#the swerves are just MASTERFUL

[vellichorom]

see if i was going to be a furry artist ( " going to be " like she hasn't done a few considerably furry pieces ), i would want to be the kind of furry artist that makes uncanny valley type of stuff that either Resembles a real animal facially or this shit

speaking of wallace & gromit,

[oddogoblino]

Just had an uncomfortably scary dream for once what- wow

Uh

Huh- I uh- wow

[nanenna]

The Best Laid Plans

Sleepy King Master Post (for my contributions anyway)

---

“I’m driving,” Jazz announced, snatching the keys from her dad as they all walked to where the GAV was parked on the city hall’s lawn.

“Young lady,” Mom started to scold.

“I only have a limited amount of time to drive with supervision before I’m off to college and driving all by myself.” Jazz gave her parents the biggest puppy dog eyes she could muster.

“And I am more than happy to be that supervision,” Vlad said as he reached for the front passenger seat.

Danny quickly jumped into the back seat, as far away from Vlad as he could get. Jazz adjusted the seat and mirrors while she waited for her parents to get in. Then she looked Danny in the eye through the rear view mirror, “The engine doesn’t start until every last person is buckled in.”

“C’mon, Jazz! Even if your grandma driving somehow got us into a car accident we both know I’d be fine.”

“I’m not repeating myself.”

Danny grumbled as he buckled himself in, Jazz kept her smirk to a minimum as she started the car. While she drove them to Vlad’s home she half listened to her parents explain the situation to him, the other half of her attention being spent watching the cars on the road around her swerve and nearly crash around her. She pulled up to a red light next to another car, the passenger staring up at her dumbfounded. Jazz smiled and waved.

“So you’re telling me Daniel is now the Ghost King,” Vlad asked as they pulled up to his mansion.

“That’s what it looks like,” Dad agreed boisterously. “Right now it seems like a meaningless title, but we’re worried about him getting randomly summoned by those darn occultists!”

“A bunch of fanatics with ludicrous ideas,” Mom said with a sniff. “I’d hate to think what they’d try to do to Danny if it ever happens again.”

There was a pause as they all got out of the GAV, then walked into Vlad’s mansion together.

“That doesn't explain why you're here. Shouldn't you be in school, young lady?”

“Apparently it's school policy to send siblings home in these kinds of situations.” And Jazz was so thankful for that!

“And Danielle?”

“She doesn’t go to our school, now does she?”

Vlad nodded along before turning his attention fully on Mom. “I’m guessing you have a plan?”

“Of course,” Mom replied without another thought. “Since we’re pretty sure the title is attached to the crown, we’re going to destroy it and hope it destroys the Ghost King title.”

Vlad stopped in his tracks, “You’ll what?”

Dad patted Vlad on the shoulder consolingly, “I know, I’m sure Danny would be a good king too, but he’s adamant he doesn’t want to. And the risk of a bunch of wacko cultists kidnapping him is just too big.”

“It’s not like you want me to be king anyway,” Danny added with a smirk.

“Well… Little Badger, you’re so young!” Vlad blurted out.

“And it’s weird, you’ve had the crown for over a year now, but I’ve never seen you use it.”

Vlad sighed deeply, “I’ve tried, but it just doesn’t do anything.”

Danny just nodded, “So if it doesn’t work anyway isn’t it better if no one can?”

Vlad side eyed Danny before shrugging, “You do have a point. I shall go retrieve the crown, one moment.” He turned and left the sitting room he’d led them to.

The Fentons all sat down on various pieces of furniture. Their parents shared a couch, sitting as close together as possible, while Jazz and Danny each sat in a chair of their own. Danny sighed and slouched in his seat.

“Danny, have you let Sam and Tucker know what's going on yet?” Jazz asked. It seemed the easiest way to distract him while they waited.

“Yeah, kinda. I told them I was home safe and would explain everything after school.”

Jazz nodded, that seemed the safest.

“They promised to bring me my homework,” Danny added with a groan. “It's so unfair! I got kidnapped, shouldn't I get- oh shit!” Danny practically threw himself out of his chair.

“Language,” Mom chided.

“Don't sneak up on me like that!” Danny whined as he picked himself up off the floor. Then he froze, eyes glaring at seemingly empty space. “How did you sneak up on me? You didn't activate my ghost sense at all.”

Danny waited, presumably a ghost they couldn't see was responding. Jazz had learned from the Youngblood incident, she quietly pulled out a collapsed boo-staff from her purse.

“You don't know who I am?”

…

“Well yes, but ghosts don't usually call me that.”

…

“How about you tell me your name first?” After another pause he burst into laughter. “Are you for real?”

“Danny, is it Youngblood?”

“Huh?” Danny looked to Jazz, then back to the open space. He gestured, “You can't see him?”

Jazz and their parents shook their heads.

Vlad came back into the room holding a cardboard box, knocking a thin layer of dust from the top. “Here it is!” He looked up and frowned. “Who are you, and why are you in my home?”

Everyone paused for the response.

“He didn't set off my ghost sense,” Danny added, he turned back to the empty space, “Are you even a ghost?”

A window burst, shattering into many flying shards under Batman’s combat boots. Jazz instinctively covered her face and shrieked. By the time she looked up the blond man in a trenchcoat from earlier was climbing through the shattered window while muttering to himself.

“Was that really necessary?!” Vlad yelled angrily.

The blond man pointed at Danny and said something, dazzling light flew from his finger to hit Danny, leaving him standing there braced for impact but looking fine.

Mom squawked, “What'd you do?!”

“Danno! Are you okay?” Dad rushed over to check Danny over.

“I think I'm okay?” Danny said shakily as he straightened up from his protective curl to look himself over.

There was a familiar burning crown floating over his head.

“Huh,” the blond man said, “that was supposed to reveal your true form.”

“Congrats, this is my true form,” Danny said with an eye roll.

“Danny, above your head,” Jazz said carefully. Unfortunately that got everyone's attention, far more than Wonder Woman slipping into the room.

Danny looked up, “What? Where?”

“No Danny, it's the crown,” Mom supplied, coming over to stand next to him while glaring at the heroes and their pet wizard. (That was unkind, Jazz shouldn't think such things.)

Dany reached up and felt around until he found the crown, then pulled it down to look at. “Okay, crown retrieved.”

“We may have a problem,” Vlad said as he pulled an identical crown from his cardboard box.

“What.” Danny looked back and forth between the crown in his hand and the one in Vlad's. “Why are there two?” Danny turned to the pet wizard, “What did you do?!”

“I didn't do anything, that was purely an identification spell, it can't duplicate things!”

“Well clearly you did something wrong,” Mom said while glaring at the pet wizard.

Jazz extended the boo-staff and came to stand slightly in front of Danny, these guys may have powers but Jazz had helped fight bigger, badder beings.

Vlad started to step backwards, back towards the hallway.

“Oh no you don’t!” Danny let go of his crown as he ran over to grab the crown Vlad was still holding, it quickly turned into a tug of war.

“Vladdie? What are you doing?” Dad asked in confusion.

“You don’t need two crowns, and since this one was already in my possession…”

“Absolutely not, you fruitloop!”

“Danny!” Mom and Dad both chided.

The Justice Leaguers had all gathered together and were just watching, seeming unsure what to do after all their silly dramatics.

Vlad glowered down at Danny’s hands on the crown, then his eyes widened. He switched to trying to grab Danny’s hand.

Danny looked down, his own eyes widened as he curled his hand into a fist. “Is that the Ring of Rage?! What the hell, that should still be on Pariah’s finger!” Danny looked at the pet wizard in horror, “What. Did. You. Do?!”

“Danny, Vlad, stop it both of you!” Mom moved over to the two and tried to separate them, Dad joined her and was doing his best to cajole them both into backing down. For her part Jazz kept her eyes on the intruders while the rest of her family and Vlad squabbled.

“Alright, that’s enough,” the pet wizard said grumpily before raising his voice. “Shut up!”

[randombush3]

dies irae

alexia putellas x reader

part one, part two, part three

words: 12425 (sorry not sorry)

summary: part four, the part that made me realise another part was necessary

warnings: drugs, alcohol, cheating, (a lot of???) vomiting, general angst tbh

notes: in all honesty, i started this with the intention of finishing the series, but it hit 12k and i thought maybe not x

weird little comment, but the last section was originally written in spanish (hear me out: i was on the plane and i didn’t want the people beside me to read it over my shoulder) and i’m still feeling a little iffy about my translation of my og version but oh well!

i hope you enjoy this and are content w waiting another five years for me to churn out the new FINAL part

The sand is warm beneath your feet, each grain rubbing against your bare soles as you sprint. The ground under such surfaces often hardens, proven by the sweat trickling past the thin string of fabric that holds your bikini together. If the beach were not so private, you would be worried about wandering camera lenses. 

However, there is no one else here but your favourite people. Well, maybe Nico has dropped to the bottom of the list now that your energy has been worn down while his does not seem to waver. 

“I give up,” you pant as he continues to tumble down the shoreline, changing his tactics and swerving into the water, comfortable in his sea. The same sea he looks at each morning from your bedroom window. The one he learnt to swim in. (That and a variety of hotel pools.) “You win, you win!” 

The small figure, around twenty metres away, comes to an abrupt halt, wobbling on little legs for a moment. Then he begins to run again, but this time towards the towels and constructed shade you had set up earlier. Unwillingly, you race him back to base camp. 

“He ganado,” he declares as he taps Alexia’s shining back as though she is the signpost signifying the finish line. Your hand caresses the divots of muscle soon after, brushing sand across smooth, tanned skin. Nico peers at you strangely, but understands, thanks to Tia Alba, that the beach outfits are special to his mothers. 

“Mi ganador,” comes a tired murmur of praise. 

“Did you see, Mami? I was so far ahead.” She nods, craning her neck upwards to talk to him. You gladly sprawl out on the vacant towel, passing on the baton to your wife, fortunate that Elena has been asleep in her buggy for the past twenty minutes. “Can I play with Lela now? Is nap time over?” 

“No, sweetheart, naptime has just begun.” He looks up at you with pleading, bored eyes. The one unfortunate consequence of going to a private beach is that, unless you bring along your babysitter, there is no one else for Nico to play with. Alexia and you are both exhausted, and today is supposed to be about relaxation. Three-year-olds don’t understand that concept. “If you don’t want to sleep, how about burying Mami?” 

“In the sand?” 

“Sí, in the sand.” 

He leans close to your ear. “Mami says I’m not allowed to do that,” he whispers, though he has not quite mastered the volume of such a tone yet. Alexia pretends not to be listening, but you can feel her foot prodding your shin in protest. 

“Rules are sometimes made to be broken,” you tell him. “And if you do bury her, the only way to make her happy again is to get ice-cream. Which means you can also get ice-cream.” 

“You are so annoying,” grumbles Alexia. 

“This morning, I believe the word you used was ‘sexy’,” you retort. With the Euros on the horizon, it seems that the two of you are using up what little time you have to spend together. Though Alexia sometimes feels like there are hands wrapped around her neck after she failed to win the Champions League once more, she is more than happy to take advantage of the time off before she tries to make amends internationally. 

“Mm. You are magically both.” 

You tug your sunglasses – Prada, brand-new from a modelling campaign – down slightly, so that they sit lower on your nose. The sun is warm and doing its best to wear Nico down as he finds his discarded spade and begins to dig, and Elena is still fast asleep.

A mischievous grin forms on your lips, one that Alexia knows well. Topless, she flips over onto her back, excusing herself with a muttered comment about an ‘even tan’, and that is invitation enough for you to cup her cheek, your touch as fiery as the surface of the sun that blankets the beach. The gentle breeze ruffles your hair as you lower yourself down to her level. 

“The phrase is ‘annoyingly sexy’ in English, darling,” you murmur, your eyes locked onto hers. Even now, after six years, the proximity ignites desire over every inch of your skin, and you cannot wait to kiss. Alexia’s initial grumble turns into a soft chuckle, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of amusement and something more. Impatiently, you kiss her, aware that the moment will soon be ruined by a spray of sand as Nico pursues his mission. 

She is just as eager to kiss you back, craving the way you seem to hold the solution to every problem. Part of Alexia’s mind has not yet been able to comprehend the way in which you love her. It is hidden by the other, much larger compartment: the one that reminds her every day that she should never, ever tell you, because it would break your heart. To you, Alexia is making up for lost time. To her, she is secretly begging for forgiveness that you don’t even know she is due. 

She knows the minute your phone rings that everything is about to go wrong. No one is supposed to call you today; you have been emphatic about it. You blindly reach for the ringing device, ready to lob it into the ocean, but Alexia grabs your wrist. “It must be something important,” she says, and it feels like she is telling you she understands; you are busy, and she understands. 

“I’ll be quick, I promise.” With a quick jog up the steps and onto the concrete of the promenade, you perch on the stone wall separating the beach from the carpark, bare feet swinging over the edge. The rough surface of the wall presses uncomfortably into the exposed flesh of your bum, but you remind yourself that you will soon be lying back down on the beach towels. “Hi? I thought we agreed that pretty much everything could wait until tomorrow. I don’t care about any photos taken of me, and you know that my automatic position is simply to ensure that the children’s faces are blurred out before they get spread around.” 

“Y/n!” Your publicist sounds nervous. It’s a stressful job, you guess. Between organising interviews and brand deals and the like, she has to stamp down on unwanted rumours and be on the look-out for any perceived cracks in your very public person. Naturally, you are not perfect. 

“Yeah, I’m here. Hi.” 

“I’m afraid that it’s not a picture of you this time.” Alexia is now famous in her own right, as she always should have been. With a Ballon d’Or under her belt, you have been promoted to a ‘celebrity couple’.

“She has her own team, you know.” 

“I’m sure she will be firing them soon.” The joke fails to land, instead crashing and burning and… You freeze. 

“Why?”

“I am sure that you are aware we have feelers out for anything that could potentially harm your reputation.” You nod foolishly, caught up in the undisclosed severity of the phone call, forgetting that she cannot see you. “An hour ago, we were contacted by a photographer; one of the usual ones we get in when you’re in need of a bit of a press-boost. He’s based in Barcelona, has lots of friends in the area and such. I have the terrible job of telling you.”

Your heart quickens as the confession hangs in the air, leaving a heavy silence on the other end of the line. The anticipation builds, and you can almost feel the impending storm swirling just off the coast, waves beginning to thrash against rocks, nature beginning to tear the world down. 

“He claims to have some photos, ones that could potentially damage your image,” she says, tone measured and professional. “I haven’t seen them yet, but he described them as… intimate, to say the least.” 

“Of Alexia?” you question carefully, forcing the words onto your tongue. “Intimate? What do you mean?”

“Well, they are of her and someone else. Someone who isn’t you.” 

“Who?” Dread sets in, and the wall is suddenly not the most uncomfortable thing about your position. You feel too exposed, unsafe in what you are wearing. Taken advantage of, perhaps. 

Cheated. 

“I have not seen the photos yet, babe. I don’t know what else to tell you.” He would have attached them in his email. Paparazzos don’t have time to harass you digitally as well as in real-life. She must have avoided opening them. Or. Or she is lying.

“I need to see those pictures,” you assert, your need for clarity driving the sentence forwards. 

“Are you sure?” You nod again, unable to speak past the lump in your throat, knowing that she cannot see you but feeling helpless to do anything else. She takes your silence as confirmation. There is a brief click of a mouse, and the animated swoosh of an email. “They should come through in a moment.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Are you… alright?” 

She quickly takes the hint from the lack of response and hangs up. 

You rest your phone on your thigh as your arms grip onto the ledge of the wall, pulling yourself backwards so that you do not fling yourself off it. You shake as you reach safety, and your fingers feel numb as they tap the screen, accessing your emails robotically until a pinwheel is all that separates you from the photos. 

Intimate, huh. 

They are practically snogging. 

There are eleven images, and each one delivers a blow more painful than the last. 

The beach feels confined, like an elaborate cage that you cannot escape. The shoreline creeps towards you, and you seem to be pressed against the hot metal of the car in the carpark. You struggle to recognise the scenes captured as ones where you were present, and the unfortunate date in the bottom right-hand corner evidences the photos as a time when you were not in Barcelona at all: 2021. 

