sure of it, but you're the only one who seems to realize something is amiss. The longer the haunting goes on without any logical explanation, the worse your emotional state gets.

Taglist: @ellie--eille @geekygumiho @daydreampending @frostysfrenzy @jgem87 @cuillere @riverageleis

[vifetoile]

Iriel de Fiscarde, the last anguissette before Phèdre. Married a Kusheline duc to prevent a civil war in Terre d’Ange. My headcanon for her is that the great source of agony/joy in her life was when she fell in love with her husband's sister.

Vibes of Like Water for Chocolate, you see it?

[042-240]

happy birthday to armeme and vei (my beloved)

[rori-h-nemuri]

la terre vaine #6

in which Grimmjow finally arrives *yay* ao3 link

“So, what happened?” Nel exchanged a glance with Ichigo, who wasn’t sure what to say. “Soul Society happened,” was her terse answer. 

[readingloveswounds]

i can't BELIEVE they cut the Bishop of Aix calling the Pope "vray dieu en terre" ('true God on earth') and replaced it with "vicaire de Dieu en terre" ('vicar of God on earth').

keep up the outrage!!!!! where is the drama!!!! just call him the antichrist, i know you want to!!!!!

[terrm9]

so

[aleksatia]

🏍Blind date with your ex-husband. You never expected it to be… Sylus.

Inspiration hit me going 100mph down the highway, and I took an unscheduled gas station stop just to write this down. My husband almost divorced me again thinking I’d lost my mind — so in a way, this series is dedicated to him. And to second chances. I know they exist. I’ve lived one. 🥀

An unplanned new series. Five ex-husbands. Same setup, different reactions.

❄️ Zayne | 🎨 Rafayel | ✨Xavier | 🍎 Caleb

CW/TW: Divorce / Post-divorce emotional trauma, Obsessive love, Verbal sparring, Emotional manipulation, Power imbalance (narratively examined), High sensual tension, Knife imagery, Intimacy (consensual, intense), Jealousy / possessiveness, Codependency themes.

Pairing: Sylus x ex-wife!you Genre: Sharp-edged seduction, culinary metaphors and emotional hunger. Power play, slow unraveling, lust laced with history. Lovers to wreckage to something still burning. Summary: You came for a blind date with a private chef. You got Sylus — the man who once built you a panic room and still remembers your spice preferences by scent. In a kitchen simmering with heat, memory, and unresolved desire, the knives aren’t the only things that cut. What starts with dinner ends in something far messier — a taste of the past that still knows how to ruin you sweetly. Word Count: 5.3K 😱

You didn’t come here for romance.

You came because a targeted ad caught you scrolling at 2AM with a glass of cheap wine in one hand and existential dread in the other. Because the food in the photos looked edible and the men in the photos looked even better.

You came because you were starving. Not just for a decent meal — though God knew your fridge contained exactly one expired yogurt and half a lime — but for the kind of attention that didn’t arrive via notifications or come with a tax form.

The invite said blind date with a private chef. Curated flavors. Curated ambiance. Curated man. It sounded ridiculous.

You clicked anyway.

Filled out the form without thinking — somewhere between insomnia and impulse. Ticked the “no dietary restrictions” box, ignored the optional personality quiz, chose a time slot like you were booking a facial.

And now here you were.

You arrived in a dress you hadn’t worn in a year — the one that whispered sin with every breath, that laced too tightly at the waist but made silence a weapon. Your heels were sharp. So were you.

The kitchen looked like it belonged in a Bond villain’s pied-à-terre. All obsidian marble and gold fixtures, veined stone that caught light like a lover’s gaze. One bottle of wine. Open. Breathing.

The thyme was already simmering. So was the question in your throat.

Who the hell was already here?

You didn’t have time to knock — only breathe — before the voice slipped under your skin like a memory.

“Well,” it said, low, warm, amused. “They said come hungry, but I didn’t think you’d show up starving.”

You turned. And there he was.

Sylus.

Of course he was wearing black. Of course the sleeves were rolled. The apron was leather — unnecessary, indulgent, unmistakably him. The knife in his hand glinted, but he wasn’t holding it like a threat. Not yet.

He looked at you like he always did — like he was already inside the next three things you were about to say.

“New shoes?” he asked. “Sound expensive. You finally start taking my advice or just ran out of bad ones?”

Your mouth twitched. You refused to smile.

“I thought they’d match the occasion,” you said coolly. “Should I be flattered or concerned you’ve taken up cosplay as a housewife’s fantasy?”

He chuckled — low, velvet-wrapped steel.

“Careful, kitten,” he said, letting the word linger, soft and edged. “You’re talking to the man holding the knife.”

You moved closer, not because you wanted to, but because your body still remembered what it felt like to be near him. Like standing too close to lightning and pretending the static in your lungs was just the weather.

“I was told there’d be a private chef,” you said, eyeing the cutting board, the herbs, the glint of something rich and red in a copper pan. “Not the King of N109 Zone slumming it in an apron. Just tell me—am I here to eat, or to be served?”

He grinned. Slow. Viciously fond.

“Sweetie, you’re not dinner. You’re dessert. Custom-made. One of one. And I have a very... private sweet tooth”

You hated how easily he said things like that. You hated that part of you still wanted to believe he meant it.

Sylus turned back to the stove like he hadn’t just punched through three layers of self-defense with a compliment.

“Hungry?” he asked, without looking.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

He already knew.

The apron was black linen, embroidered discreetly in a thread so dark it only caught the light when he moved — which he did now, slowly, like he had all the time in the world and none of it belonged to you.

He stepped behind you without a sound, and still, your breath caught like it always did around him — on that invisible hook just beneath your ribs.

“Arms up,” Sylus murmured, voice just behind your ear.

You didn’t move.

“Unless you’d rather get that dress dirty,” he added, fingers already brushing your waist. “Though… I’ve never minded you messy.”

You rolled your eyes — slowly, deliberately — but raised your arms. The fabric slipped over your head like something ceremonial. His hands lingered. Just long enough to feel the heat of him. Just long enough to remind you that you used to belong to this touch.

He tied the knot at the back like it was a game of patience. Like he was daring you to shiver.

“You still stretch time like it matters most in the smallest moments,” you said, forcing your voice steady. “Still insufferably slow.”

He leaned in, not quite touching. His breath traced the nape of your neck.

“I find haste… unsatisfying,” Sylus said, his voice low and deliberate. “You rush only when you have something to fear. Do you?”

You turned your head just slightly, just enough to let him see the cut of your smirk.

“I came here for dinner, not for psychological foreplay.”

“Kitten,” he said, almost sweet, “in our case, I’ve never been able to tell the difference.”

You didn’t answer. You needed to look at something that wasn’t him. Needed a moment to breathe through the heat still clinging to your skin. Your gaze drifted — to the counters, the low golden light, the wine, the perfectly staged mise en place.

And then you saw it.

The cutting board in front of you held a single, glistening eggplant — deep purple, swollen, glossy like forbidden fruit. Obscene in its simplicity. Ridiculous. Erotic.

Absolutely on purpose.

“You’re kidding,” you said. “What is this, some kind of culinary metaphor?”

“Only if you’re thinking like a poet,” he said. “I prefer precision. We’re making kara-kara masala. Northern blend. Stracciatella to finish.”

You blinked.

“Stracciatella. With masala.”

He shrugged — just a twitch of shoulders behind you.

“Fusion is in fashion.”

“And here I thought mass murder was your aesthetic.”

“Multifaceted,” he said, plucking a sprig of burnt orange coriander from a tray. “You never liked simple men.”

Your hand started to move toward the eggplant — slowly, half on instinct.

“Go on,” he said, not looking up. “Take it in both hands. Start working it gently. The size might feel... familiar.”

You froze mid-reach. One eyebrow lifted, sharp and unimpressed.

He smirked — just a flicker.

You picked it up anyway. Deliberately. Fingers curling around the smooth, cool skin. You started to massage it with a bit too much force, more intent than technique — not because you didn’t know better, but because you wanted him to notice.

And he did.

His gaze drifted sideways, jaw tightening just slightly.

“Careful… you keep handling it like that, and I’ll start thinking you missed me.”

You didn’t look at him — just kept working the eggplant, hands slow but deliberate, your fingers tightening ever so slightly.

“Maybe I should’ve practiced on something tougher. Something with... less give. Like your ego. Or whatever alloy you keep your balls in.”

He laughed. Quiet, deep, genuine. The kind of laugh that started in his chest and slid under your skin.

A second later, you felt him behind you — his presence more physical than his touch. You barely registered the space between your bodies closing before his voice curved warm at your neck.

“Here,” he murmured. “Let me show you how to handle it.”

Then — his hands.

Warm. Large. Wrapping around yours, commanding without pressure. His thumbs settled just behind your knuckles, guiding your rhythm with that maddening patience he wore like cologne.

The eggplant turned beneath your fingers like silk on wet marble.

“You want to soften it, not break it,” he whispered, lips almost against your ear. “Press. Rotate. Coax.”

Your throat went dry.

“I’m not making love to it, Sylus.”

“Pity,” he said. “You’re very good with your hands.”

You could feel your pulse in your teeth.

He adjusted your grip again, moving your palms against the vegetable with maddening care.

“See?” he murmured. “It responds better when you take your time.”

You inhaled. Regret. Lust. Something older than both.

“God, you’re insufferable,” you muttered.

“I prefer irresistible.”

He let go just then, too suddenly, and you almost swayed without the brace of him.

But you didn’t turn. Not yet.

Not while your hands still remembered the weight of his.

Behind you, the sound of a flame ticking higher. A pan shifting. Steel over heat. You exhaled through your nose, slowly — and realized you’d been holding that breath since he touched you.

“Still so still,” he murmured behind you. Not mocking. Not quite. “I used to love how you froze when you didn’t know what you wanted more — to kiss me or slap me.”

You turned now. Not quickly — like a tide reversing.

He was slicing the chili. Long, delicate strokes. The knife moved like part of him — silent, certain. His forearms flexed under the rolled sleeves. There was oil on his thumb, catching the low light.

“I always knew what I wanted,” you said. “I just didn’t always want you knowing it.”

He looked up. That look — that look — like he was reading the margins of your thoughts.

“Sweetie,” he said, and the word landed warm and sharp, “I knew anyway.”

He moved toward you again, casual in a way that felt staged. Like choreography he’d written hours ago. Like this scene had already happened in his head.

You didn’t back away. But your pulse did something interesting in your throat.

He held the half-sliced pepper between two fingers and raised it.

“Bite,” he said.

You arched a brow.

