#for this idea. twenty-five years for some of them instead of just five. you know?

[relevant-url-incoming]

So Naz and Ams and their assorted cohorts have some timeline fuckery that I don't do with my other legacies, thanks to the family tree thing you can do and my having no idea what the class stories were like back in the day (which was like maybe two years ago but shhh it was The Day)

Meaning all my tech classes ended up in one generation and their various children were all my "canon" force users, and also proceeded with the Alliance part of the story. Which makes for some interesting adjustments such as:

Saresh is not Janarus' immediate successor but rather comes several chancellors after him (do we have any info on term length or limits?)

The dark council exists as the game presents it for the force users, and for the rest of them unless it's like. Jadus or somebody who only matters to a tech class, they're all just handwavy ocs I may or may not flesh out

Torian showing up in the kotxx stuff is in fact a touching father-daughter reunion. Which is trippy for several reasons. But hey that will be fun to write!

Jordan and Kaliyo are both tired middle aged folks seeing echoes of dead friends in these young upstarts trying to stop Zakuul. As you can imagine they handle that very differently

Raina gets to meet her dead husband's son who he never knew about. She and said son also do not know, and this goes unremarked. But I know. I know.

Theron's entire timeline is just. Wonky as fuck now. I crumpled it into a ball on accident. So I guess Satele is only a bit older than the folks in that first generation (made easier by them not really interacting with the Jedi council at least) and she can end up grandmaster of the order by the time the force-using kids go through their class stories. There could possibly be an argument for important parts of Theron's life shifting dramatically but! As most of his backstory is not discussed in game I Do What I Want

This also means that there was a sort of history repeat happening with the supposed cessation of hostilities after what happened to Coruscant pre-game - they go through the war, claim to call a truce, and then spend a long time saying "we are totally at peace!" While fighting just like they did at the start of Naz'erli and Ams and their respective siblings' stories. Which feels very futile but also very star wars in the end, something something cycle of violence and war. Idk the themes are a work in progress still, usually I'm out here talking about freedom and autonomy but this legacy... Very cycles and history focused methinks.

[inbabylontheywept]

my grandpa was a good man. and it really wasnt his fault - recreationally lying to kids is a proud family tradition - but he told me, once, that cutting a worm in half resulted in two worms.

i think he said it so i'd be more morally okay with fishing? i actually dont remember the context.

point was, he told me this, and he understimated (by a very large margin) how much i liked worms. i was a worm boy. very wormy. and after hearing that, i went home, and i dug through the garden, flipped over every rock, did everything i could to gather as many worms as i could, and then i uh.

i cut them all in half. every worm i could find. all of them. with scissors.

i then took this pile of split worms, and i put them in a box with a bit of lettuce and some water and stuff and went to bed expecting to double my worms overnight. i have math autism, so i had a vague understanding that if i did this just a few times in a row, i would eventually have a completely unreasonable amount of worms.

i was very excited to become this plane's worm emperor.

(i think i was...six?)

anyway, i did not become the inheritor of the worm crown. i instead woke up to a box of dead worms and cried. a lot. i got diagnosed with panic attacks as a teenager, but i think i had them as a kid, i just had no idea what they were. i was kind of processing that a.) i had killed what i had assumed was every single worm in my yard, and thus would have no more worms, and b). i was going to like, worm hell.

(six year babylon spent a lot of time worrying about god.)

so i kind of freaked out, and i climbed a tree, because god can only smite you if you're touching the ground (?) and i sat up there mostly inconsolable until my mom came out and asked, hey, what's up? what happened?

so i explained to her that i had killed all of the worms, forever, and was also Damned, and she took me to the compost pile, and we dug for all of five seconds and found like twenty more worms.

the compost pile was full of worms.

she then told me that a). there were more worms, and we could put them back under rocks and stuff and recolonize our yard and b). that one day, i would die, and go to heaven, and be able to talk to the worms face to face. that i'd be able to tell them all that i was very sorry, and that i killed them on accident, driven only by excessive Love, and that she was positive they would forgive me because worms have six hearts and no malice.

at that point, i think i was sixty percent tear-snot by weight, and i had no choice but to gather enough worms that i could hug them. which my mom helped with. and then after that she helped me put some worms back under each rock.

and for my epilogue: i spent a significant portion of my childhood in trees. and for many years after, even when my mom didnt know i was watching, i would catch her giving the space under the rocks a light spritz with the hose. not because she loved worms.

but because she loved me.

[wosospacegirl]

Legally binding - Part 2

Summary: Alexia Putellas didn’t plan to become anyone’s legal guardian. But a very determined 12-year-old with a forged Barça contract has other ideas — and she’s already moved in.

Warnings: Alexia doesn't know how to tuck anyone is, and Y/n is proudly offering five euros to help with groceries.

Word count: 4.6k

Part 1 here

Masterlist

..

Alexia never realised just how big her dining room was until she sat across from a twelve-year-old stranger in it.

She rarely ate here. 

Usually, dinner was something balanced and boring, grilled fish and roasted vegetables, eaten on the sofa while half-watching a sports talk show. 

But tonight, with the girl here… it felt wrong, somehow, to eat in silence in front of the TV.

So, she set two plates down on the dining table like a proper adult and tried not to feel weird about it.

Now, she just watched, fork halfway to her mouth, as the girl absolutely inhaled her food. 

She was nearly finished already, only a few broccoli left on her plate, while Alexia had barely made it through her third bite.

And she was eating everything. Even the vegetables.

“Aren’t kids supposed to hate that kind of thing?” Alexia asked.

The girl looked up, cheeks full. She looked like a squirrel. 

Alexia resisted the urge to sigh. “So…” she said instead, reaching for her orange juice, “what’s your name?”

The girl shovelled another forkful of pasta into her mouth. “Uhgmm,” she said through it.

Alexia grimaced. “Sorry?”

The girl swallowed, wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve, and shrugged. 

“Not telling you..”

“I’m sorry–what?” Alexia said, completely confused.

“I’m not telling you,” the girl said again, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’ll just give me back if you know.”

Alexia stared at her, genuinely baffled. “Give you back?”

“To the orphanage,” the girl said simply. “Obviously.”

Alexia’s mouth opened, then closed again. 

Because… she wasn’t wrong. 

Alexia had wanted to know her name so she could pass it to her lawyer, have someone contact the authorities, figure out how to send her back, and if she was going to have to sign other documents cancelling the guardianship.

“I already know where you came from,” Alexia said slowly. “I don’t need your name to find the orphanage, I know it’s the Santa Clara one”

The girl froze, eyes wide, the fork halfway to her mouth again. Her confidence flickered for just a second.

“You can’t give me back,” she said quickly, too quickly. “You’re my legal guardian now. You signed a document.”

Alexia shot her a look. “A document you forged. In a way, I still don’t even understand.”

The girl set her utensils down and folded her hands over the table. The way she leaned forward, her elbows planted, chin tilted, expression serious, made her look like she was about to do business. 

“Look,” she said, “I don’t want a mom. Or a dad. Okay? That’s not what this is.”

Alexia didn’t answer. She just waited.

“I want to be a footballer,” the girl continued. “Like you.”

Alexia stared.

“I don’t need you to parent me or whatever,” the girl went on, as if that part was obvious. “I just need a place to stay. And for you to get me into La Masia. You don’t even need to pay–I’ve got some money.”

She dug into her hoodie pocket and pulled out a handful of wrinkled bills, proudly laying them across the table like she was negotiating something.

Twenties, tens, even a crumpled fifty. Where she got them, Alexia didn’t want to know.

“See?” the girl said brightly. “I can cover the... monthly tuition.”

Alexia looked down at the cash, barely enough to buy shin guards, let alone support a training program, and then back at her.

“You know this wouldn’t even buy one boot, right?”

The girl tilted her head, clearly processing that. “No? Oh….well, that’s okay, I’ll get a job!”

Alexia nearly choked. “You’re not getting a job. You’re a kid.”

“But I can cook! Well, not really. But I can wash dishes!”

“That’s not—” Alexia ran a hand down her face. “That’s not how this works. You can’t just… move in with someone and say you’re gonna get a job in exchange for becoming a professional footballer.”

“Why not?” the girl asked earnestly. “I’ve got a plan. All you have to do is not ruin it.”

Alexia stared at her.

This kid had broken into her house, eaten her dinner, forged a legal document, and now had the audacity to ask her not to ruin her plan.

She took a deep breath, leaned back in her chair, and looked at the girl, who still didn’t have a name. Who looked up at her like this was all normal. 

She forced her own adoption, and she thought it was completely casual.

It should’ve been infuriating.

But instead, Alexia just felt… tired. She had a long day.

She had woken up that morning thinking her biggest worry was the upcoming game. Tactics. Opponent formations.

Now, she was sitting at her dining table. An unfamiliar setting in itself, thinking about how the kid sitting across from her wouldn’tt have clothes for the winter.

Alexia leaned back slightly in her chair, eyes drifting down to the empty plate across from her.

“Do you want more?” she asked, her voice calm.

The kid, who up until now had spoken with nothing but confidence, seemed to wilt a little. 

Her shoulders hunched in just the smallest way, and she looked down at her lap like the question embarrassed her.

“No, thank you,” she said, quiet and polite in a way that felt… off.

Alexia frowned. The plate had been licked clean–well, not literally, but close. 

The kid had eaten her food like someone who didn’t know when her next meal was coming. And now, she was suddenly… demure? 

Yeah. No way was she actually full.

Without saying anything, Alexia reached across the table and took the plate. 

The girl flinched–just a little, a small tightening of the jaw–but said nothing. Alexia turned toward the kitchen, refilled the plate with more pasta, and scooped on an extra spoonful of broccoli, since this one apparently liked it a lot.

Then she returned.

Alexia placed it in front of the girl.

The kid stared. Then blinked. 

Then looked up at her with eyes too big, too round, too unsure.

“Are you sure?” she asked, voice tentative.

“Sí,” Alexia said, nodding once.

There was a beat of silence. The girl’s fingers crept toward the tablecloth, rubbing the edge between her thumb and index finger. Her brows knit together.

“Won’t it, like…” she hesitated, glancing at the plate again. “Won’t there be like… a shortage of food or something?”

Alexia’s stomach dropped.

“No,” she said gently. “There’s plenty in the pantry. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“But your freezer looked empty.”

Alexia flushed. “I haven’t done the groceries yet,” she admitted.

“Oh.” The girl nodded again, like that made sense. 

And then she reached into the pocket of her hoodie. Fingers fumbling a little, she pulled out more crumpled bills.

She took a single five-euro note, smoothed it against her palm, and then, with all the dignity in the world, slid it across the table with one finger.

“To help pay for the food,” she said.

Alexia stared at the note.

 The table felt too big again. 

The kid too small.

  And suddenly, the game or dinner was the least of her worries.

..

When dinner was done, every last bit of pasta and broccoli scraped off the plates, the kid jumped up with unexpected energy.

“I’ll do the dishes!” she declared, already reaching for the sink.

Alexia frowned, rising to her feet. “You don’t have to.--”

“I like touching water,” the girl interrupted, dead serious, like it was a totally normal reason.

Alexia blinked. “Okay then.”

So while the girl stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, Alexia hovered nearby. She dried the plates and set them on the rack, letting the girl have her moment.

She looked comically small next to the counter. The sponge was almost too big for her hand, and she kept having to stretch to reach the faucet.

Alexia cleared her throat, trying to make conversation. “You’re twelve, right?”

“Yes!” the girl said proudly, chin lifted. “Almost thirteen.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes! My birthday is like… in eight months.”

Alexia paused. “Oh. Yeah. Definitely close.”

The girl nodded seriously, as if that settled it. She returned to scrubbing a fork, very concentrated.

Alexia opened her mouth, trying to think of something–anything–she could ask the girl. 

But no question would be enough. None of them could really help her make sense of what had happened two hours ago.

That morning, she was just Alexia Putellas. Barcelona’s captain. Leaving the house with her kit bag slung over her shoulder and her mind focused on training drills.

By the evening? She was… Guardian Alexia Putellas, apparently. Cooking dinner for a twelve-year-old girl who might, technically, be her legal responsibility.

This was insane. Completely insane.

And yet, the girl didn’t look insane. She looked… harmless. Small. 

Too small and far too thin for a twelve-year-old. But also too clever for her own good, too quick with her words, too sharp-eyed. 

And Alexia still didn’t even know her name.

She shivered, recalling how the girl had just… barged in. Walked straight into her living room.

Maybe it was time to finally take her mother and Alba’s advice: alarms on the windows, a digital lock on the door. Something that needed a code to open. 

They had begged her to upgrade the security for years, but she had always brushed them off.

Now? Knowing a pre-teen had managed to scale her building and just walk inside?

Yeah. That needed to change.

Her thoughts spiralled further, carried by a chill that ran down her spine.

What would have happened if the girl had chosen a different house? 

What if she had climbed into the wrong apartment? Found someone who wasn’t kind, who wasn’t safe? Someone with bad intentions?

Alexia’s stomach twisted.

It was obvious no one was looking out for this kid. 

The way she had spoken, so confident, utterly convinced of the legality of her claim, told Alexia that this wasn’t just a prank. 

Something real had happened. Something official enough for the girl to believe it.

And if the orphanage had really let her leave like that…

She rubbed a hand down her face, exhaling slowly. Tomorrow, she was going to call Pedro. Her lawyer would know what to do—he would get the facts straight. 

He could find out who this girl was, where she came from, and what kind of orphanage allowed a child to walk around Barcelona with nothing but a backpack and a forged contract claiming a new parent.

Because right now, Alexia wasn’t even sure what kind of situation she’d gotten herself into.

But one thing was clear: this girl had nowhere else to go.

..

"Okay, everything is done here," Alexia said, sliding the last plate into the cupboard.

The kid, however, wasn’t done. She was hunched over the sink with that same determined energy, scrubbing the basin like it owed her something. 

Her fingers moved fast, precise, her eyes narrowed in concentration.

“I don’t think it looks clean enough,” the girl muttered to herself, scrubbing harder. “I like cleaning. It’s like...you just fixed something, even if it’s small.”

Alexia tilted her head, trying to spot whatever the girl was obsessing over. From where she stood, the kitchen practically sparkled. 

Not a speck of food, not a smear of sauce. It looked better than it had in weeks.

“Hm… no, it’s good–come on,” Alexia said, reaching for the sponge.

The girl rolled her eyes in response.

Oh. So this was what her mother had felt all those years, when she and Alba would roll their eyes over homework or chores. 

It was infuriating.

“It’s clearly not clean. Don’t you see this?” The kid jabbed at the sink with her sponge, pointing at what Alexia could only describe as a small speck of tomato sauce, dried and clinging stubbornly to the kitchen.

Alexia squinted. “It’s just tomato sauce…It’s been there for two weeks.”

“Exactly.”

“This is the last thing you’re cleaning,” Alexia declared, watching the wall clock.

Ten p.m. already. It was late for a kid. It was late for her, and she hadn’t even changed out of her training clothes yet. “After this, you’re not touching another sponge again.”

The girl nodded, satisfied with her mission. She hummed as she scrubbed, making up a ridiculous song under her breath: “Sauce, sauce, go away, come back never again.”

Alexia blinked. The kid was weird.

When she tried sneaking over to the counter to keep cleaning, Alexia snatched the sponge from her hand.

“Hey!” the kid protested.

“I told you, no more cleaning.” Alexia pointed dramatically toward the living room. “Out. Let’s get you sorted.”

The girl huffed but obeyed, shoulders slouched like she was being exiled from her kingdom.

As they walked into the living room, Alexia tried to figure out what exactly “sorting her out” meant. 

Maybe… just continuing her own routine and bringing the kid along? That seemed like a reasonable plan.

The girl paused in front of the television, standing still like she had stumbled across a secret relic. Her eyes locked on the blank black screen, her expression puzzled.

“Okay, so here’s what we’re going to do–” Alexia began, adopting her classic on-pitch captain voice, ready to lay down a game plan. “We’re going to take a bath, then go to bed, and tomorrow we’ll–”

“What is this?” the girl asked, cutting her off completely. She pointed at the television.

Alexia blinked. “What?”

“This. What is this?”

“It’s a television.”

The girl looked at her like she’d just spoken another language. “What is a television?”

Alexia stared. “A TV. You know… televisión?”

Still no reaction. The girl tilted her head.

“It shows things,” Alexia tried again, gesturing vaguely. “Movies, cartoons, serious stuff like the news… and football games. The best kind of content.”

The kid squinted at the screen, unmoved. “I don’t know what any of that means.”

Alexia let out a stunned little breath. “You… you are Spanish, right?”

“Sí,” the girl replied easily. “I just never… I don’t know what that is.”

Alexia swallowed. “Okay. I’ll explain it tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Sí. Now come, let me show you the bathroom.”

The girl picked up her backpack, cradling the adoption folder tightly against her chest.

 She followed Alexia down the hall. 

The apartment wasn’t large—just two bedrooms with en suites, a guest bathroom, a kitchen, dining area, and living room. 

Cosy enough. 

Functional. 

Alexia had been meaning to buy a proper house, but right now that felt a lifetime away.

She opened the door to the guest room and stepped aside, letting the kid walk in first.

It was a decent space. Queen-size bed, full-length mirror, desk, and a set of drawers. Only her mom or Alba ever stayed in it.

“You can leave your things there,” Alexia said, pointing toward the corner.

The girl turned, her figure suddenly looking too small for the room.

“Is this your room?” she asked.

“No,” Alexia said. “Mine’s down the hall, to the left.”

“So what is this room?”

“It’s the guest room. You’ll sleep here tonight.”

Alexia crossed the room and started fluffing the pillows, trying to make the bed look more inviting. 

She had no idea what she was doing, but it felt like the right thing. Domestic. Caring. Sort of.

The girl stared at the bed.

“I’ve never had one of those,” she said quietly.

Alexia froze. “What?”

“A bed.”

Alexia’s hands fell from the duvet. 

Her chest tightened as she turned around slowly. 

“Oh… no. Really?”

“Gotcha!” The girl grinned, dropping onto the mattress. Her legs dangled above the floor, nowhere near touching it. “You should’ve seen your face! Of course, I’ve had a bed.”

Alexia deadpanned. “You’re not as funny as you think you are.”

Por Dios.

“So what exactly do you have in there?” Alexia asked, nodding toward the girl’s backpack.

The girl looked at her with a vague grin, clearly proud of the mystery. 

“Oh, just some stuff,” she said, dragging the zipper open with a dramatic flair and flipping the contents onto the mattress.

A modest pile tumbled out.

Some clothing, only enough for two days. One sock–just one. A toothbrush way too old. 

A few crumpled pieces of paper with what seemed to be drawings on them, and some small photographs–clearly of the girl herself, but younger. 

Maybe five or six.

Alexia’s hand hovered over the photos for a second, curiosity tugging at her, but she stopped herself. It felt too personal.

“This is all my stuff,” the girl announced, smiling proudly. “I’ve worked really hard for them!”

Alexia didn’t answer immediately. 

She was going to enjoy this moment where the girl didn’t seem to focus on cleaning the oven, or was too scared to get sent away to ask some questions.

Alexia turned toward the en suite bathroom attached to the guest room, opening a drawer and casually pulling out a few towels. 

She added a face towel, then grabbed a spare toothbrush, some soap, and the small bottles of shampoo she kept around for guests.

“So… worked for them? What do you mean?” Alexia asked, while keeping her voice very casual, as if she didn’t really want to know.

The girl sat on the edge of the bed, legs swinging. “Yes. Work. We had to clean the orphanage to get stuff.”

Alexia paused, shampoo bottle still in her hand.

Ah.

That explained the obsession with the spotless sink.

She gave a quiet nod and resumed laying the towels neatly on the bathroom counter. 

“Oh…I see.”

The girl didn't seem bothered. In fact, she was proud. 

Not ashamed or bitter–just explaining the rules of the world she had grown up in. Alexia's chest tightened.

When she returned to the room, the girl was organising her tiny pile of belongings into the drawers like it was a personal treasure chest.

Alexia cleared her throat.

“The bathroom’s ready. I left you everything you might need, but you can tell me if something’s missing.”

The girl nodded solemnly, folding her single sock neatly.

“You good?” Alexia asked.

“Sí.”

The bathroom door clicked shut with a soft thud. It wasn’t loud–but somehow, it echoed.

Alexia stood there for a moment, her hand half-raised like she might knock on the bathroom door, but for what reason? She didn't know. 

So she let it drop and looked around.

This was her guest room.

Except… it didn’t quite like hers anymore.

Something about it had shifted, like the room itself had changed and adapted the moment that kid stepped in. 

The light even looked different now….warmer maybe, softer. Or maybe that was just in her head.

Alexia’s eyes caught on the small drawer she had opened earlier to grab a towel. 

It was closed again now, but she knew what was inside: one sock. 

Not a pair. 

Just one. 

Ridiculous. 

One sock shouldn’t change the shape of a room. But it did. She sat down on the edge of the bed–hesitantly, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to anymore. 

The mattress dipped slightly beneath her weight. She stared at the floor.

Should she stay? Or leave?

Give the girl privacy? But what if she needed something? What if she didn’t know how the water heater worked? What if the pressure changed suddenly? What if she…slipped?