The realisation hits hard and you find that everything you have ever believed to be true has simply been a cruel joke that you were excluded from.

What you have been sent is more than just proof; it is a betrayal etched in pixels, an undeniable record of a moment that shatters the foundation of your relationship. Your heart races as your scroll through the images, cruelly reminded of a reality you desperately wish were not true. One you had no idea existed. One that had been kept secret from you. 

The lump in your throat grows, and your eyes blur with unshed tears. You are overwhelmed by sharp pain coursing through your veins, and it is as if you have been injected with a poison that burns through your cell tissue, disintegrating every block of your body. It scorches the things you know to be true. 

Love goes up in flames before your eyes. 

And then a voice that you really do not want to hear speaks, and, just like that, the ashes of what has disappeared are suddenly ablaze once more. 

“Nico y yo vamos a tomar helado. ¿Quieres algo?” Sandals, sunglasses, a loose linen shirt. Nico holds her hand, proud of himself. You cannot bear to look at either of them, so you stare at the towels a few metres beneath you. 

“Where is Lena?” 

“Dormida, aún.” 

Shaking, you stand up, enjoying the sharp rocks that pierce into your skin, reminding you that you are yet to die. “Take Nico. I’ll go back down and sit with her.” 

“Vale. Te quiero.” 

You don’t reply. You wouldn’t have known what to say anyway. 

Every step feels as though the world is cracking open and you are going to fall to your death, yet, in the midst of the impending doom, you feel as calm as can be. Numb, perhaps. 

Elena stirs as you adjust the parasol providing her the necessary shade. A hand reaches out, prepared to grab onto you, searching for your body like you are her lifeline. You are her lifeline; you are her mother. And so is Alexia. 

A tear rolls down your cheek as you let her pull your fingers to her mouth, nails brushing her lips as she whines with the headache of waking up from a nap. “What are we going to do?” 

…

The car journey home is silent on your part. You stew in your nothingness, unwilling to engage in the light conversation Alexia creates to keep Nico awake before his sleep schedule is ruined. Barcelona flashes past you, and the city that you once admired feels like the scene of a crime. Looking out the window is almost as sickening as if your eyes were to land on the woman beside you. Almost. 

You withhold your grief for the evening, going through the motions of nightly chores; putting the kids to bed, finishing the remainder of your packing, drying the dishes without throwing them at the blonde hair that sails past as she sorts her own suitcases out. A few texts are exchanged between you and your publicist, in which you graciously decide that those pictures will not come from you. Though if her team fails to catch them before they reach Twitter, that is not your problem.

Under the soft glow of the bedside lamp and the comforting blanket of darkness, you clear your throat. 

It has been six hours since you found out.

Every second that has passed has done so with excruciating pain, yet you cannot determine whether it has sunk in at all yet. You wonder if, given the chance, you would crumple into yourself and weep as though she has died. 

When you look at Alexia, readying herself for bed, you decide that the whole situation is laughable. 

You are so stupid. You thought she loved you more than that, and you were embarrassingly incorrect. 

“I want you to leave now,” you say firmly, only the bed between you. Alexia pauses, pyjama shorts halfway up her muscular legs as she peers at you curiously. Her confusion is infuriating. “I want you to… go to your mother’s or something. You’re not sleeping here.” 

“Why? What have I done?” 

She speaks as though this is a normal argument, or as though you are hormonal and unreasonable. You clench your fists and remind yourself not to wake the children up. “I am surprised you didn’t follow her to Mexico.”

It is then that Alexia Putellas realises three things. The first: she hasn’t spoken about Jenni since she left for Pachuca, and she barely pays attention when Nico persuades her to find the stream for the striker’s matches. The second: it has been six months since Jenni called whatever they were doing quits. And the third… the third is how well and truly fucked she is. 

She should have confessed her crime the minute she first slept with her; the night after they were knocked out of the World Cup. Elena wasn’t even a concept, then. You took her back though you were unaware you had ever lost her. 

Last year, when it was Alexia all alone, she should have confessed her second betrayal. A longer, more hurtful betrayal. Something fuelled by meaningfulness, not passion and heightened adrenaline. If she were in your position, the physicality would not be what obliterated her heart; the emotion behind the entire affair would. 

She wipes her eyes, aware that she has started to cry. It is all the confirmation you need. “I’m so sorry,” is the only thing she can think to say, but ‘sorry’ does not amount to the pain she knows she has caused. ‘Sorry’ won’t heal a wound that has cut deep, cut through years of love and happiness and supposed loyalty. ‘Sorry’ does not change the fact that Alexia lent herself to Jenni, let Jenni take her in any capacity she wished, and then returned to you as though it had never even happened. 

In all honesty, part of Alexia is very curious about how you have found her out. Mapi would not risk being caught up in such a storm, and Jenni would gain only suffering from telling you because she knows that Alexia would never choose her. Though she has spent night after night with her finger hovering over her sister’s contact, she resolved never to tell Alba either, for fear that her sister would see her for the monster she is and side with you. Selfishly, Alexia does not want anyone to side with you, but even she finds it easy to hate herself. 

“Is that all you can offer me?” you croak, and it is clear to Alexia that you are this calm because you are putting your children before yourself. They do not need to hear their parents’ marriage implode; not tonight, not ever. She cannot bear to meet your eyes as you pierce through her bowed head. “Alexia.” She pulls her shorts up fully, forehead parallel to the floor. “Alexia!” you snap. 

“I’m sorry,” she repeats. 

Alexia Putellas is regarded by most as intimidating, yet, here, she is anything but. She is meek. Pathetic. 

She is a woman who continued to make a stupid mistake although she was given so many opportunities to fix it. 

And, when Alexia finally grows the balls to look into your piercing eyes, she sees, reflected in your hardened, dark pupils, weakness and idiocy, rimmed with the most stinging of betrayals. It kills her to see you fight your own tears, and it is worse when you have to break eye contact because you are afraid you will vomit if it goes on any longer. 

“You are packed, so you can leave tonight. Sort yourself out while I get the children up.” 

Everything is ruined because of her. 

It is the last night Alexia lives under the same roof as you. It is a horrible way to end a golden age, and the worst possible confirmation of the fleetingness of all things that exist. You hate the world, you hate Jennifer Hermoso, and you hate that you can’t bring yourself to hate your wife. 

Alexia says goodbye to a sleepy Nico and a clingy Elena. Your daughter refuses to let her mother go the minute she is passed to her, and all four of you try your best not to cry, whether it be from confusion, regret, or heartbreak. 

Nico, inquisitive as one is at his age, does not let the door open without questions. ‘Why now?’ is what causes Alexia to freeze, searching on your face for permission to have one more second with him. You cup the back of Elena’s head, fingers splaying out against her soft hair, soothing her back to sleep. And you nod. 

She crouches to his level, dwarfed by her suitcases. In her pocket, her phone buzzes; her taxi has arrived. “¿Te acuerdas cuando te hablé sobre la responsabilidad? Soy la capitana, cariño, y tengo que cuidar a mi equipo, así que ‘ahora’ es lo mejor para ellas.” You are grateful for the lie. 

“¿Ahora yo mando? ¿Como me dijiste?” 

“Sí. Tienes que cuidar a Mama y Lela, y protegerlas como yo os protejo a vosotros. Y nos veremos prontito, petit. Te lo prometo.”

He is fighting his tears, stiff like a toy soldier marching off to an imaginary battle. You half expect Nico to salute with his chubby, unpractised fingers, but he simply stands there, between Alexia and you. Though Elena is safe in your arms, Nico is caught in the crossfire, two feet innocently leading him into no man’s land. 

You take a deep breath as Alexia closes the door behind her. She has been driven out – her own doing – and she knows, because she knows you, that there will be no space in your life for her until your gaping wound dulls in pain. The journey to her mother’s house is the second time she ever considers killing herself, with the first being the night her father died. 

But this is how it goes. 

You fly to England the next day, holding it together until Elena and Nico are safely in the hands of Anya, but you do not give her a reason for her much-needed babysitting abilities.

It is a small secret. You keep it because on top of being in agony, you are so fucking embarrassed. You. You got cheated on. You weren’t enough for her. (And Jenni was?) It’s really easy to pretend you’re stressed for Alexia, knowing she is heading into a tournament that Spain could win but won’t. 

The first official step you take – the very first – is with a nanny. You meet her the day after landing at London Stansted, and she seems to be the perfect choice for the interim period of your life that you have unexpectedly entered; she speaks Spanish, she is discreet, and she reassures you that she is there to enhance family life, not destroy it. And possibly another alluring factor: she is quick to sign an NDA and promise that no photos of your children will make it into any dogshit magazine. 

Her first interaction with your children is two hours before your lunch with your publicist, manager, producer, and lawyer. They have agreed to congregate – they have seen the pictures (an exclusive peek, as the deliciously world-destroying surprise photoshoot has not yet been picked up by anyone with ganas to publish it). Each one has a purpose, each one wants to profit off your heartbreak, and, though they’d never admit it for fear of breaking their hard exteriors, each invitee would also like to see if you’re okay. 

“Do you… like her?” you sheepishly ask your son while Isabela, the nanny, supervises Elena’s lunch. You’re not entirely sure your daughter understands that the hummus is supposed to go into her mouth, not redecorate the highchair table from white to beige, but Isabela does her best to instruct her, the familiar tinkle of Alexia’s language making your daughter’s eyes light up.  

He looks a little puzzled. “Is she a babysitter?” 

“Sort of.” You sigh, “it’s just that I have a lot to do, and Mami is playing football now. Isabela is going to help us, but I want to make sure that you want that.” 

Nico shrugs. “Don’t care.” 

“And she’s going to speak in Spanish, just like Mami does.” In anticipation of a worse reaction, you wince at the slight insinuation that you’re replacing Alexia. He doesn’t pick up on it. 

“She sounds funny.” 

“That’s because she’s from Colombia,” you answer him, and he nods, storing that information for later. Probably for when Alexia calls to speak to him (a moment you are dreading). 

“Is Colombia near Mexico?” He perks up; you know what’s coming next. “Does Isabela know Jenni?” 

You have to remind yourself that Nico has not done anything wrong. The fault of the mother is not the son’s, and, briefly, you pray he has inherited your fidelity for the sake of his future partners. 

You pretend that the name that just fell from his lips does not fill you with the overwhelming urge to strangle someone. And, calmly, you reply, “probably not, but you can always ask her.” 

…

Alexia does not know what to do. 

She wishes, she really does, that someone would pass her a clock… and she knows she has trained and worked hard enough to wrestle the hands of time back a year and change her decisions in every situation. Alas, that is impossible. 

She tells Mapi, as the team touches down in England, what has happened. The defender is unimpressed – angry, even, at her best friend – but nothing warrants what is to come. 

The morning feels eerily normal. Breakfast is difficult, especially when all Alexia can think while she eats is that every morsel in her mouth fuels the monster she has become. Every bite, every sip of coffee, leads her to live another day. She is not particularly certain that she deserves that. 

Mapi does not look at her, swerves her request to be partners when training begins. Head down, eyes slowly filling with tears, Alexia takes the punishment. She says nothing when Pina pinches her side, “Patri’s being annoying”, and drags her into the drill. 

She runs, she passes the ball, Pina turns and shoots it into the mini-net. 

Pina runs, she passes the ball, Alexia turns. 

Something goes wrong. 

Maybe it is that the pitch is uneven, cut up from whoever had trained before. Maybe it’s the pass, slightly off-target. Maybe she is at that point in her menstrual cycle where the risk of injury is higher – that’s being looked into, isn’t it? 

Maybe it’s that her body can no longer stay so robust when everything else in her life is hurtling towards the ground in the most epic downhill slope possible. 

Maybe. 

The pop is unmistakable, and the pain searing. She can’t help the scream she lets out, barely registering whoever has rushed to her side while she presses her face into the dirt, tears watering the grass.

“I’ve done my ACL,” Alexia gasps, lifting her head up slightly. She catches sight of the blue sky, the green grass. The bright sun shining down on her, hot against her neck but nothing in comparison to the agony in her knee. 

She blinks, thinking her eyes are blurring from her tears. 

A second later, she is unconscious. 

When Alexia wakes up, she is glad to have passed out. She has no memory of being hauled off the pitch or brought into the medical room. Her head aches and her knee throbs, but she knows that there is someone beside her so she does her best to hold in the immediate wave of sobs that seem to take over her. 

A calloused hand reaches for hers, unclenching her fist, urging her to squeeze the pain away, pass off some of it to her companion. They have given her pain medication. She can tell because the white walls dance around her and the only word she can manage to get out is your name. 

She whispers it over and over again. 

“I know,” comes a soothing voice, poorly concealing the worry that cracks the tone. “Shh, I know, I know. You’re okay, Ale. She’s… she’s on her way.” 

…

The call is unexpected. 

Mapi never has much reason to talk to you on your own, unless you share a concern for your wife’s wellbeing. You suppose that’s a bit of a redundant commonality now. Your lawyers have drawn up a custody agreement and, upon meek request, divorce papers: a gift for after the Euros. 

“Dime, Mapi. Estoy trabajando,” you say curtly, signalling from inside the booth that the phone call is nothing to worry about and you can resume the recording session in a moment. 

Mapi’s news makes you even more resentful than you were already feeling, because you can’t help but sprint to your car the minute the address is given. 

…

Pain becomes part of everyday life.

Crutches, too. 

Alba and Eli already existed as frequent visitors, but the former increases her appearances so that she has moved in the day before Alexia’s surgery. 

It spills out, the night of the surgery, that Alexia and you are no longer together. That you left her, with good reason. It’s a surprise, considering you had stayed by her side during the twelve hours in England between the medical room, the hospital, and the airport. 

When Alexia reluctantly tells Alba why, Alba decides that you are a saint and her sister, a sinner. She holds her hands behind her back to keep herself from slapping Alexia across the face, but little does she know, Alexia longs for the anger, wishing she wasn’t being pitied for her injury. She wishes there was no injury to be pitied for, but, then again, she tells herself that she deserves it and accepts the agony as one would hold a blade to their wrists and slit them. 

This behaviour, this quiet ideology that she has been punished for her mistake, is what leads Alba to ensure the keys to the balcony are hidden and the kitchen knives are tucked away in a cupboard, out of sight. Or perhaps it is what she hears her sister telling herself in the mirror. Worthless. Degenerate. Evil, cruel, horrible. Selfish! 

She has two children with you, for God’s sake!

“I have ruined my own life.” Her words burn, the intensity of her anger enough to make Alba flinch, hands gripping the steering wheel harder, forcing her way forwards. The hospital comes into view and Alexia cries out in anguish. “I have ruined it, Alba! I have ruined everything!”

Alexia, The Ruiner. 

She bears the new name with something more than disappointment. She lets the nurses examine her knee, compliment Alba for her care-taking, and reassure her about the surgery. She lets them talk her through possible complications, secretly hoping one will occur and she will wither away; no longer a footballer, no longer a mother, no longer your wife. Just Alexia, The Ruiner. 

Alba and her argue, Alexia lying back in the cot, hospital gown patterned against clinically white sheets, light fabric against her paling skin. “You wanting to die is not you wanting to kill yourself. It’s your regret, and it’s your cowardice at not being able to face the consequences of your actions.” Alexia had been hot-headed enough to voice how she did not want to make it through the surgery. She is in excruciating pain, and is convinced they need to investigate it. “It’s your knee, not your heart. Your heart hurts because you cheated on her and she rightfully left you! Don’t you ever say something so fucking stupid again.” 

“Alba!” Eli’s entrance is neither good nor bad. “Alba, leave her.” Alexia’s tears run down the sides of her face, hitting the sheets like little bullets. The soft caress of her mother’s hand across her cheek is no comfort, and Alexia only sobs harder. “You are going to be fine, mi cielo. The surgery is going to go well and you will come back even stronger.” 

Alexia knows that, once you have torn your ACL, you are more likely to tear it again, so she mentally disputes her mother’s claim. She has no energy to voice the thought, however. 

“Mamá, she’s convinced she’s going to have a heart attack.” Alba points to her sister’s chest, as if to disagree by showing their mother that nothing seems to be out of the ordinary. They begin to argue, and Alexia watches her family implode, deeming herself once more, Alexia, The Ruiner. 