“Do I look like I take orders in the kitchen?”

He smiled — slow, indulgent, the way you imagine sinners smile just before the gates close.

“No,” he said. “You look like someone who bites first, regrets later.”

You took it anyway. Just the tip. Just enough to feel the heat bloom.

Sharp. Clean. Electric. Like a warning. Like him.

You blinked against the rush, tongue burning. He watched every flicker of expression on your face like it was a language only he could speak.

“I missed that look,” he said softly.

“What look?”

“The one right before you pretend it didn’t affect you.”

You stepped around him this time, reaching for the wooden pestle. The crushed spices waited — golden, coarse, slightly smoking.

He didn’t stop you. Just turned with you, keeping close, orbiting.

“You really planned this,” you said, voice low now. Less sharp. More dangerous. “This isn’t some booking fluke.”

He shrugged.

“I don’t believe in accidents.”

You pressed the pestle down — slowly. The crunch of coriander and clove under your weight sounded too much like breaking something delicate.

“So why?” you asked. Quiet. Not for drama. Just because you finally had space for the question.

Why here. Why now.  Why this.

He didn’t answer. Not yet. Just reached forward — and covered your hand again.

Guided the pressure. Slower. Deeper.

“Because,” he said at last, “I missed watching your hands destroy beautiful things.”

You didn’t pull your hand away. Not at first.

The pestle moved in slow circles under both your palms, spices groaning softly beneath the weight. The smell rose hotter now — deeper, more bitter — cumin surrendering to pressure, coriander cracking, cardamom bleeding out into air that was already too full of memory.

His hands didn’t press. They suggested. But that was always worse.

You turned your wrist, just enough to break the rhythm, just enough to make it yours again. And then you pulled your fingers from under his — deliberately — like slipping silk through a closing door.

“You’re still doing it,” you said, not looking at him.

A pause. Then, lightly — amused, unhurried: “Doing what, kitten?”

You shook your head, pressing down on the mixture harder than you needed to. The pestle slipped slightly; cumin dust flared.

“Controlling things. Guiding. Correcting. Even now. Even with… this.”

A gesture at the bowl, the kitchen, the heat-laced air. At both of you.

Sylus leaned one hip against the marble, arms loose, one finger idly tracing the rim of a copper spice tin.

“I wouldn’t call it control,” he said. “I’d call it… insurance.”

You laughed once — dry.

“Against what?”

“Against disaster,” he said. “Which, in your case, starts with putting cinnamon in curry.”

You turned, this time fully. Crossed your arms, the pestle still warm in your fingers.

“That was once.”

“And your risotto never forgave you.”

“You never let me try again.”

He looked at you. Not sharply. Just… fully. Like he was trying to see something under the words.

“You never asked.”

Silence swelled. Heavy. Smoky.

Then he pushed off the counter and moved back to the stove. The oil was shimmering now in the pan — time for the spices. He tilted the bowl toward you, nodding.

“You pour,” he said. “You’ve earned that much trust.”

You did. Slowly. Watching the crushed spices hit the oil like secrets — sudden, loud, blooming with heat and color.

The scent rose immediately — rich, toasted, complex. A taste of something you didn’t yet understand.

“You always did this,” you said softly, almost without meaning to. “Knew exactly where I’d trip. And stepped in before I even noticed the floor shifting.”

He didn’t answer at first. Just stirred, slow and precise, the spoon carving lazy circles in gold and flame.

Then, not looking at you: “You think I was trying to control you.”

Wry smile. The kind that hurt more than it should’ve.

“I was trying to be the steady thing. So you'd never have to wonder if someone had your back.”

You didn’t expect that.

Didn’t expect the way it sat inside your chest — bitter, like fenugreek. Bright, like ginger. Sharp enough to make you swallow twice.

He turned to face you again, this time holding a spoon toward your mouth — the first taste. A small one. The kind meant to test, not feed.

You met his eyes. Then leaned in.

The flavor hit the back of your throat like memory — rich, warm, almost sweet. And then… that creeping burn. Slow. Claiming.

You held it a second too long before swallowing.

He tasted after you, the way he always did — like he wanted to know exactly what touched your mouth. Then said, lightly:

“It needs more acid.”

You tilted your head.

“So did we.”

The silence that followed wasn’t sharp — it was soft. A stillness you didn’t quite trust.

He didn’t flinch. Just looked at you, eyes unreadable in that way that always made you furious. The way he could feel everything and still reveal nothing.

“I gave you everything,” he said quietly. Not defensive. Not wounded. Just… honest.

You nodded. Once.

“You did.”

He turned away then — not to leave, just to move. To have something to do with his hands. He reached for the mortar again, brushing spice dust from its rim with unnecessary care.

“I would’ve torn the world apart for you,” he said. “You know that.”

And god, you did. That was the problem.

You stepped forward, but didn’t close the space. Just enough to feel the warmth of the stove between you.

“You always gave me the world, Sylus. But sometimes I needed you to give me something smaller.”

He looked over. Brows slightly drawn.

“Smaller?”

“Yeah,” you said. “Like… a Tuesday. A morning. An hour when you weren’t a god, or a ghost, or halfway to a war.”

His eyes darkened — not angry. Just quiet.

“And you think a vineyard, a moonlit opera, a private island… that was me running away?”

“It was love. I know that. But sometimes it felt like you loved me the way men love symbols — not people.”

You let out a breath, slow. Bitter at the edges.

“I didn’t need a palace and a crown. I just needed someone who’d sit with me on the floor.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

Only said, barely above the hum of the stove:

“I didn’t think you'd stay for the floor.”

You met his eyes again.

“I would’ve,” you whispered. “If you'd ever joined me there.”

He turned away without a word, grabbed a knife — something heavier than before — and dropped two ripe mangoes onto the cutting board with a dull, final thud.

“Slice them,” he said, not looking at you. “Thin. Clean. No waste.”

You stared at his back.

He didn’t stop moving. “Or is that too luxurious a task for someone trying to live simply?”

You stepped forward, grabbed the smaller blade — your fingers curling around the handle tighter than necessary. The mango skin was soft, too yielding, and the first cut slipped slightly.

Behind you, he began chopping green chili with mechanical force. Each strike of the knife hit the board like punctuation marks in a fight he hadn’t yet started.

At first, you thought it was your words that hit a nerve — the dig about extravagance, the suggestion that his love had always been too much.

But no. This wasn’t pride. This was something quieter. Sharper. It wasn’t what you’d said that bothered him.

It was that you were here… but not for him.

You kept your eyes on the fruit, your voice quieter than you meant it to be.

“You’re jealous,” you said before you could stop yourself. “That I agreed to a blind date.”

His knife didn’t pause. “I’m pissed you thought I wouldn’t know.”

You laughed — one sharp breath through your nose. “Of course you knew. You always know. The algorithm, the wine, the fake-ass bio with ‘seasonal melancholy’ in the personality field. What was it this time — surveillance drones? A wiretap? My fucking grocery receipts?”

“I didn’t need to spy,” he snapped. “You’re not subtle, kitten.”

You spun to face him, knife in hand, juice on your wrist.

“No. I’m not. Not anymore. I left you. A year ago. And I’m still cutting fruit under your shadow.”

He stared at you. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak. You pressed.

“That’s what you want, right? Doesn’t matter where I go or who I let in. You’ll always be there. Uninvited. Unavoidable.”

“I don’t give a damn who you let in,” he said, finally, voice low and cold. “But I care what you let close. I care what lives near my heart. And that’s still you. Whether you like it or not.”

Your knife slipped.

A gasp caught in your throat — not from pain, but from the sting. Quick. Bright. A thin line of red welled up along the pad of your finger.

Before you could pull back, he was already there. He didn’t hesitate. He took your wrist like it belonged to him — like it always had — and brought your hand to his mouth.

You didn’t breathe.

He closed his lips around your fingertip and sucked, slow and deliberate. His eyes never left yours.

The kitchen noise faded. Even the burning oil went quiet. You could feel the press of his tongue, the warmth of his mouth, the soft scrape of his teeth just beneath restraint.

When he let go, your finger was clean. His mouth wasn’t.

Still watching you, he dragged the back of his wrist across his lower lip, catching a smear of blood and mango juice.

“You’re still bleeding,” he said.

“Barely.”

He stepped closer. Too close.

“I always preferred you this way,” he murmured. “Slightly bruised. Still standing.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. He looked at you like you were a problem he couldn’t stop solving.

Your voice came low, tight.

“You can’t keep doing this.”

“What, kitten?” He tilted his head. “Caring?”

“Following. Knowing. Controlling.” You threw the knife down on the board. It clanged.

He didn’t flinch. “You think I follow you? You think I watch you like some bored king with a telescope? No. I remember you. That’s worse.”

You swallowed. The silence between you thickened. Then he spoke again — softer this time, but not gentler.

“I rebuilt a vineyard because you smiled at a bottle once. I rerouted cargo ships to get you your favorite fucking soap. I learned your cycle before you tracked it yourself.”

His voice cracked, just a little.

“You think I did all that because I wanted control?”

You didn’t answer.

“I did it,” he said, almost quietly, “because when you smiled — really smiled — it felt like the world shut the fuck up for a second.”

You looked away. Because the worst part was, you remembered those seconds. Too clearly.

He turned back to the stove, threw in the chilies. The oil hissed like it took offense.

“I learned how to breathe around your moods,” he said, almost conversational. “Knew when you were quiet because you were thinking, and when you were quiet because I fucked up. I memorized the way your voice changed when you were lying — not to me, to yourself.”

His hand moved with clean precision, scraping the pan, adding turmeric and something red and earthy.

“I built an entire panic room underneath our bedroom in case someone ever came for you in your sleep. There’s a pulse sensor in the floors, kitten. I tracked your nightmares.”

You gripped the edge of the counter.

He glanced over his shoulder, knife flashing in his hand.

“You think I didn’t know you hated the spotlight? That’s why I stopped inviting you to those parties. Not because I wanted you hidden. Because I wanted you comfortable.”

The knife came down. Fast. Rhythmic. Final.

“So if all that wasn’t enough,” he said, voice low now, “if knowing your scent from a room away, if burning half the galaxy to keep your name out of a single report — wasn’t enough—”

He turned. Eyes sharp. Shoulders squared.

“Then the only thing that makes sense is this — you never loved me.”

Your throat locked.

“What?” you whispered.

His face was unreadable. Not blank — closed.

“That’s the only explanation that fits.” He shrugged. “You loved me, I gave everything, and you still left. So either I was never enough… or you never did.”