Alexia didn’t even know what kind of soap the kid liked. Did she have a skin condition? Allergies? Was she scared of something? Of being alone?

There was a whole person behind that door…a whole history that Alexia didn’t know about. 

Alexia let herself fall onto the bed, arms splayed out, staring at the ceiling. 

The fan rotated slowly above her, barely moving the air.

She hadn’t felt like this in her own space since… maybe ever. 

Not when her mom visited. Not when Olga stayed over for weeks during her injury. Not even when the team came over for dinners and spilt wine on her rug.

This whole situation was a mess. 

It was scary.

Alexia didn’t know how to care for someone in any way. 

Her romantic life was just sad at this point…she couldn’t remember the last time someone flirted with her without also asking for match tickets.

Her family had to remind her to call because she would get too caught up in football…and now a kid? A whole living-breathing kid?

Alexia swore up and down during her teenage years that she didn’t have any maternal bones in her body, but minutes later, when the girl showed up on the bathroom door with a pyjama that barely reached her wrists, she couldn’t help but feel something tugging inside her chest.

The shirt was too snug around her middle. The pants clung to her calves like leggings, stretched out and faded with wear. 

The fabric had once been pink, maybe. Now it was somewhere between peach and grey.

The kid didn't seem to mind how her belly and calves were showing, though, as if it was normal, how it was meant to be worn.

Still, the girl beamed.

“Oh, so… that’s your pyjama?” Alexia asked, trying to sound casual.

“Yes!” the girl chirped. “I got it on my ninth birthday!”

Alexia hesitated. Did the math. 

“Oh,” she said. “It looks a bit… tight, don’t you think?”

The girl frowned, her eyebrows pulling together like storm clouds.

“No.”

Alexia shifted her weight. “What if you change it? I can lend you one of my shirts or something–”

“No.”

“I just don’t think you’ll sleep comfortably in that,” Alexia said, gentler now, trying not to push.

“I like it. It’s mine.”

That last word hit harder than it should have. Mine.

Alexia shut her mouth. Because what was she going to say? That it didn’t fit? That the sleeves pinch? That it wasn’t warm enough?

It didn’t matter. It was hers. 

One of the few things in the world the girl could claim. And maybe that was more important than being warm or comfortable.

Alexia nodded slowly, almost apologetically. “Okay, sorry. You can keep it.”

The girl didn’t smile now.

She just moved to the bed and sat down cross-legged, fingers picking at a loose thread on the hem of her shirt.

Alexia stood up slowly, legs stiff from sitting too long on the edge of the bed. The girl watched her, still picking at the thread on her too-tight pyjamas.

Alexia hovered for a second, unsure, then stepped to the side of the bed. She reached down, took the edge of the duvet in her hands, and lifted it.

“You can get in,” she said, voice gentler than she expected.

The girl blinked at her. Like the gesture didn’t quite compute. Like she was waiting for something else.

Still, she obeyed. Slipped under the covers slowly, limbs careful and unsure, as if waiting to be told she wasn’t allowed after all. Her head landed on the pillow.

Alexia pulled the duvet up, tucked it lightly around her shoulders. Not too tight. Just enough. She didn’t know what she was doing, but it felt like the right thing.

Neither of them said anything.

She had never tucked anyone in before.

And the girl… looked like she’d never been tucked in either.

So it was a first for both of them.

Alexia hovered again, hands awkwardly at her sides, standing like she was posing for a team photo. The girl just looked at her, face soft and eyes half-lidded with sleep. 

Alexia thought about saying goodnight, or sleep well, or I’ll be just in the next room, but the words caught in her throat.

The girl’s eyes fluttered shut. Her breath evened out, slower. Softer. And then, in the smallest, sleepiest voice

“Please don’t send me back.”

Alexia didn’t answer.

She just stood there for a beat longer, then backed away slowly. Reached for the light switch. The room dimmed into a comforting dusk. 

She hesitated at the door.

Looked one last time.

Then she closed it.

Not all the way. Just enough.

..

In her own room, Alexia grabbed her phone off the charger with hands that felt too shaky for someone who regularly captained national finals.

She opened her messages, scrolled until she found Pedro, her lawyer.

Alexia: Hello, I have an emergency. Please call me

Three dots danced on screen for a while.

Then Pedro finally responded:

Pedro: What happened, Alexia? Something with the contract?

She sighed, fingers flying across the screen.

Alexia: Well, yes. A kid, she somehow got her hands on the contract, slipped a guardianship clause in there, and she came to my house, backpack and everything, saying I’m her legal guardian, she had some documents with her.

The phone started buzzing.

Alexia picked up on the first ring.

“Pedro.”

“You have a what?” he said, voice high and incredulous–nothing like the calm, measured tone she was used to hearing from him.

“I don’t know her name,” Alexia said, running a hand through her hair. “She’s one of the orphans from Santa Clara. You know, that orphanage Barcelona partnered with last month.”

Silence. Then the faint sound of frantic typing.

“Oh God,” Pedro muttered. “Hold on, let me check the system.”

Alexia waited, the only sound on the line the rapid clack of keys.

“Dios mío,” Pedro said at last. “It’s real. It’s all here. You’re listed as her full legal guardian. Signed and everything. The orphanage has already taken her off their records.”

Alexia squeezed her eyes shut. “How the hell did she manage to forge that?”

“No idea,” Pedro said, still sounding awestruck. “But it’s clean. Official. Like it went through the proper channels.”

“I’m so tired,” Alexia whispered, pressing her fingers hard into her eyes.

There was a beat of quiet.

“If you want to reverse it, we can start the paperwork,” Pedro said gently. “It’ll take a few months, but we can make a case for immediate annulment.”

Alexia didn’t answer right away. She stared up at the ceiling, letting the silence drag.

“…Yes. Please.”

Her voice cracked on the last word.

“Okay,” Pedro said, just as softly. 

“I’ll start tomorrow morning. But until it’s processed, you’ll still be her legal guardian. That means enrolling her in school, getting her on your health plan, and making sure she’s safe and cared for. If we want the court to undo this, you have to show you were responsible in the meantime.”

“Fuck.” Alexia let out a long breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll do that. I’ll take care of her.”

“Good,” Pedro said. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I have something.”

“Wait,” Alexia said quickly. “Do you have her name?”

There was a short pause, then some more typing.

“Y/N,” he said. Twelve years old. Born April second. No siblings in the system. Her mother gave her up–claimed she couldn’t afford to raise her. No ID listed for the mom.”

Alexia nodded slowly, though Pedro couldn’t see her.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

Y/n.

Okay.

Alexia hung up. Put the phone down on the nightstand. 

She sat there for a while, staring at the wall. She couldn’t remember the last time she had worried about something that didn’t involve a match or a muscle strain.

Not a press conference. Not a lineup.

Just… a kid.

Maybe that was what scared her the most. Not the responsibility. Not even the legal mess. But the fact that part of her already cared. And it had nothing to do with football.

Alexia allowed her eyes to close on their one.

She dreamt of a sock, folded neatly in a drawer. And a kid with a too-small pyjama, curled under a duvet that didn’t quite belong to either of them.

..

Part 3 here

a/n: I’m not sure where this story is going yet, so consider this an open canvas! I’m hoping we can build the plot together, and I’d love to hear any thoughts, suggestions, or ideas you have along the way! <3

Tag list: @edensbreeze @silentwolfsstuff, @goodloe-e @mccabeskcc @blaugranafairy @footy-lover264 @the-fandom-ness @wosofavfanfics

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

The Keys Of Heaven [Chapter 2: To Judge The Living And The Dead]

Series summary: Three years ago, Father Aemond Targaryen performed a miracle. Now he is a cardinal, a media sensation, and a frontrunner to be elected pope. You are a nun who has been brought to Vatican City to assist with the papal conclave. But when your paths cross by happenstance, you must both reckon with your decision to join the Catholic Church…and what you want from the future.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), references to abuse and violence, volcanoes, bodily injury, death, peril, scheming, pining, some drugs/alcohol/smoking, Catholic trivia you never asked to learn, kangaroos!

Word count: 5.7k

🦘 A very special thanks to my Aussie slang consultant @bearwithegg and also her mum (any mistakes are mine) 🦘

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @mrs-starkgaryen @chattylurker @lauraneedstochill @ecstaticactus @neithriddle, more in comments! 🥰

🗝️ Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🗝️

Here is the story of Saint Agatha of Sicily.

Born in the time of the Roman Empire, when Christians were still being burned alive and fed to lions in the Colosseum, Agatha rejected the suitors she attracted as a beautiful daughter of a wealthy family. Instead, she pledged herself to Christ: a life of simplicity and service, a vow of chastity. No man could sway Agatha from her chosen path, not even the Roman governor Quintianus, who aspired to take the fifteen-year-old maiden as his wife. So Quintianus endeavored to change her mind.

First, Quintianus threatened Agatha with torture and death. When that proved ineffective, he had her put to work in a brothel. Yet after a full month of violations, Agatha was no closer to surrendering; on the contrary, her faith only seemed to grow stronger. She prayed to the Lord for courage; she proclaimed that to be His servant was the greatest possible freedom.

Quintianus was running out of ideas. He imprisoned Agatha and ordered his torturers to devise new and terrifying forms of punishment. Bloody and mutilated, Agatha was thrown back into her cell without food or medical attention, but the Lord did not abandon her: Saint Peter, Christ’s apostle and the first pope of the Church, appeared to comfort Agatha and miraculously healed her wounds.

Four days later when the torture resumed, Agatha knew that her short time on earth was ending. She prayed aloud: Lord, my Creator, you have always protected me from the cradle. You have taken me from the love of the world and given me patience to suffer. Now receive my soul. She died in prison in the year 251.

Long venerated as a martyr and a saint in her native Sicily, Agatha was officially canonized by Pope Gregory I in the 590s. Her feast day is celebrated on February 5th. She is invoked against a myriad of horrors; among them are volcanic eruptions.

~~~~~~~~~~

“But you don’t really believe that, do you?” he says on the beach at dusk. Your parents keep telling you it’s time to go back to the hotel, and you ask for five more minutes which turn into ten which turn into twenty. You are showing Aemond your rosary, red glass beads, a sterling silver chain; he is sitting behind you, his arms reaching around so he can study the artefact with his own fingertips, his chin resting on your shoulder. When the wind blows, his blonde hair tickles your cheek and your throat; when you shiver because the sun is vanishing, he pulls you in closer. “That there was some magical guy who could heal people and walk on water and then came back from the dead? I mean, Mother’s a Catholic, and she’s always trying to get us to ride the ferry over to Rhodes for Sunday Mass. But even when I go, I can’t take it seriously.”

“I guess I don’t care if it’s true,” you decide. “I just like how it makes me feel. I like being protected, I like how simple everything is. Be kind, be humble, help others, that’s it. And I think all the different saints are neat. There’s always someone to pray to, no matter what problem I have.”

Aemond snorts. “They only added them to get the pagans to convert.”

“What are pagans?”

“People who worshipped trees and rocks and stuff. Like the Vikings.”

He thinks I’m stupid, you think, and you’re already sensitive about this; Aemond is older, taller, more clever, more sophisticated, more strong. You don’t want him to think you’re some naïve kid who does whatever your parents tell you to. You really don’t; they find your conviction just as baffling, far beyond their middle-class, tangentially-Catholic expectations: a weekly appearance at Mass with a frilly dress and tidy hair, Mum having a yarn with the neighborhood wives afterwards, sometimes Sunday roast, back to real life by bedtime.

“But, you know, maybe you’re onto something,” Aemond says, backtracking. “If it makes you happy, that’s what matters. Maybe I’ll give it another shot. Next time Mother drags me to Rhodes I’ll try to listen a little bit instead of reading a Stephen King novel the whole time.”

“Do you think I’m a drongo?” you ask timidly.

He laughs. “A what?”

“Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“No, I don’t,” Aemond promises. “I think you care about something. And that takes courage.”

He’s still inspecting your rosary, running the smooth red beads through his fingers. “Do you want it? I’m getting a new one for Christmas. I already found it in my parents’ closet.”

“Sure,” he says, perhaps just to be polite. But when he takes the rosary in his own hands, he’s smiling.

~~~~~~~~~~

“We should have a pond like this at home,” Rhaena says as she helps you cast palmfuls of pellets that smell like the ocean—fish and brine shrimp and spirulina—into clear rippling water. Because the temperature is around 12 degrees Celsius, the koi are only somewhat active, skimming around the algae-covered stones at the bottom and nibbling halfheartedly at the food pellets.

Home. Here is what she means: a convent on the quiet northside of Sydney, Mass each morning, prayers before bed each night, sprawling fruit and vegetable gardens, a colony of stray cats you’ve adopted, offices where you take prayer requests and calls from desperate people in need of help, a shelter the sisters operate for survivors of domestic violence and human trafficking, cooking meals together, singing songs, lighting candles, playing games, watching rugby and cricket on a massive tube tv from the 90s, book clubs, knitting circles, hosting visitors from other convents, always decorating for the next holiday. This is why you became a nun. As a child, you were never as close with your sisters as you wanted to be—your interests were too divergent, your temperaments mismatched—and then as they dissolved away into their boyfriends and their unis, you felt like the house was suddenly so empty. But to be a nun is to have a perpetual sisterhood, and they love the Faith as much as you do.

You tell Rhaena: “Let’s talk to Mother Maureen about a koi pond. Maybe we can get funds and pay our guests in the shelter to help us build it.”

“Just like we did with the gardens.”

“Righto.”

“I’m kind of obsessed with these habits, too,” Rhaena says, spinning around in her loose white wool. The Sisters of Charity of Australia have been wearing modest yet casual clothes since the 1980s. You each have a white habit or two stowed away for formal occasions...but here in the Vatican, expectations are very traditional.

You chuckle and shake your head. “Yeah nah, I’m not helping you with that. I miss my Levi’s.” You point at the koi pond. “Check the corners, make sure I haven’t killed another one.”

Rhaena darts around the perimeter, peeking through bushes of red chrysanthemums. “I’ve been praying all morning. I’m so worried about Sister Augustina.”

“Why? She’s the person who needs your prayers the least. She’s with our Lord and Savior. She is at peace, she is home.”

Rhaena looks at you grimly. “Is she?”

You burst out laughing. “It takes more than getting a bit aggro to be damned to Hell.” You don’t believe Hell exists at all, but you keep this to yourself. Rhaena is rather dogmatic. Nonetheless she smiles to herself, reassured.

You glance around the Vatican Gardens, knowing exactly who you’re looking for; but you don’t see Aemond. There are other cardinals walking the tuff pebble pathways, red planets revolving around the ancient gravity of this place—first Neolithic settlements ten thousand years ago, then kings and a republic and back to kings again, and finally the Church rose up from the ashes of the empire to grow like dauntless ivy into the hearts of over one billion souls—some contemplative and alone, others entangled in weighty discussions. Cardinal Seaborn is rushing around frenetically, his scarlet cassock blowing in the wind. Cardinal Bogdi Marcu, he of the prehistoric age himself, is clinging to Sister Nuru’s arm as she patiently accompanies him through the gardens.

You spot Lucky talking to Cardinal Gideon Saati of South Sudan, a large but soft-spoken man who is ideologically moderate and therefore a possible consensus candidate if neither the conservatives or liberals can win the vote; and this makes him dangerous to Aemond. Cardinal Saati is nodding and dabbing at his eyes with a white handkerchief, Lucky has a hand resting gently on his shoulder. They are rarities here, and they understand each other. They both know the pain of having a homeland that is no longer a country: no functioning government, no reliable infrastructure, inescapable violence, war zones where faith feels so powerless.

Rhaena says: “Do you think we’ll be back home by Christmas?”

“Oh, sure thing. No conclave in the past two hundred years has taken more than a few days.”

“Beautiful. We can’t miss the singing and presents. I know how much you love Christmas music.”

“One conclave in the 1830s took a month and a half.”

“Nah, yeah?!”

“Deadset, mate.”

“Wow.” Rhaena blinks. “I wouldn’t trust this lot to not resort to bloodshed by then.”

Now you see them strolling towards the koi pond, disrupting sand-colored tuff pebbles with each step: Aemond, Lando, and Kazi, who is puffing on a square-shaped vape, white and red, the colors of the Polish flag. You realize that you’re smiling as Aemond approaches, then force yourself not to. You’re supposed to be somber; you’re supposed to be sad. Still, you cannot look away from him. You gaze at the destruction on the left half of his face—ropes of scar tissue, the frayed ruins of his eyelids stitched together to close the emptied socket—and you wonder what that must have been like, waking up in his hospital bed half-blind and with clamoring journalists filling up the lobby downstairs, bouquets of flowers arriving from Alpha TV, Mega Channel, the Hellenic Broadcasting Corporation, CNN, BBC, Deutsche Welle.

“Dead nun, dead pope.” Kazi sucks on his vape bleakly. “Inauspicious.”

Lando is pained and crosses himself. “Kazi, please.” Then he turns to you and Rhaena. “Sisters, I am so very sorry for your loss. Sister Augustina is with God now, let that serve as some consolation. Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.”

You bow your head. “Thank you, Your Eminence.”

“We didn’t really know her that well,” Rhaena says.

“Will they have a funeral here?” Aemond asks you, like he’s trying to find an excuse to make conversation. Rhaena is gawking at him, wonderstruck; Aemond gives her a polite smile.

You answer: “No, Sister Penny told us she’s being sent back to Germany. I guess there’s a cemetery near her hometown she wished to be buried in. A plot beside a child’s.”

Lando and Kazi nod and murmur sympathetically, an acknowledgement of the life Sister Augustina had before she took her vows, forever shrouded in mystery, only shadows glimpsed through the veil; Aemond peers into the koi pond, his expression distant and troubled.

Lucky arrives, trudging across the volcanic pebbles that clatter under his red leather shoes. “Saati says he doesn’t want it.”

Kazi rolls his eyes. “Every cardinal says they don’t want it. And yet when the time comes, he’s out on that balcony waving to the crowds.”

“I think he’s sincere,” Lucky says, lighting a cigar and drawing in a mouthful of smoke. “He’s telling his supporters to look elsewhere.”

“To Aemo?” Kazi asks hopefully.

Lucky hesitates. “Saati is impressed that Jake lost four fingers in the service of our Lord.”

Kazi waves at Aemond. “He lost an eye!”

Lucky chuckles in a deep, gruff rumble. “Becoming pope is not a contest of misfortune, my friend. Otherwise more of them would be Haitians.”

Cam comes jogging over; being in his mid-forties, his knees are still good. He announces excitedly: “We have Micallef and Barraza!” Here’s who he means: Cardinal Xandru Micallef of Malta and Cardinal Juan Barraza of El Salvador, both pilfered from the dwindling pool of moderates.

Lucky exhales smoke. “I thought we already had Barraza. He’s on the Dicastery for Promoting Integral Human Development with me and Aemo.”

“He told me he was considering Saati.”

“Saati doesn’t want it.”

Cam is confused. “Doesn’t everyone say that?”

“Okay, so who’s going to talk to Jake and figure out if he’s willing to steer his votes our way?” Kazi says between vape hits, and then, when Lucky raises his eyebrows at him: “It can’t be me. He hates me.”

The others groan. “What did you do?” Aemond asks, grinning.

Kazi is reluctant to share. “It was nothing.” He vapes as the others stare at him, waiting. “I asked if he was going to get a robot hand like Darth Vader.”

“Jake is very committed to his mission in Iran,” Lando muses softly. “I have a hard time believing he’d want to leave it.”

“Yeah, he does a lot of orphanage stuff, right?” Kazi says. “Lando, you should talk to him.”

“I’ll try,” Lando agrees, then looks to you and Rhaena. “Sisters, once again, I am so sorry for your loss and I will be praying for you and Sister Augustina.” He starts down the pathway and soon vanishes behind a row of tall laurel hedges.

Now Cam is relaying gossip he’s heard about the conservative faction: cardinals shifting from do Carmo to Jahoda, anxiety surrounding Aemond’s growing support. Your gaze catches on Aemond again, and you can’t look away. He keeps stealing glimpses of you too. Surely he could have had a plastic surgeon do a scar revision to make it less noticeable, and open the wound so he could insert a prosthetic eye; but of course Aemond would not want that. No one can see him without remembering what he did on Nea Kameni. He wears the proof of his miracle on his face.

You notice that Lucky is watching you as he smokes his cigar, his dark eyes kind yet intrigued, and then they rove to Aemond. You avert your attention elsewhere. On one of the narrow paved roads that wind through Vatican City, you see a white Fiat Panda zoom by on the other side of the foliage, employees running some errand.

“If I have a heart attack or choke on a fish bone or something, wait for the ambulance, don’t put me in one of those,” Kazi says. “They’re fire traps.”

“We’ll just throw you down the nearest manhole,” Cam assures him.

“Cardinal Targaryen!” a voice booms—ostensibly friendly, undeniably threatening—and it is Cardinal Jahoda, passing by with his ever-present companions Cardinal Auclair and Cardinal Ferrari. Across the gardens, red-swathed men stand up straighter and observe intently. “You enjoy the company of women so much, perhaps you have chosen the wrong vocation.”