It’s not a heart attack, it turns out. She falls victim to a severe panic attack just as they begin to wheel her away. They increase her dosage of anaesthetic. 

Unfortunately, the next morning Alexia comes to after a successful surgery and remembers nothing. That is until she looks to her bedside and finds only her mother there (Alba having gone to the big, empty apartment to adjust it to her sister’s newly-disabled lifestyle). 

She relives the kisses Jenni used to press to her neck, the marks sucked into her skin though Jenni knew she was not hers to brand. She relives your expression when you told her you knew, the grimace you had worn, the way your eyes flicked to the ensuite as though you were going to throw up at any point. 

She hears her knee pop again, sees the trophy slip from her grasp, sees it float into the realm of possibility along with the Champions League cup. 

“You’re awake,” Eli says with surprise, offering a warm but sympathetic smile. She reaches out to touch Alexia, but Alexia jerks her body backwards, instantly regretting it when her knee begins to ache unbearably. “They said you’ll be in a lot of pain at first, but it will subside and, soon, you can start recovery. Your physiotherapist is going to visit in an hour or so, and I cannot count how many well-wishes you have received.” Weirdly, Eli thinks to herself, Jenni has said nothing. 

Alexia shakes her head, trying to dispel the fog in her mind. “Do the… Do the children know I am hurt?” 

“I believe so,” Eli replies with a nod. “Y/n broke the news to them, but we haven’t heard from her since you went into the operating theatre. I have no idea whether she’s going to come here. I assume she will.” 

“She won’t,” mutters Alexia, refusing to look at her mother.

“Oh, don’t be so gloomy. She’s your wife, of course she is going to come.” A dark storm brews in the cagey hospital room, but Eli remains an oblivious ray of sunshine. “I know you don’t want Nico and Lela to see you like this, but they miss you. They must have been so excited for the Euros!” 

All of it is the wrong thing to say. If Eli had known, she would have approached the uncertainty differently. 

If Alexia were not so angry at herself, so guilty, so destructive, she would have calmly explained that your absence is both warranted and understandable. 

Instead. 

Well, instead, this comes out of her: “She is not going to come because I had a fucking affair and she has left me and taken the children to fucking England where they are probably never going to be allowed to see me ever, and I will live out the rest of my days as a fucking coach because I am useless and I am never going to play football again!” 

Eli sits back in her chair, shocked. 

“What have you done?” 

Neither knows if it is a question or a damnation, but Alexia chooses to answer her mother regardless; “I have ruined everything, and now I am paying the price for it.” 

…

Your friends gloat a little bit, calling it Karma. Anya and Gio are first in disbelief, but they soon progress onto the stage of hatred – something you have not yet been able to access. 

For now, life feels as though it is on auto-pilot. Your children are happy and safe, your country is going to do well in the Euros, and time does not stop ticking no matter how hard you wish it would. 

Alexia’s surgery is successful. You see the update on Twitter, not wanting to contact Alba or Eli in case Alexia thinks you have forgiven her. You haven’t. Perhaps you never will. 

“There are two ways you can go about this,” Gio says with a smirk, holding out a thong to you as you stand in your bedroom in just a towel. “You’re hot and rich and famous… and now single, too.” You are not completely sure of that, but you nod, following along. You slip into the lace and then point to the England shirt folded on top of your pillow. It gets thrown at your face. “You can wallow in it and weep like a damsel in distress, giving her the satisfaction of breaking your heart…” 

“I don’t think she wanted to–” 

“She cheated on you,” Gio cuts you off bluntly. After a moment, your shoulders drop and you resign to hearing her plan. “As said earlier, hot, rich, famous… Babe, just get with someone else. Get with everyone else! Your babies are looked after 24/7 and this is London, my dear. The pond is really an ocean and you are a catch. As your bestest friend, I know what’s best for you. You’ve got an album coming out in September, a tour to hop on in November, and about three thousand dildos you can hop on after that!” 

You cringe. “Don’t be crass.” 

“Don’t be a prude.” She gestures to herself. “Look at me; Mia’s fine and healthy, doesn’t legally have to see her arsehole of a father, and I get a good shag every fortnight.” 

“No, I’ve drawn up the custody agreement already. I’ll go back to Barcelona when the school year starts, and we can swap every two weekends. But I’m keeping our home – she can find somewhere else to live, seeing as all of this is her fault.” 

“And the tour?” Gio asks as you pull on your England jersey and a pair of shorts. Good weather has blessed the start of the tournament, and you have been invited to the first match at Old Trafford by Manchester United themselves. Gio and Anya are coming, and you think they have put you in with a few of their players and executives. Your father has his own ticket, planning to meet you there and convince you to pay your grandmother a visit (she doesn’t like that you are lesbian and therefore you don’t like her). 

“I don’t know,” you sigh, “because I’m not sure if it’s a good idea to make the children’s lives even more unstable. Maybe it’s best to give them a few months to adjust to the idea of us not being together.” 

Gio hums in agreement, knowing she had it easy with her own co-parenting adjustment because her daughter was a baby with no recollection of her parents being a couple, much less in-love. “You’re a good mum.” She kisses your cheek and wraps you in a very needed hug. “You’ll get through this because you are stronger than a pathetic affair.”

You swear. 

“What time’s our train leaving?!” 

The match is a good one, and the atmosphere is enough to make you feel the slightest bit alive. Spain plays in two days, and though you have good reason to believe Alexia is going to be there, you are booking a family trip to Legoland to delay the first hand-off of many. 

England win with one goal to nil, courtesy of Beth Mead’s chip. You are on your feet, cheering the entire match. One of the United executives tells you that he loves your passion and asks you if you’d take his ticket to the post-match drinks as he wants to head home for a nap. You laugh, the old Mancunian reminding you of your father, and accept. It’s just the one ticket, so you bid Gio and Anya goodbye, book a hotel for the night (comfortable with the idea that Isabela has safe hands to care for your children), and give your father a valid reason to pass up on the visit to Didsbury. 

The only person at this event that you really know is Alessia Russo, after exchanging a few DMs last Christmas to wrangle a signed Manchester United jersey for Nico’s Christmas present (a gift Alexia had refused to say was from her as well). 

“No kids today?” she asks with a grin, pulling you into a friendly hug. 

“Didn’t manage to get them tickets,” you reply. “But now I get to drink, and you get to watch me and wish you weren’t on a nutrition plan.” 

She shakes her head. “We’ve actually been instructed to celebrate the wins. Sarina Wiegman says it’s a key part of tournament success.” You look around the room, noticing every Lioness here, hair still wet from the showers and donning team-issued tracksuits, has a can of beer in their hands. Jorge Vilda could never. “Glad to see you haven’t yet become a Spain and Barcelona fan. Feeling patriotic enough to be introduced to our captain?” 

Leah Williamson bears the same concentrated eyes gifted to Alexia; determination, victory, leadership. 

You’re unsure if you have ever formally met her, perhaps at the Brits once. “I go with Alex? Alex Scott,” she says, as though she is trying to impress you. She takes the briefest of looks down to your hands that hang near your waist with no glass to hold (the bar has cut you off for half an hour). 

You wear one ring. It is not the one with which Alexia promised you her total devotion, but it is from her all the same. An old gift – maybe from your first anniversary? 

Leah doesn’t ask whether you are still married. 

“I heard your son loves football?” He is obsessed with his mother, he wishes to follow her in every single thing she does. “You should bring him to our next match. I’ll get him one of those passes, and– Hey, you know what? I bet there’s a way I can get him a place as a mascot for one of the matches! Both our next ones are down south.” 

You smile. “Really?” 

“Yeah, course. He might be a bit young but I’m always glad to help out our little fans, and it might throw Spain off their game.” She winks, offering no further explanation, and is suddenly called away before you can request more information. 

You have to admit, the idea of Nico walking (toddling) out with England makes you feel both proud and satisfied. It will be a tiny jab towards Alexia, which, honestly, is a privilege considering how she has stabbed you in the back repeatedly with a machete. 

When your son’s first time on a proper football pitch is with Alessia Russo, holding her hand with wide eyes and a wider smile, you are sure Alexia has smashed the screen of whatever TV she has been studying her opponents with. 

…

Spain playing England in the quarter-final feels intensely political within your family. 

Alexia is in Brighton for the first time in her life, and she hates more than anything that she is not preparing herself for a match. She won’t be going through her pre-game rituals for another seven months, at least. 

You tell Isabela to take the children to Alexia’s hotel, unable to put yourself in front of the wheel. Your hands have not stopped shaking since your manager texted you a screenshot of their conversation (seeing as you refuse to talk to her, not for pettiness but for fear of breaking yourself in two), and Isabela poured you a glass of wine before she left to calm your nerves. 

You feel sick, and the toilet water turns red as your body rejects the rioja. Once you have wiped your mouth, you laugh at the notion that even Spanish wine is unwelcome inside of you. 

“Who are you?” Alexia demands as the revolving doors of the lobby reveal her two babies with a stranger. She is quick to remove Elena from the arms of this new woman, although she is disgruntled by how comfortable her daughter seems. One of her crutches falls to the ground, Alexia not having been able to master childcare and post-surgery impairments because she has not seen the children she is supposed to care for, but she does not find it in herself to care.

“Hola, Sra. Putellas. Encantada.” Isabela holds out her hand but Alexia does not shake it, jaw clenched at the way you have gotten a Spanish-speaking nanny as though to completely erase her babies’ Catalan accents and memory of their other mother! “Me contrataron para ayudar a Y/n con los niños. Me dijeron que usted se encargaría de ellos hoy.”

“Sí, lo estoy haciendo, porque son MIS hijos.” She looks at Nico, who has been hiding shyly behind his nanny’s leg, afraid of his mother’s fierceness. Alexia softens, hoping to welcome him into her embrace, but her stupid knee won’t bend and she can’t get onto his level. Isabela reaches out to help her, or to at least steady her so that she doesn’t drop the squirming toddler she is holding, but the help is unwanted and, quite frankly, embarrassing. 

Alexia’s frustration brings tears to her eyes. 

She quickly blinks them back. 

“¿Le gustaría que la ayudara, Sra. Putellas? Me han pagado por trabajar hoy, así que no es un proble–” 

“¡No!” Alexia snaps. Silently, she curses how condescending and petty you have become. Paying the nanny in advance to taunt her for her injuries! “No. Estaré bien. Soy su madre.”

“Por supuesto, pero también está herida.” Isabela looks around the lobby for a moment. “¿Está sola?” 

Alexia knows that Mapi’s parents are going to be arriving any minute now, kindly offering to help out with Nico and Elena. “Oh, we do not mind! We’d love for María to have children of her own,” they had said. 

“Soy perfectamente capaz de manejarlo–” 

“Isabela,” Isabela supplies. 

“Isabela,” Alexia repeats. “Ahora, si ha terminado, vaya a disfrutar su día libre.” 

She waits on the sofa just left of the door for Mapi’s parents, silently begging them to arrive as soon as possible. Nico is bored and would like to run around, upset that Alexia denies him his fun whenever he whines to play. Elena is tired, grumpily napping in Alexia’s lap, but that means she can’t position her knee the way the surgeons had asked her to. Isabela hadn’t meant to, but she had dumped two rucksacks of toys, snacks, and clothes onto Alexia, who still hasn’t been able to retrieve her crutch from the floor. 

Close to tears and very overwhelmed, the arrival of the couple comes as a great relief. “Oh, you poor thing,” coos Mapi’s mother, a caring woman from whom her friend inherited the same quality. She kisses Alexia’s forehead and instantly takes the weight from her lap, hushing the soft whimpers Elena lets out. “Let us look after the babies. You make sure you have the tickets sorted. Have you taken your pain medication? Oh, let me take care of it for you.” 

The fuss is something she has had to get used to, but she is thankful for the assistance. They wrestle Nico into his red Spain jersey, something he was not delivered in, and they ensure all three of their wards are comfortable before the stadium appears in the windshield of the taxi. 

Alexia begins to get nervous. 

Spain has more talent than England – always has – but they don’t have the same funding nor support. Their manager is a dickhead and the federation corrupt, and Alexia’s teammates suffer daily in a way no Lioness would be able to comprehend. She fears for their reputation, for their progression. 

Her nerves increase when she sees you in the stands, in your own box of course. It seems that you see her too, but your only acknowledgement of her presence is the wave you give to your children. Alexia has to remind them sharply in Catalan that they are Spanish. 

Afterwards, when Spain lost and Alexia is blaming herself for the defeat, you walk through the tunnel, following Leah’s directions that she had sent over text. You’d added her to your contacts yesterday, growing tired of Instagram DMs.

The odd thing about this area is that to your left, nothing is heard and the air hangs its head in shame, but to your right, a nation celebrates its victory. Sadly, you know you have to fetch your children from the Spain changing room before you say goodbye to the English heroines. 

You knock on the door, politely. You have never been more glad that a player has not been selected for a squad. Jenni has missed the Euros due to injury, much like her partner-in-crime. 

A solemn Ona Batlle, a Manchester United player who serves as a bridge between worlds in your household, opens the door, making no attempt to force a smile when she sees that it is you. You are (were) their captain’s wife; you are like family. 

“Hi,” you breathe, not wanting to be the one to pierce through the silence. 

Ona stands to one side and you pass. 

Most of the girls are tearful, sniffling into their jerseys, heads in their hands, but no one is as distraught as Mapi. Her sobs take the fun out of winning, her devastation crushing and contagious and impossibly hard to ignore. She buries her face into Alexia’s shoulder, but it does nothing to muffle her cries. 

You gulp, catching hazel eyes, understanding the plea to not make this feel worse. 

You are heartbroken, and so is Mapi. For different reasons, yes, but both organs are shattered in the same way. 

Alexia mutters something very quietly, secretly wishing Mapi does not let her go because this is the first time the defender has actually spoken to her since Alexia did what she did, but the blonde hair stops itching her face soon enough. 

Rooted to the spot, you search the room for two smaller Spaniards, finding them both taking after Alexia, comforting the players. 

“Nico, Lela, come on,” you croak, finding tears in your own eyes. “Say bye-bye to Mami.” 

Their hugs and kisses are missed the moment Alexia leaves the country, and the absence of them makes Alexia crumble completely when she finds the letter from your lawyer that Alba has been hiding from her. 

…

September rolls around with school, the start of your custody agreement, and the release of your new album. 

Judgement Day. 

For many, it confirms the split from your wife. Those pictures were never picked up by a magazine, so you have had them deleted with a baseless threat to sue for defamation.

Alexia no longer has to communicate with you through one of your employees, but any texts exchanged are few and far between. She tells you that she is renting a flat near the training centre. It has three bedrooms, but Nico and Elena share one because her mother is living with her while she recovers from her ACL. She also partially tore her meniscus, though she had hesitated to pass that news on, but everything seems to be in order and she is ahead of schedule.

You reluctantly text her whenever you leave the country, whether that is because you are flying to London for work (and to visit Leah, who you are now good friends with) or because a club opening has called and you have answered. It’s not as messy as the media makes it seem, but you agree with the articles that say you seem to drink as though it is what keeps you alive. The word ‘addict’ gets thrown around, but you are sitting in an armchair in front of your therapist before that escalates, if not for yourself then for the sake of your children. 

They themselves do not understand. Nico frequently asks when Alexia will come home, though he has usually just visited her when this question pops out, and Elena throws big tantrums during the swaps. Those are done at a neutral location: the park near you. You hope the playground takes the edge off the palpable tension between you and Alexia as you sit on opposite sides of the same bench, exchanging brief updates about your shared duty until whoever is a mother for the next two weekends makes up an excuse to go. 

Just before Christmas, once you have calculated that it’s technically Alexia’s turn with their children until January, you go on your biggest night-out since the days when all you were was a 2010s pop star in a girl-group. With no one to go home to and an empty house in Highgate awaiting your return, you get the closest to sleeping with someone else since before meeting Alexia. Her lips trail down your neck, the white powder on her nose rubbing onto your skin as she presses herself into you. You grope her body desperately, painfully dissatisfied by the bones and creamy skin your hands find. You are used to muscle, to strength, to power. 

Not some anorexic model who calls you a MILF and hasn’t had a sober day in years. 