Your lips parted. No sound came out at first. Then:

“Sylus, no…” A breath. “You’re wrong.”

He didn’t blink.

“You think I didn’t love you because I didn’t build you a panic room?” you asked softly, almost laughing from the sheer ache of it. “I didn’t have warships or vineyards, Sylus. I had quiet.”

He said nothing.

“I used to go into your closet when you were gone,” you said. “Because it smelled like you. I organized your shirts by the days you wore them most — not by color, by habit.”

You stepped forward. Still soft. Still shaking.

“I kept the bathroom stocked with the toothpaste you liked even though I hated it. I had your old watch cleaned when you forgot it in the study. I rewired the coffee machine after it shorted because I knew you’d never replace it — and I didn’t want you to start your day annoyed. And I adjusted the lighting presets in the bedroom when you were gone — so it wouldn’t be too harsh when you came back late.”

He was still. Completely.

You exhaled, long and thin.

“I didn’t have grand gestures. But I was always there. Folding myself in between your thunder. Whispering in the wake of your fireworks.”

Your voice cracked, barely.

“But your love was so big, so loud, so everything… I started to feel like mine didn’t matter. Like anything I gave would just vanish under the weight of you. Like I wasn’t enough to be seen next to what you were offering.”

A long silence.

And then he moved.

Not walked. Moved. Like gravity finally snapped.

He crossed the space between you in two strides and grabbed your face in both hands, not roughly — but with so much force it felt like claiming. He kissed you — no, devoured you. Mouth to mouth, heat to heat, as if the only way he could convince you mattered was to crush that thought out of your body.

His hands were everywhere and nowhere — in your hair, on your waist, gripping your jaw like you were the first real thing he’d touched in months. And he kissed you like he didn’t care about dinner, or timing, or sense.

He kissed you like apology, like memory, like prayer.

When he finally pulled back — barely — his voice was raw against your mouth.

“Don’t you ever say you weren’t enough.”

Your fingers dug into his shirt.

“I didn’t say I wasn’t. I said I forgot how to believe I was.”

He rested his forehead against yours. Breathing hard.

“Then let me remind you.”

And he kissed you again — slower this time, deeper, like he wasn’t just claiming your mouth, but giving you back every piece of yourself he ever touched.

His kiss didn’t end — it just shifted. Became something else. Slower, darker, hungrier. His fingers slid down your spine, then wrapped around the back of your thigh with unapologetic intent. You felt the moment his hand hit the edge of your garter — the tension in his grip told you he hadn’t expected it.

He broke the kiss. Just barely.

His voice was rough silk.

“You wear lace.” A pause. “That’s not confidence. That’s theater.”

You didn’t blink. Just smirked.

“You should worry if I came without anything under the dress,” you murmured. “Like that time in the restaurant. Third floor. Behind the velvet curtain.”

His nostrils flared. That single second of stillness was the only warning you got before he grabbed your hips and lifted you onto the counter like you weighed nothing.

The marble was cold under your thighs. His palms weren’t.

He stepped between your knees, eyes drinking you in — the slow climb of his gaze from your heels (stilettos, patent black, weapon-grade) up the line of your stockings, where lace met skin with quiet defiance.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

“Who,” he said, low and deadly, “were you planning to show this to?”

You looked straight at him. Let him see the fire behind your lashes.

“No one,” you said. “It was for me.”

He was quiet for a beat. Then, softer:

“Say stop.”

Instead, you pulled him down to kiss you — the kind that said mine, not maybe. His mouth crashed into yours, teeth catching your lower lip, tongue already tasting salt, sweat, sweetened spice. His hand slid between your thighs, fingers pushing the lace aside with terrifying focus.

You gasped into him. He didn’t flinch.

You felt the low growl in his chest before you heard it. His restraint was crumbling — not from impatience, but from how close it all still lived under his skin.

His breath hitched as your hips rolled against his palm.

Then his hand withdrew — slow, steady — trailing heat across your skin like he didn’t want to take it with him.

He lowered himself without a word, the shift of his weight between your thighs smooth, practiced, inevitable. His hands slid along the backs of your knees, drawing them wider with quiet command.

And then — his mouth.

First one kiss. Then another. Lower. Slower.

The inside of your thigh. The softest skin. The most dangerous intention.

“Sweetie,” he whispered roughly, “I swear to every god I don’t believe in — if you don’t stop me, I’m going to eat you alive and burn dinner.”

Your head fell back, neck exposed, a sound catching in your throat that didn’t quite become a word.

“You promised,” you murmured. “I wasn’t the main course. I’m dessert, remember?”

He bit your thigh, not hard — just a warning.

“Dessert sits and waits.”

And with that, he stepped back. Just enough to drag breath into his lungs. Just enough to return to the pan on the stove.

“Don’t move,” he said, his voice hoarse but firm. “Table service isn’t over yet.”

You stayed. Legs dangling, pulse raging. The air smelled like roasted garlic and want.

He stirred the pan like he hadn’t just had his hand — and tongue — inside you. And then — like nothing had happened — he said:

“You still can’t slice mango properly. You butchered it.”

You scoffed. “Maybe I was emotionally compromised.”

He tossed a pinch of something into the oil, not looking. “You’re always emotionally compromised. It’s your charm.”

You rolled your eyes and reached for the wine. Poured it slowly, precisely — like it mattered how the evening tasted.

Pouring with one hand, you slipped off the counter with the other and walked to him — slow, swaying. You held the glass near his mouth.

He didn’t pause what he was doing.

“Is this peace offering or seduction?” he asked, still stirring.

You held the rim to his lips.

“Does it matter?” you whispered.

He drank. Not greedily — just enough to taste.

You set your own glass down, reached for the small bowl of marinated olives you’d prepped earlier without thinking, and picked the darkest one between your fingers. Lifted it toward his mouth.

He opened — slow, lazy — and took it between his teeth. Except he didn’t let go of your fingers.

His tongue flicked, catching your skin. You felt it everywhere.

And still, his other hand kept moving — folding spice into oil, steering the heat, finishing the dish.

Multitasking, you thought. Always had a talent for it.

He chewed. Swallowed.

“You poisoned that, didn’t you?” he asked calmly.

“Only mildly,” you said.

He grinned. “Just enough to keep me wanting more.”

And you laughed.

The first real laugh in months. Loud, open, relaxed. The kind that cracked the shell you hadn’t realized you were still wearing.

He didn’t look at you. Just smiled to himself and said:

“There she is.”

He moved fast once the sauce hit its final note — pan tilted, plated with one elegant sweep, a curl of steam rising from the masala like incense. The stracciatella followed in precise dollops, melting just at the edges. Garnish. A single edible flower, because of course he’d have those stocked.

Two plates. Two glasses. A table already half-set as if this were always meant to happen.

You didn’t have to speak. You moved together — perfectly synchronized without effort. He reached for silverware as you lit the candle. You folded the napkin just as he smoothed the tablecloth. He pulled out the chair, and your body followed like it had never learned to do anything else.

He sat opposite you, hands resting calmly on the table. And then, after a breath, he reached across and took your hand in both of his.

Not possessive. Not pulling. Just… holding.

His thumbs moved slowly over your knuckles, and he looked at you with something rawer than before. Something stripped of bravado, of games, of control.

“If I learn to love you less,” he said quietly, “or softer… will you stay?”

You blinked. The words weren’t what you expected — not from him. 

You gave a slow smile. Tilted your head, voice dry but gentle.

“That’s the first time you’ve ever asked,” you said. “Instead of just taking what you decided was already yours.”

His mouth twitched. But he didn’t deny it.

You reached up, free hand brushing across his cheek — the clean line of it, smooth and freshly shaven, like he’d known you’d end up here. Your fingers paused at his jaw. Traced down.

“I don’t want you to love me less,” you said. “I don’t want you to be quieter. Or smaller. Or someone else.”

His eyes closed briefly under your touch. Just for a moment.

“I only want,” you whispered, “that if I ever get lost inside it again… you’ll help me find my way back.”

He opened his eyes.

And the look he gave you — it wasn’t fiery. It wasn’t possessive. It was whole.

He lifted your hand to his lips and kissed the inside of your wrist — slow, like reverence. Like ritual.

“Deal,” he said simply.

And then he passed you a fork, as if the world hadn’t just realigned.

You took it, fingers brushing his, and laughed softly.

He raised his glass.

“To second chances,” he said.

You touched your rim to his.

“To not needing them,” you replied.

And together, you ate — the table between you finally quiet, finally shared.

[bitsnbit3s]

New Substack post: A traditional restaurant recommendation in Manarola (Cinque Terre), Italy

[snowseasonmademe]

La terre a besoin de l’océan (chapter 3)

word count: 3,125

pairing: Jules Koundé x Imani Taylor

summary: Poet and new mother Imani is navigating life after birth, co-parenting her daughter with the man she once thought she’d marry—Barcelona footballer Jules Koundé. Though their relationship ended, the love between them never truly disappeared, simmering beneath shared responsibilities and lingering touches. With the help of Sofia—Jules’s warm-hearted family friend turned Imani’s bestie, who cares for Danielle like a second grandmother—their unconventional home begins to feel whole again. As they rebuild trust and reimagine their future, Imani must decide if the life she walked away from is the one she’s meant to return to.

fc: @/ tatyanaalii_

tag list: @sucredreamer @irishmanwhore @dexastres @coffeevacation @goldenngt @btslover117 @kennaskorner

@leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro

@jessnotwiththemess @thepointlessideas

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

February 22nd. It had been ten and a half months since Danielle was born.

Some days, Imani still couldn’t believe it. That this tiny, brilliant, babbling creature had come from her body. From her love. From her life.

Danielle was her everything. A living poem, a bright little sun orbiting her heart.

No matter what time it was, or how exhausted Imani felt from working late into the night, the sight of her daughter waking up always made the world stand still. Every morning, Danielle would blink her big, brown eyes open and scan the room, her lashes fluttering until—

“Mama.”

That whisper was always soft. Always like a secret.

Then came the smile. Big. Gummy. Full of wonder and love, with those three tiny teeth sitting like pearls in her mouth. Her legs would kick under the soft lavender blanket she refused to sleep without, arms flapping with excitement as though her joy couldn’t be contained inside her small frame.

Imani’s heart would break open every time.

She bent over the crib and scooped her up, pressing Danielle close to her chest. She needed her to feel it. The love. The safety. The knowing. That she was held. That she was wanted. That every inch of her was adored.

She swayed back and forth, humming something low and soft under her breath. Something she remembered her own mother humming to Kaya when she thought Imani wasn’t listening.