Aemond smirks tauntingly. “Well, the celibacy requirement might soon be done away with, as you know. One of so few ways in which Cardinal Auclair has proven himself a progressive.”

Auclair scoffs. “Are there even any Catholics in Greece?”

“There are more than there were three years ago.”

“Cardinal Nowak,” Jahoda says to Kazi. “You are a Slav. Poland still lives under the gloom of Russia’s shadow. It disappoints me more than I could ever express, seeing you standing here with men who wish to usher in disorder, degeneracy, alliances with despots.”

Kazi sighs. “Brothers, not everything is communism.”

“Ah, you are too young. You do not remember what it was like.”

Auclair’s cold blue eyes skate over Cam and Lucky. “Mongolia. Haiti. Who would wish to follow the examples of your countries?”

Lucky explodes: “Why don’t you atone for what France did to my people?!”

“The prime minister acknowledged that the independence debt was an injustice—”

“And where is the apology? Where are the reparations?!”

“Still begging for money two hundred years later,” Auclair sneers. “Still sniffing for scraps like dogs. Perhaps it is time to look inwards and interrogate your own behavior. It is not a shortage of funds that ails Haiti, but a deficit of morals.”

Lucky drops his cigar and lunges for Auclair, but his friends stop him: Kazi and Cam fill the space between them, Aemond throws an arm across Lucky’s shoulders and whispers something to him as Cardinal Jahoda and his companions continue on through the gardens. Auclair looks back once and gives you a critical, probing glare. Kazi trots after Cardinal Ferrari making race car noises: vroom vroom vroom.

Cam mutters as he cleans his eyeglasses: “Mongolia is on the rise. It’s a capitalist democracy.”

“They’re not white, so it doesn’t count,” Lucky says, collecting himself. Then he checks his watch, a small face with a simple leather band. “The next general congregation is beginning soon.” He starts to leave with Kazi and Cam in tow, but not Aemond. Lucky turns around. “Aemo?”

“I’ll catch up to you,” Aemond replies. Lucky nods; but now when he looks at you, his interest has turned to trepidation.

Aemond shouldn’t be talking to me, you think, you know. But perhaps he is willing to risk it. Perhaps he believes he is invincible.

Now the two of you are alone except for Rhaena, who is gaping at Aemond as if still trying to convince herself he’s real and not a celebrity entrapped in a photograph, a screen, a myth.

“You must be very busy with your responsibilities here, Sister Rhaena,” Aemond says.

“Oh yeah, it’s hard yakka.” Then she realizes he’s waiting for her to leave. “Have a good one!” she calls over her shoulder as she hurries away, doubtlessly in great anticipation of all the stories you’ll tell her later. But you won’t share everything.

“Should we walk?” Aemond asks, his hands behind his back, his large gold cross gleaming on its chain, a whisper of a smile on his lips. Of course you should; you follow him, the tuff pebbles crunching under your shoes. And when he speaks to you now, he is not stony like he is sometimes around the other cardinals, or barbed or coiled or sharp. He is that boy from the beach again. He listens, he cares. “Are you really alright?”

“Yeah. I only knew Sister Augustina for a week. It was a shock to find her like that, and now Sister Penny is under the pump trying to take over for her, but we’ll manage.”

Aemond is studying the marble statues you pass as you wander together: Saint Rita, the patron saint of impossible causes and suffering women, Saint Catherine who freed herself from the breaking wheel, Saint Lawrence who was roasted alive. Fountains trickle and evergreen shrubs rock in the brisk December breeze: boxwood, rosemary, myrtle, oleander, holly with vivid blood drops of berries. Aemond stops when he finds a statue of Saint Agatha and gestures to a nearby stone bench. Once you sit down, he joins you.

“It’s your saint,” Aemond says. He reaches into one of the pockets of his cassock and produces a lighter and a pack of Karelia cigarettes. “Do you mind?”

“No wukkas. Half the nuns in my convent smoke.”

Aemond smiles to himself as he lights his cigarette. “No wukkas,” he echoes, amused.

“Can I ask you something personal?”

“Of course.”

“What led you to the Church?” you say. “Now that all the memories are coming back, I recall you being...skeptical.” That’s a gentle word for it. You imagine him: a boy, sullen and convinced he is too smart for religion, dragged to the cathedral by his Mother, flipping through a copy of Cujo or The Shining or Pet Sematary.

“Once I opened my mind to Catholicism, I found it sort of inspiring. The Church sponsored Michelangelo and da Vinci, founded the first universities in Europe, shaped the political landscape of the world. And for people without other routes to safety and status, it provided that. I never really felt seen by my parents. The Church gave me a new family.”

He didn’t say he loves the Faith. Saint Agatha gazes impassively down at you, her arms crossed protectively over her own chest, so young, so vulnerable. “Do you ever regret becoming a priest?”

Aemond shrugs, like he’s wrestled with the question so many times it no longer interests him. “The more conversations you have, the more confessions you hear...the more you realize that everyone regrets things. Mothers regret their children. Childless women regret adoptions and abortions. Married people regret the cage that vows begin to feel like after the novelty has worn off, single people regret their loneliness, the poor regret not selling their souls and the rich regret not defying greed to become artists or musicians or actors. There is no escape from regret. You must learn to feel at home in whatever cage you’ve built around yourself.”

You smooth the white wool of your habit so you have something to preoccupy your hands with. “I wasn’t entirely truthful about my reasons for being here.”

Aemond furrows his brow. “You’re assisting with the conclave.”

“Yes and no.”

He takes a drag and tilts his head to the side as he waits for you to continue. He does this a lot when you’re alone with him, always curious, always silently working things out, and you are struck by an abrupt and violent attachment to him—every gesture, every word, the blue of his eye, a lungful of smoke—and you think nonsensically: What if we had never left that beach?

You admit: “I’ve been having doubts.”

“About the Church?”

“About being a nun.”

Aemond is watching you, an intense sort of focus, like the Second Coming and the resurrection of the dead are over and you’re the last two people on earth. “You’re thinking of leaving?”

“I’ve heard this is the hardest time,” you say, smiling a little ruefully. “When you’re young like Rhaena, everything is new and exciting, and you’re so relieved to have all the answers to life’s questions that you don’t really feel the opportunity costs. And then when you’re in your fifties or sixties, you’re settled down and complacent, and you’re not interested in abandoning your work and the friendships you’ve made. But I’m thirty-eight...and that’s kind of my last chance to start over, isn’t it? At least when it comes to...certain things.”

Aemond is trying to understand, but he seems bewildered, maybe even alarmed. His cigarette has burned down to ashes, but he hasn’t noticed yet; when it singes his fingers, he flicks the end of it away. “Do you feel called to be a mother?”

“Not exactly, I just...I feel...” You pause to decide how to explain it. “I have this sense that there is something else out there for me. Someone else, I guess. And it wasn’t like this for a lot of years. I thought I was at peace with never being married. I used to see couples or families walking around and not feel anything but joy for them. But now there’s...there’s yearning, I think.” Then you chuckle nervously. “And I don’t just mean the physical aspect. That’s part of it, of course. But what I’m really missing is the...the emotional closeness, the bond that’s shared between romantic partners. All the sudden there’s an absence I wasn’t aware of before. And the only time I’ve ever experienced a pull like this was when I knew I wanted to be a nun, so I’m not sure what to do with it.”

Now Aemond’s hands are knitted together, tense and rigid, as if he is trying to resist wringing them. There is pink in his cheeks, a faint gory bloom, a rare disclosure of his mortality. He’s made of blood, not stone, not light, not predestination. “I suppose there is always some...temptation in the unknown.”

“Oh no, I’m not...” Again, you laugh. “I didn’t take my vows until my twenties. I had jobs, I took classes at the TAFE, I’ve dated, I’ve been to clubs, I’ve downed more pornstar martinis than I could possibly count. I’m not innocent.”

He seems relieved and relaxes a bit. “Then we had a similar path.”

“Because I wanted to...you know...I wanted to be sure I was alright with giving up that part of my life. I liked those blokes, and we had fun together, but I never felt it was something I couldn’t live without.” You stop for a moment; your next sentence comes out in a rush. “And then I had a bad experience with a boyfriend, and after that I was positive I could give it up, so.”

“A bad experience?” Aemond waits for you to elaborate. You don’t. His eye flicks from your face to your medallion, to the nearby statue of Saint Agatha, back to your face. He isn’t just searching. There’s a low, arcane wrath like chambers of magma scorching beneath the earth.

“Anyway, back in Sydney I confided in Mother Maureen about how I was feeling, and when the Holy Father passed she suggested I come to the Vatican. She said that if being here at the heart of the Church during such a joyous time—seeing the rituals, meeting the cardinals, witnessing the inauguration of the next pope—didn’t renew my commitment to my vows, then I would know it was the right decision to leave.”

Aemond is still distracted. “And has God spoken to you?”

“Oh, He’s saying something. But I’m not sure what yet.”

There is the sound of harried footsteps on the pebbles, and Sister Penny sprints into view. Strands of frizzy red hair have escaped from her veil; her pale freckled face is flushed. “Sister!” she cries, gasping for air. You leap up off the bench and rush to her.

“Sister Penny?”

“Where on earth did Sister Augustina keep the laundry detergent? I’ve looked everywhere and I can’t find it, and I have a million other things to do, and I’m going absolutely mad—”

“I know where it is,” you say. “It’s in one of the cabinets in the kitchenette. I know, it’s odd, I’m not sure why she put it there. Here, I’ll help you.”

“And Cardinal Kelly lost his room key, so I gave him my copy but he forgot to return it and I don’t know where the spares are—”

“Shh. She’ll be right, mate.” You’re rubbing her shoulder. Sister Penny is in her fifties, very kind, very sensitive, not a particularly gifted administrator. But she has the most seniority after Sister Augustina, and so she has inherited her responsibilities whether she likes it or not.

You return with Sister Penny to the Domus Sanctae Marthae, but first you peer back at Aemond and give him a wave, subtle enough that Sister Penny will not notice. You aren’t supposed to be friends with a cardinal; that’s like a mouse befriending a lion. Aemond, now standing, waves back. But on his scarred face is something you rarely see from him, a doubt that is bone-deep and powerless.

Soon you’re sweeping through the cardinals’ rooms with Rhaena, tidying things up, making beds, wiping down bathrooms, beard hairs clogging the sinks and stray piss drops on the floor. But Aemond’s room is immaculate. You send Rhaena into the bathroom to see if he needs more shampoo or conditioner or toothpaste, and in the few seconds she’s gone you lean down over Aemond’s bed and breathe him in: smoke and cologne, vanilla and amber and cinnamon, and salt too, like something made him sweat through his clothes.

The stomach is an elastic organ—the more you eat, the more it wants—and lust is the same way, so you try not to feed it. On the rare occasions you find yourself too...distracted, that is easily remedied: a detachable showerhead, a hand slipped under the elastic waistband of your pajama pants. But now it all comes pouring back in, fifteen chaste years’ worth of longing, perhaps a lifetime’s worth, and you try not to imagine his hands covering you: a white veil gliding over your hair, sand on wet skin.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s night, and you are in Saint Peter’s Basilica, closed to the public until the conclave has concluded. You are here because the acoustics are good: you can hear the crowds out in the square singing The First Noel as they hold their candles and their handmade signs—God bless the Holy Father, Miracles are real, Pro-life and proud, Cardinal Targaryen for Pope—and you close your eyes as you listen. You love Christmas music, and without phones or radios, this is the only way you can get it.

The vaulted stucco ceiling is plated with gold. The floor is made of white marble and sand-colored travertine and crimson porphyry, red like lust or wrath or pride. Here is a fountain held up by cherubs, there is a basin taken from Emperor Hadrian’s tomb, there is monument to Pope Alexander VII adorned with the personified virtues of Truth and Love. And everywhere are depictions of keys; Saint Peter is the keeper of the keys of heaven, given to him by Christ. The leadership of the Church changes hands again and again, but the mission lives on, eternal, divine, pure despite the complexities and failures of mankind.

Occasionally, you hear the shuffling footsteps of cardinals as they pace the echoing corridors seeking God’s guidance. Cardinal Marcu, stooped and shaky, stopped to have a yarn with you perhaps half an hour ago; he seemed to be under the impression that Barack Obama is still the president of the United States. You are grateful that cardinals aged eighty and older are not permitted to vote in the conclave.

Your eyes are still closed when someone brushes up against you, a hand grazing across your hip, too light a touch to be intentional. You instinctively gasp and flinch away.

Aemond steps back, holding up his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says uncertainly.

You laugh when you see it’s him, pressing a palm to your pounding heart. “No, I’m sorry, I just startle really easily.”

He’s still bewildered. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, I thought I barely—”

“No, really, it’s alright. I just...when people touch me and I can’t see it coming, it just freaks me out. But I’m fine now.”

His eye travels down to your medallion—Saint Agatha carved into plain, unprecious iron—and then he turns fierce. He moves towards you, drops his voice, demands as he stands so close his smoke and cologne seeps into your lungs: “Who was he?”

“It doesn’t matter, Aemond.”

“It does. What was his name?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Because I want to know.”

“So you can have him murdered?” you mock, and Aemond sighs and rubs his scarred forehead. “You aren’t asking for honorable reasons.”

He shakes his head and stares at the wall, centuries-old marble and gold, hot blood in his face, rage pulsing in his carotids and his jugulars.

Your voice is calm, because this is a truth you’ve lived with for fifteen years; it’s a part of your mental scenery, something you know happened but not something you feel anymore, aside from primeval muscle memories that never seem to die. “It wasn’t something I could have proved in court. He said if I told anyone, he would kill me. And then he got pulled over for drunk driving, and when they searched the car they found unregistered guns, and while he was in jail I packed my things and moved down to Sydney and showed up on the doorstep of the convent. And everything was okay after that.”

“He should have suffered,” Aemond seethes.

“I moved on. I had to. And that saved me, having a life that was mine. That I chose, that I had always wanted. The Lord tells us: Refrain from anger, abandon wrath. Do not be provoked, it brings only harm. And that’s true.”

“But what if you didn’t join the Church for the right reasons? What if it was just an escape for you, or some sort of trauma response—?”

“Why did you join the Church, Aemond?” you say. “So a billion people would love you?” He turns away, exasperated, but he doesn’t object. “You don’t get to question my motivations. Not when I have felt called to the Faith since I was a child.”

He breathes deeply, touches his palm to the gold cross that hangs from his neck, and looks at you again. “If I was the pope, I would help people. Lucky knows that. They all know that.”

“But that’s not why you want it.”

Several long hushed moments slip by like sand through your fingers. From outside, you can hear the crowds are now singing O Come, All Ye Faithful. Aemond says softly: “I shouldn’t have left you.”

He can’t mean that. It’s preposterous. “What, when you were twelve?”

He doesn’t respond.

Now your words are gentle. “I’m alright, Aemond. Really. You just caught me by surprise, I’m fine now. I’m not afraid of you or anything. Here, look.”

You reach out and take his hand, and instantly you know it was a mistake. There is a blazing light that fills your skull, a burning martyr, a revelation: you can feel him pulling you in and the heat of his face beneath your fingerprints, soft lips, rough scar, his palms circling your waist, your white veil falling away as he pulls the pins from your hair, the thirty-three buttons of his cassock unfastened and then—

But before any of this can happen, you jolt away from each other, Aemond clasping his hands behind his back and you clinging to your iron medallion. On it are engraved Saint Agatha’s words to God: I am your sheep, make me worthy to overcome the devil. And from across the space between you, a few footsteps that might as well be twenty-nine years, you and Aemond gaze at each other with terror, with wonder.

You don’t feel too old to start over.

You feel like your life is just beginning.

[roses-r-rosie3]

X-Mas list presentation

Batfam x M!Reader

Summary: instead of making a regular Christmas wishlist, the reader decides to make a whole presentation

Quote: “That is all Family! So open up your hearts and your wallets for me this holiday season”

✁ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

“Why are you here?” Duke asked Jason.

“Same reason why you’re here, y/n wanted us to all meet up in the living room for some announcement” Jason sighed.

After everyone was in the room, you pulled out your computer and connected it to the Tv, which made everyone confused.

“Hello family, I know you must be wondering why you’re all here” you said.

“Yes”

“Yup”

“Mhm”

“Yeah”

“Can I go back to my game now?”

“Last year you guys totally fucked up Christmas, so this year I put together an entire presentation to tell you guys what I want specifically” you smiled.

Everyone in the room let out an audible sigh/groan. It was known by everyone in the family that you were very dramatic from time to time (24/7). But they never thought you would get this extra!

“Is that really what you called us here for?” Damian grumbled.

“Would you shut up for a second?” You snapped.

“Y/n I don’t think that’s how you should be talking to your little bro-”

“Anyways, Here’s the things you should keep in mind when you’re thinking about what kind of gift you will provide for me this year” you said as you interrupted Bruce from his lecture.

“First of all, I’m the only one who knows how to reset the Wi-Fi, and yeah that’s threat” you threatened.

That certainly got everyone’s attention.

“Secondly, if you don’t get me what I want I will get a sugar daddy, I don’t even care what you guys are going to say, I’ve had so many offers for sugar daddies that it’s unreal. The perks of being son of Bruce Wayne I guess” you said.

“Y/n, you do know that Bruce is rich right?” Jason asked.

“Not the point” you mumbled.

“And third if I don’t get what I want, I will also sell my feet pics online like I did last year” you said calmly.

“YOU WHAT?!” Bruce shouted

“Calm down, I only ended up making about 1 million from it” you sighed.

“ONLY?!” Dick gasped.

“I created a three tier system of different gifting levels, basically, the levels equivocate to how much you love me and how much money you have” you explained.

“Level one is the ‘I’m going to need therapy level’ which is only four to seven gifts. I would probably go into a depressive spiral, actually not probably, I definitely would be depressed” you said.

“Would you stop being so overdramati-”

“I’M NOT DONE YET” you said as you interrupted Tim.

“What would that mean for us? You may ask. It would mean that you would have to pay for my therapy. And the money that you guys spent on therapy would have been basically wasted, you could’ve bought me a whole bunch of gifts right now and avoided the situation” you smiled.

“I think that he’s lost his mind” Bruce whispered to Stephanie.

“You think?!” Stephanie whisper yelled.

“Level two is the ‘You’re getting warmer package’ This basically if you love me- Bruce can you stop whispering to Stephanie” you scolded.

“As I was saying… Level two is eight to fifteen gifts, which is basically equivalent to you texting me happy birthday” you continued.

“Level three is the ‘You’re sleighing it’ level. And if you remember, you guys were just a bit off the mark of hitting this because you guys only got me twenty three gifts. And in order to reach ‘You’re slaying it’ you have to get me twenty five or more gifts, I think this is totally do-able for you guys, especially because you can just use Bruce’s card if you guys are running low on money” you said.

“I have tons ideas for you guys and this whole slideshow is already in your email so you guys can look at it and reference it at any time” you smiled.

Everyone quickly checked their phones to see that you indeed emailed them your whole presentation.

“That is all Family! So open up your hearts and your wallets for me this holiday season” you smiled before leaving the room.

“Yeah he had definitely lost his mind” They all said in synchronization.

“I HEARD THAT!”

[jamneuromain]

Stalker Lady pt. 3

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader (You)

Word Count: ~1.5k

Warning: Mean!Simon Riley, Voice (PORN) actor!Simon Riley, patron!reader, neighbor!AU, description of audio porn. NON-CON/DUB-CON, pussy spanking, PIV, creampie.

Summary: You meet Simon unexpectedly. Unfortunately, he thinks you are a stalker.

A/N: This fic is my rehab-going-back-into-writing fic. And it's the first time I'm writing for "Ghost" I've honestly never played COD. But here's my idea of the scary (not really lol) simon ghost riley :3

You haven’t spoke for twenty-three days, sixteen hours, and approximately twenty minutes so far.

You avoid looking in his direction or saying anything to him. Anything, really, even when he forces himself in your way – a dick move, he knows, and he’s probably using up all the quota of being a dick and then some when he was around you – bumps into you deliberately, and not a word, not a noise would come from you. You just … carry on with your life.

You have decided to treat him like someone invisible. Or air. Air is probably more similar to the reactions (more like no actions) he’s getting out of you.

“Have ye tried apologizing? Actual apologizin’?” Soap slaps his large palm over Simon’s shoulder when they are having a drink together, all of them in 141, slurring in alcohol as Simon rolls his eyes because of the pain that booms over his bones, “Coz yer being a massive dick. Dickest-dick, I’ll give yer ‘at.”

“I’ve tried.” Simon groans in half misery and half reluctance.

John Price, otherwise known as “Captain”, clears his throat in amusement, “Riley, chasing after her back and shouting out your apology doesn’t count. Apology, as in, say it in her face and she’d accept it. With flowers. It’s probably for the best.”

Simon Riley has known his team, his brother-like porn-producing family for a little over five years now. And every now and then something they say still gets under his skin because they are right. They are often right and never wrong in life and war.

Still, Simon kept that bit where his newfound love interest is his patron from the rest of his founded family. Something is best hidden, he supposes, not quite sure why he did so.