In the end, you don’t end up sleeping with her, but it makes the headlines nonetheless. Your publicist lets them. “The world needs to see you move on, even if you aren’t,” she says. Your slight disagreement is not voiced, and social media explodes with further confirmation that you are single. A group of football fans are quick to attack you, calling you cruel for leaving Alexia when she is injured, but the thousand-person army doesn’t particularly bother you. You are doing your ex a favour by not opening up about the reason for the split, and you are both aware of that. 

You spend Christmas with your parents, who are not pleased to have you moping about their house. Your father tells you that success is the best revenge. You tell him that your album has topped the charts in December, winning its battle against Christmas music. 

“But that hasn’t mended a broken heart,” he is unkind enough to point out. “And neither will models, drugs, or alcohol.” 

At this point in the day, you have made it through a bottle and a half of wine and a pack of Marlboro Golds. Voice hoarse from smoking and sobbing the entirety of Christmas Eve, you tell him to “fuck off” and call a taxi for yourself. 

You don’t remember the destination you had typed in, but you end up at Leah Williamson’s house. 

Leah is home, having returned from Milton Keynes half an hour ago, and is not really surprised by the state you are in. She supposes that she has gotten to know you well enough to realise that you are far from stable. This is the first time the English captain has seen you heartbroken, but she is unsure whether it will be the last. 

…

Your tour commences the following month, with January being a fresh start to a new year. You tell Leah, who invites you out with her on NYE, that this year you won't be cheated on. It is not the comment that makes her laugh, but rather the way it slurs out of your mouth.

Barcelona feels suffocating when you arrive at the park to say goodbye to Nico and Elena. You’ll be in the States for the entire month and maybe some of February. Alexia is sure it will be fine, especially since the team has taken it upon themselves to look after the two children and help where they can. Additionally, Alexia is growing closer to one of her friends, Olga, who loves children and wanted to be a teacher before she decided on something much cooler. 

Alexia has the courtesy to send Mapi and Ingrid in her place, knowing that you do not want to talk to her. You haven’t yet heard her explanation, but that does not matter. Nothing excuses what she did, and nothing will. (And with Jenni, who is no longer the godmother to Elena, the title being revoked instantly.)

“Will you miss us?” Nico asks as you kiss his soft hair, hugging him tightly. “Mami said that we have to swap every three findes so why no now?” 

“Why not now?” you gently correct him. “Because I have to work. I’m going to sing in front of lots and lots of people and, maybe, write some new songs!” Your attempt to excite him crashes and burns, but you are not going to give up. “This is a secret so you can’t tell anyone, but some really, really special people want to make songs with me.” 

“Who?” he pouts. 

“Well, one of Mami’s favourites, Karol G. She is very nice, and she told me she has an idea for a collaboration.” Petty, yes, but also a career move. Nico’s innocence and lack of understanding about the meaning of separation means that he sees your plans as a very nice gift for Alexia.  “And, let me think. Ooh, Bad Bunny – you know him, don’t you? I’m sure Pina or Patri or–” 

He pulls away from your embrace, taking a step back. “Sí,” he says, sounding exactly like Alexia, “but to Mami, she no like because he says rude things.” 

“Adults are allowed to say rude things,” you reply with a cheeky smile, winking at him. “Your mami says rude things all the time, but not in front of you.” 

“Really?” 

“Yep, but you’ll have to ask her about that.” 

Alexia has hobbled through the nighttime routines, aided by Olga, who has halved the job by picking Elena and Nico up from nursery and school and watching them until Alexia’s day at the training ground had ended. Her and Olga haven’t kissed yet, but Alba has advised her sister to be quick about it if she ever intends to. Alexia is not sure she does want that, because your absence has only made how much she loves you (and how much she fucked up) even more obvious.

Their beds are on opposite sides of the room, which is technically the master bedroom – only fair, Alexia thinks, because they are having to share here but not when staying with you – and Elena is fast asleep by the time Nico is tired of the bedtime stories he has relentlessly requested. She brushes off the slight sting of his dismissal of her acting and helps him settle underneath the covers. 

As usual, she presses a kiss to both cheeks and the tip of his nose, and tells him to have nice dreams and a good rest. The weekend starts tomorrow, which means he gets to join Alexia at the training centre and sit in on the sessions. Alexia is slightly jealous because she is still stuck in the gym, but as long as he is entertained, she will get over it.

“Mami, how long is a month?” asks Nico, voice small and groggy and… is that a hint of an accent? Maybe the two and a half months of Isabela’s Spanish has affected him. She will look into it. 

He tugs on her jumper when she spaces out. “Sorry,” Alexia whispers. “A month is thirty days. Maybe you need to pay attention at school.” She pokes his cheek playfully, and he giggles. 

“I do pay attention, I do. Thirty days is long.” 

Alexia dreams of the football pitch, of the grass she has been promised she will play on before April. “It can be very long,” comes her agreement, picturing where in her recovery she will be come February. “It can also be very short.” 

“I miss Mama.” 

His statement, unbeknownst to him, is uncomfortably relatable. 

“Thirty days will be very short. You’ll see her again soon, and, you know what? She made me promise to give you goodnight kisses from her every night! She is going to send them to me from America, and I’ll pass them onto you.” 

“Really?” 

“Sí,” says Alexia with pursed lips, raising her eyebrows to invite him to doubt her. He looks up at her with adoration, as if her word is law. She can only be thankful that you are merciful enough to have not turned her own children against her. You have expressed your wish to keep them from being collateral damage, and Alexia respects you for that. 

“Mama said that she makes songs in LA with Karol G!” 

Then again, there are other ways to be petty.

…

Touring has always exhausted you. Eat, sleep, travel, sing, in varying orders; the schedule grows repetitive and tight after the first week.

After the first show in LA, you bring a blurry face to your hotel room. You kiss her, you can’t bear to do anything more, and you let her sleep off her drugs in your bed while you take the sofa in your suite. 

High on adrenaline half the time and utterly knocked-out when not, you zombie your way through the travelling, grouchily rehearsing new songs on the road, signing merchandise for your screaming fans. You get asked about your private life in a few interviews initially, but the journalists soon learn that the topic is to be avoided if they wish for you to talk to them at all. 

The headlines continue to tear apart images captured of you at clubs, and magazines never seem to find the pictures of you with your children when you visit them while you make your way around Europe. 

There comes a point where you look at a woman and she becomes, in the eyes of the media, your latest plaything. 

Alexia is seething by the time your two-night show in Barcelona rolls around. 

One day, when Nico and Elena understand the concepts of affairs and heartbreak, they will see the articles written about their mothers; the hate Alexia gets, the times she has been called a whore by fans of the same sport she devotes her life to, the stark inequality between her and her male counterparts. With these horrors of the world, they’ll see the pictures of you, pupils blown out, eyes red. Women clinging onto you that perhaps faintly resemble Alexia. 

Because Alexia knows you, because she loves you, she can see that what has been labelled your ‘slay’ era is really fuelled by devastation. A disaster that she caused. It riddles her with guilt, but she doesn't know how to expel that emotion from her head without reverting to the early days of her loneliness where she ate nothing and made her sister seriously worry whether she was going to find her bleeding out in the bathtub one day. And so, with a lack of command over such a strong feeling, she decides to rage. She is furious with your irresponsibility. 

“Where should we eat?” your guitarist asks with a grin as you touchdown in Barcelona. The soft murmur of Spanish and Catalan is unexpectedly comforting, the familiarity grounding. Maybe Barcelona has become your home. Maybe it never stopped being that, because home is where the heart is and, frustratingly, yours still belongs to the woman who tore it out of your chest and didn’t even have the guts to tell you about it. 

“I can’t,” you reply quickly, wiping the sweat from travel off your brow with the sleeve of your turtleneck. “I promised my son I’d tuck him in while I’m in the country, and my daughter has been drawing at nursery so I’d like to collect some of the pictures and see if I can get them blown up onto canvases.” 

Laughing, your crew make their way off the jet. “You know, most celebrities would pay thousands for abstract art but you get yours from a toddler.” 

“She’s talented.” Mapi draws with her, you’ve been told. Elena is what makes Ingrid yearn for a ring to appear in their relationship sooner rather than later. “And take the piss all you want, but if you had had to put my kids through what I have, you’d feel the same.” 

The sofa in the Putellas household (the apartment no longer inhabited by Eli, who was very glad to escape the intense atmosphere as soon as Alexia was cleared to live by herself) houses three unsettled humans of varying sizes. The biggest, Alexia, shifts on the soft, new cushions, awaiting your arrival with gulps of brewing tears and the latest set of paparazzi photos of you fresh in her mind. The boy, Nico, practically vibrates with excitement, promising himself that he will drag out this bedtime as long as possible to make up for all the others you have missed. The smallest is upset because she hasn’t fallen asleep yet, kept awake by her older brother who shakes her whenever she starts to drift off, hastily scolding her with a ‘no, Lela! Mama is coming home’. 

With no key to this flat, you are forced to be buzzed up. 

The anticipation builds. Nico and Alexia try to remember what you smell like, testing themselves to see if they can recall it scent for scent. Have you changed your shampoo? Alexia wonders, Do you still use the same moisturiser?

“Hi, my darlings!” you squeal as the door flies open and Nico comes hurtling into your crouched form, closely followed by his unsteady little sister. “Oh, how I’ve missed you!” You squeeze them as though you are never going to let go, and only release them from the hug when Elena begins to whine, adrenaline rush dying and tiredness overcoming her once more. 

“Mama, home,” Nico says with an inaccurate finality. You spare Alexia a glance as he pulls you through the bare walls and grey decor until you reach a door with stickers up and down the white-washed wood. “Mami made me change, but you can read! Lela wants this one.” He rumages through the box of books near the children’s whiteboard (on it, the odd x’s and o’s of football tactics), pulling out a few to stack into his own pile before thrusting something you recognise very well. 

“Mami reads to us in English sometimes,” he says matter-of-factly, though Alexia silently curses him from where she is standing in the doorway. “Important to know.” 

You chuckle. “Mm, very important. How else would you talk to me?” Elena quietly crawls into your lap, happy to take over Nico’s bed, where you are sitting. You stroke her hair, holding her close. “Mami reads you ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’?” 

He is too young to know what scepticism looks like. 

“Es que hay ‘La Pequeña Oruga Glotona’.” 

You refuse to look at the voice which speaks, but you nod. 

“Alright, why don’t you get into bed, and then I’ll start to make my way through the mountain of books. I am absolutely all yours for tonight, my loves.” 

… 

Alexia’s hands slam down on the dining table, slapping against the wood with a loud bang. “Enough!” she exclaims, her voice slicing through the tense air like a knife. Her eyes blaze in fury and you shrivel, not quite sure what you have done to her. You grant her the silence she needs to continue, though her shout echoes through the shattered tranquillity like a bomb that continues to explode. “It is enough.” 

“What, Alexia?” 

You sound kind of… bored once you have regained your composure. Your shock is now replaced with a blank expression, and you run your eyes over your nails, examining your cuticles so that you don’t risk making eye contact with her. 

“You think you can just waltz in here as if you haven’t offered yourself to the entire world and expect everything to be okay?” Her voice trembles with indignation, venom dripping from each word she spits out. “You can’t go from common slut to mother in one day!” 

Nails forgotten, you square your shoulders and set your jaw. “I hadn’t realised you were the jealous type, Ale.” The nickname slips out like a poisonous dart, taunting her, wounding her. It rattles her, and you intend to shake her more. “It’s none of your business, not anymore. Deal with it – or don’t, I don’t care.”

“What kind of example are you setting for our children?” she continues, lips curling into a scornful sneer. “Kissing anything with a mouth! Like some, some hormonal teenager. And to have it all over the papers? It’s trashy! It’s embarrassing for me, because my wife has her hands down the pants of every woman she meets, pumped full of alcohol and drugs and… You, you go to these events, paid to get yourself on the front pages so that they can be mentioned in the location of the incident, and… and that’s like prostitution! Making money from your body, from sex!”

Her fists clench and she storms towards you, footsteps harsher than her bad knee can probably take, but you make no move to back down. You lift your chin up; “I don’t have to resort to prostitution for money. I have more than enough.” 

“Then you do it for attention,” Alexia reasons with herself, albeit very loudly. “That is what you are, aren’t you? A slut for the cameras and the glitz and glamour of it all. So quick to jet off on tour, leaving me with our children–” 

“I may be a ‘slut’ for attention, but at least I am not a whore for a woman who is not my fucking wife!” You press your hand to her chest roughly, pushing her away from you. “I’m not the one who had an affair, I’m not the one who ruined everything!”

Alexia recoils at your words, freeing herself from your searing touch before she melts. She forces her fury to its boiling point. “How dare you,” she seethes, voice cracking at the ferocity in which she forces the sentence out. “You think you can just throw my mistakes in my face?” You hold your ground. She will not intimidate you. “You think you’re so righteous, but you’re not as innocent as you pretend to be.” 

It is a baseless accusation. You both know it. 

“The only fact we have here is that you fucked Jenni. Our daughter’s godmother. Your ‘best friend’, my friend too! I trusted her, and I trusted you, and you took that trust and obliterated it by sleeping with her!” 

Alexia wants to cut you deep, wants to give you the gory details of it all, but she hears the croak of your voice and knows you will not make it to your hotel if she tells you.

“I slept with Jenni, sure, but you have passed yourself around enough to make us even.”

“Nothing will make us ‘even’, Alexia,” you cry, meaning to sound scarier than you do. You can’t help the tears from streaming down your face, nor the hoarseness of your throat. “And I would never ever do to you what you did to me!” 

You have to go on vocal rest the next day, otherwise the concert would be called off. 

Alexia refuses to attend, even though most of her teammates will, instead pawning Nico and Elena off to your backstage staff and dangerously driving herself to Alba’s place. 

It is one of those nights where Alba cannot leave her side for fear Alexia will choke herself to death on her tears. When the elder of the two can longer hold it all in, Alba ties her hair back with an old hair bobble so that the blonde strands don’t get in the way of her sister’s vomit. 

("I don't want to live like this," Alexia says, her eyes wide and alert. Her little sister looks at her with empathy, searching, with a broken heart, for a version of a woman from the past she's not sure she knows. This Alexia is not the same.

"Of course you don’t." It's obvious. Obvious by the way she forces her existence without happiness, without company, without a smile. It's like there is no sun in Alexia's world, nor a blue sky, nor an end.

It never ends.

So, she says, "I don't want to live like this, without her, without the family I dream of every night, every waking moment. I don’t want to live, Alba. I didn’t want to live in August, and I haven’t since, and I… I do it because people rely on me." She takes in a deep, acidic breath, grimacing at the taste of bile on her tongue. “If it were just me, just Alexia”--The Ruiner, she silently adds–“I wouldn’t be here. Alba, Alba, I don’t want to live like this.”

She carries on repeating it because Alba has to understand. There can't be a possibility that Alba thinks her sister is insincere. What a lie that would be! To Alexia, she prefers death over continuing like this, with her head in the toilet and vomiting, vomiting, vomiting. 

"If I had the chance, I would go back to August 2021 and never sleep with Jenni. I’d not let her kiss me, not give into it. I'm exhausted from it; from my loneliness, from the kids' questions, asking when their mother will come back home. Do you know that Nico asked me if we still loved him? If she still loves him? And why his friends have two parents and he seems to have a shell of a woman for one, and a vacant space in the king-sized bed for the other?"

"She might not want you again, however, and your imagined future may be false – it is the opposite of reality, no? If I were her, I wouldn't. You cheated on her when she only gave you love and patience and… Well, Alexia, I swear I really want to see you happy, but I just don't think she'll forgive you."

"And why not?"

Alba sighs. She places her hand on Alexia's back, moving it in circles to calm her sister down. When they were little, it was always Alexia who helped Alba. With school, with her problems, with new lovers or ones from the past. It was her responsibility to take care of her little sister, and when their father died and there were only three of them, Alexia felt that responsibility even more. 

Here, roles reversed, Alba can only apply that which she has learnt from the heaving lump of flesh slumped on the chequered tiles. 

"Alba," repeats Alexia, lowering her voice, relenting. "She loves me."