“You had good dreams, huh?” Imani whispered, kissing the soft fuzz of Danielle’s curls. “I can tell.”

Danielle let out a string of babbled nonsense in response, smacking her lips dramatically like she had so much to say and not enough time to say it. Imani smiled.

“Oh, you did fly? Through the clouds? What else, baby?”

More babble. More soft coos. Her chubby fingers tugged gently at the ends of Imani’s locs, one fist clumsily wrapping around a strand like she needed to anchor herself to the world.

Imani let her. She remembered that feeling, too. The need to hold on to something.

She was so lost in their rhythm—her voice, Danielle’s little replies, the weight of motherhood wrapped in this cozy moment—that she didn’t even hear the footsteps.

But Danielle did.

“Papa… papa…”

It wasn’t a yell, just a whisper, but her feet started kicking again with a whole new excitement. Imani turned her head and there he was.

Jules.

In his training clothes—navy blue joggers that hung low on his hips, a navy blue and red long-sleeve thermal pushed up to his elbows, revealing the veins that always made Imani stare a beat too long. His locs were slightly pushed back with a headband, a sheen of oil on his skin from the morning shower. He looked like he’d just stepped off a magazine cover.

But it wasn’t just how he looked. It was the way he looked at them.

Like they were his sunrise. Like there was no place else in the world he’d rather be.

He crossed the room quietly, a soft smile blooming on his face. The kind that only appeared when he was around Danielle. Or Imani. Or both.

His arms slid around Imani’s waist from behind, pulling her gently against him. His hands were warm. Familiar. Steady.

He kissed Danielle’s forehead first—always. Then leaned down, brushing his lips softly against the curve of Imani’s neck.

“Bonjour, mes chéris” he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep.

“Hi Jules,” Imani replied, and it was almost a sigh. The heat of his body pressed against her back made her want to fold into him, crawl back into bed, pretend they were still together.

They weren’t, not really. But sometimes—like right now—it was hard to remember that.

There was a pause. Heavy and charged.

She could feel him watching her. Not just admiring—watching. Studying her like he used to, back when they were still sharing everything. The look that always meant he was thinking about the way she tasted, the sounds she made when she was close, the way her body always folded into his so perfectly.

He stepped closer, gently boxing her in between his chest and the crib.

“I miss you in my bed” he whispered, low and deliberate.

Imani’s pulse skipped.

She didn’t respond. Instead, she leaned forward to gently lay Danielle back down, but in doing so, her hips brushed against his in just the right way—too intentional to ignore, too soft to pretend she didn’t mean it a little.

She got immediate flashbacks of how his bare hips used to feel against hers.

Jules exhaled through his nose, sharp and quiet.

“Oh… looks like you miss me too” he murmured, a slow smirk forming on his lips.

Imani rolled her eyes as she turned to face him. But she didn’t step back.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

His smirk deepened.

“I don’t care about that right now Mani.”

His hands gripped her hips again. Not hard, but with enough intention to make her remember what his grip felt like on bare skin. What his hands did when they weren’t just holding her.

She poked his chest, trying to pull herself back into reality.

“Jules. Your team got whooped 3–1. You think your coach wants to hear you were too busy trying to get laid this morning?”

He laughed then. Deep, unbothered, warm.

“Touché” he said, slowly letting go of her, like he was savoring the final touch. “But I know you miss me too, Imani. Don’t act like you don’t”

And with that, he bent down to kiss Danielle goodbye again, whispered something to her in French that made the baby giggle, and disappeared down the hallway.

Imani just stood there.

Her body was hot. Her breath short. Skin tingling.

Why did he do this? Come in, love on her with his eyes, touch her like no time had passed, then leave her gasping for air like nothing had happened?

She was still trying to recover when the door creaked open again.

Sofia stepped in like a breeze. Sandals already halfway off, curls tied up in a low bun, her long maxi skirt swaying as she walked across the nursery.

“Buenos días, mija” she said in that familiar calming tone, like nothing could ever go wrong when she was around.

Sofia, the nanny, was 41 but had the soul of a 64-year-old retired school teacher. Calm. Gentle. Always smelling like vanilla and lemongrass. She moved like she had nowhere to be and everything to offer. And Danielle adored her.

Sofia was in the nersury with Danielle in her lap, bouncing her gently while humming something soft in Spanish. She had this warm, steady energy that babies seemed to melt into—Danielle especially. From the moment she was born, Danielle had been attached to her.

Sofia had become Imani’s bestie. She would take Danielle out when Imani was writing, help take care of her when she was too sore to walk after giving birth. And Danielle had a big habit of only being able to fall asleep outside for the first 6 months of her life, but because of your pollen allergy, you couldn’t sit with her in the spring—and Sofia gladly did it for you, every time, without complaint. She was like another grandma to Danielle. Sweet and firm, a constant, loving presence in your life when everything else was unraveling.

“Morning” Imani said, voice still raspy from sleep—and maybe from Jules.

Sofia arched a brow. “You look flushed.”

“I’m fine” Imani muttered. “Just got ambushed by a certain someone.”

Sofia chuckled. “Mmm. I heard the front door. You know that man gets on your nerves and under your skin.”

Imani exhaled slowly. “That’s the problem”

Sofia bent over the crib to pick up Danielle, who instantly started playing with her glasses.

“You waking up sassy today, mi amor?” she cooed to the baby. “You got your mama’s attitude already.”

“She woke up gossiping” Imani joked. “Telling me all about her dreams.”

“Oh, I’m sure she did” Sofia said. “Probably told you all about how her papa was the star of your dreams, too.”

Imani blinked. “Excuse me?”

Sofia smiled, unbothered. “I said what I said. Go write. Drink some water. And stop acting like you don’t still want that man.”

Imani didn’t respond.

She watched Sofia gather the baby bag and kiss Danielle’s cheek before heading out for their morning walk.

When the door shut again, Imani leaned back against the crib and stared at the ceiling.

Yeah. She was still his favorite place.

And some part of her knew… he was still hers too.

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

Today marked a quiet milestone in Imani’s life—the first time in nearly a year she was stepping back into her work as a poet. No interviews, no readings, no panels or pop ups. For nearly ten and a half months, the only thing she’d written consistently were late-night journal entries and soft lullabies for Danielle when teething made sleep impossible. And before that, during her first trimester, Imani had intentionally chosen to disappear from social media. To retreat from her world of words and the endless noise of social media. She owed that much to her baby—her body, her peace, her energy. And she had no regrets about doing it.

But now, the fog had cleared a little.

Danielle was in a more predictable rhythm. Imani’s body was slowly, steadily becoming hers again. Her mind, too. And she missed her fans. Her supporters. Her day-ones who had stuck with her through three bestselling collections and the long silence that followed. They were hilarious, loyal, and wildly creative. They made memes from her readings, sent her playlists inspired by her stanzas, and always had something to say about Jules.

And she missed the inside jokes.

God, they were funny.

Especially the ones about Jules. Or more specifically… “Golden Dick.”

It started as a joke after her last book, La terre a besoin de l’océan, dropped. One of the most talked-about poems in the collection had been a sensual, open-palmed love letter to a very specific part of him. Of course, she didn’t name him in it. She never did. But the people knew. They always knew.

And ever since, the name stuck.

Every time Jules accidentally appeared in the background of a selfie or was spotted pushing Danielle’s stroller during one of Sofia’s morning walks, someone would comment: GOLDEN DICK SIGHTING!! or She miss him, y’all. You see her skin? That’s glow right from the source.

And okay, yeah. It was funny.

But it was also true. And she had never written about anyone like him before.

Even now, she could still remember the way the words flowed the morning she wrote that poem. Her hips had still been sore. Her throat hoarse from the night before. But her mind? Her heart? Wide open.

She hadn’t planned on including it in the book. But one of her writer friends insisted. Said it felt like a revelation. Said it was art to make desire feel that soft, that holy.

So she kept it in. And just like that, the myth of Golden Dick was born.

The Muse with the Golden Hips – from La terre a besoin de l’océan

he didn’t fuck me,

he rewrote me.

redrafted the softest parts in his language—

his breath stuttering at my navel,

his tongue dragging verses across my thighs.

i called him god with a lowercase g—

because heaven came when he said so,

because the gospel was in his hips,

because the way he held my ankles apart

felt like scripture.

i bled time for him.

spilled stars on the sheets.

lost track of every name but his.

and when i came—

i did it like a woman who had

lived a thousand lives before

but never this one.

⸻

Imani hadn’t realized how much she missed the chaos of being known until she posted her photo dump that morning. Soft candles. A sweet picture of Danielle. A behind-the-scenes pic from her last book signing pre-pregnancy. A moody shot of the Ocean at sunrise. And one selfie, simple and striking, wearing her “Author Off Duty” white shirt and her signature silver hoops.

The comments poured in like wildfire.

“SHE’S ALIVE!!”

“Don’t play with us like that, Imani. We were in mourning.”

“Golden Dick let her rest, huh?”

“She probably still limping lowkey but God is good.”

Imani cackled. Full-on stomach laugh.

She had missed this.

The jokes, the love, the absurdly creative fan interpretations of her poems… and even the thirst comments about Jules. It was all part of the magic. All part of the odd little world she had built from words, womb, and willpower.

She liked where this new chapter was going.

Her tea sat cooling beside her laptop, Danielle babbling softly to herself from her play mat, Sofia humming a lullaby in the kitchen while prepping a bottle. The light in their Barcelona apartment spilled in golden and warm. And for the first time in a long time, Imani didn’t feel overwhelmed by what was next.

She felt ready.

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

Jules missed her.

He missed her, and he wasn’t ashamed of it.

There was no point pretending. No point trying to distract himself with noise or other people or whatever shallow comfort might come from moving on. He hadn’t even wanted to touch anyone else since the last time they made love—if you could even call what they had that night just sex. That was months ago, somewhere near the end of her second trimester, and still, the memory of her body under his lingered like a song he couldn’t stop humming.

He hadn’t gone looking for anything else. Couldn’t, even if he tried. Because for him, sex wasn’t just physical—it never had been. It was about trust

Because for him, sex wasn’t just physical—it never had been. It was about trust. About closeness. About being known in ways that felt holy.

And Imani knew him. All of him. She always had.

He remembered the way her hands moved across his chest like they were sketching a map. The way she’d kiss the part of his shoulder he never realized held tension until she eased it with her lips. The soft way she said his name when she wanted him to know it was okay to let go.

That kind of connection? You don’t just find that again. You don’t want to.

So yeah, he missed her. Not just the sex. Not just the intimacy. He missed them.