“Wha’ ‘bout your porn career, eh? Did lil’ missy find out?” Soap laughs loudly. It is clear that now seventy-five percent of his body runs on rum and tequila shots – whatever the brand they were just drinking – instead of water.

“Jesus Christ, Johnny boy.” Simon punches Soap on the shoulder, “Jus’ shut up ‘bout it.”

“Nooope. Not a chance.” Soap grins from ear to ear, “Yer in love, matey. Yer in luuuuv-”

“Yeah, and yer out of love, you doofus.” Simon growls like a bear woken up during hibernation, all pissed and agitated, “Your ex dumped your sorry arse -”

Price stops their childish mocking and punching with a glance before this could very well turn into a bar fight. He is well aware of what would happen when he puts two grown men with a pile of drinks together; he knows them like the back of his hand.

Price decides to change the topic for now: “On a happier note, our team’s Pornhub account has reached ten thousand subscribers, and our website patron number is heading steadily towards five thousand. I think the stats look promising.”

He might be wrong, but Simon seems gloomier on the changed topic. More sullen. And Simon’s mood doesn’t get better even when Price announces the next round is on him.

Twenty-three days, sixteen hours, and approximately fifty-five minutes.

That’s how long before the bloody silence between you finally crumbles into dust.

Thirty minutes after the get-together with his pals, Simon makes up his mind to take up the suggestions his friends kindly offered - an actual apology.

But his stupid brain hesitates. It’s almost the middle of the night. He is drunk. Hazy. They don’t have some flower shops around here because many people tend to grow the flowers in their front yards. And what would he even say to you? That he’s sorry? That sounds pathetic and weak.

“Sorry I think you were a stalker. Just my friend Johnny had this experience and I have to be cautious.”

“Sorry I’m mean towards you. I didn’t mean it. I want us to fuck … to be friends.”

“Sorry I kissed you. But then you slapped me so I’d call it even.”

No. No. And no.

How on earth are the apologies he comes up with filled with layers of phony and pretentiousness?

He walks up to your door, while knowing perfectly that his house is a few feet away.

Right. Apology.

“Sorry, I think you look like someone. My future girlfriend, I mean.”

The hand he lifts to knock freezes in mid-air.

Certainly not this bloody apology.

Maybe another day then? Another day when he’s more sober.

Simon pulls a few steps back from your porch. On another thought, he advances, and lifts his hand again to pound – he means, knock on your door.

He knocks, twice.

The streets shiver under the crispy autumn wind. It’s approaching midnight, driving Simon’s thought back to the comfort of his residence, with some warm tea and nice buttery biscuits.

Faint rustling of leaves rings everywhere. The cackling of someone’s fence someplace alerts him for a brief second, but that is what it is, iron bars clatter. There is not a living soul on the street in this godforsaken hour.

Right. Another day.

He makes up his mind to leave when the door opens. Your door opens. You drape a thick bathrobe over your shoulders, frowning, “Simon? What are you … What is it?”

The part of his mind that has slightly less alcohol invasion takes you in carefully. Your watery eyes, the lower lip you unconsciously chew on, and the leg bouncing border lining on impatient.

Simon sighs heavily, "Hey, listen … I'm sorry, okay? I was an idiot. I shouldn't have said ’ose things about you being a stalk’r. I’m a dick – That’s … not an excuse, but I didn't think … I'm very sorry …"

You let out an exhausted exhale. Honestly? It’s almost relieving to hear the apology coming out of his lips. But he couldn’t have found a worse time to deliver this speech. You thought his house was on fire or something.

A strange, but not unpleasant smell hits the tip of his nose. He sniffs. Then sniffs again. Simon narrows his eyes. He hasn’t deciphered what the smell is, to be exact, but it is certainly unusual, and his mouth waters simply on cue.

“Look, I appreciate we can work this misunderstanding out. But can we discuss this another time, please?” You rub your temple to ease the tension thumping in your brain. Your mind is just as tired as the rest of your body. Even though your body, your traitorous body gets turned on the minute you see this big hunk of a man at your door; frankly, the last thing you want to do right now is to deal with him.

Somehow, Simon’s eyes travel down. Below your thick white bathrobe, a small trail of creamy substance slowly makes its way down your left calf. Despite the dwindling of the clogs of his mind falling in place, he is able to put two and two together: your arousal is leaking down your thighs.

You can’t help but hug your bathrobe tighter under his scrutinizing gaze, “Well? If there’s nothing else, I’d -”

He interrupts you mid-sentence by swiping his fingers between your thighs, gathering some of the creamy arousal at the tip of his fingers.

“Christ.” He murmurs. “Leaking.”

You let out a shriek. Your instinct is to jump back into your house and slam the door right in his face, but the truth is, you raise your hand to smack him, and he captures your wrist in the air before it swoops down on his cheekbone, and brings it to his nose.

Sniff. Sniff.

Fucking bloodhound.

“You dirty little thing.” He muses, takes his massive body as an advantage, forces himself into your house, and pins you onto the wall, invading your personal space like he owns this place, “Playing with yourself for one second and coming to answer the door at the next? Tell me, do you use toys? Or your fingers alone could do the trick?”

You can smell alcohol in his breath, which makes you glare at him: “You’re drunk. Get out of my place before I scream for help.”

Simon nudges the door open with a kick of his boot. His eyes dart to the opened door before focusing on you, “By all means, scream.”

Your scream thrives for only two seconds, barely making its way out of your throat before his other hand circles your throat. A shallow hold. A forceless grip. Your mind somehow drifts to the toy upstairs. Stained with your juices. Lying cold on your towel.

These fingers are much bigger than your toy. Your mind helpfully supplies.

“I’m gonna take that up as an offer, sweet’art.” Simon runs the tip of his nose over your jawline, murmuring as if you were lovers instead of enemies over the past month, “Either you tell me to back off, or-” darkened desires swirl beneath his chocolate-brown eyes, “or you are goin’ to let me do every-fuckin’-thing I want to do to you. You’re not leaving your bed until I’m done with you and I’m gonn’ stuff you so good that ’ose pathetic audios will never be enough. All you gotta do is to say ‘Thank you, Simon’. ’at sound like a deal to you?”

Your brain has already gone mush at this point, the voice coming out of his hoarse throat seems to have pulled the bones out of your knees and below, rendering them weak, soft, unable to support your body.

“Say ‘Yes, Simon’.” His lips hover above yours, whispering like a man in love.

“Yes, Simon.”

Honestly, you have no idea what you have signed up for, but the fire itching in your core would do whatever he wanted to relieve you of this misery.

He sinks his fingers into your plush thighs, hoisting your thigh up to circle his waist on hearing the confirmation, lips crashing into yours, while carrying you like a bag of feathers to your bedroom.

Your toy swept to the floor with a throaty snigger. Your phone falls out of your pocket when you are put – more like pressed into your own bed.

Must have touched your skin or his, because the next thing you know, the goddamn Bluetooth speaker by the bed starts playing one of his audios.

He spares a glance, disabling the poor thing in seconds. And by disabling it, you actually mean slamming his fist on it.

“Jus’ a pathetic cock slut f’r me, hmm?” He smirks.

That cools your skin, dissolves the thirst you had.

You knit your brows into a tight knot, “Why’d you always do that?”

“Wot?” Stripping, he is soon down to his boxers.

“Be mean.”

He snorts. “Bollocks.”

“There’s a big difference between sounding mean and being mean.” You shove his shoulders out of your way, attempting to sit up, “I like you better when you are behind that screen.”

Simon does not waiver.

Warm skin blooms under your palm, soft muscles and hard plain. Some hard as rocks, some incredibly soft.

“Let me go, Simon.” You push his shoulder, but he doesn’t speak, nor does he react. Dark brown eyes bore into yours, like you spoke Klingon instead of English.

He flips the Bluetooth on again.

“Wha – Si -”

Ghost’s voice booms by your ear almost painfully and heart-strikingly.

Careful, sweetheart, sharp knife.

His hand brushes at the side of your breasts, down your abdomen, circling near your navel.

It is different from your own hands, your own arms, your own fingers.

Foreign. Alien. Wet.

Sweat from the heel of his hand.

Shivers buzzing your exposed skin.

You know everything, every word, every second by heart. The content of the audio. The dozens if not hundreds of times you’ve listened to it.

What scares you and excites you at the same time, is that he’s following every word of it.

The Mr. and Mrs. Ghost script. Two spies making hate more than love when they confront each other after trying to wring the life out of each other.

Trouble thinking? Answer me, sweetheart. Ghost laughs almost coldly.

“What are you doing, Simon – Simon!” Your nails bite into the back of his neck as he descends and licks a stripe between the valley of your breasts.

He gives you a wordless look. But you think you read his silent reply.

They just look so … perfect.

Simon pinches your nipple mercilessly, slapping on it simultaneously as the voice of a crisp slapping echoes in the speaker.

So perfect that I want to make it. Ghost whispers. Hurt.

You scream. Or you think you did. Your pussy clenches on its own.

Traitor.

A gleam flickers behind his eyes.

But that’s not a problem, though, is it? Ghost chuckles. Pain slut. Dripping. Leaking. Already.

Two fingers plunge inside your folds. Filthy squelch rings in your ears and your body. One more authentic than the other.

Oh no, oh fuck –

You widen your eyes, not out of horror, but out of your knowledge of what comes next.

A gentle rub on your long-ignored clit.

The fuck? Did you just slap me?

“Simon!” You cry out, “Simon don’t you dare-”

Two more crisp, swift slaps from the speaker.

Ghost curses.

Oh, sweetheart. You have no idea what you’ve landed. Ghost chuckles darkly after being slapped, three times. It’s only fair if I return the flavor.

A slap.

White hot pain and pleasure shoot through your core. Sprawling over your stomach. Paralyzing your spine. His palm comes in contact with your clit. Hard. Fast. Takes all the breath out of your lungs.

Your slick runs down your thighs, running over the dried-up trails, running into his palm.

A slap for a slap. Fair, no? No? You fuckin’ don’t think so?

“Simon!” You scream, “Fuck you, Si-”

He smears your cream around your poor abused clit, before striking down again.

Your hips buck up violently.

Come on, sweetheart. Just one more. Won’t hurt. Ghost announces, which sounds like your death sentence.

Much.

You think you just died. Squirt on your thigh. His thigh. Tears down the corner of your eyes. Your cheek. You have never cummed so hard so fast.

Sorry? Ghost pauses. Sensitive?

You whimper.

Huh? Didn’t quite hear you, sweetheart. Ghost mocks condescendingly.

“It’s sensitive.” You sob as Simon traces his fingers on your pussy lips.

Ghost huffs out a laugh.

Afraid you have to be louder, sweetheart. My ears are still half deaf from that bullet you shot at me half an hour ago. But I can see this pretty pussy begging me to fill ‘er up. That what you want, sweetheart? To be my personal little whore?

“Fuck me”? That’s part of the ‘slut’ job description, if you insist.

Simon’s lips curl into an amused smile.

You feel his smile on your lips as he kisses you deeply. Licks over the roof of your mouth. Nips your lower lip. Unlike Ghost. Unlike what’s in the audio. Unlike his sharp teeth and tongue.

The sound of the zipper being pulled down.

Uh-huh. This is me fucking you like I mean it.

One deep plunge.

Not so snarky now, are you?

Reaches your cervix.

He moans unabashedly. Grunts. Breathes.

You owe me so much than you can count, sweetheart. I’m tryna’ make up for our lost time.

Slapping. Skin on skin. Panting. Kissing.

Bottoms to the end. Draws out.

That. Ghost grunts. Was for the time you tried to poison my drink in Moscow.

Simon follows every instruction. Every pause. Every comma. Every time the breath becomes heavy in the speaker, he bullies your pussy just as hard.

That. For the time - when you bought out the corrupt police – Christ, stop squirming, sweetheart - and locked me up in a Guatemalan jail.

How. Pants.

Could. Breathes.

I. Fuckin’. Forget. A low groan.

That. Time. You. Nearly. Put. A. Bloody. Bullet. Through. My. Skull. Loud and rushed and wet slapping noise.

Reaches the depth you didn’t know of. Rearrange your organs that felt out of place more than anything. Hitting all the spots you weren’t aware of until now.

I’m being petty? Ghost retorts. Guess I am, then. Huffs. Oh, you want to cum? You can cum as many times, as you bloody please, sweet’art. His Manchester accent slips out in all the anger. Go on, make a mess on my cock. Ah fuckin’ ‘ell, missed this tight lil’ pussy.

Pause. A scream from your lips fills the void.

Stop? You can’t cum anymore? He bullies his cock into your clenching hole again. And again. And again.

Let me make one thing clear- Ghost purrs by your ear. I’ll stop when I cum, sweet’art. ‘Til then, not gonn’ stop shaggin’ you. Coz ‘at wot slut is for, bein’ my personal fuck doll an’ all …

Thick, long fingers find your clit again.

C’mon, sweet’art. Know you’ve got one more in you.

Your nails dig into his wrist. Having just cummed twice, the pressure he puts on your clit felt like scorching flames. Stung and overstimulated.

Jus’ one more. Ghost coos. One more. Jus’ one more.

He rubs with precision. Slow yet undeniable. Even though your legs kicking. Your nails leaving bruises on his skin. Your breath ragged, shallow, broken.

“Can’t … I can’t, Simon … ”

Gonn’ be a good girl f’r me and cum, won’t you?

“Si-”

Right ‘ere, sweet’art. Good fuckin’ girl. Empty yer pretty lil’ head for me.

‘s bett’r when all you could think ‘bout is my name.

His voice becomes strained, tensed. Almost rambling.

Fuckin’ hell, I’mma fill you with my seed. Gonna put a plug in you so it’ll take root. My personal cumdump. Take it, baby, take it. Fuck, fuck –

Stripes of cum coat your insides. Making your whimper and your eyes water in sensitivity.

He collapses on top of your trembling body, covering you up like a thick warm blanket. Soft, delicate kisses bloom over your forehead. Rough pads of his fingers run up and down the side of your arm. It is a harsh fall, after your pleasure skyrocketed, but you find yourself caught by the web he weaved. A dark web with a white skull mask knitted in the middle.

You lift your arms to hug his broad shoulders so that his heart might beat right next to you above the thin layer of skin and flesh. He has yet to pull out, and somehow … you are not in a hurry to remind him of it.

“Hope this is as good as an apology.” He – Simon – says.

A small fit of laughter bursts out of you, some giggles, then he joins as well, rumbling chuckles that vibrate on your chest. It is silly and comes out of nowhere, but this laugh turns out to be just the trick in resolving the tension you have had for days.

“I’ll give it an eight out of ten.” You bite your lower lip from smiling too hard.

“Eight?!” He pushes himself up, staring at you in disbelief, as if deeply offended, “That was at least nine for effort.”

“If you say so…”

Noticing your twitching cheek and the corner of your lips, he exhales out of relief, burying his head in the crook of your neck, grumbling, “You cheeky little … eight?!”

You giggle, “The sound effects of Ghost are a little over the top, don’t you think?”

He muffles your words with a deep, searing kiss, when you feel his cock throb in the confines of your walls. The sight of his sweating forehead and thin lips pushes your heart beat faster.

“Brought this on yourself, swee’art.” A lop-sided grin makes its way over his face, as he surges forward all of a sudden and adds pressure to your already-sensitive clit, forcing a moan out of your throat and his cum gushing out of your abused hole. “Let’s see if we can have a nine, should we try hard … enough.”

Taglist (also tagging the ones who may be interested): @vnknowcrow @splaterparty0-0 @prettygirleli @ksa01 @laciaheavenm

@mrs-marc-spector @msilwrites @kawaiisugarinjectionattack @eccentricallygothic @mothex

@aishidunno @gluttonybiscuits @bittyslxt @cersei-phoenix-thorn @girl-of-multi-fandoms

@reader-1290 @ohdrey89 @brittney-121

Part 1 Part 2

[imaginespazzi]

Part 4: Warning Bells

Masterlist - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12 - Part 13 - Part 14 - Part 15

I don't think I can do this again (do you remember it too?)

(In which a self-admittedly all over the place writer takes you on a bit of a rollercoaster)

Pairing: Paige Bueckers X Azzi Fudd

Themes: Fluff, Angst, Pining (the usuals)

Words: 6.1K

TW: Swearing, Mentions of Divorce

A/N: Hi lovelies :) Guess who made a deadline again? I'm as shocked as y'all are but I do wanna just warn y'all that August is gonna be really busy for me so as much as I'm gonna try to stick to schedule, there's a pretty good chance I won't. I really appreciate y'alls feedback with live-reacts/long reviews and it's truly the motivating factor behind my writing so pretty please keep sending them. I did edit (as usual) but please let me know the most likely existent typos anyway. As always, let me know what you liked, disliked and what you wanna see next. Have a lovely rest of your week my loves <3

March 2033 

Here’s what Azzi has learned about motherhood: having kids means that there will come many times in your life, when you will look around you and wonder how the hell did I get here. It’s that thought that’s currently plaguing her as she finishes hanging up the WELCOME HOME banner on the living room wall in her ex-girlfriend’s new apartment. And when she’s talking about kids, she’s not talking about her five year old who’s currently sticking purple hearts on every surface she can find. No, she’s talking about her 6’5 teammate who she’d once “adopted” as a joke in college, but who’s basically become her surrogate child ever since they’d ended up on the same WNBA team. 

It had started as a casual conversation when Jana, as she often did, had shown up for an impromptu lunch. The topic of Paige was hard to avoid considering it was Stephie’s favorite subject, heightened by the fact that Paige was coming back soon and Stephie was far too excited to finally have her Miss Buecks back. Jana was more than happy to indulge the little girl in conversation about what Paige had been like at UConn. And if Azzi had lost herself in those memories for a moment, transported back in time to a world that had once been blooming with promise before wilting in a darkness she’d created herself, well, she’d done an excellent job not letting it show on her face. 

The real issue had started when Jana had casually let slip her idea of surprising Paige with a little welcome party. And as Stephie had started reciting all the different things they could do -because of course me and Mama will help you Aunty J, Azzi had glared at Jana, only to receive an innocent smile in return that told her everything she needed to know. She’d been set up. 

That’s how, instead of spending her Saturday curled up on her comfortable couch with a book in her hands, Azzi is here instead and in true fashion, she’s the only one actually getting anything done. Jana, who had just left about twenty minutes ago to pick Paige up, had invited some of the other girls on the team to come help out yet, something about more hands on deck. Those supposed helpful hands had spent the last hour blowing up and popping balloons and getting nothing else done.

“I can’t believe y’all have me decorating for the woman who cost me my first national championship,” Joyce laments, “I still have nightmares from that game.”

“You gotta let that hurt go Aunty Joy,” Stephie says impishly, mimicking what Jana would normally say whenever the infamous 2025 South Carolina vs UConn national championship got brought up. 

“Don’t sass me Miss Stephanie,” Joyce sticks out her tongue at the little girl, throwing a purple balloon at Stephie’s head, “hasn’t your Mama taught you that we don’t mock people’s pain.”

“Ignore her Steph,” Tessa says, bumping her former Gamecock teammate as she shares a devilish grin with Azzi’s daughter, “she’s just upset she only won one. Some of us have two.”

Joyce guffaws, throwing another balloon, this time aimed at Tessa, “dude we’re supposed to be on the same team. What would Coach Staley say to you teaming with UConn people of all things to bully me?”

“She’d thank me for making sure you didn’t get a big head,” Tessa snipes back. 

Whatever response Joyce has to that quip is cut short by the doorbell ringing and Azzi feels her heartbeat quicken as Stephie lets out a squeal, dropping everything to go answer it. Things had been different since the facetime call almost two weeks ago. They’d accidentally on purpose settled into a routine where Stephie would call Paige at exactly 7 p.m. and Paige would answer on the first ring, promising to stay on the phone till the little girl fell asleep. And it would’ve been fine if that’s all it was. But then Paige started staying on the phone till after Stephie fell asleep and suddenly it was like they were back to their teenage selves, talking about everything and nothing, trying to learn every page of each other’s story all over again. 

Azzi had missed so much about Paige in the last couple of years but there was nothing she’d missed more than just talking to her best friend. She’d missed the way Paige would tell a story, going off on a million tangents in between. She’d missed the way her eyes would light up when she got to a particularly exciting part of the story, specks of gold shimmering in the blue like sunlight hitting the ocean. She’d missed the way Paige’s hands would be flying animatedly all over the place, even when she was whispering. She’d missed the way the blonde would pause halfway through to observe if Azzi was still listening, making sure all of the attention was still on her. And she’d missed the way that when it was Azzi’s turn to speak, Paige would hang onto every word like it was gospel, intently listening like she’d never forgive herself if she couldn’t recite everything Azzi had just said from memory. She’d missed the way Paige would let her emotions freely flicker across her face, because whatever happened to Azzi, Paige felt it too. 

She’d missed and missed, convinced the pain would be the end of her, until she’d tricked her mind into forgetting. And now Azzi’s beginning to realize that remembering it all again, might just be the thing that kills her. 

“Nevermind,” Stephie walks back to the room, sulking slightly, “it’s just Aunty Liyah.”

“Oh thanks Stephie babe. That makes me feel so wonderful,” Aaliyah says, walking in behind Stephie with an offended expression on her face, “and here I thought bringing cupcakes would make me popular.”