The younger of the two can’t help the tears that brim in her eyes, distressed in her own right. "She loves you despite your other girlfriend because she's a saint. She's a saint but, if you want her to be happy, you cannot take advantage of her," Alba warns gravely, sincerely, and correctly. Alexia lifts her head and looks at the clock on the bathroom wall. Alba's apartment is clean and trendy, just like the woman, and she has dirtied it with her presence. She remains, for the foreseeable future, Alexia, The Ruiner. 

"Smartass."

"It's just the truth."

"Well, if that's the truth, I'd rather you be a liar."

Alba sighs again, more heavily, and asks Alexia to get up from the floor. If Alexia's knee hurts, she says nothing and jumps up and down. "Ay, your knee," Alba grumbles but Alexia keeps going. She keeps going and going until she can't breathe and her lungs hurt. She keeps going because she believes it will rid her of her sadness, or at least hopes so. She hasn't stopped when Alba asks her to. A loud voice breaks the silence. "What are you doing?"

"Destroying everything. If I can't be with her, I don't want to play football. I don't want to walk, or see, or talk. I just don't want to live."

To Alba, this tells her two things. One is that her sister has gone batshit crazy. The other? Well, that is the solution. It's simple, really; one sentence, and Alexia will know what she has to do.

"You need to fix this.")

Heartbreak is ugly, but Alexia’s guilt is uglier.

[remi-harbinger]

SJ has just managed to join CQMS and guess what? Yue Qi is there too, but he lost his memory - and it seems any inhibitions he once had - a couple of months after joining the sect (those darn plot devices). SJ is going to LOSE HIS MIND. YQY once was cute and warm and a hardcore people pleaser but he now looks like the personification of tall dark and handsome!!! He’s gotten the reputation of being hot, stoic and mysterious which is not helped by the fact that he has a habit of practicing his martial arts in the single bamboo grove in Qiong Ding and the steady, almost detached concentration in his eyes as he goes through the stances which has caused a large audience of disciples to gather to watch him secretly.

No one knows anything about his past, with an often topic of discussion being YQY’s sword named Jiu (究) since YQY himself couldnt explain why he named it so but apparently growled at some hall master that suggested a “better name”. Teen SJ simultaneously wants to get closer to him and kill him at the same time, so he’s been plotting with SQH (who he picked up one day and designated his lackey).

This culminates in YQY waking up one day to 7 steamed buns and 9 sticks of tanghulu on his doorstep every week and SJ writing in his diary “I can confidently say that we have gotten closer. Not to say that I would help him if his sword malfunctioned in midair, which it would if it had any of my bad luck, but I wouldn’t actively swerve to push him off his sword.”

Honestly SQH just wants his ship to get together asap so he can get some rest. This world does not know the meaning of R&R

[fangirl-dot-com]

Chapter 15 - Oh no! Oh wait, sorry, ahem - AUR NAUR

It's race number 3! Since I have a master list and didn't want the chapters to get so mundane and have the same story line, I have decided to skip a couple of the races. And each chapter won't be the whole race either. I might just decided to focus on one aspect of the race and add in the results after!

TAG LIST IS CLOSED

So anyway - it's LIGHTS OUT AND AWAY WE GO AT THE 2024 AUSTRALIA GRAND PRIX

Jeddah Results 

Max Verstappen + 25

Charles Leclerc  +18

Fernando Alonso +15

Lando Norris +12

Lewis Hamilton +11

Y/n L/n +8

George Russell +6

Oscar Piastri +4

Daniel Ricciardo +2

Carlos Sainz +1

Alex Albon +0

Lance Stroll +0

Logan Sargeant +0 

Pierre Gasly +0

Yuki Tsunoda +0

Esteban Ocon +0

Zhou Guanyu +0

Kevin Magnussen +0 

Nico Hulkenberg +0

Valtteri Bottas +0

Standings after Jeddah 

Max Verstappen – 50 points 

Charles Leclerc – 36 points 

Lando Norris – 23 points 

Lewis Hamilton – 23 points 

Y/n L/n – 23 points 

Fernando Alonso – 16 points 

George Russell – 12 points 

Carlos Sainz – 9 points 

Oscar Piastri – 8 points 

Daniel Ricciardo – 2 points 

Alex Albon – 2 points 

Lance Stroll – 0 points 

Logan Sargeant – 0 points  

Pierre Gasly – 0 points 

Yuki Tsunoda – 0 points 

Esteban Ocon – 0 points 

Zhou Guanyu – 0 points 

Kevin Magnussen – 0 points 

Nico Hulkenberg – 0 points 

Valtteri Bottas – 0 points 

Constructors Standings after Jeddah 

Red Bull – 73 points 

Ferrari – 45 points 

Mercedes – 35 points 

McLaren – 32 points 

Williams – 2 points 

Aston Martin – 3 points 

Racing Bulls – 15 points 

Alpha Romeo – 0 points 

Haas – 0 points 

Alpine – 0 points 

RACE TIME

Your helmet was already on as you waited for the final round of qualifying to start. The first five out were Zhou, Pierre, Kevin, Nico, and Valtteri. Then Yuki, Lance, Logan, Alex, and surprisingly Carlos followed them out in the second round. You were glad that you had been on the upper level for all of the free practices and the first rounds of quali. You were finally given the signal to get back into the car. 

Your legs squeezed into the form fitting area that was there to keep you in. With eyes glancing at the screen in front of you, the data seemed good for today. You knew that you didn’t want to jinx a podium. You were lucky enough to get third place the first race and then in your opinion, a lousy P6 in Jeddah. Everyone around you had told you that it was a great placing for a rookie. But you were hungry. 

And only the top step could satiate that hunger. 

With a wave of a mechanic’s hand, you were given the signal to go ahead. You had completely your first lap, which set you up in the lower level at position 6. You wouldn’t be doing your second flying lap until Oscar completed his. At this point, you had been bumped up to position 4 with Oscar in position 5. And you knew he wanted to get around you, hence the second flying lap. 

Your car was sailing smoothly as you warmed your tires to have one more try to get higher on the leaderboard. Yet ahead, Esteban Ocon was doing something weird, but it didn’t raise any flags. You kept your distance as he suddenly slowed down a lot on one corner. It was going well, until Mitch suddenly came on the radio. 

“Kid you have to get out of the way. Piastri approaching on his flying lap.” 

You were going too fast behind Ocon. 

You pressed the button. “Where the hell am I supposed to go? Ocon is not moving or speeding up.” 

In a final try to not hit him, you swerved to go around. But, that was the moment that Oscar came flying around the corner. You were just around the Alpine car when something hit the back of your car. 

“Shit!” 

David Croft’s voice could be heard for the viewers. 

“There goes the Red Bull of Y/n L/n and the McLaren of Oscar Piastri! They were close together around the corner as Piastri was on his flying lap and they made contact! Looking back it seems as though the Alpine of Esteban Ocon had suddenly slowed down and L/n had nowhere to go. The stewards will definitely be looking at that. Those two will not be happy. And there is the red flag, ending the session early. 

“We have Max Verstappen with a pole position followed by Leclerc, and then Daniel Ricciardo, which is his best position in years and it’s on home turf. He will be followed by L/n, unless she received a penalty, and then Piastri in P5 with his teammate Lando Norris in P6. The two Mercedes take P7 and P8 with Russell then Hamilton. Then last but not least Fernando Alonso followed by Esteban Ocon, unless he also receives a penalty for possibly causing a collision.” 

Now, your car didn’t go flying, but you did end up off the track. And to your right was the bright orange (papaya) livery of one Oscar Piastri. 

“What the actual fuck? What was he thinking?” You moaned out as you began to unstrap your seatbelt. 

“Are you ok kid?” Christian’s concerned voice came over the radio. Back at the garage, Mitch, Christian, and Max were all watching. Max had a comfortable pole position.

You pressed the button again. “Yeah, I’m ok. How’s Oscar? Christian I’m so sorry.” 

A sigh of relief left the older Brit’s mouth. “It’s not your fault kid. We’ve brought it up with the stewards.”

Max’s voice sounded through the radio again. “That was Ocon’s fault. I don’t know what the fuck he was thinking.” 

With Oscar, it was a similar story. The Aussie pressed his radio.

“What the hell was that?” Normally, Oscar wouldn’t rage over his radio, but this was different. 

Tom Stallard answered the younger driver. “What we’re seeing is Ocon slowed way down and L/n had nowhere to go.”

Oscar huffed. “What position did I end up with?” 

“Uh, P5 mate. Sorry, I knew you wanted higher.” 

With a grunt, Oscar grasped the halo and pulled himself up. His helmet-clad head turned in your direction, and he was surprised to see that you hadn’t gotten out yet. He was immediately swarmed by marshals as he stepped onto the grass. 

“Is she ok?” he questioned, body still turned to you. However, the marshal that held his arm just gently tugged him toward the car.  

You sighed as you just sat for a moment. Bruises would definitely appear later on your front. “Is Oscar ok?” 

Mitch had finally gotten her radio back. “He’s out. Just be gentle. He and you don’t need to go to the hospital. Now, undo your steering wheel and go to the car please.”

You listened to Mitch and quickly undid your wheel. However, your blood was boiling. Quoting Mad Max, you hoped you wouldn’t see the French driver back at the pits, for his sake. Gentle your ass, it was going to be on sight. 

A grunt left your lips as you lifted yourself you using the halo. Your front burned as you did it, you needed to check on, well, your friend. 

Multiple marshals tried to check on you, but you batted their arms away. Your steps quickened as you stalked toward the papaya driver. You knew cameras were following you, and you scolded yourself for not reigning in your angry expression. 

“Oh no. Looks like L/n is mad. Does Red Bull have a thing for drivers with anger issues?” Crofty joked in the announcer’s box as he watched you take strides across the grass.  

Oscar, who was still pulling against the woman, finally saw you storming toward him, almost knocking people over. He stiffened as you were now close, ready for anything. Technically, you were in the wrong, but no one had ever seen you angry yet. 

He was surprised when arms tightly wrapped around him and squeezed him. A sniffle left your nose as Oscar wrapped his arms back around you. Shoulders shaking on your end, he started to rub your back in comfort. 

“I’m so sorry,” you all but sobbed to him, still muffled by your helmet that was currently pressing up against his chest. You hadn’t planned to cry, but you felt terrible.

“I’m ok,” he whispered back. He knew he needed to get you away from the cameras so he gently guided you over to the car. Once the two of you were hidden behind the black SUV that came to pick you up, the two of you took your helmets off. 

“There was nowhere for me to go! Ocon suddenly stopped. It was either just ram into his car or try to get around him in time. I guess the second option wasn’t a good option either.” You told him as they two of you rode back to the pits. 

The moment the two of you were out, you were swarmed with both Red Bull and McLaren personelle. Max, Lando, and Charles were also there. You had calmed down on the ride there, but now your blood was boiling once again.

Your head swerved back and forth as you tried to find the French driver. Max must have caught on to your expression, because he put both hands on your shoulders and tried to direct you back to the home garage. 

You tried to shrug his hands off. “Max, I need to find him.” 

“Kid, no. It won’t do anything.”

By now, Charles had also stepped in front of you, trying to dissolve your want to find Ocon. 

But the world was against the two drivers today as your eyes spotted him. And, you guess he didn’t think you’d be angry as he almost pranced over with a smirk on his face. You suddenly shoved your body against Max’s as you tried to push toward Esteban.

Your finger pointed over Max’s shoulder. “You fucking prick!” 

That smirk faded on Esteban’s face as he saw your fuming expression. By now, you had attained a small crowd around you as you tried to keep pushing your way through. Daniel, and now Arthur, was also standing behind Max, trying to keep you contained. 

“What did you think would happen? Huh? You fucking slow down to the left with me going toward you on someone’s flying lap?” You were surprisingly inching forward. “You could have seriously hurt someone!” 

A hand suddenly was placed on your shoulder. Your eyes followed the arm and you came face to face with your team principal. One look from him had you stop in your tracks, yet you weren’t done yelling. 

“You better watch out Ocon. Also, I know that you took my fucking juice box from the fridge. That was mine!” 

Once you were finished, you harshly shrugged off Christian’s hand and stalked back toward your driver’s room. 

Every driver that was watching was frozen as they watched your figure leaving. 

“Uh, what the heck just happened?” Max questioned, looking around. 

Daniel laughed. “What are you teaching her Max? This is Brazil 2018 all over again.” 

Max could only chuckle as he also remembered that specific grand prix. But, he had been able to actually get close to the French driver. You, not so much. 

Arthur huffed. “I’ll go find her. She hasn’t done something like this since 2021.” Arthur shuddered at his mention of the year. He disappeared in your direction. 

Oscar turned toward Charles. “What happened in 2021.” 

Charles only had a smirk on his face. “Let’s just say that someone ate her first for lunch and dinner.” 

The group of men laughed as they each went back to their respective garages. 

Turns out, there was nothing wrong with Ocon’s engine. He just didn’t know that you were right behind him. When you found out, you had more colorful words to follow. 

Arthur had been able to calm you down by promising that you’d be able to hold a koala when the two of you went to the Australian Zoo the Monday following the race. You grumbled for the next hour as the two of you sat in your driver’s room, drinking juice box’s that Max dropped off. 

News came out later that night that the stewards didn’t find any fault with you or Oscar. A giant sigh of relief fell out of everyone’s lips when the news was posted. Esteban, on the other hand, was handed a giant 10-place penalty. He would be starting P20 for the race. A content smile had graced your face for the remainder of Saturday night. 

Sunday was thankfully a much happier story. 

Starting Grid: 

Max Verstappen 

Charles Leclerc 

Daniel Ricciardo 

Y/n L/n 

Oscar Piastri 

Lando Norris 

George Russel 

Lewis Hamilton 

Fernando Alonso 

Carlos Sainz 

Alex Albon

Logan Sargeant 

Lance Stroll 

Yuki Tsunoda 

Valtteri Bottas

Nico Hulkenberg 

Pierre Gasly 

Zhou Guanyu 

Kevin Magnussen 

Esteban Ocon – 10-penalty  

You were almost dancing in the car as you were placed on the P4 place. 

Mitch came over the radio for the check. “Kid what has you so happy?” 

Your smile widened under your helmet. “Arthur said I can hold a koala tomorrow. And Vito should be currently hunched over my computer, trying to navigate Ticket Master so I can go to Eras Tour Part 2.” You were practically squealing. 

Mitch, back at the garage, turned around to find your manager. And sure enough, there he was hunched over your computer with a stressed look on his face. She only chuckled before she went back to look at your strategy. She knew your tyre reservation was much better than Bahrain or Jeddah. Both those races had you ending in a lower position than you or the team wanted. 

And speaking of the team, you had actually bought everyone as many coffees as they wanted after working on your car all night to get it ready for today. 

When the lights went out, the RB20 truly felt like a rocket ship. Around the second half of the race, you were able to overtake both Daniel (who went a bit wide) and then on the second to last lap Charles (who locked up, allowing both you and Daniel to overtake him). You knew the Monegasque would be sad, but according to your calculations, he should still be second in the constructors championship since he and his teammate finished before both Mercedes. 

But that was for a later time. 

Once again, you were on the podium. But this time, it was second place. You could only smile as you saw Daniel in the cooldown room, talking with Max. 

You immediately went and sat on your chair and watched the Dutchman and the Aussie have a good conversation before Daniel turned to you. 

“I thought I had it and then you came out of nowhere!” 

You giggled in response. “Well, we have to thank Charles since he opened the door for us to slip through. I thought I wouldn’t be able to catch up and I was all like oh no! Oh wait, sorry, ahem, aur naurrrr.” 

Daniel only rolled his eyes at your attempt at the accent. 

The three of you had fun on the podium. Almost as it was ending, Daniel suddenly leaned over to you and Max. 

“Hey! You wanna do a shoey with me?” 

Max looked disgusted but you looked elated. 

“Hell yeah!” you yelled back. You quickly sat on the podium and undid your shoe along with Daniel. The crowds seemed to get louder as the two of you started filling the shoes. The shoes met together in a mock toast before you brought yours to your lips. 

You grimaced as the smelly shoe got close to your mouth and the lukewarm champagne poured down your throat. But the cheers and Daniel’s smile was honestly worth it. 

The sticky liquid frothed down your chin as you finally pulled the shoe away and were led off the podium. Daniel and your smiles wouldn’t go away. 