He missed the way she used to read her poems to him in bed before the world ever saw them. The way she’d instinctively place her hand on his chest during the night, right over his heart, like she was grounding both of them. He missed how she made the apartment feel alive with her soft humming in the kitchen, or her dramatic readings of whatever book she was currently obsessed with.

Even the quiet between them had been beautiful.

Now it felt… hollow. Like something unfinished.

As he drove to training, those thoughts swirled in his head—thick and sticky and endless. He barely remembered the route. Barely noticed the lights. Before he knew it, he was pulling into the lot, heart still heavy with everything unsaid.

He parked, sat for a second, then sighed.

He knew what kind of practice it was going to be today. Punishment practice. They’d lost 3-1 last game, and Coach Flick was not the type to let that slide. He shook it off, rolled his shoulders, and headed inside.

The session was brutal. Fast-paced. Ruthless. His legs burned. His lungs ached. But he stayed focused—gritting his teeth through sprints, locking in during drills. He had to. Because if he didn’t focus, his mind would go back there—back to the curve of Imani’s lips, or the sound of Danielle’s laugh, or the way her eyes sparkled when she was about to make fun of him.

Still, Coach must’ve noticed.

As everyone was filing out after cool-down, still panting and slick with sweat, Coach Flick’s voice rang across the field.

“JULES. En mi oficina. Ahora.”

(JULES. In my office. Now.)

The team didn’t miss a beat.

“Ouuuuuu,” someone called out, laughing.

“A la vergaaa,” another one added, pointing and teasing as Jules reluctantly jogged toward the building.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead, took a breath, and stepped into Coach Flick’s office.

“¿Hay algún problema, señor?” Jules asked politely, standing in front of the desk.

(Is there a problem, sir?)

Coach raised an eyebrow. His expression wasn’t angry—just concerned.

“No has hecho nada malo, pero parecías un poco perdido hoy. ¿Está todo bien?”

(You haven’t done anything wrong, but you looked a little lost today. Is everything okay?)

Jules nodded slowly, standing tall even though his body ached.

“Soy un buen entrenador. Mi mente está ocupada hoy. Pero todavía estoy concentrado. Estoy listo para el próximo partido, señor.”

(I’m good, Coach. My mind’s just busy today. But I’m still focused. I’m ready for the next match, sir.)

Coach gave him a long look, then leaned back in his chair with a knowing smile.

“Ahh, vale, vale. ¿Cómo están el bebé y la esposa? ¿Están bien? No he visto a Imani en mucho tiempo. ¿La mantienes sana?”

(Ahh, okay, okay. How’s the baby and the wife? They’re doing alright? I haven’t seen Imani in a while. You keeping her healthy?)

The word wife hit Jules like a punch to the chest.

He blinked, then quickly covered it with a soft chuckle.

“Sí, señor. Están muy bien. Imani también está bien. Últimamente se ha centrado en escribir, y el bebé nos mantiene muy ocupados.”

(Yes, sir. They’re doing very well. Imani’s been focusing on her writing lately, and the baby’s keeping us very busy.)

Coach Flick grinned.

“De acuerdo, chico. Vete a casa con la familia y descansa un poco. Se acerca una semana importante. Te veré mañana. Adiós.”

(Alright, my boy. Go home to the family and get some rest. We’ve got an important week coming up. I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye.)

Jules nodded, thanked him, and made his way out of the office.

La familia. The wife.

Those words echoed in his chest. It wasn’t just Coach making assumptions. People had always assumed they were married. The way they moved, the way they cared for each other, the way Jules looked at her—it felt permanent. Even to strangers.

And at one point, he and Imani had both agreed marriage wasn’t necessary. They didn’t need a ring to define their love.

But now?

Now he wasn’t so sure.

Maybe things could change.

Maybe she could change her mind.

Because he still had hope. And every time he looked at her—really looked—he swore she had hope too.

[neil-gaiman]

Hi Neil.

I know you are flooded with asks and this somehow became extremely long. Too long. “Why am I suddenly telling this poor man my life story?” too long. “I think I’d rather he work on the GO3 script than read this wild beast” too long. “He’s going to think you’re criminally dangerously insane” too long. If you never get to it, I’m good with never seeing a response from you. Maybe it’s better that way? Maybe an anon would have been nice here. But, it’s 2024, so I say “we ball.” It’s a privilege to be able to send this to you at all. You get a lot to this effect and I hope they give you good feels, so maybe what’s the harm, yeah? Because this is not an ask. This is a thank you letter.

First, thanks for reblogging my therapist post, I hope it amused you. I nearly sent you “How am i supposed to explain this to my therapist?!” But refrained. At that time.

So, therapy. What is therapy really? Well…

Things have been really rotten for as long as I can remember. Bad health, bad doctors, bad relationships, bad coping mechanisms, bad all kinds of things. (Yeah, bad is a weak and unhelpful word, my therapist reminds me, but we’re doing this.)

Well, things got even more really really rotten and BAD these last few years. Health declined further, coping mechanisms declined further and more intensely, packed up my life, applied for disability, moved back in with my parents across the country.

Then 4 years ago last week I watched my fiance die of a sudden heart attack. I was 29. Two years later my best friend died. Then last summer I sauntered vaguely into a cancer scare. Not long before an operation my cat who has been my companion through so much garbage died as well. I’m not entirely in the clear on the cancer scare front. All my attempts at going back to work, volunteering, going to grad school - they collapsed on me because I couldn’t get through this STUFF.

(Sometimes when I talk about this, when I tell people, I think “they are going to think you are a raging pathological liar.” Because I’m not sure I would believe someone if they told me all of this happened to them. In such a short time period. All before they were 35. And hell if that hasn’t been isolating. You know how it sounds? Lonely. And it is.)

I did the hypervigilant and sensation/experience chasing stage of PTSD. It got me in a lot of trouble in all kinds of ways. I had to do a lot of medical and psych advocating because things kept getting worse. That was exhausting. Then that peaked. I went into the thick of the “I feel absolutely nothing” stage for a long time. I didn’t feel fatigue or hunger or thirst. Not people, feelings, a reason. Not hope.

But of course, like seems be for a lot of us, I somehow found Good Omens at just the right time. I was a very “I’m so cool and intellectual I mostly consume non-fiction media” person for too long. Like, what? How is that even a real thing? And it wasn’t real. It was just part of this curated autism mask that I don’t think anyone really bought anyway.

I think I got to a point where I’d just had too much reality. I needed fantasy. I didn’t realize I always needed it. But I denied myself for too many odd and painful reasons. Maybe I thought it was an escape I didn’t deserve.

But as it turns out, it wasn’t an escape. I watched both seasons last fall, and then this light came on. I watched it again and again.

I came to tumblr because I needed more. I found this fandom. I stepped into this beautiful world of fanart and fanfiction and brain flexing meta writing and a sense of community and wonder that you and Terry created - that everyone involved in the show inflated - exploded in the right way - like fireworks if fireworks were some kind of autocatalytic reaction - a self perpetuating force.

It’s not a “saved my life” feeling. Not a “getting my life back” feeling. It’s been a “maybe it’s time for you to have the life you’ve always been denied - that you’ve denied yourself” feeling.

I’m creating. I’m not “great” yet. Not terribly “good” at all. Maybe “behind” as far as the “proper” timeline for starting. I know there isn’t one, not really, but boy does that society machine make ya feel like there is. And sure, I started and stopped a lot in the past. But the second it got hard I always gave up. I felt like if I didn’t get it “right” to begin with, then I just didn’t have it in me at all. But for once I’m really in it. I’m writing and trying to draw things that look less like fever dream five year old drawings. (Not that there’s anything wrong with those, is there? 🙃) I’m eating better. I’m sleeping better. I reach out to old friends more. I’ve made new friends who share this love of Good Omens.

My therapist has been floored by the change in me. After that first funny mini flop, he has been so encouraging about it. I saw him this week and I said “Maybe this is helping me get prepared to start living again. Maybe it’s a springboard.” And he honest to god said “But You ARE living. This is YOU LIVING. Why does it have to be a springboard? Why do you have to turn this into ‘work?’ Just let yourself have this for once in your life.”

But there were two more added elements that made it all work. And I can’t help but think this whole brainrot thing wouldn’t have happened without them. So many things just happened all at just the right time - a proper coincidence.

In all of the madness of the last few years I finally got the memo that I'm autistic. i figured I was for a while. But it finally sunk in for me and my docs and my people. So I’d been working on unpacking that. Grieving the life that could have been entirely different, shedding the mask. I let myself hyperfixate openly instead of hiding it and hating myself for “spiralling” or “obsessing” like others -!like ‘I’ always punished myself for before we knew that it was a trait and not a personality flaw.

Then over the last few months my therapist and I started trying this new exercise. One session he stopped me and said “in the last 20 minutes you have responded to what I’ve said with 9 ‘I knows.’” My response to that? “Ugh, I know.” So we started this “I know” swear jar type situation. Really, I’ve been afraid of not knowing. I couldn’t let myself “not know.” Because it meant I was “dumb.” I was just drowning for so long in guilt and self loathing for the “I knew better and screwed up anyway.” Or “I should’ve known better - I should know that by now.”

As it turns out, there’s a lot of things I don’t know. That I didn’t know. Things I will never know. And refusing to admit all of that kept me from learning a damn thing. Kept me from asking questions. Kept me from trying new things because it was scary to do something new - something unknown - and I "knew" how it would all turn out anyway. Kept me from connecting with people because it was painful or embarrassing when they knew things I didn’t and it seemed like I already should have. Kept me from getting better at making art, music, writing. Kept me from forgiving myself. Kept me from growing. And kept me from moving forward. Maybe not on. I don’t know if we ever “move on” from things. But we can move forward as we carry them. And as we do, the weight gets less. We’re able to carry it better. But only if we can admit that we don’t know how. Only if we don’t treat ourselves like this is something we do know or should know and we’re just failing because we’re less than. Not good enough. Not strong enough. Not deserving. We have to be able to say “I don’t know how to do this.” And then we can start looking for the answers. We can ask. We can learn.

I thought about the apple. Being able to tell the difference between good and evil. Aziraphale’s years and years of watching what he “knows” to be true be proven wrong. Crowley’s need to ask questions…

The simple and enormous gift of “Knowledge.” The “Knowledge” of the difference between Good and Evil. The “Knowledge” that can only be gained by realizing, accepting, admitting that there are things we don’t know. Asking the questions. Sometimes we get answers we don’t like. Sometimes the consequences of asking hurt us. And unless you want to stay in that painful place that painful knowledge got you, well, you’ve got to let yourself learn how to get out.