“Tell me those are store-bought Chavez. I ain’t trusting them if you made them yourselves,” Joyce says, side-eyeing the cupcakes. 

“Trust me I would never waste my precious time baking for y’all ungrateful ass-”

“Aaliyah,” Azzi shoots her younger teammate a sharp look.

“-ungrateful people,” Aaliyah corrects sheepishly, “cupcakes because y’all clearly don’t appreciate me.”

“I pre-ciate you Aunty Liyah,” Stephie says innocently, trying to get a better look at the aforementioned cupcakes, “you got the pu-ple ones right? They have to be pu-ple for Miss Buecks.”

Aaliyah bends down to Stephie’s level to show her the box of sweet treats “the perfect purple cupcakes for your Miss Buecks. How come you never wanna do nice things like this for us Stephie?”

“Because Miss Buecks is special,” Stephie retorts matter-of-factly.

“Oh so we’re not special?” Tessa asks, raising an eyebrow at Stephie.

“‘Course you are but Miss Buecks is special-er.”

And while her teammates all pretend to dramatically gasp at that, shaking their heads at Stephie, Azzi feels like someone’s squeezing her heart, twisting and twisting but never fully breaking it. She wonders if that might hurt less.

It’s another 10 minutes later when the doorbell rings again and Azzi watches her daughter’s face break into an incandescent grin, filled with hope, as she rushes to open the door because it has to be Paige this time. Azzi follows after her, trying to keep her breathing under control as anticipation clings to her nerves. Azzi’s gotten so spectacularly good at lying to herself that she tells herself this next one with ease: there’s not a single part of her that’s eager to see Paige again. 

“SURPRISE,” Stephie screams, flinging the front door open with as much strength as she can muster. She doesn’t give Paige a chance to react before she’s throwing herself against the blonde’s legs, hugging her thighs. 

It takes a second for Paige to register what’s happening, but when she does, it’s Azzi she’s looking at. Everything seems to move in slow motion as they stare at each other, the reality of the moment suddenly settling in. Paige is here. In Oakland. They’re going to be teammates; they’re going to see each other almost every day. Just like they used to. Except nothing is like it used to be and as that bitter truth comes up like bile in Azzi’s throat, she has to force herself to look away. 

“Miss Buecks,” Stephie calls out, tugging at the hem of Paige’s white shirt to get her attention, “do you like my surprise?”

Paige tears her eyes away from Azzi, leaning down to pick Stephie up before peppering her faces with kisses and making the younger girl squeal in delight, “best surprise ever.”

And Azzi really, really, can’t watch this. Not when it makes her want to walk over and cocoon herself in with the two of them, makes her want to pretend that she’s living in another life, one where she hadn’t thrown away the chance of a happily ever after with the girl she’d fallen in love with at fourteen, 

“Oh yeah Stephie, your surprise. Take all the credit. Not like the rest of us did anything,” Joyce rolls her eyes goodnaturedly, before pulling Paige into a one-armed hug, “welcome to the Bay Area Bueckers.”

Tessa and Aaliyah are next, both sharing warm hugs with their new teammate. Once they’ve had their turn, all eyes seem to turn to Azzi expectantly and the brunette blanches under their gaze. Other than Jana, who suddenly seems pretty heavily interested in the doorframe, the rest of her teammates don’t know about her past with Paige. So it’s only natural they’d expect her to greet Paige with all the cordiality of an old friend. 

“Y’all good?” Joyce asks slowly, looking between the two of them, “do you want me to introduce y’all or?”

“Shut up,” Azzi murmurs before drawing in a deep breath and stepping towards Paige. She tries not to fixate on the way Paige’s jaw flexes when the blonde swallows, tries not to think about all the patterns she’d once carved against that little patch of skin because she knew it drove Paige insane. The thing is Azzi can’t even really remember the last time they hugged beyond a for-the-cameras one at a game. But as she wraps her arms around Paige, the older woman’s breath tickling against her ear as she grips Azzi’s waist, it doesn’t feel that much different from how it used to be. Paige’s arms are still safe and strong and Azzi still wants to melt into them. But what’s different is that Stephie’s in between them now, tiny hands securely fastened around both of their necks. And Azzi almost, almost gives into the feeling of belonging as she whispers two simple words that mean just a little too much.

“Welcome home.”

***

Seven pairs of eyes watch as the movers move box after box after box into Paige’s apartment, until there’s more cardboard than floor visible. The three non-UConn girlies are wide-eyed as they watch the pile grow endlessly. Meanwhile Jana is laughing while Azzi tries to hide a smile behind her hands as the realization that she’d have to unpack all of her stuff hits Paige in waves, and her expression grows more and more somber. Once the movers are finally done, it’s Stephie, whose hand is still firmly clasped in Paige’s, who breaks the silence. 

“You have a lot of things Miss Buecks,” the little girl crinkles her nose, as she points out the obvious, “do you really need all of this stuff.”

“Of course I do Stephie,” Paige says indignantly and Azzi scoffs, earning her a withering glare from the blond. 

“Aight well it was nice to meet you-” Joyce starts, slowly backing away from the mess until Jana blocks her way. 

“Oh no you don’t. I told y’all we were all gonna help her move in. Call it team bonding,” the Egyptian says, her voice vaguely threatening. 

“Most of the team isn’t even here,” Aaliyah points out cautiously. 

“That’s not the point,” Jana rebukes, “alright team listen up. Here’s how this is going to go-”

“Maybe Paige should take charge. It is her apartment,” Tessa says slowly. 

“If we put Paige in charge she’ll tell us all to go home and procrastinate doing anything until after the season,” Azzi says, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. 

Paige pouts, “hey! I’m not that bad.”

“Oh you absolutely are.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“O-kay,” Jana claps, breaking apart the bickering, “it’s good to see the two of you are apparently younger than Stephie,” she holds up a hands a both Paige and Azzi start to splutter in their defense, “now as I was saying before being rudely interrupted. We’re gonna split this up. Joyce and I are gonna do the living room. Aaliyah and Tessa, y’all are gonna fix the guest room. Which leaves,” Jana smiles, and it’s only because Azzi knows her so well that she can read the menacing sparkle behind it, “Paige and Azzi to tackle the master bedroom.”

They both open their mouths to protest but are quick to get cut off by an excited Stephie, “I’mma help Mama and Miss Buecks!”

“Of course you are, why would you ever help anybody else? Clearly you don’t love us anymore. Not since your precious Miss Buecks got here,” Joyce says dramatically and while Paige smirks and the rest of the girls pretend to act mock offended, Azzi uses the distraction to sidle up to Jana. 

“What the fuck are you playing at El-Alfy,” she hisses under hear breath.

Jana shrugs innocently, “the master bedroom is the hardest because Paige has so many fucking clothes so I’m letting y’all old heads do it. Some of us are below 30 ya know.”

“Cut the bullshit,” Azzi snaps. 

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about Fudd,” Jana says airily as she starts to unpack a box, leaving Azzi muttering curses under her breath. 

“Hey-”

Azzi spins around at the soft voice, only to find herself crashing against a solid body. It’s instinct, the way Paige’s hands immediately reach out to steady her and it’s instinct, the way Azzi’s hands grab at the lapels of the blond’s shirt. Goosebumps trails up her skin as Paige's breath, hot and heavy, fans across her face. They’re too close; way too close and yet the idea of stepping away feels like a sin. Azzi gulps as her thumb accidentally brushes Paige’s collarbone and the other woman shivers under her touch. She thinks she could probably get drunk off the feeling of knowing that she can still affect Paige like that. 

“You uh-” Paige swallows, fingers squeezing involuntarily against Azzi’s hip, “you don’t have to listen to Jana. I can- I can figure it out myself.”

“N-no,” Azzi stutters and she wonders if Paige feels a high from the way she still affects Azzi too, “there’s um- you have- uh- you have a lot of stuff. I can-,” she sucks in a deep breath, “I’ll help.”

“You sure?” there’s a vulnerable edge to Paige’s tone and any resolve Azzi could ever have melts immediately. 

“I want to help,” she says softly, letting a small smile slip onto her lips. 

The smile she gets in return is bright and sparkling, just like Paige herself and Azzi’s heart lurches, pleased to be the one receiving it, pleased to be the one who’d elicited it, “Good, cause I really wanted your help.”

Azzi shakes her head, trying to ignore the warning bells blazing in her head at the fact that they’re still holding each other, “why’d you pretend you didn’t?”

“I just wanted to hear you say it first,” Paige says, biting at her bottom lip. It leaves a light mark and Azzi finds herself wanting to soothe it over with her own tongue.

She thinks it might have been easier if it was just a little harder to fall back into Paige. It shouldn’t be so simple to fall back into late night conversations, so simple to fall back into easy teasing, so simple to fall back into feeling at peace in Paige’s arms. But it is. 

“Mama, Miss Buecks,” it’s Stephie who breaks their bubble but instead of jumping away from each other like they should, they step apart only enough to let the little girl into the space between them, so she can lace her hands through both of theirs, “are you ready?”

“Before you go Paige,” Tessa calls out, holding up a clear bag of corner guards and edge protectors, “what are we doing with these?”

Paige shuffles her feet nervously, “you um- you put them on the edge of like tables and stuff.”

“Bro but they’re for people who have children?” Joyce says, giving Paige a weird look, “you have a kid we don’t know about?”

Paige’s eyes flicker to Stephie for a brief second and Azzi freezes, a warm realization tickling up her spine. Butterflies erupt in her stomach, their wings fluttering to the beat of what’s mine could have been ours. 

“Of course not. I’m just super clumsy so precautions and all that,” the blond explains, shooting Jana a glare when the taller woman barely masks a giggle, “quit procrastinating by asking all these questions and get to work.”

“Has anyone ever told you the importance of first impressions? Because I’m telling you Bueckers, using your teammates as unpaid labor the first time you meet them is not it,” Aaliyah gives Paige a pointed look. 

“This wasn’t even my idea in the first place,” Paige defends. 

“True,” Tessa nods with a sickly sweet smile, “but you’re gonna pay for the pizza anyways.”

“I’m not pay-”

“PIZZA,” Stephie squeals, “Miss Buecks you’re gonna get us Pizza?”

“Yeah Miss Buecks,” Azzi smickers, crossing her arms as Paige’s stubborn retort dies on her lips, “you gonna get us pizza?”

Paige glares at her before she’s swinging Stephie up onto her lap again. And she really needs to stop doing things like that because it’s not remotely good for Azzi’s mental health to watch the way Stephie seems to fit perfectly in Paige’s arms, “of course I am Steph, what do you want?”

The two of them are lost in their own world discussing pizza toppings as Paige starts walking over to the master bedroom, until suddenly they're both turning around, looking at Azzi with identical expressions. And the brunette feels her heart tap out this could be my everything against her ribcage. 

“You coming Azzi?”

“Mama, are you coming?”

I’d go anywhere with the two of you, Azzi thinks as she nods her head, a light skip in her step as she moves to catch up with the two of them. 

“Of course I’m coming.”

***

Less than 10 minutes into trying to unpack, Azzi realizes that she’s the only one trying to unpack anything when she looks up from where she’s been folding t-shirts -trying and failing at not breathing in their familiar scent- to find Stephie decked in a colorful cardigan that goes all the way down to her toes, her feet clad in a pair of PB4’s that must be three times the size of her own shoes. A pair of Louis Vuitton sunglasses hide almost her entire face as she strikes pose after pose and Paige diligently takes pictures of her. 

“YES Stephie,” the blond indulges, “work it girl. There you go babe, hold that pose for me. You’re a natural in front of the camera.”

Stephie giggles and Azzi feels her heart constrict. Her favorite sound in the whole world has never sounded more like a signal for danger. 

“Ahem ahem,” she coughs, narrowing her eyes at the two people in front of her, “doesn’t look like y’all are unpacking to me.”

“Mama Miss Buecks has so many pretty clothes,” Stephie gushes, completely ignoring what her mother just said. 

“They’d look even prettier folded in her closet,” Azzi says pointedly. 

Stephie pouts, “you don’t think I look pretty?”

“You look really pretty in my clothes Stephie,” Paige cuts in, tapping the little girl on the nose before she turns her gaze towards Azzi, “just like your Mama used to.”

The silk material shirt slips out of Azzi’s hand as Paige’s words drizzle around her, like the rain after a drought. It takes every little bit of strength she can muster to force herself to ignore Paige’s words and pick up another shirt to fold even if she can’t stop the rouge tint that colors her face. There’s this part of her that’s been dormant for years but every little interaction with Paige threatens to awaken it and Azzi’s scared that if she lets that happen, she’ll never be able to put it to sleep again. 

“Just- just focus on unpacking,” Azzi mutters darkly. 

She spends the next hour or so, keeping her eyes downcast, her complete focus on the task at hand. Because if she looks up, if she lets herself see the way Stephie and Paige are folding clothes together while giggling about something, if she lets herself see the way Stephie climbs onto Paige’s back so the woman can give her a piggyback to the closet to deposit the folded clothes, she thinks she could fall in love with this moment, capture it behind her eyelids and let it live there forever. But this moment doesn’t belong to Azzi. Because Paige doesn’t belong to Azzi. Not anymore. 

Azzi’s taken away from her thoughts when she feels a tiny hand wrapping around her neck from behind, Stephie’s warm body pressing against her back and just like that, all the tension in her muscles seem to dissipate. 

“What’s up sweetheart,” she asks, turning her head to press her lips against her daughter’s temple. 

“Nothing Mama,” Stephie says sweetly, “just wanted to give you a hug.”

“Sure you’re not just trying to get out of helping Miss Buecks unpack?” Azzi asks slyly, pulling Stephie from behind her, so the little girl’s lying on her lap instead. She can feel Paige’s eyes focused on the two of them and even without looking, she thinks she knows what she’d find in them if she did. 

“Of course not Mama,” Stephie grins and then squeals as Azzi begins to tickle her. 

“I think you are,” Azzi sings-songs as she continues to poke at her daughter’s stomach, reveling in the way it makes the child laugh. 

“N-no Mama stop, stop,” Stephie manages to wrench herself out from Azzi’s grip, darting to hide behind Paige’s legs, “Miss Buecks save me.”

“There’s no saving you now Stephie-bear,” Azzi roars dramatically as she picks herself off the floor, smirking at her daughter as she wriggles her fingers menacingly. 

“You know what the best way to stop someone from tickling you is Stephie?” Paige says slowly, sending the little girl a conspiratorial wink.

“Don’t you dare-” 

“You tickle them back,” Paige yells and Stephie eyes widen with excitement, “did you know your Mama’s extremely ticklish?”

“Paige no,” Azzi starts moving back, hands held in surrender. 

“You started it.”

“Yeah Mama, you started it.”

“Paige. Stephie. Ple-” Azzi cuts herself off with squeal as two sets of hands start mercilessly prodding at her ribcage. She can’t get away, not when Paige has her securely wrapped from the back and Stephie’s pressed against her front, both of them laughing maniacally. They’re a mess of limbs that’s becoming harder and harder to tell apart as the three of them topple onto Paige’s bed. And Azzi thinks maybe she doesn’t want to escape it at all. She thinks she’d like to freeze them in this moment instead. Forever. 

“Pizza’s here,” someone yells from the living room and it’s Stephie who stops first, immediately jumping off the bed at the mention of food, leaving Paige and Azzi alone. On Paige’s bed. Barely an inch of distance between them as they try to catch their breath. It’s Azzi who sits up first, smoothening the wrinkles on her shirt. And just as she’s about to stand up fully, she feels a hand circling around her wrist. 

“It’s gonna be weird being alone tonight,” Paige confesses softly and Azzi feels her breath hitch.

“Didn’t you live alone in Dallas? At least after the divorce?” she tries to keep the bitterness out of her voice at the last word, a bitterness she knows she has absolutely no right to feel. 

Paige shrugs, her shoulders brushing against Azzi’s, “I did but I knew Dallas. I don’t know this place.”

“What exactly are you asking me?” Azzi asks even though she knows. 

“I’m not asking you anything. I don’t know if I have that right anymore” Paige says softly, letting go of Azzi’s wrist as she starts to walk towards the living room, turning her head back slightly once she gets to the door, “I’m just telling you I don’t wanna be alone tonight.”

***

Damn Paige Bueckers and her vulnerable eyes and her earnest tone because Azzi would, really, really like to be enjoying her slice of pizza right now. Instead everything tastes like ashes as Paige’s unsaid plea rings in her head. There are so many reasons why Azzi absolutely shouldn’t give in, why she should grab Stephie, get into her car, drive home and never look back. This involuntary dance the two of them are starting is far too familiar to what they’d done when they were teenagers and the vivid memories of the day the music stopped and they’re feet stopped moving still haunt Azzi every time she lets herself think of it for a little too long. And she shouldn’t push herself into this fire again, not when there’s Stephie to think about, but there’s a tiny little problem. She thinks she might be addicted to burning in Paige’s flames. 

So when the pizza’s done and the house is more or less in order, and her teammates are ready to leave, looking expectantly at Azzi, she finds herself leaping into lava, “um- I think Stephie and I are gonna stay for a little bit longer.”

“We are?” Stephie asks, a huge smile stretching the length of her face as she looks up at her mother. 

“Yeah. Um- Paige’s bedroom still um- still needs some work,” Azzi tries to justify her decision, ignoring the heat of the blond’s eyes that seem to be perpetually stuck staring at her. 

Joyce raises a perplexed eyebrow, “it looked done to me.”

Paige clears her throat, “there’s definitely uh- a couple more things that need to be handled.”

“It’s almost Stephie’s bedtime. I could stay and help-” Jana begins, eyeing the two of them suspiciously.

“No,” Paige says, a little louder than necessary, “I mean you’ve already done so much for me today Jana,” she manages a smirk, “let Azzi pull her weight a little bit too ya know.”

Janna narrows her eyes but doesn’t push it. It’s oddly domestic, standing side by side with Paige bidding goodbye to their teammates, Stephie in between them happily waving at the people that are leaving. The warning bells get louder and louder; Azzi continues to do nothing to stop them. 

“Mama, how long are we staying?” Stephie asks innocently. 

“We um-” Azzi chews at her lip, finally giving into the temptation to look at Paige, “we’re gonna stay with Miss Buecks tonight so she doesn’t feel alone.”

The shrill scream that escapes Stephie’s mouth could probably break glass as she turns herself around to grab at Paige’s waist, “Miss Buecks I’m gonna stay with you! We’re gonna have a sleep-over.”

Paige laughs, kneeling down so she’s face to face with the little girl, “yeah we are.”

“Are you scared to sleep alone too Miss Buecks?” Stephie asks cautiously, cupping Paige’s face with tiny hands. 

“Just a little bit,” Paige admits, leaning into Stephie’s touch. 

“Me too,” Stephie whispers shyly, “that’s why I sneak into Mama's bed and she gives me lots and lots and lots of cuddles. Mama’s cuddles are the best,” she turns to Azzi, “Mama will you give Miss Buecks cuddles tonight too?”

“I uh-” Azzi swallows, taken aback by the question, “I thought you didn’t like sharing Mama’s cuddles?”

“I don’t,” Stephie agrees, “but I’d be okay sharing them with Miss Buecks.”

***

Azzi had planned -a loose term because really she hadn’t planned on any of this- for her and Stephie to take the guest room. Paige had been ready to give up her own room on the grounds of politeness. And Stephie was insistent that she needed to sleep in between both Mama and Miss Buecks tonight because it’s a sleepover we all have to stay together. Obviously out of the three of them, only one of them was going their way and it didn’t take a genius to figure out who that would be.  That’s how they’d ended up here, dragging chairs and pillows and blankets into the middle of the living room to create a makeshift fort. 

Azzi’s putting on the finishing touches, stringing purple fairy lights Paige had produced out of nowhere, when Stephie emerges from Paige’s bedroom where she’d gone looking for something to wear in lieu of pajamas. 

“Mama look what I found,” Stephie beams, proudly pointing at the black t-shirt she’s found that covers her whole body, “it’s you and Miss Buecks when you were littler.”

It’s their SLAM cover t-shirt and Azzi feels tears prickling at her waterline as she’s met with the picture of a younger version of the two of them. Back when they’d been so hopeful and carefree, ready to take on the world as long as they could do it together. Back when they’d been 2 in a million.

“I can’t believe you still have this,” Azzi whispers, unable to stop herself from running her fingers across the version of who they used to be. She wonders what those girls would think of them now; those girls who’d laid and bed and pinky promised forever. She thinks they’d probably be appalled at the fact that Paige and Azzi had spent eight years barely speaking. She thinks maybe they’d hate her for what she’d done. She thinks maybe she hates herself a little bit for what she’s done to them. 

Paige is leaning against the wall, her voice quiet when she speaks, “I couldn’t let it go.”

And they both know she’s not talking about the shirt. 

“Can we watch a movie?” Stephie asks, diving into the fort and peering up at the two adults. 

Paige recovers first, “yeah- yeah of course Steph,” she looks at Azzi, “do you- do you want something else to sleep in?”