“I cannot believe you two just did that,” Max grumbled as the three of you walked toward the teams. 

“Want a kiss Maxie?” Daniel puckered his lips and put his face near Max’s. The rebuttal was a hand on his face and a shove in the other direction.

As Daniel said goodbye, he picked up his black backpack. 

You waved goodbye. “Are we still up for the zoo tomorrow?” 

“Yep kid. I’ll see you there!” 

You left with Max and jumped toward the team! They welcomed the two of you with open arms! Life really was great. 

Race Results 

Max Verstappen + 25

Y/n L/n  +18

Daniel Ricciardo +15

Charles Leclerc +12

Oscar Piastri +11

Carlos Sainz +8

Fernando Alonso +6

Lando Norris +4

George Russell +2

Lewis Hamilton +1

Logan Sargeant +0

Alex Albon +0

Yuki Tsunoda +0 

Pierre Gasly +0

Zhou Guanyu +0

Valtteri Bottas +0

Lance Stroll +0

Kevin Magnussen +0 

Nico Hulkenberg +0

Esteban Ocon – DNF 

Standings after Australia 

Max Verstappen – 75 points 

Charles Leclerc – 48 points

Y/n L/n – 41 points  

Lando Norris – 27 points 

Lewis Hamilton – 24 points 

Fernando Alonso – 22 points 

Oscar Piastri – 19 points 

Carlos Sainz – 17 points 

Daniel Ricciardo – 17 points

George Russell – 14 points  

Alex Albon – 2 points 

Lance Stroll – 0 points 

Logan Sargeant – 0 points  

Pierre Gasly – 0 points 

Yuki Tsunoda – 0 points 

Esteban Ocon – 0 points 

Zhou Guanyu – 0 points 

Kevin Magnussen – 0 points 

Nico Hulkenberg – 0 points 

Valtteri Bottas – 0 points 

Constructors Standings after Australia 

Red Bull – 189 points 

Ferrari – 110 points 

McLaren – 78 points 

Mercedes – 73 points 

Aston Martin – 25 points 

Racing Bulls – 32 points 

Williams - 0 points

Alpha Romeo – 0 points 

Haas – 0 points 

Alpine – 0 points 

y/n.89 has posted

y/n.89 little bump on Saturday, first team 1-2 with shoeys on Sunday, and Arthur and I were surrounded by Aussies on Monday! Couldn't have asked for a better weekend!

liked by landonorris, oscarpiastri, estebanocon, and 69,289 others

champagne-without_the_cham not Esteban in her likes

landonorris uuhhhh were was my invite??

logansargeant and mine? maxverstappen1 and mine? y/n.89 you two get Oscar all the time and Max, Daniel is your second wife, you all can chill

arthur_leclerc it was fun, but I definitely got way too close to the gators

y/n.nation the second picture was everything

change_ur_f-car I KNOW that someone used *crikey* at least once

y/n.89 yeah, it was George on FaceTime

redbullracing love to see our driver spending some koala-ty time in Australia! See you in Japan soon

danielricciardo had lots of fun darl, we'll do it again sometime!

redbullracing has posted *I know Danny's hat says 1st but just pretend it's not there*

redbullracing It was a 1-2 and shoey type of weekend! see you all at Suzuka soon

liked by y/n.89, danielricciardo, f1_fanatic, y/n_updates, and 98,294 others

dannyricc03 YEAH DANNY ON THE PODIUM

danny&max ikr and the fact that it was with Max and Y/n - my heart y/nsfav and she did the shoey with him!!!

y/n.89 contrary to everyone's beliefs, the shoey was not that bad

landonorris lies lewishamilton lies aussiegrit lies zbrownceo lies nicorosberg lies y/n.89 ALL RIGHT I LIED danielricciardo wait...

maxiel4ever sad Max didn't do the shoey, but we got good maxiel content

kidandmaxie man, y/n's already had 3 races and two of them had been podium! I'm guessing a p1 in suzuka! she's on a streak!

author aha it'd be a shame to mess. it. up. *this comment has been deleted*

y/n.fanclub JAPAN P1 WHOO! I FEEL IT

If you want a small continuation after Sunday's race - read this chapter of Besties For The Resties!

TAG LIST: @fionaschicken @glitterquadricorn @laura-naruto-fan1998 @treehouse-mouse @sam-is-lost @kagatinkita @fangirl125reader @megatrilss1885 @myxticmoon @angsthology @cmleitora @agent-curt-mega @graciewrote @ashy-kit @slutofmultifandom @aexitizen @sugarvibez @vellicora @thatgirlthatreadswattpad @cashtons-wife @aeh2 @hoetel-manager @xcharlottemikaelsonx @jayda12 @cassie0sstuff @ilove-tswizzle @justme2042 @itsjustkhaos @nikfigueiredo @stopeatread @cha-hot @sadg3 @iloveyou3000morgan @s4turnsl0ver @alessioayla @torchbearerkyle @leptitlu @awekbachira @shreks-sugar-daddy @v1naco @stan-josie @mellowarcadefun @badassturtle13 @beskardroids @callisposts

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for Jan; mistaken identities and interdimensional refugees. ( chrono || non-chrono )

“. . . Kent,” Bruce says, sounding immediately exasperated and also way less “Batman”, which Kon wishes he could assume were a good sign. “Why the hell did you tell the aid workers you were me?” 

“I did not, I just flirted with a couple of them while overdressed for the situation and holding a traumatized unaccompanied minor and apparently some assumptions were made, can't imagine why,” Kon says dryly, because he is who he is as a person and all, and also has never in his life known when to just shut the fuck up. “But look, I'm not Superman, okay?” 

“This version of Mr. Kent appears to be around twenty years old, Master Bruce,” Alfred says, probably assuming he’s being helpful while definitely being the exact opposite of helpful. “More . . . interestingly, perhaps, our additional guest has identified himself as ‘Jon Kent’ and claims to be the biological child of his own reality's Clark Kent and Lois Lane.” 

“He is,” Kon sighs, squeezing the arm he has around Jon. “He’s also like ten, so you don’t need to go full Bat on it, okay?” 

“There's a successful Kryptonian-human hybrid from an alternate dimension and a proto-Superman from a different alternate dimension in my city, and you think I shouldn't be concerned by that?” Bruce asks neutrally. 

“I mean I know you're gonna be, I'm not stupid enough to think there's a version of you that wouldn’t be, just it's really not necessary,” Kon says, rolling his eyes in exasperation. Like he doesn’t fucking know what Batman is like, c’mon. “Worry about the whole interdimensional traffic jam altogether, not specifically us. And I'm still not Superman, thanks.” 

“You do realize we have no reason whatsoever to trust you, yes?” Bruce says, because apparently he thinks Kon’s new here or something. “Especially because despite claiming to not be Superman, you've verified Jon Kent as being Clark Kent's offspring and you clearly know me. And also, you know Superman exists.” 

“It would be very hard not to, at this point in my life,” Kon replies dubiously. 

“What do–” Bruce starts to say, and then the street blows up. 

Goddammit, Kon thinks as Alfred swerves the towncar onto the sidewalk and neatly splits the difference between a mailbox and a fire hydrant without hitting either. Because, like. Alfred, obviously. Jon yelps in alarm and Kon wraps his TTK around him reflexively–and Alfred and the car, though that’s a little less “reflex” and a little more “deliberate choice”. 

He really doesn’t know why he did that. Just–yeah. That’s what his reflex was. 

Jon doesn’t even need it, probably, but his Jon never needed anything from him either, so–

Kon forces himself to stop thinking about that, because this Jon does in fact need things from him, and leans forward to get a clearer view of the street without getting X-ray vision involved as Alfred lets out a mildly aggrieved sigh and taps his fingers against the wheel. 

It is . . . kind of a mess, to put it mildly. 

[bones4thecats]

If it's not too much trouble, I would like to make a request for a Rengoku reader with Savanaclaw please.

Savanaclaw w/ a Kyojuro Rengoku! S/O

Characters: Leona Kingscholar, Ruggie Bucchi, and Jack Howl Requester: @marinahavik A/N: This is themed of when the Reader passes away from Akaza and the character's reactions to said death ⚠️ Spoilers/Trigger Warnings for: Death, mentions of fighting, Rengoku getting turned into a donut, and angst ⚠️

Disclaimer: The Reader may be slightly ooc for Rengoku. Just sayin'

╔══════════════════════════════════════════╗

╚═════ Leona Kingscholar ════════════════════════╝

🦁 Leona laid with his back against the wall, he was getting more tired with the passing minutes... but he couldn't seem to get any kind of nap in for the past couple days

🦁 You were called back to your base by your Master just a week ago, and you sent him a crow telling him your mission would last at most three days, mainly for travel time

🦁 He was getting annoyed. It had been almost four days and he had heard nothing from you. What was wrong with you? Did you get injured or something and he never heard?

🦁 All of a sudden, the sound of three landing individuals made him open his one eye and look up. There stood two Demon Slayers and a Kakushi. The two slayers looked familiar, they looked like the way you described the Kamado-siblings you helped train

"You're Leona Kingscholar, yes?" The Kakushi asked.

"Yeah?"

"We're sorry to tell you this..."

🦁 Leona cocked an eyebrow, what were they talking about? His family had no relations to the Demon Slayers Corp, why would they be sorry about something?

"Your S/O, Y/N Rengoku, has... passed away..."

🦁 Oh...

╔══════════════════════════════════════════╗

╚═════ Ruggie Bucchi ═══════════════════════════╝

🍩 Ruggie liked your cheerfulness, it helped bring a sense of joy to his long and hard-worked days. You would normally assist him unless you were on a mission, much like today

🍩 He smiled the day you left. You sheathed your sword and looked back at your boyfriend

🍩 Ruggie stepped up to you, wrapping his arms around your midsection. You wrapped your arms around his neck so you could pull him close for a goodbye kiss

🍩 He pulled away and stood, his tail slightly swerving around while he laughs with a slight pitch. He just wished you luck and waved as you walked off back to the Demon Slayer Headquarters

🍩 The hyena-beastman was just finishing up a task the day you were supposed to come back, his joy beyond sky-bound as he thought of the many things you would do when returned

"Excuse me?"

🍩 Ruggie turned around to see a Kakushi, one of the many members of your estate, standing there waiting for his reply

"Whatcha need?"

"You're Ruggie Bucchi, right? Rengoku-sama's boyfriend?"

"...Yeah?"

🍩 The woman shuffled and sighed deeply, attempting to calm herself from crying, much to your boyfriend's confusion

"T-they... Y/N died..."

╔══════════════════════════════════════════╗

╚═════ Jack Howl ═════════════════════════════╝

🐺 Your energy and Jack's loyalty was quite the mixture of qualities in a relationship

🐺 Jack was very happy when you came back from missions, always ready to hold you and talk to you about whomever you defeated and how you did so

🐺 He was obsessed with you and your dedication to the Demon Slayer Corps, keeping everyone at risk safe from the evil demons made by Muzan Kibutsuji

🐺 Whenever you had to leave, you would come by and spend a night specifically with Jack and Jack alone before leaving and giving him a loving hug

🐺 This time, you told him it would be longer, maybe around a week at most. He just nodded and had the same routine with you, a night together before hugging you so you could get going

🐺 That morning, Jack jumped up from his rest. It was only sunrise, so he was surprised that someone was awake a couple minutes before his alarm would go off

🐺 Walking to his door and opening it, he saw the other first years there with a Kakushi and a tearing-up Yuu Sei

"What's going on?"

🐺 Yuu sniffled before hugging Jack tightly, arms binding him as he chocked on a breath before hugging back in confusion, asking yet again what happened

"Y/N-sensei..." Yuu chocked out, tears falling harder as they cried into his chest.

"Y/N-sensei's gone..."

[cloudraker]

Oh hello! I've seen that your requests were open and I was wondering if you could write headcanons for MTMTE, about a sleepy human reader (platonic) accidentally falling asleep on the minibots during movie night (swerve,taligate,rewind) Thanks!!

For sure, thank you for requesting! First request I've done in a while so apologies if it's a bit messy

MTMTE Minibots with a Human Falling Asleep During Movie Time

Under the cut :)

No matter what movie it is Swerve will talk through it. It's a skill to be able to commentate on anything that's happening and it's a skill he has mastered. It rarely adds anything to the story but sometimes the joke is good. Everybody gave up shushing him after the second movie

Swerve is also the one that usually suggests what movies to watch- he's got a whole list of movies from Earth he wants to see and he is going to see them

If Rewind doesn't have the movie then they use like. Space torrent or something they find a way

Rewind is the designated projector. He doesn't mind because that means he has to be invited and also he gets to keep the movie file after

It's during movie night when some movie you've already seen four times is playing that you start to nod off. You don't mean to, you know you should stay up to watch the movie but your work on the ship has been rough lately and you've already seen this movie so surely it's okay if you just close your eyes for a second

Tailgate is the first to notice, almost waking you up with the noise he lets out at the sight of you just conked out next to them. He has to stop himself from touching you- he doesn't want to wake you up

Rewind shuts the movie off as soon as he realizes what's going on. He's got the movie on file already so he doesn't need to see the whole thing and now there's something to record and he's already got like four photos from very slightly different angles

Swerve is.. conflicted. On one hand he really wanted to see that movie and it was just getting good but on the other hand. Well. Hardly fair if you miss out on the movie (he is watching you sleep like and is enraptured. he is fascinated)

Whoever you fell asleep on (or nearest to) is NOT allowed to move on threat of being banned from movie nights. Yes, this includes Rewind.

It's like when a pet falls asleep on you. You aren't allowed to move it's illegal it's a crime

The three minibots huddle around you, making sure you're covered and able to sleep soundly enough. Anybody who comes in is very quickly shooed out as quietly as they can

They talk quietly while you sleep, Swerve doing most of the talking while Tailgate mostly listens and Rewind films more content like a normal guy

When you do wake up again it's so over for you. Tailgate and Swerve are going to be talking about it for a while and Rewind has photos that he shares with Chromedome who shares it with Brainstorm and now the entire ship has seen it

If it ever happens again they start a collection of photos, all stored in chronological order. Rewind has a digital copy of everything saved in his database. May or may not be making a montage of awkward sleeping positions you've been found in just for shits and giggles

[mj-iza-writer]

Whumptober Day 31

Asking for help - Therapy - Making Amends - "I'm alive, just not well" (Elliott Lee, Alive, not well)

"Master.... please help it", Whumpee came running through the house.

Whumper looked up from their book as Whumpee came tearing into the living room.

"Help what?", Whumper frowned, "hey, relax, take a deep breath... I can't understand what you're on about."

Whumpee took a rushed breath before repeating.

"Help it please, it's dying", Whumpee hurried again.

Whumper saw tears in Whumpee's eyes.

"You're dying?", Whumper frowned.

Whumpee shook their head no.

"Alright alright. I'll humor you", Whumper got up, "take me to what you're talking about."

Whumper followed Whumpee outside to the end of their yard.

Whumpee knelt down and looked up at Whumper pleadingly.

Whumper looked along the curve until they saw two beady eyes looking up at them.

"Oh my", Whumper frowned, "a little kitten."

"I saw a car swerve and purposely hit it", Whumpee admitted, "please Master."

"Whumpee sometimes we can't fix these things. We can't mess with nature. I know it's sad, but we... can't.... help them", Whumper frowned as Whumpee wiped their eyes, "Whumpee", Whumper they sighed.

"It's not fair", Whumpee sobbed, "you saved m..."

"I know Whumpee", Whumper sighed, "I'll take it to the animal hospital though. They can give it a more comfortable good bye."

Whumpee looked at the cat sadly.

"Would you like to go with me?", Whumper started to pick up the kitten, "you have to promise to be good."

Whumpee thought quietly and nodded.

"Alright, let's go find a box and make it comfortable. I'm sure they will be happy to have someone love them for their last few moments", Whumper cradled the baby gently.

Whumpee gently pet the kitten's head as Whumper drove to the vet office.

"Whumpee, I'm sorry you have to learn about mean people like this", Whumper glanced at them, "I know I wasn't the nicest a while ago, and I hope you see me trying to be better. People are cold and heartless."

Whumpee sniffled a little and nodded, "you're a good master.. Master", Whumpee whispered.