So all of this good? I never expected this. I never thought I deserved it. Joy and belonging and this sense that “Yeah, maybe things can get better. Maybe things can be good.” Because I said those things, not truly believing them, to the people I thought needed to hear it. But it couldn’t save them. It was hollow. The proof for us wasn’t really in our orbit or on our radar at the time. And now they’re gone.

People always say “it’s never too late.”

One of the people I lost said “it’s later than you think.”

I jokingly would respond “it’s already too late.”

It was for him in the end. For them. For some people I guess it really is. But maybe a lot of the “too late” people are there because they think “they know” that things will never be good for them. So they stop looking, they stop asking, stop finding. And eventually they just stop.

Then there came Crowley’s “It’s always too late.” The first time I heard it I thought “For sure, Crowley-cakes, I KNOW.”

But then…I just needed to rewatch the whole thing. And lines like that…familiar things…familiar themes…I was suddenly identifying with these characters. I suddenly saw myself. And the realization hit - I connected with something! Something new. And I FELT THAT. And that tiny little crack that made in the wall was just enough to start breaking it down. Yeah, when you start letting yourself feel after not feeling for so long, opening up to the good feelings means opening up to feelings and then the bad ones come out too. But when there IS good … it helps you balance. You can deal with the bad a little better because you’ve got the good thing to lean against when it gets too much. And now you’ve got feelings. You’ve got good and bad. You’ve got sticky foggy grey. You’ve got life.

Whew.

So, TLDR, thank you. From the bottom of my slowly healing heart, thank you.

And to sign off with some shits and giggles… I couldn’t find this in existence as a sticker so I had to custom order. Perhaps this will spread misery and panic among the humans of my city - or at least a malignant and creepy sense of unease.

Or maybe they’ll say “wtf” and go home and google it and they’ll fall into the Good Omens hole they never knew they needed too.

Thank you for this. I never quite know what to say to messages like this apart from I am really glad that it helps. (It becomes the weird extra piece that I worry about when writing season 3 -- hoping that it will be that thing again. Not just a story, but something that helps people feel and helps with healing and helps with love.)

[scarletcomalies]

storia di due anime perdute

Natasha Romanoff x Fem Reader

Word count: 5,400

Warnings: Dark fic, bullying from friends group, post-death grief (both from Natasha and Reader), emotional absence from a parent, depression, self isolation, manipulation. 18+ content, Nat has a penis, blowjob.

Taglist: @nattysbabygirl @huggingkoalas @grimleaper @olicity-boo @urfav-wh0re @ihartnat @afwmaieel-1 @marvels--slut @ddreader04 @obsessedwcoffeeandwomen @traveler-at-heart @osnapitschloe @foxythefox54 @justarandomreaderxoxo

A/N: Happy Halloween, guys! I wrote this during several stoned nights with In This Moment music videos playing in the background (which ended up in Lady Gaga music videos and with me recreating the choreographies lollll).

A/N II: I tried my best effort to write as much as possible in the middle of all the ongoing college projects and the everyday hecticness. Unfortunately, I didn't manage to finish it all by today. However, my semester is almost over, therefore the wait for part II will be way shorter! :)

In the serene village of Collodi, you encountered Natasha Romanoff, a woman in search of comfort and healing after the painful loss of her wife and daughter. She was moved by your lively personality, naiveté, and tender heart, leaving within her a yearning urge to take you, mold you like one of her puppets, and help you become her real girl.

In the enchanting region of Tuscany, Italy, hid a small village called Collodi, a dreamy corner protected by the intimidating mountains that surrounded it. This place, isolated from the hectic society, seemed to yearn fervently for the trees to consume it completely, wishing that only the memories and debris of what once was would remain in the end.

But that was not possible.

Collodi would still have been in the penumbra of oblivion if it wasn't for the pen of a blissful author to pay tribute to it through an immortal fictional story. It was as if it was destined to shine in the vast darkness of the commonplace.

Because it was not as visually captivating as Monterosso al Mare, for example, a town that was part of the five villages that, in perfect unity, formed Cinque Terre.

Monterosso al Mare did not long to be consumed and forgotten. It enjoyed its own prominence along with its neighboring towns.

From miles away, its structure could be seen standing tall with dignity on the seashore, and the palette of colors that it had was a delight for the eyesight, a canvas painted by the hand of an expert brought to life. Collodi, on the other hand, appeared as a spectrum between shades yellow and brown, and didn't stand firm, it rather seemed to be on the verge of crumbling at any given moment.

But Natasha Romanoff found beauty in Collodi.

You see, Monterosso al Mare was always displaying its vibrant colors, there being no room for exhaustion or rest, and its neighboring towns shared that quality. Totally exposed to the scrutiny of others, it was constantly adapting to the expectations of those who visited it. No matter who crossed its thresholds, no matter who might inflict harm, it must always stand firm, clinging to the reputation it had so painstakingly cultivated.

Collodi didn’t have such obligation, for it was simply Collodi. Yes, it may have had a history that was inevitably inherent, but this town was still completely detached from the demands of appearance and expectations.

Natasha Romanoff found beauty in Collodi, because having been Monterosso Al Mare, cost her the life of her wife and daughter.

And in Collodi, she found you.

“What a boring town,” exclaimed Kate, one of the two people who were once considered your friends.

“No way, the House of Butterflies was amazing,” you countered, as a smile instinctively plastered on your face as you recalled the memory of the previous day.

You had seen species of butterflies that rarely appeared in everyday life, and the best part, you had the opportunity to befriend some animals! When you offered them food, they would offer you their trust and appreciation, confirming once again that pattern so rooted in your being.

The concept of love you had was limited to the material, to what could be offered in that aspect. Both Kate and your other friend, Sarah, seemed to have sensed that nature in you, and decided to take full advantage of it, knowing that your concept of normality made you vulnerable to their intentions.

“Yes, and that was it,” Sarah intervened, and the boredom so palpable in her voice made your smile fade at once. True, you had only walked around town and gone shopping, but hadn't the previous day been enough? Was it necessary to do something extraordinary every day?

It did sting a little, given how thrilled you still were about the previous day’s activity, but from what you were hearing, your friends no longer shared that enthusiasm. Nor did they settle for at least one single calm day.

"Get us some of that good gelato, at least," Kate spoke up, after noticing your silence.

You nodded obediently, "Sure thing. Be right back."

You knew the bitter taste of disappointment as if it were your old arch enemy.

It was a feeling that has been with you since childhood, specifically the day your mother's life was snatched away by a terminal illness, robbing you of the joy that should have characterized any child's early years.

As life went on without that important figure by your side, you longed for the warmth and comfort of your father. However, instead, he taught you a raw truth: absence in life was more painful than the absence due to death itself, for the soul leaves without leaving the physical body.

You dreamed of his protective embrace, of his deep voice telling you bedtime stories, of feeling his loving hands tuck you into bed each night. But your father was not your mother, nor was he the father you used to know.

This new man, consumed with his work as a way of coping with grief, became obsessed with the expansion of his business. In his mind, securing a prosperous financial future for you was the best way to demonstrate his love and care, for if only his then small business had had the resources to cover the costs of treating the illness, your mother would still be with you.

So, instead of the human safety you needed so badly, you received an insane number of expensive gifts and unnecessary luxuries. Every one of them being his way of saying "I love you, I'm not going to fail you".

Oh, but he failed you. Every time he chose his job over you. Every time he missed your birthday, every promise he broke. With the expensive gifts and lavish vacations, he offered as compensation, you learned that affection was shown through material goods, and not necessarily through presence and emotional connection. It became your only way to express and receive affection, because it was all you had known your whole life.

Sarah and Kate were quick to notice the situation. At first, they just wanted to compliment you on your fancy bag and strike up a conversation with you to gain your trust, hoping that, when the time came, they would know you well enough to borrow it for a party or event where they could show it off as their own. However, after only a week, when you gave them each a bag just like yours as a thank you for sitting down with you for lunch and chatting, they realized that it was in their best interest to keep pretending to like you, as it would benefit them.

That's how they even ended up in Italy without spending a single penny in the first place.

It was a birthday trip that your father financed, once again rewarding the fact that he had forgotten about it. He also agreed to let you invite your two “best friends” in the hope that you would forgive him.

And so, as you returned with three ice creams in hand, you felt like you carried with you the key to an elixir to keep harmony among your friends. But the ground, capricious and uneven, laughed at you, with a prominent stone lurking to trip you up. In your haste to please, you did not see it coming.

Your body collapsed, crushing the ice cream cones, and the cold, sticky mess spread all over your dress. To top it all off, the rough cobblestone street also scraped your delicate arms and hands.

You winced in pain as you pushed yourself up, noticing the red marks and small cuts that now adorned your once-flawless skin.

Embarrassed and hurt, you looked up, expecting to see concern on your friends' faces. Instead, you were met with sneers and poorly concealed laughter.

"Oh my God, (Y/N)," Sarah scoffed, her voice dripping with disdain.

Kate joined in, her eyes showing a cruel amusement, "Seriously? We asked for gelato, not a circus act."

Your cheeks burned with shame as you struggled to your feet, your now wet and cold dress clinging uncomfortably to your body.

"I'm sorry," you mumbled, fighting back tears. "I'll go get some new ones..."

"Don't bother," Kate snapped, rolling her eyes. "You'll probably just drop those too. Jesus! And now we must be seen with you looking like that!"

You felt small, insignificant, and utterly alone as your so-called friends tore into you with those hurtful remarks. The beautiful day in Collodi, which had held so much promise, now felt tainted and ugly.

Was this what true friendship was supposed to feel like? Was this the essence of the connection?

Tears, hot and stinging like acid rain, began to stream down your cheeks at the thought of it all.

"Oh, great. Now she's crying,” Kate's exasperated sigh made itself present.

"All right, come on," Sarah's voice dripped with annoyance. "You need to pull yourself together. This is beyond embarrassing."

"Look, if you can't stop whining like a baby, at least walk a couple of meters behind us," Kate ordered you. “We don’t want anyone thinking we’re with… you.”

You.

That one-syllable word spoken so contemptuously and coldly, as if you were enough to make any accompanying insult seem redundant.

And you, meekly nodding, prepared to follow their cruel order.

But as you took a step to follow behind them, a gentle but firm hand grabbed your arm, stopping your movement.

Startled, you looked up to find yourself confronted by a striking woman with flame-red hair and piercing green eyes.

There was something in her gaze that invited you to resist, to question, to not let yourself be carried away by the current of contempt that surrounded you.