“I’m good,” Azzi says, trying to inconspicuously brush away a rebellious tear. The shirt she’s wearing feels itchy against her skin but she doesn’t think she could handle wearing something of Paige’s. She scooches into the fort, leaning back against one of the pillows and Stephie’s quick to curl into her and Azzi absentmindedly rubs her hands down her daughter’s back. Paige switches on the TV, letting Stephie dictate a movie choice before letting herself into the fort, laying down on Stephie’s other side. 

“Miss Buecks come cuddle,” Stephie demands from where her head is laying on Azzi’s chest. When Paige hesitates, the younger girl takes it upon herself to pull Paige’s arms over her, making the older woman lie on her side so she can drape her hands over Stephie's stomach, accidentally brushing against Azzi’s ribcage. Stephie lets out a satisfied sigh, lying back down against Azzi, crossing her arms so she can hold Paige’s hand with one and latch onto her mother with the other. 

“Perfect.”

And it is. The sound of Stephie’s chatter slowly fading away mixed with Paige’s quiet breathing is the perfect lullaby and Azzi finds herself drifting off into the best sleep she’s had in years. 

***

Sunlight peeks in through the window and Azzi groans at the interruption. Her whole body feels a little stiff, not used to sleeping on the floor like this. A quick glance at her phone tells her it’s 7 a.m. and Azzi’s just about to let herself fall back asleep when her eyes land on the two sleeping figures next to her. Stephie’s face is buried in Paige’s neck, one arm slung over her waist. Paige, mouth slightly ajar as she sleeps, has both hands fastened on the younger, holding her tightly against her chest like she’d fight the world if someone tried to steal her from her grip. They look happy, content, at peace. And Azzi can’t breathe. 

The warning bells in her head create a cacophonous commotion that she can no longer escape. It hits her like whiplash that she can’t do this. She doesn’t know what had gotten into her last night, why she’d agreed to this, to any of this. But she can’t do this. 

“Stephie,” Azzi whispers urgently, trying to pull her daughter out of Paige’s grasp, “Stephie wake up.”

“Az?” Paige asks groggily, stirring in her sleep, “what’s going on?”

“We need to go home,” Azzi says and she can’t bear to look at Paige. 

“What?” Paige is far more awake now as she glances at her phone, “it’s 7 am Azzi. What’s the rush?"

Azzi ignores her, still trying to wake Stephie up who groans, “Mama too early.”

“Steph-”

“Azzi,” Paige’s voice is firm as she wraps her hand around Azzi’s wrist, slipping Stephie off of her, “what is going on.”

Azzi grits her teeth, “nothing’s going on. We just need to go home.”

“Azzi-”

“We shouldn’t have stayed last night Paige,” Azzi bursts out and Paige freezes. 

“Come out of the fort Azzi,” the blond says, her voice eerily calm as she stands up. Azzi follows after her, heart beating rapidly against her chest as she tries to keep the tears at bay. 

“We need to go home,” the brunette repeats, struggling to breathe, “this was a mistake,” Paige flinches and Azzi feels a knife turn in her own hurt, “we can’t do this.”

“Do what Azzi?” Paige asks exasperatedly, still trying to keep her voice low for Stephie’s sake. 

“This,” Azzi all but shrieks, throwing her hands up, “it’s too much, too quick and Stephie- Stephie’s getting attached and I can’t- I can’t let that happen.”

“Why not?” Paige argues stubbornly. 

“Because these last two weeks she couldn’t fall asleep without you on the phone. Because you’re all she talks about sometimes. Because she’s gonna want you forever,” Azzi’s voice breaks, “and she can’t have you forever.”

“Az-”

“And you’re getting attached too. I see the way you look at her and it’s amazing but it’s not- it’s not sustainable Paige. For either of you. Because you’re gonna find someone soon,” the words taste sour on Azzi’s tongue, “and you’re not gonna have time for her and missing you is going to kill her and the guilt of that is going to hurt you. I’m trying to pro-”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Paige’s voice is hard now, eyes gleaming with fire, “you’re basing all of this on a hypothetical that might not even come true. You’re not protecting anybody. You’re projecting.”

Azzi reels back, “I am not projecting.”

“Yes you are,” Paige hisses, “you’re not scared of Stephie or me getting too attached. You’re scared of yourself getting too attached.”

“Mama? Miss Buecks,” Stephie’s tired eyes look warily between the two of them, “what’s going on?”

Azzi plasters a smile on her face as she picks up her little girl, trying to pretend that the truth in Paige’s words haven’t just made her feel hollow, “we’re going home Stephie.”

“I don’t wanna go home,” Stephie fights against Azzi’s grip, looking helplessly at Paige, “Miss Buecks I wanna stay. Can I please stay?”

“You have to listen to your Mama sweetheart” Paige says softly, heartbreak written over her face as she moves to press a kiss against Stephie’s knuckles, “but I’ll see you soon okay. I promise.”

“Miss Buecks,” Stephie whimpers and Azzi has never hated herself more as she rushes out of Paige’s new house, willing herself to not look back. She buckles Stephie in the back, pretending she doesn’t see the way Paige is watching them leave from the porch, like she’d do anything to stop it. And then she drives away. 

It isn’t until she’s safely in the confines over her own room, that Azzi finally lets the tears fall. And she consoles herself with the fact that it’s okay to crack her daughter's heart, to crack Paige’s heart, to crack her own heart, if that’s the only way she can stop their hearts from breaking altogether.

[monstersandmaw]

a biker orc has spawned in my drafts... here's an unedited snippet from what I have so far. Lemme know if you want the rest and I'll do it.

male orc, modern fantasy setting, gn reader who uses a cane as a mobility aid but their disability, while accommodated for later in the story, isn't the focus, or an issue.

___

You were used to your dog getting stares from people in the park. Tiny as a teacup, and as ugly as they came, Tinkerbell had been a rescue three years ago, and the two of you had pack bonded better than most werewolves who grew up together. The little chihuahua cross (crossed with what, no one knew and it would take an entire mage’s laboratory to unravel the DNA of your mystical little creature anyway) was sort of sandy coloured, with white socks and a hint of Jack Russel about the tail, but her bug-eyes and little teeth were all chihuahua. There was a tuft of longer hair on her head that made her look like a gremlin after midnight, and she had the attitude to go with it.

She also hated everyone.

It didn’t matter if they were the cutest, sweetest little fawn, or the gentlest fairy, she hated them.

So when you were taking a break on a chilly bench at the edge of the park after walking her as far as your body would let you that day, and three orcs on obscenely loud motorbikes drew up to the curb only a few metres away and cut the engines on their bikes, you fully expected her to go absolutely ape shit on them.

One of the orcs removed his helmet and propped it on his bike’s mirror, and pointed at The Creature. A very un-orcish giggle escaped him and he began to make little cooing noises over her, so much that you found your mouth curling into a smirk at his antics.

The others kept their helmets on, but you could tell the were orcs too just by their build. They were laughing at their mate, who was rapidly losing his mind over your dog. Quite why, you had no idea, but there it was.

“She’ll eat you for breakfast, buddy,” you called over to them, and the orc without his helmet froze.

His expression turned from gooey-eyed to comically devastated and you couldn’t help the laugh that erupted out of your chest.

Tinkerbell looked up at you and then over at the bikers.

“I’m warning you,” you said with mock-seriousness. “She’s a killer.”

The orc without the helmet swung his leg over his monster of a sports bike and came round the front to stand, staring at her from a distance. You, in turn, stared at him.

Where his mates had perhaps more stereotypical clothing for the kind of bikes they rode — both choppers — he had on a baggy black hoodie which you hope was armoured underneath. By contrast though, his faded black jeans were tight around his tree trunk legs, and there was a slight rip in the thigh that showed his dark, olive green skin. The jeans clearly had knee armour though, and he had sporty looking biker boots instead of the scuffed, black work boot style shoes his friends had on. His black hair was plaited back off his gorgeous face in a complicated braid that was studded and adorned all the way down with charms made of bone and metal and wood, and it ended below his waistband. His tusks were rounded at the tip, unlike the more traditional orcs, but he did have a cuff of engraved silver around each one, showing he was over the age of twenty five.

His hands were covered by black, armoured gloves that did unreasonable things to your sex drive for some reason, and he crouched down and held one hand out towards Tinkerbell, though at that distance he couldn’t possibly hope to pet her. He was a good six or seven metres from the bench, but Tinkerbell took notice. They were all hard to miss, after all.

The orc’s mates were snickering openly, and one of them had got out their phone to record their friend. You hoped they wouldn’t get you in the frame. You had no inclination to become some prop on a stranger’s social media, though you didn’t mind if Tinkerbell had her five minutes in the limelight.

Propped up beside you on the bench, your walking cane started to slide slightly along the wooden seat, toppling slowly towards the ground, and you grabbed for it and tucked it up against your thigh. The movement freed up your hand for a moment, and it was all the excuse Tinkerbell needed to yank herself free of your clutches and launch herself at the orc.

“Oh shit,” you gasped, but the dog was off like a guided missile, trailing her pink leash behind her as she tore across the grass towards him, yapping wildly.

Instead of sinking her tiny little dagger teeth into his armoured arm though, she bounced up like a wayward baked bean and hurled herself at his chest — honestly, you couldn’t blame the girl — and he caught her, giggling like a small child. You stared, astonished, as the creature who had once fought a five year old at a birthday party for a single square of cheese proceeded to charm the hell out of a seven and a half foot orc with a litre sports bike that looked like it could eat a dragon for breakfast.

“What the actual fuck?” you hissed as the orc continued to fuss your minuscule dog and make little baby noises at her as he held her up like he was presenting a well-known lion cub to an audience while she squirmed in his frankly illegally huge hands before lowering her again and nuzzling his flatter nose against her pointy one and setting her down on the ground with surprising care for someone so bulky.

Baffled by her betrayal and change in personality, you stood awkwardly — painfully — leaning on your cane for stability, and the orc’s green eyes tracked the movement, his attention sliding from the dog to her owner as you eased yourself to your feet.

There is a bit more written but this felt like a good spot to leave it for now. Lemme know if you want the rest!

(EDIT: Chapter One is now up on Patreon - free to access from 21st Feb 2025)

[minaaaliyah]

Chapter 1

Why couldn’t life be easy? Why couldn’t you come into this world with a blueprint—a map laid out, step-by-step, telling you what path to take and when to take it? Instead, life tosses you in blindfolded, hands tied, heart exposed. You’re left to fumble through the dark, trying to make sense of the noise.

No one said life was going to be worth living. But here you are.

A healer.

You could ease a person’s pain with nothing more than an herb and a prayer. Your mama was an herbalist, your daddy, a doctor. You’d been learning how to use what the earth gave you since before you could even say the word “medicine.” It was in your blood—something ancient, something sacred, something that flowed in your veins like second nature.

Your mama swore she knew you were special before you even took your first breath. Said she felt it in her belly—that you were a gift that kept on giving. Said you’d shine so bright you could kill someone. Of course, she was being dramatic—mothers always are—but still, mothers know. And when you started helping her in her home herb shop at the ripe age of six, you began to understand what she meant.

People would come in for chamomile, peppermint, maybe some eucalyptus for a cold. But you felt something deeper. A tug in your chest, a whisper from something unseen. You knew they were battling more than a stuffy nose. You’d walk up, press your little hand to theirs, and pray. Ask the Gods to bring them peace, clarity, safety. And somehow, it worked. Words from the mouth of a child with old-soul power behind them.

After that, Mama made sure you never forgot what you were. “Keeping a gift like that to yourself is a sin, girl,” she’d say. “And the Gods will snatch it back as fast as they gave it to yuh.”

Now, you’re twenty-five, a single mother working at Annie’s Place just trying to keep your head above water. You live above the restaurant, scraping by. There’s food on the table, bills paid—barely. Mama still helps here and there—mostly for your daughter, Yara—but she kicked you out the moment you said you didn’t want to use your gift anymore. Claimed she was doing what was right. But you know better. You feel it in your bones. She’s just waiting for that power to resurface, maybe even hoping it’ll pass into your daughter.

Still, you stay quiet. You need her.

Besides your mama, you don’t really have anyone. Your father past three years ago. You’re an only child. And friends? Sure, you have Mary and Perlene, but they’ve got lives of their own. They saw that past-due light bill taped to your door and said nothing—just shook their heads and kept it moving. You never asked for help. Hated the idea of owing anybody anything. So, you struggle in silence. You don’t cry, don’t break, don’t pause. You can’t. You’ve got a child to raise, shifts to work, bills to pay. Life’s not fairytale magic—it’s survival. But it’s yours. And you live it for her.

“Nyx, you know you ain’t got no time to be sitting up on that damn phone,” Annie’s voice called from the kitchen, carrying the scent of fresh-fried fish.

Looking up from the counter, I muttered a quiet curse. Of course she came out now. I tucked my phone into my pocket.

“Sorry, Annie. I’m just waitin’ to see if Yara got that scholarship to the private school. They said emails go out at four. It’s 4:05.”

Annie shrugged. “Girl don’t stress. She’s gonna get it. Now, help me with these plates.”

I pulled on gloves and joined her behind the bar. The place was slow today—Naomi was handling the few customers we had.

“You know, Nyx,” Annie said, handing me a to-go box, “if you need help payin’ for Babygirl’s school, I can—”

“No, ma’am,” I cut her off. “If she doesn’t get it, I’ll just get another job.”

She gave me that look—the one that could slice you straight to your soul.

“Nyx,” she said slowly, “when exactly are you planning to work another job? You’re here 10 to 5, then you’re running across town to pick up Yara. Who’s gonna take care of her? When you gonna sleep?”

Annie doesn’t lie. Doesn’t sugarcoat. Doesn’t indulge in fantasy. She gives you truth, sharp and unflinching. I looked at her like she just kicked my dog and told me it was for my own good.

But she wasn’t wrong.

Still shaking my head, I slipped my phone back out. One new email.

Dear Ms. Noorani, We are excited to share the wonderful news that your child, Yara Noorani, has been selected to receive a scholarship for the upcoming school year!

This award reflects your family’s commitment to early education and your child’s joyful spirit and enthusiasm for learning. We are thrilled to welcome you into our school community and look forward to supporting your child’s growth and development.

You will receive more information soon about next steps, including enrollment details and how the scholarship will be applied.

Congratulations again, and we can’t wait to see Yara Noorani shine!

“ANNIE!” I shouted, my voice cracking. “Oh my God, Annie—she got it!”

I spun around the kitchen, nearly knocking over the fish.

Annie just smirked. “That’s great and all, but if you don’t stop jumpin’ around, I’ma make you work a double.”

I laughed, breathless and warm all over. I hugged her tight, told her I’d see her later, and clocked out. Then I called a ride.

I rode with the windows cracked, warm summer air brushing against my cheeks as the city blurred by. The scholarship email kept replaying in my head like a hymn. She got it. My baby got it. The one thing that could lift her out of the mess I was buried in.

Mama's house was on the east side—tucked behind rows of overgrown bougainvillea and rusted garden gates, looking just like the woman who owned it: wild and unbothered by what people thought. I climbed the stairs two at a time, heart thudding, already picturing Yara’s big smile when she heard the news. But something stopped me at the top step.

A smell—faint, earthy, thick with sage and sandalwood—curling from the porch like it had a message of its own. Mama was burning again. That usually meant spirits had been nearby. Or something worse. I stepped inside. “Mama?” I called. She was in the back, kneeling on the floor, her hands deep in a bowl of red clay and water. Her head snapped up when she heard my voice. “You felt that too?” she asked.

I hesitated. “Felt what? “But I had. A subtle twist in the air. A hum behind my ribs. She wiped her hands on a towel and stood, looking older than I remembered. “They been callin’ you again, haven’t they? The spirits. The energy. You’re runnin’ from it, but it’s catchin’ up.”

I didn't answer. Instead, I gave her the news. “Yara got the scholarship.” Her eyes lit up—just for a moment—but the shadow returned quickly. “She’s gonna need it,” she murmured. “The girl’s light is growin’. And so are the eyes watchin’ her.”

Mama, please don’t start,” I said, brushing past her into the kitchen. “Just be happy. For once.”

I opened the cabinet, pulling out Yara’s small backpack and snacks, already mentally running through the checklist for the morning store run. “All I’m trying to do is warn you, Nyx,” Mama said, following close behind. “The spirits been talkin’. They said there’s a man out there—he’s coming for you. And he ain’t good news.” I sighed, stuffing Yara’s water bottle into the bag harder than I needed to.

“If you would just use that gift of yours,” she went on, her voice catching like a thread on splintered wood, “you’d understand. You could see him comin’ too.” 

“I’m not tryin’ to see anything, Mama,” I muttered, slinging the bag over my shoulder and heading toward the front room. “I’m just trying to live.” She followed me to the living room like a shadow that wouldn’t let go, her presence thick in the air.

I placed Yara’s things by the door, then climbed the stairs quietly to my old bedroom. The door creaked the way it always had. Inside, Yara lay tangled in blankets, deep in a toddler’s dream, mouth slightly open, one chubby hand curled around her stuffed bunny. “Yara, baby,” I whispered gently, kneeling beside her. “Wake up, love. The Uber’s outside.”

She stirred, groaning softly. “Mommy, I’m still tired,” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes with tiny fists. “I know, I know,” I said, pulling her upright. “We’ll nap when we get home, okay?” She nodded sleepily, letting me put on her little shoes and zip up her jacket. In the hallway, Mama stood watching us, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line. She didn’t say anything this time, just looked at me like she was memorizing the moment.

Yara gave her a hug around the knees. “I love you, Grandma. See you next week.” Mama’s face softened as she bent down to kiss her cheek. “Love you too, baby. Be good. And remember what I told you.”

“I will,” Yara said, her voice already fading with sleep again. I picked her up and carried her down the stairs. At the door, I paused long enough to give Mama a kiss on the cheek.

She didn’t say another word.

I didn’t either.

Outside, the car was already waiting, headlights cutting through the dawn fog. I climbed in with Yara curled up against me, the silence between me and my mother still hanging heavy in my chest—half love, half warning. 

By the time the car pulled up near the curb, dusk had wrapped the city in a quiet, copper-toned hush. You thanked the driver, gathered your bags, and scooped Yara—now asleep with her cheek resting on your shoulder—into your arms.

The entrance to your apartment was in the back, which meant a short walk down the cracked sidewalk, then a right turn into the narrow alley behind Annie’s. Dim light flickered from the single bulb overhead, casting long shadows on the damp pavement. You adjusted your grip on the bag, hoisted Yara a little higher on your hip, and climbed the metal stairs that always groaned beneath your weight.

The apartment wasn’t much. A one-bedroom, one-bath, 750-square-foot shoebox with peeling paint and thin walls. But the hardwood floors had character—warm and worn down in places—and the little kitchen window caught the morning sun just right. It wasn’t perfect, but it was home. It kept you and your daughter safe, and that was more than most could say.

You unlocked the door, pushed it open with your shoulder, and stepped inside. The smell of yesterday’s incense still lingered faintly in the air—sage, maybe lavender. You dropped the bags by the door and laid Yara gently on the couch. She stirred a little but didn’t wake. You brushed a curl from her forehead and whispered, “We’re home, baby.”

The place was exactly how you left it—blankets strewn over the couch, breakfast dishes still in the sink, and a few toys scattered on the floor like breadcrumbs from the morning rush. You carried Yara to the bedroom, changed her into pajamas, and tucked her into bed. She murmured something in her sleep, clutching her stuffed bunny close to her chest. You kissed her temple before turning out the light.

You went back into the main room and turned on some music—just loud enough to fill the silence. A little Erykah Badu, soft and soulful. The kind of music that makes you feel like you’re floating while your hands stay busy.

You started in the kitchen. Dishes first. You emptied the dishwasher, put up the clean plates and glasses, and loaded the sink full of the mess from earlier. The rhythm of scrubbing, rinsing, and stacking grounded you—one small task after another. You wiped the counters down, sprayed the stove, and lit a citrus candle by the sink to chase away the lingering smell of grease.

The living room came next. You folded the throw blankets, picked up Yara’s toys, and vacuumed around the rug with that little handheld vacuum you hated but couldn’t afford to replace. Everything in its place.

Finally, the bathroom—always your least favorite. You didn’t do much tonight. Just swept the floor and sprayed the sink. Enough to feel decent.

Once the place felt clean and the candle's glow flickered gently in the kitchen, you turned off the music, took a shower, and slipped into bed. The sheets were cool, the room quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator in the next room.

That’s when your mind started to wander. 

Back to how you got here.

To the gift you walked away from. To Mama’s warnings. To the man in the shadows—the one the spirits whispered about. To all the moments you’d swallowed your tears and stood tall, because crumbling wasn’t an option.

You stared up at the ceiling, the weight of the day pressing into your chest like a heavy hand. You’d made it through, just like always. But something was shifting. You could feel it—in the wind, in your bones, in the quiet spaces between your thoughts.

You turned onto your side and glanced toward Yara on the other side of the bed, where her nightlight still glowed soft and amber.

Let whatever’s coming wait until tomorrow, you thought.

And you finally closed your eyes.

Saturday morning started slow—just the way Nyx liked it.

The city outside still yawned as light crept between buildings, stretching across power lines and rusted window frames. Inside the apartment, everything was quiet except for the soft rustle of Yara flipping through her picture book and the occasional thump of tiny feet pattering from the bathroom to the couch.