"It's.... purring", Whumpee smiled weakly.

"It's showing you that it appreciates the love you are giving it", Whumper smiled comfortingly.

Whumper explained the situation to the vet.

"My... uh.. child saw the kitten get purposely hit. They wanted to try to save it, but I don't know if there is much we can do", Whumper sighed, "I thought we would at least give it this."

The vet nodded, and took the kitten from Whumpee.

Whumpee couldn't help but start crying.

Whumper wrapped an arm around Whumpee to comfort them.

"Shh, it's alright", Whumper whispered, "we are giving the the best we can. The vet knows how to help them now."

The car ride home was almost quiet. Whumpee's sobbing was louder than they intended.

"Whumpee when we get home, you can relax for the afternoon", Whumper sighed, "you've had a hard day."

"The... chores?", Whumpee shook.

"I'll do the chores today", Whumper sighed, "its fine."

Whumpee curled up in the corner of the living room and held one of their stuffies in their arms.

"I wonder if the kitten had a name even", Whumpee watched Whumper come in, "what if it dies without a name?"

Whumper thought quietly, "what would you have named it?"

"Hope", Whumpee answered quickly.

Whumper nodded, "well it now has a name."

Whumpee smiled.

Whumper snuck out the following day and went up to the vet.

"So what was the verdict with the kitten?", Whumper frowned.

"Unfortunately, you were right. The best thing we could do was put it down. There were too many injuries. The kitten wouldn't have had a good quality of life", the vet sighed, "how is your child doing?"

"Distraught, they named the kitten Hope. They were afraid it would die without a name", Whumper smiled, "I can't believe I'm saying this, but are their any kittens for adoption?"

"Whumpee, will you come here", Whumper called from the living room.

"Yes Master.. one minute please", Whumpee called back.

Whumper sat down, but out of excitement, they jumped back up.

Whumpee came in and knelt.

"Whumpee you have been doing so well lately. I am so proud of you", Whumper almost laughed gleefully, "you about broke my heart yesterday. So, I decided to reward you with something I think you'll love.

Whumpee looked at Whumper timidly. Their master may have changed majorly, but surprises were still a little nerve racking.

Whumpee sat down and reached down the side of their chair. They pulled up a small fur ball.

"Master.... what? Wait is that?", Whumpee almost jumped up but remembered their rules.

"This, unfortunately, is not Hope. Hope was very badly hurt. But, they believe this is one of Hope's siblings. They are doing a DNA test right now. The kitten was also found near where Hope was found. This kitten is for you, my dear", Whumper smiled, "you may come say hi."

Whumpee popped up and hurried to Whumper's side.

The kitten mewed at Whumpee as they reached a hand to pet it.

"They will be your responsibility, but I will help", Whumper smiled, "I was considering getting a pet, so this is why I went ahead and adopted them."

"What's their name?", Whumpee whispered as they got their face closer.

The kitten playfully pawed at Whumpee's nose, making them giggle.

"They don't have one just yet", Whumper chuckled as they handed the kitten to Whumpee, "I thought that could be your job."

Whumpee looked at Whumper with doe eyes.

"I get to name them?", Whumpee whispered.

"Yes my dear", Whumper nodded, then watched as Whumpee thought.

The kitten wiggled around in Whumpee's arms.

"Happy", Whumpee finally smiled, "because they made me very happy. Is that okay Master?"

"That is a very good name", Whumper smiled as they patted Whumpee's head, "the vet gave us a few things to use, but we will need to get some stuff tomorrow for Happy. It's a little late now."

Whumpee nodded as they looked down at the kitten.

"Thankyou so much Master", Whumpee smiled up at them, "this means so much."

"You're welcome dear", Whumper leaned back, "do you have any more chores to do?"

"No Master, I finished everything", Whumpee smiled, "they're purring."

"Then go ahead and enjoy some time with Happy", Whumper smiled.

"Whumpee go ahead and get ready for bed", Whumper stood at the end of the hall.

"Yes Master", Whumpee answered happily.

Whumpee set the kitten down on their mattress and started to change.

They noticed how the kitten stared at them, and they realized they were looking at a scar on Whumpee's stomach.

"Oh, Master did that a while ago. They almost killed me when they went too far, but they saved my life", Whumpee answered the unspoken question, "they're different now... honest."

The kitten meowed at Whumpee.

"Meow" Whumpee giggled.

Whumper was surprised when they saw the kitten round the corner and stare up at them.

"Hello", Whumper greeted, "I thought you were sleeping with Whumpee."

Whumper reached down a hand to see if the kitten would come to them.

Happy stared at the hand for a moment before walking toward it.

"Such a good kitty.... ow", Whumper pulled their hand back and glared at the cat, "what was that for?", Whumper watched two spots of blood coming out from their hand, "you better not make that a habit."

The kitten pranced off seemingly pleased with themself.

They kitten climbed back onto the mattress, they stopped to look at Whumpee's stomach before crawling up to Whumpee's nose and softly pawed at them.

Whumpee woke up a little and pet the kitten until they snuggled up close again.

"Goodnight Happy", Whumpee whispered.

Taglist. As always please let me know if you want to be added or taken off of the list. It's not a problem at all.

@villainsandheroes @the-beasts-have-arrived

@sacredwrath @porschethemermaid

@monarchthefirst @generic-whumperz

@bloodyandfrightened @freefallingup13

@notpeppermint @cyborg0109

@idontreallyexistyet @painfulplots

@whumpbump @everythingsscary

@skittles-the-whumpee @expressionless-fr

@theforeverdyingperson @legendarydelusiongoatee

@candleshopmenace @whumpanthems

@lavndvrr @ivymyers

@starfields08000 @a-living-canvas

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@3-2-whump @risk606

@electrons2006 @paperprinxe

@whumprince @kaz-of-crows

@mis-graves @decaffeinatedtimetraveler94

@sausages-things @ragin-cajun-fangirl

@isikedmyself878 @daffyduckcommittedtaxfraud

@valravnthefrenchie @glennemerald

@jasperthecapser @does-directions

@deafeninglittlecrown @jumpywhumpywriter

@blackbirdsinatrenchcoat @mylifeisonthebookshelf

@thenormalestever @whatwhump

@galatic-worm @starmoon-constellation

[surielstea]

Caught Red-Handed

Based on this request.

Pairing: Azriel x Fem!Reader

Summary: In which Azriel returns home from a mission and reader is a little too excited to see him, forgetting to keep her noise down.

Warnings: Mostly fluff but there is some smut | Minors DNI | 18+ | Thigh riding | pet names (Princess) | Az being the best dad everrr

2.1k words

"I want Dadda to sing to me," My daughter whines as she snuggles deeper into her pillows, the large bed swallowing her small frame whole. I smile at the words, remembering how my mate sang our child into a slumber every night with his melodic tunes, shadows swishing around him as he did so, lulling her to sleep.

"I know my sweet," I sigh, running my hand through her long, pitch-black hair. "When is he gonna be back?" She looks up at me with a growing pout, the toddler seemed to master the art of guilt tripping perfectly.

"Tonight, you'll see him in the morning," I promise and her grin widens. "But how will I ever sleep!" She throws her arms up and I chuckle, leaning down and pressing a kiss to her forehead. "You need your rest or you'll be too tired to play with him in the morning," I advise and she huffs, curling into a ball and cradling her favorite bat stuffed animal to her chest.

"I'll tell you what, if you go to bed now I'll make you pancakes in the morning," I promise, and she shoots up, staring at me with eyes wide as saucers. "Pancakes!" She says excitedly and I nod. "But you've got to go to sleep now," I rule and she flops back down onto her pillows dramatically, clenching her eyes shut in an attempt to feign sleeping.

I smile at her theatrics and lean down, placing a kiss on her temple. "Goodnight Melaina," I whisper against her hair. "Night night, Mama," She murmurs back and I stand from her bed, approach the door, and give her one last look before exiting.

Azriel's been gone for a week. A long, stressful week. I hadn't realized how much he did for me until he was gone. Raising a toddler was much, much harder without him. Rhys had sent him to The Continent to make sure no wars were brewing and that everyone was somewhat at peace with Hybern off of his throne.

I still don't know why my mate was chosen, if Rhys needed to know so bad why didn't he just go? Of course, I knew the High Lord was busy, but still, the touch starve was making me grow bitter.

I was pacing the halls in anticipation for him to return I was so excited. I had been stress-cleaning all day, just to prove to him that everything went fine when he was away, I didn't want him to feel bad for doing his job. Even if some selfish part of me never wanted him to leave my side again.

Melaina hasn't stopped ranting about how excited she was for him to come home and I couldn't help but agree with her, matching the four-year-olds energy when she spoke about her father.

It felt like I stared at the balcony for hours, it was only until I was half asleep that the glass doors slid open. I sprang up like a child on the morning of their birthday, Azriel closed the doors quietly behind him and he barely got the chance to look ahead of him before I tackled the Shadow Singer, clinging to him like a tree as I wrapped my arms and legs around his neck and torso, squeezing his chest to mine. He chuckled and I couldn't believe that I had forgotten the sound of his laugh. I hold him tighter.

"Miss me?" He presumes and I pull away before peppering his face in kisses, his neck, his forehead, the tip of his nose, and just as I was about to place a kiss on his cheek he swerves and plants his lips over mine.

I melt into the familiar feeling of my mate's mouth over mine, I cup his jaw with delicate fingers as they buzz with electricity. "A week is too long," I murmur, loving the way his smile feels against my lips. "I know, Princess," He mutters, head dipping into my shoulder as I cling to him tighter as if I was afraid he might be sent away again.

"How's Laina?" He asks into my shoulder and I grin. "Hopefully asleep," I mutter as he walks us over to the couch, plopping down onto the cushions and leaving me straddling his hips. "She missed you so much," I frown, shifting so I was balanced on one of his thighs. "I missed the both of you," His strong arms wrapped around me, pulling me close. "I'm telling Rhys he's not allowed to send you away for that long again," I rule and he chuckles. "I don't think that's up to you, love," He hums and I roll my eyes. "Stupid High Lord and his stupid assignments,” I grumble beneath my breath, cursing out my own friend.

“You seemed to have managed just fine without me, everything looks the same,” He glanced around the house and I deflated, head dipping into his shoulder. “But everything didn’t feel the same,” I huff dramatically. “I’m so glad you’re back,” I peck up his jaw as a gentle smile blessed his features. “A week is too long, I could barely sleep,” I confess, lifting up and hovering in front of his face, the tip of my nose brushing against his.

“And I’m ovulating,” I hit his chest like it’s his fault. “So that’s why you’re so clingy, hm?” He tilts his head and I flush hot. “Shut up, you were gone, I had to resort to my own hands,” I grumble, burying my head into his shoulder again as he chuckled. “Not funny, I felt like I was single again,” I huff. “It was the worst.”

“You wanna show me how you did it?” He purrs and my cheeks flare red. I sit up on his lap, looking down at him with furrowed brows but he only gives me a reassuring look with encouraging eyes, like he was waiting for me to get myself off on him.

I swallow thickly. “Right now?” I say and he shrugs. “Didn’t you miss me?” He arched a brow and gods, he knew me too well. Knew that I’d been touch starved for an entire week and usually I wasn’t so hyper-sexual but without the usual waist touches or pecks on the cheeks I was manic, and he knew it. Knew he could tell me his dirtiest, darkest fantasy and I’d comply without any hesitation because I needed him.

“C’mon, Princess, I know it’s been a while but you can do it,” He urges and my hands come to his chest as I slowly begin rutting my hips over his, grinding onto his clothed thigh, gaining friction at the place I needed him most.

“Gods I missed you,” He confessed, a slow smile coming to his face as I rolled down onto him. I continue my movements, switching them from hesitant to fluid and languid, grinding down onto him and gasping as he flexes his thigh every now and then.

“Fuck, Az,” I tilt my head back, up to the ceiling, nails digging into his shoulders at the intense feeling, his thigh already getting me farther than my hands ever were able to. “Good,” He says, lips ghosting against the column of my throat. “So good for me, getting off on my thigh,” He hums, fingers digging into my hips as I continue my movements. “Please Az,” I clench my eyes shut. “Please, need all of you,” I beg and he smiles against my neck. “I don’t think you do, I think you can get off without me even touching you,” He croons and I whimper, looking at him with pleading eyes and furrowed brows. He only returned it with a smirk.

I pouted, making a point and pressing myself into his semi-hardened cock. He grunted lowly from the base of his throat and a knot formed in my abdomen at the sound. Moans and pleas filled the room as I begged him for more, for something. We both knew he wasn’t going to give me anything else until I found release and we also both knew I didn’t need anything else.

“Fuck m’close,” I murmur. “Already?” He tilts his head with a demeaning tone and the degradation only pushes me closer to that edge. I nod pitifully. “So needy, aren’t you?” He taunts and I dip my head again, beyond words as I pant heavily, toes curling and nails scratching down his back as I soak my panties in my arousal.

An unearthly sound escapes from the base of my throat as I find release, and it’s his name on my lips when I meet my climax, hand pulling at his hair as I slowly ride out my high, my swaying tapering off.

Then, below the pants and soft whines, I hear a familiar voice that makes the both of us freeze in our tracks.

“Mama?” My daughter calls and I flip off of Azriel in a panic, falling onto the floor with a groan as shadows swish around me, making sure I’m okay.

Our child walks out of the hallway clutching her bat-stuffed animal in her navy nightgown that brushed the floor. “Dadda!” She squealed, running right past me as I struggled to stand back up, and straight to her dad, jumping into his arms with a wide grin.

“Oh, I missed you so much Starlight,” Azriel exclaims, hugging his daughter tight to him, looking down at me with wide eyes as I collect myself.

“I missed you times one hundred!” The toddler argues and Azriel shakes his head. “I missed you times infinity,” Azriel scoffs and she pouts, her wide eyes the color of mine, always making him give in. “Okay fine, we missed each other equally,” He sighs. “But I have a feeling you were supposed to be asleep, isn’t that right?” He narrows her eyes on her as if it was an interrogation and she rolls her eyes.

“Well I was asleep, but then I heard Mama yelling your name and knew you were home!” She excused. “Why were you yelling, Mom?” She turns to me with those curious eyes. “Uh,” I look to Azriel for help but he just stared at me with the same gaze, as if he had no idea. “Cause I was just so excited to see him,” I shrug. “Then why were you on the floor?” She gestures to the ground. “Dad pushed me,” I say, pinning the blame on him. Melaina gasps and whips around to him, her hands cupping over her mouth. Azriel’s hands shoot up like he’s been caught red-handed.

“I didn’t! Mom has cooties, I had to get her away from me,” He whispered loud enough for me to hear and she gasped again, taking a wide step away from me.

I rolled my eyes at her theatrics, hands resting on my hips as I looked down at the girl. “Why don’t you go back to bed, dad will come in soon to sing to you okay?” I bend down to her height and she whines. “Hey, do you want pancakes or not?” I tilt my head and she immediately seals her lips shut. I smile. “Good, now run along,” I shoo her and she nods happily before scurrying back to her bedroom.

I sigh in relief once she’s gone, then look at Azriel with a glare. “What?” He says innocently. “Cooties? She’s going to avoid me for days,” I quietly shout at him and he mischievously grins. “It’s not my fault she woke up,” He shrugs. I grab a pillow from the couch and begin to hit him with it. “You knew she was coming didn’t you?” I continue to whack him and he puts his hands out in defense.

“It was funny!” He claims and I throw the pillow entirely at him, then plop down onto the couch in defeat. “I’ll be back,” He sings, leaning down and pressing a kiss to my forehead. I cross my arms and continue to glare at him. Still upset he let me get caught.

Without another word, he walks off down the hall to our daughter’s room.

I continue to simmer in my own exasperation, but my annoyance only lasts so long before I hear my daughters bubbling laughter from the other side of the wall. Some part of me wanted to tell my mate she was supposed to be going to sleep but, I missed the way he made her laugh, so I didn’t kill their fun, and I even let myself enjoy listening to the muffled voices of my two favorite people in the world. Our little family was finally restored.

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[dotthings]

Behold, a master tightrope walker at work. While being clear how deep the love goes. That part isn't danced around. Yet this was vague and open-ended as Jensen could manage as to the exact nature of the love from Dean's end.