And when she spoke, your ears were delighted by her smooth-as-honey voice.

“Do not follow them, solnyshko,” she said, dropping the unfamiliar word with a slight accent. “They are not worth your tears or your time.”

For the very first time, there was someone willing to protect you, to remind you of your worth in a world that seemed to want to erase it.

Your subconscious, conditioned by years of neglect, sounded alarms at this strange kindness. It screamed insidiously, urging you to retreat to the cold yet familiar comfort of abandonment and life-draining complacency.

That made you gently pull your arm from Natasha's grasp, your eyes downcast in embarrassment.

"No, you don't understand," your voice trembled like a leaf in autumn's chill. "It was my fault."

Natasha's eyes flickered with sudden comprehension. That sentence alone allowed her to decipher you completely.

The vulnerability you exuded, the eagerness to please despite mistreatment, it all spoke to something deep within her. It would be a crime to let you go, knowing you were perfect material for satisfying her needs.

She glanced briefly at the retreating silhouettes of the college girls you were with, a flicker of indignation crossing her features. They were merciless, cruel in their treatment of you. Natasha knew she was different. She wasn't going to make you suffer like them, because she was far from mean.

Instead, she would shower you with the warmth of genuine care, something you had clearly been deprived of for so long. In time, she would become as essential to you as the air you breathed. You would need her, finding it impossible to abandon her. And in return, she would have someone who needed her, someone she could protect and nurture, someone she could mold to her liking to fill that void that had been devouring her insides like a ravenous parasite.

"Your fault that this town's ground is made of stone? Your fault that it's dark already?” She asked gently. Instead of offering empty reassurances, she aimed to give you some autonomy, allowing you to discover the truth for yourself.

Her smile became unavoidable as she noticed your wide, innocent eyes intently analyzing her questioning.

"Could you have predicted every uneven surface? Every shadow?" She continued, her tone encouraging reflection rather than accusation. "And these friends of yours," Natasha pressed on, scoffing with contempt so palpable it made you flinch. She made your terrifying friends seem insignificant in the face of her formidable presence. “They have never stumbled? Are they always perfectly graceful?"

This question hit home. You had a fair share of memories of Kate tripping over her own feet at parties and Sarah passing out in some stranger’s backyard. You had never blamed them for their clumsiness. So why were you holding yourself to an impossible standard not even they could meet?

How silly of you, taking blame for something so clearly beyond your control.

A small, rueful smile became clear as you realized the absurdity of your self-accusation.

"You see, dear?" Natasha chuckled at your adorable smile. She felt her cock reacting as well through a painfully, intense throbbing. Every fiber of her being screamed for release, so overwhelming it threatened to consume her entirely, to break through her carefully constructed walls. But not yet, she reminded herself, her fists clenching with the effort of restraint. "Now, let's forget about them. Let's get you cleaned up, I don't live far from here."

Her invitation, or rather, command, caught you off guard, "But I don't know you," you gently declined. She didn’t budge, for she was more than sure that it would be a piece of cake to have you beneath her roof in the blink of an eye.

"Oh, right, my name is Natalia Romanova,” she introduced herself. “And your name is…?”

Unbeknownst to you, she had long ago stopped using the name Natasha Romanoff. It was an alias she'd adopted during her time as an Avenger back in the United States, but she had renounced that life, therefore, she no longer needed that identity. As for "Black Widow", the mere mention of it now filled her with loathing.

“Nice to meet you, I’m (Y/N),” you replied, trying to sound polite even after your small rejection.

Noticing your slight discomfort, Natasha decided to lighten up the tension that was beginning to build up, going ahead to reach into her pocket and show you a small, perfectly carved wooden figurine.

It was a cat! You adored cats.

"This is Figaro," Natasha introduced you to her little piece of wood, a fond smile adorning her lips. "He's my dear cat. Well, a miniature version of him."

Your eyes were drawn to the marvelous craftsmanship of the figurine. "Wow," you gasped, and your curious fingers itched to touch it, but you held back. "Did you do this?"

"I did,” she confirmed with pride. This woodworking hobby, alongside her tuxedo cat and golden fish, seemed to be the sole source of joy in her miserable existence. “I do this for a living. My house is filled with pieces like this.”

"That's amazing," you replied, genuinely impressed. "I bet they're all as stunning as this one," you remarked, gesturing to the figure in her hand.

Her smile expanded, almost impossibly so. It had been ages since she smiled like this, and perhaps it was twisted of her that the reason was the anticipation of taking you and exploiting you fully.

"Not as stunning as real-life Figaro," she countered, her eyes softening with affection. "Oh, just imagine the softest cloud you've ever seen, now picture it in black and white colors. That's Figaro."

The way Natasha described him with such genuine warmth and affection made your heart squeeze in tenderness, and your defenses were slowly crumbling, just like she predicted. After all, you reasoned, how could someone who talked so lovingly about their cat possibly be dangerous?

"Well,” she concluded, with a small sigh that feigned disappointment. "If you accepted my invitation, you could see him in person. But I understand. It's dangerous to go to a stranger's home. That’s wise of you."

The thought of letting down such a kind-hearted woman was intolerable. How could you possibly walk away after she had been so sweet and kind to you? You finally met someone who treated you with respect, and this was your response? How ungrateful!

"You know, actually," you finally spoke, so quickly they successfully interrupted your recurring thoughts. "I think I'd like to meet Figaro now, if that's okay."

Natasha's face lit up, her emerald eyes sparkling with an intense delight. Everything turned out exactly as she wanted, making her feel like an expert puppeteer effortlessly manipulating the strings of her most treasured marionette.

"Of course it's okay, solnyshko," she replied cheerfully. Anyone with an ounce of reasoning would wonder why she seemed so eager to bring a stranger girl home, but not you. Certainly not you. "You won't regret it, I assure you."

In the small village chambers, lanterns flickered softly, casting shadows that danced and twisted. Initially, these shadows appeared as large, intimidating figures, but upon closer inspection, they transformed into friendly faces with wide smiles. Yet, when their eyes met Natasha, they seldom did not recognize her.

"Natty! Buona notte, cara mia!" They always exclaimed, their voices brimming with enthusiasm and eyes aglow. A dull ache settled in your chest. It seemed wrong to feel that twinge of envy, yet you couldn't recall the last time anyone appeared that delighted to see you, and you couldn't help but long for it to be you to be greeted that way.

Unlike your so-called friends who always insisted on walking ahead, leaving you trailing behind like an afterthought, Natasha walked alongside you. Her emerald eyes occasionally glanced your way, a gentle smile gracing her lips.

The ice cream stain on your dress was still visible, your eyes, though no longer wet with tears, remained red and puffy. Yet, Natasha radiated an intrinsic pride in having you by her side, as if your presence was something to be cherished rather than hidden away.

“Well, here we are,” Natasha exhaled a deep sigh of relief as she turned the key and pushed open the door to her home, inviting you to step inside. The comforting embrace of warmth following the biting chill was a welcome relief.

Unlike most homes, there was no central overhead light. Instead, small lanterns perfectly scattered throughout the space illuminated it cozily.

The entire first level served as Natasha's workplace, living room, dining room, and kitchen, all in one. Though there were no walls dividing these areas, the transitions were clear.

To your left, Natasha's creations dominated the entire corner, making it a challenge to navigate without stepping on something. Positioned by the window was a long table with a variety of well-used tools, including hammers, a saw, screwdrivers, pliers, and wrenches.

On the opposite side, to your right, there was a kitchen, equipped with just a fridge, a sink, and vintage stove, alongside a small wooden table that could seat two people maximum, and you wondered if Natasha had crafted it herself. The middle area displayed a fireplace with a couch positioned in front of it, and on a side table, there was a round fishbowl containing a goldfish, which immediately caught your attention.

"Please, excuse the mess," Natasha remarked with a hint of guilt. She never cleaned her home more than necessary because she never expected visitors, as she preferred to personally deliver everything to those who requested her work, from the smallest souvenir to the most unbearably heavy piece of furniture. You might never have realized it, but you were the first person to set foot in her home by her own will and not because people intrusively knocked on her door to request commissions or to drop off gifts.

"No, no, it's great," you replied sincerely, having already scanned every corner of the place. Her old superhero friends might think this wasn't Natasha at all, but to you, who had only met this side of her, it definitely screamed Natalia everywhere, and all those residents of Collodi could say the same.

"Please, do take a seat!" She exclaimed so energetically that her voice could have echoed throughout the entire neighborhood. Without a moment's hesitation, you went to sit by the fireplace, the gentle flames providing you with so much warmth that you almost forgot the ice cream on your dress. "Stay here, I'll find you some clothes," she added, stepping away without taking her eyes off you, with fear that you might vanish at any moment.

While awaiting the return of the red-haired woman, you swiftly took out your phone to send a message to your friends, letting them know that you were fine and that you would get back soon. In your noble heart, you believed that they might worry about you, even if they were angry at you. However, the way they abandoned you with a stranger and walked away without looking behind unequivocally proved otherwise.

"See if this fits you," the same raspy, indistinct voice made you look up, and you gasped in surprise when you noticed that, in the arm not holding the change of clothes, she was carrying the famous cat Figaro she had told you about. His pupils were dilated due to the dim light, yet you could still notice a faint yellow ring encircling those dark orbs. He stayed calm, allowing his owner to carry him without squirming or resisting.

"Oh, he's gorgeous!" You exclaimed, just a few seconds were enough for this feline to capture your heart.

She chuckled softly, placing the little one on the couch beside you, "Clean clothes and a kitty, just as we agreed."

As if on cue, Figaro suddenly jumped from the couch, his black and white fur almost a comedic, straight-out-of-cartoon blur as he darted across the room and disappeared behind a stack of wooden carvings.

"I should have mentioned, Figaro doesn't like strangers."

You couldn't help but feel a little disappointed, for you had hoped to pet the furry cat, “Oh, that’s okay.”

Noticing your expression, Natasha chuckled, "But don't worry, once you offer him some food, he'll forget all about being shy and will come running back to you,” she reassured you, handing you the neatly folded garments.

"Thank you very much, where can I change?" You inquired, accepting the clothes that seemed extremely comfortable even without considering the chill and sticky stain of your dress.

"You can change here. I'll go upstairs to give you privacy. Just let me know when you're ready," she replied with such sincerity that it was impossible not to believe her.

When she left you alone, she ascended the stairs as she usually did, and when she reached the last step, with great care, she lay down on the floor, peering her head to see you. Never had she been so grateful for the darkness of her abode, for without it, you would have seen her head lurking at the top of the stairs.