Nyx stood barefoot in the kitchen, wrapped in a long robe, hair piled on top of her head. She pressed the stove knob again. Waited.

Click. Click.

Nothing.

She exhaled sharply through her nose, hands on her hips.

"That’s just disrespectful," she muttered, grabbing her phone and typing a note to herself—Call Darnell again (!!!)—before tossing it onto the counter.

Yara peered around the corner. "Mama, pancakes today?"

Nyx sighed. "We gotta go downstairs for that, baby. Stove’s playing games again."

Yara grabbed her bunny and slipped on her sneakers without complaint. Nyx got them both dressed in something decent, pulled her keys off the hook, and they made their way downstairs, the scent of smoked sausage and cinnamon already curling up the stairwell like a welcome.

The bell over the door chimed. Annie didn’t look up from the grits she was stirring. “Lemme guess. The stove?” Nyx stepped inside, Yara tugging her hand. “Dead. Again. I can’t keep feeding this child off cereal and prayer, Annie. I need real heat.”

“You need a new landlord,” Annie muttered. “I told Darnell three weeks ago to check that thing.”

“You told Darnell,” Nyx repeated, pointing to herself. “But I have to live with his half-fixin’. That’s the difference.” Annie gave her that look—the one that always said you ain’t wrong, but don’t start no mess this early—then nodded her head toward a booth. “Sit. I got sausage and sweet cornbread in the back. Let the girl eat.”

Nyx smiled down at Yara. “You hear that, baby? Annie’s spoiling you again.” Yara beamed and ran ahead to their usual seat. That’s when the door chimed again. Two men entered. The air changed.

Smoke came in first. Dressed in deep gray, with eyes that didn't scan the room—they read it. Quiet. Still. Not a man who needed to announce himself. The kind of man who made you straighten your back without realizing it. The kind of man who made you pause when your instincts stirred, and your spirit wasn’t sure if it should kneel or run.

Stacks followed, louder, lighter, full of charm. Gold ring flashing on his pinky. Laughter already rising from his chest. "Whew, Annie," he said, fanning himself like a preacher. “You still cooking with holy fire in here?”

Annie grinned. “Only thing that keeps men like you comin’ back.”

Stacks turned toward Nyx’s booth and spotted her. “Well, well, what do we have here?”

She blinked, caught off guard by the sudden focus.

Annie chuckled. “Stacks, Smoke—this here’s Nyx. Lives upstairs. Works the counter most days.”

Stacks reached out, but Nyx stayed seated, offering only a nod. "Nice to meet you, Stacks. And… Smoke?" She looked up at him now. He didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. Just stood there.

Watching.

Like he already knew her face.

Stacks laughed. “Don’t mind him. Smoke don’t say much. He thinks in thunder but speaks in whispers.”

Smoke’s gaze didn’t waver. His arms remained crossed over his chest, but Nyx could feel his energy like a drumbeat beneath the floorboards.

She looked away first.

“So y’all the famous twins Annie always talking about?” she asked, pouring Yara some juice from the small carafe on the table.

Stacks slid into the seat across from her like they were old friends. “Famous might be generous, but yeah. We run things around here. Logistics, cleanup, favors. If something needs to be handled, we’re the ones they call.”

“Interesting,” Nyx said, slicing into Yara’s sausage. “So you’re the neighborhood problem-solvers?”

“That’s one word for it,” Annie muttered from behind the bar.

Stacks winked. “We do it all. Except breakfast. That’s Annie’s territory.”

Nyx chuckled. “Well, I’m glad someone’s working around here, because my stove is on strike again.”

Stacks leaned back. “You got a man around? Someone to look at it?”

“No man,” Nyx said flatly, without apology.

Smoke, still standing, shifted.

That single movement said more than most men said in full sentences.

Stacks raised his eyebrows. “That’s rare. You don’t give off single-mom energy.”

“Oh?” Nyx raised her brow. “What kind of energy do I give off?”

Stacks grinned. “Bossy. Beautiful. Might-cut-you-if-you-say-something-stupid type.”

Nyx smirked. “So I give off accurate energy.”

Annie snorted in the background, nearly choking on her tea.

Smoke finally moved—quietly sliding into the seat beside Stacks, still watching. He didn’t speak. Not a word. But Nyx could feel him.

The way his eyes didn’t waver.

The way his presence filled the space without crowding it.

The way his silence wrapped around him like armor.

It unnerved her. But not in a bad way.

In a way that made her nervous—for reasons she didn’t have time to name.

Stacks went on talking—about the neighborhood, about Annie’s food, about some guy who owed him money and was now washing dishes for free. Nyx smiled and laughed in all the right places, but her attention kept sliding to the quiet man across from her.

Smoke hadn’t said her name.

But he was studying her like he was trying to memorize it.

Like somewhere, deep in the folds of his spirit, he already knew it.

And as they sat in that booth—Yara quietly coloring, Annie humming in the kitchen, and Stacks telling stories—Nyx felt something pull tight inside her.

A tether.

Invisible.

Ancient.

And it was tied to the man who hadn’t said a word.

Stacks leaned over the table, eyes twinkling as he took a sip of sweet tea and pointed to Yara’s coloring page. “Now hold up—who taught you to stay inside the lines like that? That’s professional work right there.”

Yara paused mid-crayon stroke, blinking up at him. Her cheeks puffed, and she dipped her chin low like she was trying to disappear into her hoodie.

Stacks grinned wider. “Aw, don’t go shy on me now. What’s your name, baby girl?”

She looked at her mama for permission.

Nyx nodded gently. “Go ahead, love.”

Yara peeked out. “Yara,” she whispered.

Stacks put a hand to his chest like he’d just heard a secret. “Yara. That’s a beautiful name. You know what it means?”

Yara shrugged a little, still coloring.

Nyx smiled to herself. She knew what was happening. Yara rarely opened up to strangers—but Stacks had a charm that was disarming even to grown women. The man had a gift, and today he was using it to unlock a toddler.

“It means ‘small butterfly’ in Arabic,” Nyx added, brushing a curl behind her ear.

Stacks widened his eyes at Yara. “Butterfly? Now that makes sense. You look like the kind of girl who’s always flyin’ somewhere.”

Yara giggled once, soft and quick.

That was all he needed.

“Aha! I knew I’d get a laugh. I used to be a butterfly myself, you know,” he said, dramatically fluttering his fingers like wings.

Yara laughed again—this time with her whole face—and Nyx tried not to melt at the sound.

“You like to draw?” Stacks asked, tapping a blank spot on the paper.

Yara nodded.

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing to a pink shape.

“That’s me and Mama and my bunny. We’re going to the moon.”

“The moon?” he said, eyebrows shooting up. “Shoot, I haven’t even been outta the city this year.”

She giggled again and flipped the page to start a new one. This time, she handed him a crayon.

“Ohhh, you want me to help? I gotta warn you, I draw like a sleepy raccoon,” he said, but took the crayon anyway.

Smoke watched the exchange without a word. Just sat there, arms crossed, jaw tense, eyes unreadable.

Nyx glanced his way—curious.

She wasn’t used to men who stayed quiet around kids. Most either talked too much or ignored them altogether. But Smoke was different. Not disinterested, not cold—just… studying. Listening. Like he was trying to understandsomething.

Stacks kept chatting with Yara, filling the space with easy warmth.

“What’s your bunny’s name?” “Bunny.” “Classic.” “You wanna color the moon?” “Okay, but I think the moon should be blue today.” “It’s your moon, baby girl. Make it neon green if you want.”

Yara smiled—open now, radiant. Nyx felt her heart loosen just a little watching them. She turned to Smoke.

“You good over there, or you only speak after sunset?” she asked, teasing—but only a little. He looked at her. And for a heartbeat, it felt like he looked through her. Then he said, low and deliberate, “I speak when there’s something worth saying.” 

It wasn’t rude.

But it hit like thunder.

Nyx blinked, caught off guard—not just by the weight of his voice, but by the feeling behind it. It was like he’d been holding back something he couldn’t name.

Something watching her the way old gods watched people who lit candles without knowing why.

Stacks broke the silence, smiling wide. “Don’t mind him. He’s just mad he can’t color as good as Yara.”

Yara beamed, clearly proud.

Smoke gave a faint, nearly invisible smirk.

Nyx noticed.

It was the first break in his armor.

And for reasons she didn’t want to explore yet, she felt it settle somewhere low and slow in her chest.

The hush in Annie’s diner wasn’t empty.

It was full—with everything they weren’t saying.

Steam rose in slow curls from Annie’s chipped coffee mug. The scent of chicory, fried sage, and cornbread clung to the air. It wrapped itself around the group like a shawl, familiar and warm. Outside, the street was lazy. The sun shone but didn’t blaze, and the sidewalk shimmered soft in the stillness of the late morning.

Yara’s soft breath was the only real sound.

Nyx shifted just enough to let her daughter lay her head in her lap. She smoothed a curl away from her brow, her hand lingering longer than usual. That girl was her world, her reason, her spine. Watching her sleep with her fists unclenched—it reminded her why she worked so hard not to fall apart.

Across from her, Smoke leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move much. But his presence was dense. Grounding. Like a storm cloud that had no plans to rain—yet.

Stacks, surprisingly, had gone quiet too. He stared into the cup of coffee Annie had poured him, turning it in his hands like it held a message. The grin he usually wore had faded—not in sadness, but in realness. Like he’d taken off his performance for just a minute and let the man underneath breathe.

It felt like everyone was holding something.

And for once, nobody was trying to fix it.

Annie pulled a chair from behind the counter and joined them, sitting sideways so her knees pointed toward Nyx. “I used to dream of mornings like this,” she said softly. “Mornings where nobody needed anything. Where we could all just be.”

Nyx looked up at her. “You mean you don’t like when folks come in yelling ‘Annie, I need a plate, and my man just left me again’?”

Annie gave a dry laugh. “Honey, I’ve been everybody’s mama, therapist, and exorcist. I ain’t had time to just sit in my own skin for years.”

Stacks raised his mug. “To sitting in your own skin.”

Annie raised hers. “To finally being around people who don’t drain it.”

Nyx lifted her water glass. Smoke didn’t lift anything, but he gave a slow nod.

And Yara, half-asleep, whispered, “Cheers…”

Everyone chuckled.

That laugh settled the room like a song’s final note.

Then Nyx spoke again—quieter this time. “It’s hard, though. Being strong all the time.”

She hadn’t meant to say it.

Not out loud.

But now it was out there, hanging in the air like incense smoke.

Annie didn’t interrupt.

Neither did Stacks.

But Smoke looked at her.

And for the first time, he said her name like he’d known it longer than she’d been alive.

“Nyx.”

Just that.

Just her name.

But it landed like a blessing.

She met his eyes. There was no flirtation there. No slickness. Just something steady. Like he saw her—and wasn’t afraid of what came with that.

And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she had to be guarded.

She just… was. Yara stirred again, reaching up sleepily. Nyx pulled her close, whispering, “Go back to sleep, baby.”

Stacks smiled. “She’s gonna be something else when she gets older. You better prepare.”

“She already is something else,” Nyx replied, brushing her daughter’s cheek. “Just like her grandma.”

“Your mama the real deal, huh?” he asked, eyes curious.

Nyx hesitated. “The kind of woman who talks to spirits before she brushes her teeth.”

Annie laughed. “That woman always gave me chills—but her hands? Healing. I remember once, back in—”

Before she could finish, Smoke suddenly stood up.

Not abrupt. Just… quietly certain.

Nyx looked up. “You okay?”

He nodded, but his gaze had shifted—like he’d just heard something only he could hear.

“Just needed air.”

He looked at her for a second longer, like he wanted to say something more.

Then he walked out, the bell over the door chiming softly behind him.

Stacks and Annie exchanged a glance but said nothing.

Nyx watched the door swing gently in his wake.

Something inside her stirred.

Not anxiety.

Not fear.

But familiarity.

Like the moment before lightning strikes—when the world inhales.

[robolvrr]

attention-seeker ミ⁠●﹏

transformers reactions to human modifications. (tattoos, piercings, hair-dye.) headcanons!

optimus prime, bumblebee, prowl. tfa.

sfw / suggestive under cut.

may do more of them, i love this show to death.

optimus prime

"you do this stuff... for fun? huh."

try as he might, he does not understand the point much.

don't get me wrong, i see animated optimus to be the closest to a mid-twenties rascal as you can get. modifications aren't unheard of for bots. he's not a nun.

however ...

he sees humans as still pretty fragile. so the idea that you like going and having needles shoved into your flesh and jammed through your muscle isn't something he can wrap his helm around at first.

primus forbid you have lots.

imagine him trying to process you explaining that yes, your entire back is covered in ink and you're planning on about five different piercings in the next year.

"so you. you plan on getting two on your back. just because?"

"that's the plan, big guy."

poor mech is lost. though he does enjoy learning more about humanity when he isn't stressing too much about saving it.. so expect questions.

when you suggest getting one of the autobot emblem, his circuits nearly fry.

prowl

"so, what's the significance?"

i see prowl not writing off the behavior as weird and instead digging for why you pursued this journey.

yes, he sees your tattoo and piercing collection as a journey, because that's what it is, isn't it? years of work and pain to adorn your body to your liking.

he knows that humans are bundled with nerves. there's respect earned. he finds humans to be eerily resilient.

will ask you the meaning of each and every one. piercings less so.

"what does this bird represent?"

"mm.. my sense of liberty."

"a visual representation of the wish to stretch to new horizons. how fascinating. being small in a vast universe with the urge to still explore."

"i also just like hummingbirds."

"mm. i see."

will get onto you once he finds out about the "makeshift" work. finds the mistakes or even forgettable craftsmanship to make you endearing.

bumblebee

"whoa! sick paintjob, human!"

he LOVES human culture. and you guys can just... change your appearance? count him impressed!

you had dyed your hair to a nice golden yellow to match his frame and he almost jammed his intake shut.

"you can just. do that?!? b-but your helm used to be-"

"hair, bee."

"right, right. it wasn't always that color though!!!"

he thinks it's so cool. real dork about it. totally buzzed out once you spoke about the chemistry that it went to the process though.

he thinks piercings are cute. after all the fusion of metal and organic is kiiind of taboo. you pull it off great.

tattoos make him beg ratchet to let him upgrade his paint. poor old mech is grumpy and over bumble whining him to just let him "get some flames and that's it."

you draw a lot of inspiration from him. will gladly brainstorm your next big change and puff his chassis out like a lil peacock knowing you're willing to get something permanent done in his designation.

nsfw.

optimus prime

"you look like a painting. primus above, you're gorgeous..."

optimus prime enjoys tracing your tats. he kisses the patterns and images as if the pain of the needle remains, glossa licking along thick and thin ink with shuttered optics.

he likes to see goosebumps trail after. kind of a weird fetish (?) but he mostly enjoys how reactive you are and how your inkwork ripples with the movement.

when he finds out your piercings can make you sensitive ...

well, good luck.

optimus at his spark of sparks is such a tease. when you continue to surprise him, it's nice to be in control of that mutual fascination for once.

"you enjoy when i tug.. these?"

nipple piercings.

expect his glossa. he takes special care to even lubricate each of his digits just to toy with your sore nipples.

prowl

"that's it. fall apart for me. just like art..."

prowl is observant. so when you let it slip that you've been holding back on some of what's on your body...

you're on his berth and naked. his optics are hidden behind his sharp visor.

"holding back on me? that's a shame. i thought you knew better than to do that."

is he angry? hardly! but his processor is about to work overtime when you stammer just why you hadn't gone into depth.

genital piercings.

he doesn't say anything for a long time. doesn't ask the millions of questions bombarding his thoughts. his servos do that speaking before he can.

let's just say you start to understand why he deals with tedious and delicate situations. those hands are built for... meticulous attention.

bites. all the areas with piercings. focuses carefully damn near to the square inch of sensitive flesh where it drives you wild.

tattoos? he loves to scrape his digits down em.

loves to doll you up in lingerie that accentuates everything you hide. crotchless, cut-outs exposing yourself until he can't see where the inkwork begins and ends.

robolvrr 2024.

[cameronspecial]

Rafe and reader - enemies to lovers

Protective!rafe with innocent!reader

She asks her best friends brother for help when she’s in trouble!

Safe In The Arms Of The Enemy

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: Fear of Being Followed and Walking Home Drunk Alone

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 1.2K

Masterlist

Y/N and Sarah have been best friends for as long as she can remember. Even though Y/N is three years older, they met when she was nine and Sarah was six. The two of them just clicked and they have been thick as thieves ever since. This led to their families growing close together. The Camerons were always so nice to Y/N; everyone except for Rafe. For some reason, he has always been bothered by Y/N and she reciprocates that feeling because his hate provokes her.

The music in Sarah’s room blares through the speakers while Y/N stands in front of the mirror, singing along to “Stressed Out” by Twenty One Pilots. She is sleeping over at the Camerons' house to keep Sarah company. Ward, Rose and Wheezie are on the mainland for Wheezie’s spelling bee and Rafe is who knows where. The girls had grown peckish, so Sarah offered to get some pizza, leaving behind her best friend at Tannyhill by herself. “Wish we could turn back time. To the good old days. When our mama sang us to sleep, But now we're stressed out.” Her right hand forms an o as she uses it as a microphone. Her focus is on her own reflection, so she doesn’t notice Rafe’s appearance behind her. He leans against the door frame with his arm above his head. “Wow, you would think with how rich your parents are that they would pay for singing lessons for you after hearing you screech like a banshee,” he teases. 

Her eyes roll in their socket and she turns to face him. She fires back, “Like I care about your opinion. I’ve seen your tastes and I’m glad that I’m not up to your standards.” “Whatever,” he grumbles. “Obviously you are blind because I have amazing tastes.” 

“Nah, I’m not the problem. You are,” she pushes to infuriate him. She steps forward and they are face to face. He crouches down so their eyes meet, “I wish I was the one with the problem because then I wouldn’t have to deal with you. I swear every time I see you at my house, which is all the time, I wonder when you are going to get the fuck out of my life because I hate that you are in it.” 

His words don’t meet his eyes, but she doesn’t notice. Instead, her mind takes the words to heart. A poke attacks her heart and it causes a tsunami of blood to come out. She can’t explain why she takes the word to heart; she returns the sentiment. Nevertheless, maybe she doesn’t feel as strongly as he does because as much as she loathes him, she couldn’t imagine her life without their quipful exchanges. He sees her tight lips and her silent demeanour; guilt flashes through him.

Before he can try to resolve the situation, Sarah passes behind him with a steaming pizza in her hand. “Ugh. Rafe, leave her alone. I would like to eat in peace,” she complains, setting the flat box on her desk. His hand runs over his lips as he thinks. “Fine, I don’t care. Later losers.” 

———

The ending of summer means Rafe and Y/N have to return back to UNC. When she found out he was going to the same university as her (she should’ve seen it coming because Ward is an alumnus), she hesitated to accept her position; however, she figured uni was a big place and the chances of running into him were slim. It has been true for the most part. They’ve only run into each other five times in the two years they have been at university.

She stumbles through the dark street with her head pounding. It wasn’t the best idea to be walking home alone while drunk, except she didn’t want to make her friends go home early. She lied to them and told them another friend was picking her up. Her feet catch on the pavement and a rock skips across the ground. A car passing beside her causes her to jump away from the road. Her inebriated state makes her more paranoid. She lets out a breath when the taillights fade into the distance. Laughter coming from behind her causes her to spin around. She spots men walking in her direction and even though they don’t appear to be looking at her, panic sets through her. She begins to walk faster as her breathing starts to get faster and she decides to run into an alley to hide. Her first thought is to call to help, so she pulls out her phone and dials the first number that comes to mind. “What do you want?” he grunts through the phone. “Rafe, I’m scared. I don’t know what to d-” She hears footsteps coming closer to her and hangs up. A trash can seems like the perfect cover, so she drops behind it against the wall. 

Rafe sits up straight from the couch and stares at the phone. The screen showing that the call has been ended makes him grow anxious. He begins to pace as he tries her phone again. His hand runs through his hair while he replays the fear in her mind. He is sent to voicemail and wants to through his phone against the wall. Another thought comes to mind and he decides against it. 

———

She doesn’t know how long she has been behind the garbage with her head pressed against her legs. She is honestly too scared to move in case those men are still around. It didn’t look like they were following her, but it is better safe than sorry. The alcohol in her system starts to affect her state of consciousness and she struggles to keep her eyes open. A hand on her back causes her to scream and jump back. Her head hits against the brick wall. She grimaces as she brings her hand up to rub the back of her head. “It’s okay, Sweetheart. It’s me, Rafe.” The familiar voice makes her look up to verify his identity. 

She sees his mop of dirty blonde hair and his stunning blue eyes stare back at her. She has never been so happy to see him. Her arms wrap around him to pull him against her, “I was so scared. Are they still out there?” She surveys the street once they separate. His hand cups her cheek to check her for injuries; he isn’t concerned about their surroundings. “Sweetheart, there is no one around. Are you okay? Are you hurt? Did someone do something to you?” He frowns at the last part, following her search with a hard expression to find the person he has to defend her against. She doesn’t find anyone and her shoulder drops in his hold. Her head rests against his chest. Tears begin staining his shirt. His hand laces between the hair at the nape of her neck and he gently scratches her scalp. He knows it soothes her. He kisses her forehead, “I’ve got you. You are safe.” For the first time tonight, Y/N feels safe and she is in the arms of her enemy.