No amount of shouting from whatever stans will turn this into definitive slamming of a door. Jensen's still threading that needle about Dean, while he said that Cas's confession being romantic is "clear text" not "subtext."

None of this surprises me. It's been self-evident for a while (except to grudgewanking arbitrary naysayers) that Jensen is 100% in support of gay Cas in love with Dean. Jensen's just opening the faucet more letting those views pour out.

"Dean was sitting there on the floor and realized that he -- he had not only lost a brother-in-arms but had also lost one of his closest -- the closest people to him. And I -- you know I've said that when you find your people it doesn't matter who or what or where or why or when they are, you find your people. And they found each other"

The annotated Jensen Ackles:

(1) "brother-in-arms" -- even if someone wants to try and forcibly limit Dean and Cas to that term, brother-in-arms, as has been pointed out many times, has connotations not limited to platonic meanings, in ancient epics, in modern media, in music, in actual historical figures. But limiting to that term isn't even what happened here, since Jensen says "not only lost a brother-in-arms but..." There is no way out of this. Master stroke. He boxed the naysayers in but good. Let them spin in place.

(2) "had also lost one of his closest -- the closest people to him" -- Jensen stopped himself and changed what was likely "friends" to "people" and I'm not insisting on anything as to why but it sure is fascinating that he swerved and went with a less definitive word. Dean and Cas are best friends, that's canon, but if that's the limit, why swerve from saying friends? They are friends. That's true no matter what. This therefore appears to be about keeping things open ended. For now, Jensen doesn't want to tip his hand too far.

(3) "when you find your people it doesn't matter who or what or where or why" oh that's open-ended af. Thank you Jensen. Keeping the doors open wide enough to drive a semi truck through.

(4) "you find your people. And they found each other" -- somebody hold me that's beautiful. I have not much analytical to say except that sounds like another instance of keeping definitions of the relationship open-ended. But mostly I wanted to have another nervous breakdown again. Jensen said Cas is Dean's people. And they found each other. *UGLY SOBBING*

[pinkhoodi]

sweet love, sweet mornings

✎ᝰ — mornings with dick grayson <3

♡⃕ — dick grayson x reader

♡⃕ — genre + warnings: fluff + no warnings !

♡⃕ — a/n: literally whipped this up after thinking about how handsome dick would look in the morning and ooooooo he’s so 😮‍💨

Ꮺ mornings with dick, when he is present, are very much dreamlike. his heavy snores fill up the room as he catches up on sleep but also the way his back muscles tighten with each snore in and relaxes with each snore out

Ꮺ dick is usually a light sleeper, many things can wake him up and have him on high alert. but oddly enough, when you brush your fingers against his body, his rigid figure softens and his snores become lighter. it’s like his body is trained to differentiate your soft, angelic touch from the touch of family or the touch of villains

Ꮺ but also, the beautiful, quiet moment of witnessing dick sleep makes your stomach twist and your lips give a cheeky smile, seemingly similar to a high school crush. his posture of laying on his stomach but also his back slightly turned to you made you infatuated and flustered by his physique. it also doesn’t help that his body is barely covered in clothing, only boxers, but who is to complain ?

Ꮺ secretly, dick goes to bed in barely any clothing cause of two reasons. one, he adores the tenderness of your skin brushing against his as you both sleep soundly, and two, he notices how flustered you become from waking up to your boyfriend’s rugged body on display

Ꮺ usually when dick wakes up, he gives you a good morning kiss on your forehead and a “i love you kiss” on the corner of your lip. sometimes he’ll try to be slick and get a full-on kiss on the lips but you swerve your head just to mess with him. he either pouts or rolls his eyes at your playful antics

Ꮺ majority of the time, he’ll have his arm wrapped around your torso and pull you closer to him. he’ll tell you good morning followed by many complaints, starting at how beautiful you look to how grateful he is to have you. he’ll drag his hand across the bed until it meets yours and intertwine his sturdy fingers with yours. he brings the laced hands up to kiss your knuckle and give a light squeeze

Ꮺ it does take a while for the two of you to get out of bed. you’re too in love with dick’s warm look from the morning sun and he’s too obsessed with your beauty to even notice the time passing by. not to mention, you both go on tangent about the busy workload you have, catching up on the bat family, and even dick telling his stories from last night’s patrol

Ꮺ the usual routine for the both of you, after getting out of bed, is the both of you going into the bathroom together to brush your teeth and wash your face. one of you offers to cook breakfast while the other is in the shower. usually, dick offers to cook since he loves loves loves cooking breakfast for the two of you

Ꮺ I truly believe dick is a master chef at making the best soufflé, fluffy pancakes that are thick, bacon perfectly crisp. he loves cooking them all

Ꮺ dick would have that corny apron that says “kiss the chef” while cooking breakfast. he would also have fifties music playing in the background or some lighthearted jazz playing. sometimes he’ll be too into the music and have a concert instead of paying attention to the stove

Ꮺ after dick is done cooking, he would usually swap places with you and head into the shower while you’re drying yourself. as he passes by you, he would press his fingers into your hips and give a light squeeze. he would look into the mirror and softly smile at how you two complement each other so effortlessly. he loves how beautiful y’all look as a couple, he loves it so much that he has you guys framed almost everywhere in the house

Ꮺ once both of you done with bathroom, he would set the plates up while you poured juice for the both of you and set the dining table for y’all favorite show to watch together <3

Ꮺ for the rest of the morning, the living room is filled with commentary from the both of you about the show, small chews of the food. dick constantly asks if you like the food just so he can be cocky with it, a stupid grin while you roll your eyes and pretend to gag just to playfully hurt his pride a bit

♡⃕ okay but like mornings with dick ???? I don’t think I would want the morning to end 😩

𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐏 💗: psalm 9:10

© 𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟥 𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗁𝗈𝗈𝖽𝗂. 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽

[mychlapci]

I feel like blurr would be a master of the one pump dump, but both ways. He cums fast when he's spiking and He just internally vibrates so fast that it takes one bounce from him and any bot is overloading. It's humiliating for everyone who spikes him, they talk big game and then it's over in 5 seconds.

Blurrs seen porn where bots last multiple rounds, of course, but he assumes that it's just a popular kink or something because he's almost never had sex last longer than a few minutes.

(I say almost never because I think that if swerve got a chance in that pussy he WOULD overload as soon as blurrs touched his spike, however he would be so overcome bc it's blurr that he just wouldn't stop overloading. For like an hour straight. It's the longest (and best) time Blurrs ever had sex and swerve has to go to the hospital afterwards because hes severely dehydrated and hes claiming he saw primus at some point. Blurr would like a pt 2, and everyone else is trying to stop swerve from killing himself by dehydration from Blurrs super sucker pussy)

BLURR’S SUPER SUCKER PUSSY. Swerve is the best fuck Blurr ever had because he’s the only one who stayed through the absolutely barrage of endless overloads Blurr’s valve sends them through. It’s crazy how a little minibot managed to pump out so much cum…

[shoujo-wizard]

@lexirosewrites here's the ask i told you i've been putting too much detail into, i call it Haunting of Harrington House it's more details on the ask i sent quite awhile ago of a/b/o steddie haunted house AU this is very long so it is under the cut

it involves slightly better harrington parents, but they still aren't the best the emotional neglect is very present, it isn't very steddie or buckingham coded yet so i didn't tag it as either these r just broad initial details

O!Steve A!Robin

Steve grew up in a relatively cosmopolitan town in Washington near Seattle. His father and mother were big shot lawyers with little time for him. He was mostly a check on the to-do list for a "picture perfect" marriage, his designation as a male omega wasn't unexpected or shunned as the Harrington family apparently had a long history of male omegas. But they were still much too busy so every school break they'd dump him at his maternal grandparents house a few towns away. When there wasn't a school break he was primarily in the care of a nanny till his 15th birthday when it was deemed he knew how to take care of himself & be safe abt it.

He grew up learning next to nothing about his paternal grandparents aside from what was essential to a family tree project here & there. Steve knew his middle name, Oliver, came from his great-grandfather & tht said great-grandfather was a male omega as well. Richard Harrington never divulged more than the necessary information that Steve needed for school: his grandfather's name was Elijah Harrington, his grandmother's name was Amelia Smith before she married Elijah, his ancestors were some of the first settlers of the area that would grow into Hawkins, that his grandparents lived there their entire lives

Well time passed as it's wont to do, Steve graduated high school & decided to study Library Sciences as a long-term goal. Despite their estranged relationship his parents were supportive of this choice, but his father drew the line at looking at schools in Indiana. Richard told Steve he'd left Indiana & specifically Hawkins for a reason. He never told his son what tht reason was.

Steve thrived in college, getting a Bachelor in Information Science eventually getting into a Masters program that would earn him a Masters in Library Science thus allowing him to begin working as a librarian. In his Masters program he met A!Robin & they instantly bonded after a disaster of a Socratic seminar where they ended up on the same side of a heated debate abt the legacy of the Library of Congress. When Steve graduates his parents r nowhere to be found even tho they'd promised & even shared w him their travel plans tht would get them there on time. So he goes thru the motions of celebration till he gets a call from an unknown number. It's the police, his parents had been involved in a serious car accident after swerving to avoid a drunk driver. They'd both been pronounced dead at the scene. His parents were dead.

The next two weeks r filled with meetings with his parents lawyer, finding appropriate coffins, alerting business partners & friends alike to the deaths, & then getting acquainted with their will. The will stated that if Steve was 20+ upon their death their house would go up for sale. They'd left certain things to business partners, certain things to friends, and the rest was Steve's to do w as he pleased. he sells much of it, keeps some of it. Among what was left to Steve is the deed & blueprints & keys to a house in Hawkins Indiana. 

Well, he'd always been curious & there was no more childhood home waiting for him so he gets Robin to agree to come with him to the town he'd never been to before. They get in his car & go on a road trip. They arrive in Hawkins days later & stop at a diner they happen to find on Google maps before making the final trek to the mystery Harrington house.

They come upon a historic mansion from the Gilded Age. It's unmistakably in need of work. The windows r dark & the key gets stuck before working. The electricity buzzes & blinks before coming on reliably. There's furniture covered in white sheets in nearly every room. The kitchen hadn't been updated since the 1950s. The drawing room has covered paintings, covered furniture, a large fireplace clearly meant to impress, & nearly empty bookcases built into one wall. There is no television but an antique radio as well as a 70s record player in the sitting room. There's a second fireplace in the sitting room tht is just as gorgeous but clearly meant for the personal use of the family. There's an entire personal library past the sitting room & the platonic pair r apprehensive of the state of the books on the shelves. The library is two stories with a spiral staircase leading up. Another staircase directly opposite the foyer leads up to the second floor of the mansion. The blueprints show a total of five bedrooms & three bathrooms on the second floor with the third bathroom being an ensuite to the master bedroom. There's a staircase w a door at the top leading to the attic/servants quarters. They test the faucets in the kitchen & after some noise & undeniably stale water it works. The fridge clearly needs to b replaced & the oven & stove top r dubious at best. They find the master bedroom has a gorgeous antique nesting frame tht Robin thinks might date to the 1910s. Neither wants to chance the old mattress so they roll out their sleeping bags next to eachother & settle as comfortably as they can on the hardwood floor. 

That night Steve dreams. 

He stands in the garden behind the mansion. The lights r all on, & he can see shadows moving within as if a party is taking place. He's in the pajamas he wore to sleep & his feet r getting cold. But every effort he makes to get to the house makes him sink into the dirt. Just as his head is abt to b submerged beneath the soil he wakes up.

They eventually end up committing to using Steve’s inheritance to restoring/renovating the mansion. The dreams do not stop. In fact when he begins sleeping in the master bedroom alone the dreams get worse. More vivid and more confusing.

It all hits the fan not long after Steve has his first heat in the mansion. He comes out of his heat a little worse for wear bc he kept dreaming in between waves of horniness & moments of care from Robin. The dreams were not the pleasant wet dreams he’d always had during his heats. He could not remember any of them, but he always awoke with a rabbiting heartbeat searching the room for eyes he knew wouldn’t be there.

So he’s a little anxious but has to get over it quickly because they had carpenters coming in to reinforce various areas tht needed the help tht week, the electricity and wiring was already renovated and up to code. Context: they’d been working with local companies through this entire process, and the workers always smelled a little nervous whenever they were around. Neither of them asked because they got the feeling they wouldn’t get a straight answer. So these workers come in to do their job. The last area they needed to work on is the attic/servants quarters. These are big people, strong people, most of them alphas, but they all stood at the bottom of the stairs to the attic psyching each other up to go up there. Eventually they go up, begin working, all is quiet for half an hour, then suddenly every single one of the workers in the attic are charging down the stairs and stampeding out of the mansion.

i haven't exactly finished this thought but im now cooking up an entire fic

[see-arcane]

“You know,” Dracula hums by the fireplace, the flames a shade dimmer than his own eyes. “I do believe I am becoming paranoid in my old age. Yet I keep my things in such precarious order, all things where they must be.” A log pops. His eyes flash. “Where they should be. And so I have noticed that my own bedroom was disturbed during the day.”

“Oh?” Voice level, Jonathan. Voice steady, Jonathan. Surprise. Concern. “How so? I was under the impression the door was locked.”

“So it was. And yet, I can tell something was...” His nails drum on the mantel, the click of claws, “...different. Meddled with somehow.”

Something between foolishness, sleeplessness, and a smoldering kernel of ire sparks in Jonathan’s chest. Its embers travel up to his tongue.

“Nothing was stolen, I hope. I admit I had a mild scare some time ago, when I realized I couldn’t find certain things in my luggage. Only it occurred to me that your servants must have already taken them away to clean and hold aside for my departure.” A smile so easy it borders on suicidal curls on his face. It feels like a rictus. Maybe it will see him dead right then. “The people here are the most discreet I’ve ever encountered.”

Dracula raises a snowy brow.

“That they are. As discreet as spiders minding their web.” Then, a sudden swerve out of the growing cloud. He oozes mirth. “Have you seen any here, my friend? Spiders?”

“None.” He hadn’t. Dust, motheaten holes, but no spiders.

“That is because of my people as well. More, it is the work of local aid.” His grin has too many teeth. “The bats quite love them. Whenever I or my servants come across a spider indoors, we save it for them. All those that would dare to come crawling along the outer walls?” He snaps his fingers. “They are eaten before they can spin their first thread. It is a most lucrative exchange.”

Jonathan fights not to swallow, not to acknowledge the cold twisting in his stomach.

“I’m certain.”

“A hypothetical question for you. Which would you rather be, my friend? Of the two, I mean.” Dracula’s hand is on him again, itself a titanic white spider. Cold and immovable from his shoulder. It squeezes just short of bruising. “A spider or a bat?”

“I wouldn’t know, Count. Neither is the best choice."

“No?”

The hand is tighter.

“No.” Under the table, Jonathan crosses his fingers. “The best choice is a cat.”

The grip lightens and amusement sketches a change in the Count’s expression.

“Why a cat?”

“They can get away with much more,” Jonathan’s traitor tongue flies. He bites it. “If only for the fact of their comparative harmlessness as they serve their masters as they entertain and accompany. This, while it provides a more handy service in hunting pests of all sorts, be it spider and bat or beetle and rat. In exchange for doing the dual work of tending to the home and being pleasant and defenseless, the more powerful keeper ensures they’re housed and,” he gulps down glass, hot coals, acid, “and loved. A cat can only do so much, but it does just enough.”

Dracula shakes his head.

“Enough to get themselves in trouble, perhaps. No, my friend, if we must leave the smaller creatures behind, I must say a wolf is the better choice. He eats all in his path and has no master at all.” The cold hand gives another squeeze, the nails dimpling cloth and skin...then relaxes. Strokes. “But cats have their place as well. If kept in their proper place...”

The night goes on in this way for endless hours. And still Jonathan’s fingers are crossed out of sight. He has a fondness for cats. Even for spiders. He appreciates all creatures who take it upon themselves to hunt and cull those things that infest or take lives by little bites. But more than either, he has always had a fondness and fealty to dogs.

As the moon drags itself slowly across the sky, he imagines he hears their barking and baying meeting the wild cry of the wolves, and shepherd teeth sinking deep into bloodthirsty throats.