Oh, blessed be the moment you chose to wear that dress, for it granted her the exquisite opportunity to admire your entire form, your most desirable parts covered by a black lace lingerie ensemble.

Her hand slowly traveled down to the burning ache that formed between her legs, which pulsed intensely through her already hard length. She tried to soothe the discomfort with a gentle squeeze, however, said action condemned her to complete what she had begun, lest she risk losing her sanity.

Therefore, with her eyes shut tight, she quietly made her way to the bathroom, promising herself to stay silent for just a moment to quell her longing.

She inhaled deeply and rested her hands against the sink. The mirror showed her flushed face, nostrils flaring from her labored breathing, and the familiar vein protruding on her forehead.

She exhaled through her mouth and lowered the zipper of her pants, revealing the fabric of her boxers. Unsurprisingly, there was a slightly darker wet patch of her pre-cum, showing just how much relief her poor member was desperately looking for. Subsequently, she slid her hand under the undergarment, and…

“I’m ready!” She heard your voice from downstairs.

“Yebany v rot,” she cursed between gritted teeth.

She hesitated, debating between coming down to join you, or staying there to prioritize her own needs. Yet, just picturing your eager little face and probably your hungry tummy prompted her to pull up her pants again. With another deep breath, she composed herself as best as she could to return to you.

Seeing you in that attire shattered the fragile composure she had managed to gather, causing her breath to hitch and a tight knot to form in her throat, which she clumsily attempted to swallow down.

You looked so perfect, wearing her clothes, slightly oversized over your frame in a way that was both endearing and domestic, even. Not to mention the fact that you would carry her scent for the rest of the night.

“What’s wrong?” You asked, noticing how her already tense expression worsened the moment her eyes landed on you. You assumed that perhaps the way those clothes fit you wasn't quite right. Maybe she expected them to be more form-fitting, which would mean looking for other clothes, and maybe she was already too tired to deal with that hassle.

"Nothing, it's just that… I'm feeling kind of tense, it's obviously not your fault," she tried to explain. It would be a shame to lie to you, especially when your naive mind already sensed the shift. "Hungry?" she asked, hoping to change the subject to ease your worries and distract herself.

"No, I already ate," you stated with a firmness that would have surprised anyone who had interacted with you, including her. "What's wrong?" you demanded.

Natasha, taken aback, but determined, admitted, "You look beautiful.”

She wasn't by any means shy. She could have taken you right there, knowing you were too weak to defend yourself and would have let her. Nevertheless, she didn't want that. She wasn't interested in being just another opportunist who crossed your path to take what she needed and leave. She wanted to make you so dependent on her that you would desire it in your heart to give it to her.

You furrowed your brow, confusion evident on your face. "Don’t try to distract me," you replied, shaking your head slightly.

With a deep breath, Natasha stepped closer. "Here," she murmured, gently taking your hand, guiding it to the front of her pants.

Your eyes widened in shock as you felt the unmistakable hardness there, provoking you to quickly pull your hand away, your cheeks matching the same deep shade of red as hers.

"I'm so sorry," Natasha apologized, taking a step back. "I shouldn't have... It's just... This is the problem. You're so beautiful, and my body reacted."

You stood there, frozen for a moment, your mind racing. You couldn’t deny, her nurturing and caring nature was irresistibly appealing to you. In some sense, she gave you the hope of reclaiming control and rewriting the story of abandonment that etched deeply into your soul.

"I... I think you're beautiful too," you spoke. "And after everything you've done for me tonight, the least I can do is... help you."

Natasha's eyes widened, a mix of surprise and concern crossing her features. "No, solnyshko. That's not necessary. I shouldn't have put you in this position."

But you took a tentative step forward, your heart pounding but your mind already made up. "I want to," you insisted softly. "Please, I want this."

"No, you don’t," she countered, the word tasting strange on her tongue. The offer you made was tempting, almost unbearably so, but she refused to be just another person you felt indebted to.

“I do,” you reiterated.

And you genuinely did.

Although you considered it strange that someone would reject your attempts to reciprocate those acts of kindness, it could be said that it was the first time it didn't feel like an obligation, but rather an opportunity to finally experience what it’s like to have such a physical connection with someone, let alone someone as attractive as her.

Material possessions were the only things you had relied on so far, so this could even be something unique between her and you.

"I have never done it before, so this is a win-win situation," you continued, trying to persuade her. "I help you, and you teach me."

She gazed into your eyes, discovering a profound yearning. She knew you meant every word, and it made her wonder, if a mere gesture of kindness could inspire such actions in you, to what extent would your commitment go if you became dependent on her?

"Alright," she agreed. "Let’s take it slow, and if you ever want to stop, just say the word."

Natasha reclined gracefully on the couch, parting her legs as an implicit invitation that seemed to compel you to approach her, all without the slightest motion or gesture from her part.

You chose to comply, kneeling between her legs. Despite her evident efforts to assert her dominance, you felt empowered by the mere knowledge that you could elicit such reactions from her, to the point where she was unable to conceal her distress, leaving her with no choice but to confess her attraction to you.

"You’re taking your time," she murmured, her voice evidencing a palpable sense of anticipation.

As you undid her button and unzipped her pants, you could feel the hardness of her member under the touch of your wrists, even when there were two layers of cloth covering it.

And all this for you.

Her cock sprang free and stood at attention after you pulled down the hem of her boxers and pants to below her balls. She remained motionless, not taking her green eyes from yours as you contemplated her arousal.

You knew it was big, and you knew it was agonizingly hard, but the reality overcame any assumptions when you were faced with easily ten inches in length, adorned by multiple prominent veins.

"Please, touch it," she pleaded, her voice abandoning any semblance of composure. Pride, that accursed pride, was meaningless when her body irrefutably ached for you.

Her tip was a deep pink, dripping with droplets of pre-cum. Taking it gently, wrapping your fingers around it, you picked up the droplets with your thumb and spread them around it, making it take on a peculiar sheen.

“Fuck,” she moaned, closing her eyes, and throwing her head back.

That alone gave you the confidence you needed to stroke her cock in up and down movements, successfully making her tremble under your touch.

Her full lips were slightly parted, and her breath came in short, sharp gasps or high-pitched whimpers. It was truly a welcome sight, witnessing someone entrust you with their body, openly displaying such vulnerability before you.

She extended her hand, firmly grasping your wrist, and guided your hand to the base of her erection. Simultaneously, her other hand gently rested on the back of your neck, offering encouragement rather than forcing you.

You wrapped your mouth around her already wet tip, moaning as you savored the warmth of the pre-cum that seemed to keep making itself present. You began to suckle her glans gently, letting your tongue take the place from time to time to tease her hole.

Her hand clutched at your hair, guiding your head as you began to bob up and down on her cock. Her breathing became shallower as you quickly found your rhythm, delighting in the view of half of her dick disappearing into your warm mouth and re-emerging glistening with your saliva and her fluids.

“Goddamn it," she muttered under her breath, her insatiable nature getting the better of her, compelling her to lift her hips upward. It was the way your throat contracted into a gag that made her involuntarily ejaculate her seed, the hot liquid filling your mouth.

“Fuuuck!” She cum in your mouth in one, two, three spurts. It was obvious by how her face contracted in pleasure that she had not anticipated that her cock had taken on a mind of its own, stripping her of any authority over it.

You endeavored to swallow as much as your astonishment and inexperience allowed, yet a gentle cough escaped you, causing a few drops to delicately trickle down your chin.

"Well done, malyshka," were the first words that escaped her lips once her breathing steadied.

You appeared utterly perfect, as you looked up at her with those doe eyes, with the sheen of her release enhancing the fullness and glossiness of your lips. She vowed never to entertain the thought of allowing you out of her sight.

You sealed your fate the moment your paths crossed, but you cemented your doom in that very instant.

[enigmatic-mystery-777]

An Unexpected Arrival

*This one shot contains smut

Your relationship with Daniel is going along *very* nicely, even with having to spend so many weeks apart. You're happier than you've ever been, and he satisfies you in every sense of the word. That happiness, though, doesn't protect you from becoming very insecure when a new person joins SG1 and sets her sights on Daniel.

Taglist: @stargaterevival @frostysfrenzy @cuillere @jgem87 @riverageleis @geekygumiho

[vifetoile]

i loved cassiel's servant BUT

whenever joscelin says that phedre gets this look in her eye "like she's listening to distant music" (which tends to happen at points relevant to the plot) it just made me think of this

[dis-astre]

OK A BREAKDOWN OF LES MISERABLES IN FRANCE

- they changed a lot of the lyrics (including my fav/funniest lyrics unfortunately) which was pretty interesting ; honestly i think it's a great thing bc it was last re-written in 1991 and they made the songs more textual, more like real talking and i think way more accessible for a lot of people (bc in france we have this habit of writing pretty words, with a lot of images and lyrical phrases but it's not always helping to understand the plot yknow)

- the new lyrics for do you hear the people sing/à la volonté du peuple are SO GOOD ! originally it says :

à la volonté du peuple/et à la santé du progrès/rempli ton cœur d'un vin rebelle/et à demain ami fidèle

(to the will of the people/and cheers to progress/fill your heart with a rebel wine/and see you tomorrow, faithful friend)

and now it's:

à la volonté du peuple/qui crie les mots de sa colère/le chant de ceux qui ne veulent plus/être les damnés de la terre

à la volonté du peuple/dont on étouffe jamais la voix/et dont le chant renaît toujours/et dont le chant renait déjà

(to the will of the people/screaming the words of its anger/the song of those who don't want to be/the damned on earth anymore

to the will of the people/which you can never choke the voice/and whose song always revive/and whose song's revive already)

and idk i think it's pretty freaking cool; but i'll do a big breakdown of the new lyrics of do you hear the people sing bc it's the song they changed the most and i think it's way better for our times and more hopeful and giving the will to fight

- the stage: honestly real cool and clever! it's a smaller stage, way smaller than the west end one if my memories are not mistaken, and we obvisouly don't have the rotating stage; but they played a lot with moving structures and transparent curtains to make special effect like buildings, rain, etc... and it's way real cool !

- idk who the sound guy was but props to him cause the sound was SO GOOD like it sounded so clean and like listening to an album, truly perfect on this aspect

- the actors were GREAT, you could see they rlly took the roles and made them their own (i think enjolras' actor loves his role bc ive seen some of his tiktok and he looks like he loves it a lot so that's cool af)

- also i bough this

which is a conversation with boublil and schonberg retracing the story of the musical so yay

Anyway i'll do another big post to tell y'all act by act what was happening !