Taglist: @winterrrnight @loves0phelia @thelomlisrafecameron @wickedlovely121 @thepatriarchykeychain @drewsmusee @starkowswife @maybankslover @forstarkey @loving-and-dreaming @magicalyoura @rubixgsworld

[steviewashere]

Kiss and Tell

(Can be found on ao3)

Steddie WC: 2,279 Tags: Post Season 4, Steve Harrington Has Auditory Processing Disorder, Eddie Munson Loves to Talk, Minor Angst, Mostly Fluff, Queer Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington Has a Bisexual Awakening, But He Already Knows (Sort of), First Kiss, Lots of Kissing

Based on this post that I made. Happy reading! <3

-------- Steve has a staring problem. He knows this. He's been told this. And it's not something he can help or fix or find an alternative for. This is just what he knows.

It's something he's tried to maintain since he was a little boy. And, on that same note, is something he picked up while being a boy in a room with two adults who were fast talkers and big negotiators and all-in on the nature of their careers. But his parents certainly hate that he has a staring problem. Which, that's not unusual, most people hate that he does. Because he doesn't look them in the eyes for more than thirty seconds at a time. And even if he does, he doesn't hear a single thing they said, politely asking they start over, and feeling hurt when they just scoff as loud as possible and walk away from the conversation all together.

The audio just doesn't process. Never has. Probably never will.

He listens to music, but doesn't understand any meaning. He talks over the phone, but must have all other sound blocked out and the curtains shut and his eyes closed to imagine what the words look like leaving the other person's mouth. He argues, but loses track of the original point of the argument—when he laughs instead of apologizes.

And it would be fine—if—he wasn't close to losing his life every year. Where he has to listen to everybody and the important tiny details and the plans and the reasons for what they're doing. Which leads him to danger. Which gives him a bruised face. Which makes the listening even harder, once the concussion leaves and he's just got the leftover damage of his quirkiness.

It would be fine—if—he wasn't made to feel so stupid for what he must do. The jabs and the constant reminders and the...yeah, his sob story.

But there was Tommy Hagan and Carol Perkins, who he could keep up with. Because they'd talk about the same things over and over, until he could practically relay all the information, pulled straight from the deep crevices of his brain, and it ends up that they had forgotten, rather than him.

And there was Nancy Wheeler, who was polite enough to repeat things. Who had flash cards and a soft, focusing voice. It was easy to write off looking at her lips. "Eyes up here, Steve," she'd say. "Sorry," he'd respond sheepishly, "getting lost." And he'd chuckle and she'd giggle and then they'd kiss a little and he wouldn't be reminded that he's just a little weird. That, maybe, he just isn't normal.

Robin Buckley makes things easy-ish. She talks fast. And a lot. And she never looks him in the eyes, unless she's asking for a very serious favor, or he has something on his face, or she just feels the need (she claims it's that she hasn't looked in a while, but he shrugs her off every time). (If he can get away with staring at her lips, then she can get away with never looking him in the eyes.) He's mentioned, though, that he has a hard time following her sometimes. That he needs the words repeated a few times. Explained the lip thing, with a tense voice and a quake in his chest and his fingers tapping at the sides of his thighs. And, for a brief moment, he had felt like a creep. Like one of those weirdos that preys on the idea of women kissing. And he wanted to open up Family Video's register, shove his head inside, and sort himself out into the container of fives. But she shrugged, said "Okay," and went back on some ramble, to which he was immediately drawn to her mouth. And saw her repeat the name, Vickie, at least twenty times. He grinned and then when the store was empty, he leaned across the counter and teasingly said, "You have a big fat crush on Vickie, don't you?" To say that he was proud of her sputtering is an understatement.

Now, Dustin and the others were harder to get through. Because they moved at their own pace. And they don't really stop to add him to the conversation. He gets it, to an extent. He knows that he's not really all that intrigued in what they enjoy. (Even if he really leans into the conversation when they mention Sherlock Holmes or Dracula or Star Wars or, even, Star Trek. And he pretends to not be interested in their science fair projects. Or the one time he caught them huddled around a Sports Illustrated, in which he fought the urge to chat their ears off about both baseball and basketball statistics.) But there's a point in the conversations where he's made to feel a little dumb; even if he was staring where they were speaking, but they always grow frustrated, a huff of air released, when they notice he's not "paying attention" (translation: looking them in the eyes. "Because, Steve, it's just talking etiquette!" Dustin had shouted once).

He loves all of them anyway. Even if he misses words. And he loses track of what they were saying. He just wishes they were a little bit more forgivable about it at the end of the day.

Then, Eddie Munson is walking along side him in an alternate universe. He's peeled the vest off his back and chucked it at Steve. And they're talking. Jealous of one another, but talking. But, Eddie's voice goes soft and quiet, his eyes pointing towards Nancy's back.

Steve is looking at Nancy, words fading into the background. And it's not a moment of realization. Or a moment of longing. Yearning, what say you. No—it's one of his moments in which he's "listening," but not processing. So he looks back. And for a mere second, Eddie's eyes are big where Steve stares. Big and wet and curious. Big and wet and persuasive. Big and wet and not at all his lips and Steve is still not listening.

But his lips. Well, Steve's seen lips. These are pretty. They're pink. Chapped and bitten and plush appearing. Mesmerizing. Stretching over Eddie's sharp teeth, exposing dimples and smile lines, making his recent stubble more noticeable than it's ever been before. But his lips are pretty.

Like girls lips, Steve muses. Not really taking in what that means. Because Eddie's saying something about true love. And—shit—okay. Steve can get behind an act of true love. He can get behind sharing denim and coating Eddie's clothes in blood and staring down his lips and—god, his eyes, Steve can't help but notice once more.

Eddie's like a vulnerable cow. With pretty lips, he has to point out. Or a baby deer. With such pretty lips. And he's talking and Steve's finally listening. But it's not just processing. No, Steve's intrigued, interested even. He tilts his head like a curious puppy. Leaning in. Eddie's breath ghosts the tip of his nose. And, sure, it's a little rank. But weirdly sweet. Warm where Steve is otherwise cold. Warm in places Steve's never considered to feel warm in, but he's willing to give in, to wrap up in whatever Eddie has to say. If it all means more of him.

So, it makes sense that after all that they go through, Steve finds himself in Eddie's orbit. As a friend. As a trauma bond. As everything Eddie needs him to be.

He sits on the Munson's couch. On the cushion that dips a little too low. The lights orange and dim and casting beautiful streaks of almost candle light on Eddie's soft, beautiful features. Highlighting where his nose is the most bulbous. His pronounced Cupid's bow. The outer edges of his irises, golden and honey against the off-white of his scleras.

Eddie talks like Robin does. Excited. A lot. Fast. But his voice is soft, focused on the information—like Nancy's. It's teasing, like Dustin's. Soft, though. So gentle. Murmured. Which makes sense, if Steve were to stop and think about it for just a moment. With how late it is. With the little amount of weed they smoked. And it all just fits, with how slow and careful Eddie's lips move. As if testing the words. As if searching for what he means.

But, god, Steve is following along. Of course he is. Hanging onto each one of Eddie's words.

"So, the cashier at the record store got all apprehensive about selling me this tape. Which, I guess makes sense because it's a special edition. Comes with a photo card or whatever, but like—Come on, y'know? If he wanted it so bad, he should'a bought it the moment it dropped. Not my fault he slacks on not just his job, but also his opportunities," Eddie rambles. And, that's right, he's complaining about the music store encounter he had today. Trying to buy some album for some band. Steve got lost part of the way through, so he's not sure who exactly Eddie was getting a tape for. The style of music. But he has most of the information. He just—

Has to squint harder.

So, Steve leans in. As casual as he possibly can. And narrows his eyes at Eddie's lips. The word pretty comes to mind again. Because of course it does. And he can't pull his eyes away, no matter how hard he tries. For some reason, the tips of his fingers tingle a little. Wanting to reach out. Trace his lower lip, right where it sticks out, just above the divot of his chin. Would it be soft, he asks himself. Does he wear chapstick? Steve sighs softly. I wish I could...taste it. His eyes widen, just the tiniest bit. But he ignores that in favor of whatever Eddie is saying. If only he could make it out. He leans impossibly closer.

And there it is again. The soft puffs of warm air. On the tip of his nose. His own lips. Tickling his stubble. Eddie's breath smells like weed and strawberry Tab; a little bit of Kraft macaroni and cheese. Maybe the smallest trace of pepper—

"Uh, Steve?" Eddie nervously calls out. But gets no response. Steve is only a couple inches away from his face. Eyes hooded. Glassy. Zeroed in on Eddie's lips. He's not talking. Doesn't even give a hum. Just...keeps staring.

Eddie sucks in a breath. Eyes darting over Steve's face. He doesn't talk again, hoping maybe Steve will stop. But, nope. In fact, the only thing Eddie gets as acknowledgement for the fact he's stopped talking, is that Steve pouts. Upset. As if his lips no longer moving is some great catastrophe to Steve, some tragedy, some misfortune.

And, Eddie, the awful wreck that he is, can only assume that this means one thing.

Steve wants a kiss. And is, maybe, too chicken shit to close the gap.

So, with no other option. And definitely not wanting to get away from the heated, stirring, calm mask of Steve's face—Eddie presses his mouth against Steve's. Hesitantly smushing their lips together. Dragging his lower lip against Steve's soft scowling one.

And he pulls away. Because Steve isn't doing anything in response.

No, in fact, Steve is extremely expressive now.

Wide eyes. Mouth opened into a silent "Oh." His cheeks are flushed. And as quick as it came upon him, whatever realization that was, fades. Like a cartoon character, Steve's face melts into one of pure infatuation. Mouth lilting. His posture slouching. Eyes going soft against the extreme red of his face.

"Do that again," Steve whispers.

Eddie obliges. And he obliges. And he keeps obliging until they're under a cool top sheet, skin slick with sweat and eyes piercing one another's mouths.

That's when, in the silent air of Eddie's tiny bedroom, Steve admits the greatest thing in the world. "I don't really process when people are talking unless I'm looking at their mouth. I have to read their lips. I didn't—I wasn't trying to kiss you at first, but—" And the motherfucker giggles. "If that's all it took..." Then he's kissing Eddie again. Like it's the last thing he'll ever get to do. And Eddie thinks, If I die from running out of breath doing this, then I've done everything in my life correctly.

So, sure, Steve has a huge staring problem. And he doesn't really listen. And it's something he'll never fix, even if there's a way to.

But he finds that his technique—the thing he's crafted since he was a little boy—no longer works. At least, not on Eddie. Because suddenly, looking at his gorgeous pink lips makes Steve only able to think about one thing: Kissing. And he can't follow along unless he fulfills that want.

Eddie could be in the middle of a deep, all inclusive description of his recent trap in the campaign he's crafting. He could be singing. He could be complaining about some movie he rented. But that doesn't matter. Because he stops talking the moment Steve leans in and kisses him. Kisses like he needs it to live.

And though he rolls his eyes. Huffs a breath. Smirks and barrels on. There's that giddiness, that love pooling in Eddie' heart. Just knowing the effect he has on Steve. And the way he's affected, too, when Steve just whispers, "Sorry, I got lost again. Start over?"

He obliges. And he keeps obliging. And his lips are usually swollen by the time he's finally done rambling.

Steve stares. Eddie talks. And it's the combination of a lifetime.

--------

❤️

[heevee-likes-soup]

Yunho x Reader |1K- 1 Trope|

>> 1K- 1 Trope series: A start of me to start publishing/ Get back into writing, 1 character, 1 Trope, 1 K words <<

>>Fake Dating<<

>> Summary: Back in town, you stayed with your parents for the duration. During a reunion with them and your childhood friend, you ask him to be your fake date to get your sweet revenge on the self-proclaimed 'queen bee' who made you despise your high school days. It doesn't help that you used to have the biggest crush on Yunho. But that was years ago, right? <<

>> Rating: Fluffy/ SFW <<

"I know it's a silly idea but please think about it." You smiled pleadingly, Yunho only shook his head while laughing.

That's how you asked him to pose as your partner for the upcoming High School reunion. The situation was… difficult. You're high school bully turned proper trophy wife, well fiance, couldn't stop spamming the group chat about 'How excited she was to meet everyone's partners' as if not to only flex with her own engagement.

So, for the reunion and a little vacation, you were back in town, staying at your parents house. And through them you also heard about Yunho being in town.

Your childhood friend, turned teenage crush, you lost contact with over the past five years of college.

"I'll do it." Yunho then smiled after a moment of contemplation, that felt like eternity to you. An eternity where his eyes didn't leave yours ONCE.

The next afternoon came quick. You were by no means surprised, Yunho was always handsome, but something about the glasses, the soft brown hair and his look just screamed boyfriend in the best way possible, and you couldn't have thanked him any less. He took that mission more seriously then you anticipated. Especially when he grabbed your hand with a smile, interlacing your fingers.

On the way to the school you talked details- you lost contact throughout the first year of college, reconnected some faithful new years and then started dating shortly after, since 'the spark has always been there'.

And with that, you traveled the short twenty minute walk to the school building where the reunion was hosted, and were sooner then later already greeting your old classmates left and right.

While hugging some girl you never really got along with, with a bright, not-quiet fake smile, you could feel Yunho close behind watching you. When shaking a guys hand, who greeted you with a shy smile, happy to see you again, even if you forgot his name, Yunho was right next to you, taking his hand next, with another hand placed gently on your back.

And when it came to the final boss, and you hugged the still fake blonde overly giddy, self proclaimed 'queen bee', it was Yunho who followed the greeting with a dismissive wave, instead of engaging in her attempt to also hug him. Her smile dropped the slightest bit.

This was already a win, on your part.

"I figured when you said you and your plus one you were talking about a dog, or something." She laughed at her own joke.

The response was instant, and you couldn't even comprehend what happend as Yunho placed an arm demonstratively around your waist, and pulled you closer, a quick peck on your cheek and a sickening sweet smile later he said,

"Well, I have been asking to get ourselves a puppy for the new apartment, but she's been INSISTENT on no pets. A real shame."

It made you chuckle a little, both in surprise at the sudden physical affection, and the nonsense he was talking.

The night went on smoothly. After that first encounter, the biting comments stopped, and you spent the remainder of the evening with people actually worth your time. Yunho was always around you, a hand on your lower back, an arm around your shoulder, playing with your hand in his, just always in contact with you. You even caught him looking at you a few times mid conversation, no matter who was speaking.

A few drinks, conversations, and hours later, you were exhausted. And so, you said your goodbyes and left. The first few minutes of walk through the dark, cooled down town, you were holding hands.

"Thank you again." You smiled squeezing his hand. You felt the heat of alcohol, and the blush of a fresh breeze creep up on your cheeks. The alcohol also made your words bubble up with ease.

"It's so funny that I got to live my high school dream at a high school reunion" you chuckled. Yunho raised an eyebrow.

"What do you mean?" He asked with a small smile, and an illegally cute crease in his forehead.

"I used to have the biggest crush on you." you could only laugh, feeling bubbly after the evening and the champeign.

"You did?" he asked, eyes big in surprise, and it made you laugh just a little more.

"Yeah. But then college started and i felt like it was the distance I needed to get over it." You breathed after catching your laugh again, a faint smile of the memories to that time on your lips.

You looked up to him, not your fault he was this tall, and saw him look straight ahead into the distance. Something about his expression… nearly wistful.

"Damn" he breathed a little quiet- "So I did have a chance."

The silence of the quiet street was loud in your ears.

"What?"

Yunho looked at you, the the smile a little shy, the eyes a little… melancholic even.

"So… I did have a chance. Had I told you then." It made your heart stop for just a moment. You spent the last five years getting rid of that- this feeling creeping up in your chest to choke you until no words could come out of your mouth. The wave of repressed feelings crushed down on you without any warning.

And with that, and the alcohol, the words bubbled up like soda pop.

"You still do." It made his smile drop a little, with a flicker of confusion on his face.

"You still do have a chance." It was suffercating, and you were surprised the words bubbled out with more confidance then you wouldve expected. You felt like you had no air to breathe, yet your words sounded clear through the quiet town.

"Then how about we repeat this,"

He smiled, coming to a stop on the street, making you stop as well by still holding your hand tight.

"but as a real date?"

"Yes"

[onlyangel4]

desperate times call for desperate measures. toto wolff. part 2.

sugar daddy! toto wolff x reader

you are a struggling artist trying to live instead of just spending every moment worrying about money. toto wolff is the loneliest rich man in the world, when you find each other you are exactly what the other needs.

warnings- 18+, cursing, discussions of financial struggles. sugar daddy relationship. age gap relationship (reader is around twenty five. smut. Fingering in a private public place (I know it doesn’t make sense but trust me it will). for this toto has been divorced for three years.

part one // part three

“if you don’t stop pacing I’m going to get whiplash”, anna complained as she looked at your obviously worried form pacing back and forth in your tiny apartment. she was here for emotional support while you got ready for your first meeting with toto, something that caused an awful lot of anxiety to bubble up within you.

“i can’t help it, i’m just nervous”, you spoke as you looked at your friend hoping for some sympathy. anna stood from her place on your bed and placed a hand on your shoulder slowing you down to a halt.

“just focus, your hair and make up is done, what are you going to wear?”, anna questioned bringing your focus back to the here and now. you were forever grateful to have someone in your life that could ground you in the way that anna did. you would be lost without her.

“well, he sent me a box, he told me to only open it when i was ready to get dressed”, you explained and you could have sworn you watched anna’s jaw drop. “i told you, he is rich anna, he said he didn’t want me to worry about anything”, you explained but anna was already in your cupboard searching for the box that you had just mentioned before she thrusted it into your arms.

“come on open it”, she practically begged making you playfully roll your eyes at your friend before you did as you were told, pulling at the bows holding the box together. as it opened you were met with the most gorgeous pink satin material. on one of your first conversations with toto you had mentioned to him that your favourite colour was pink, so when he was picking you out a dress he knew exactly what to go with. you unfolded the dress, it was a figure hugging floor length gown with a high slight on your left leg, all held up by straps with the tiniest pink pearl details running along them.

this was quite possibly the nicest piece of clothing that you owned and it was clear that anna agreed, “fucking hell y/n, i’m this close to breaking up with tom and getting on that app”, she joked making both of you laugh. you quickly pulled the dress on with anna’s help to not ruin your already done hair and make up. once you were finally ready you looked at yourself in the mirror, this was the prettiest that you had felt in a long time. You felt first date ready, if this could even be considered a date.

“question”, anna piped up pulling you from your thoughts, “what the fuck are you going to wear on your feet, sketchers will not go with this”, she spoke. she was right, you didn’t really own nice shoes, you brought comfortable shoes that you knew would last a long time so you did not have to re buy them. but you did have an idea, you rooted through your closet and found a shoe box containing a pair of silver heels, these had been your prom shoes and you had hardly worn them since, but they were perfect for the dress.

anna left your apartment when you were all ready leaving you in front of the mirror just looking at yourself, it really didn’t feel like you but you liked it, the person in the mirror was just the rich version of you. a knock at the door alerted you that your ride was there and you grabbed your handbag and went over to the door. you were met with a man dress in a suit with a friendly smile on his lips, “y/n?”, he questioned and you nodded, “toto sent me to come and get you, follow me please” and once again you did as you were told.

///

spoiling you was toto’s number one priority, from his conversations with you he had learnt that you did not grow up with much and as an adult you lived with whatever you could afford but you never got to experience the luxury in life. toto had grown up with money, he was used to nice things. They were not special for him anymore. but watching someone else experience that luxury, now that would be special. especially if that person was you.

he may have gone a little overboard, but who could blame him? this was his first time having someone to spoil in three long years. he had spent hours online looking for the perfect dress to buy you. he had his personal driver pick you up in an incredibly nice car. and he had booked out the small private dining room at the ritz, asking to be left uninterrupted unless they were bringing foot. he wanted to be able to have this time with you in private, he wanted you two to be away from any prying eyes, so the private room was perfect. it may have cost a lot but that was nothing to toto, he would drop that money on you in a heartbeat.

toto was sat in the dining room at the single table that had been placed there. he had a bouquet of pink flowers at his side ready to give to you. he had planned it all perfectly it was going to be perfect but toto couldn’t help the nerves that he was feeling. these nerves than worse than those that he felt on an important race weekend. he was really nervous, he wanted to make sure this went well, he hoped that you would like him the way that he knew he would like you and then you would be able to continue this less than traditional relationship dynamic that he was desperate for. He would be able to look after you.

his head snapped in the direction of the door when he heard it open and sure enough he saw you stood there in the dress that looked a hundred times better on you than it did on the models on the website. he stood from his seat to approach you, “you look beautiful y/n”, he spoke offering you his arm to which you flashed him as smile and held onto it approaching the table.

“it is all this dress toto, i don’t think i have ever owned anything this nice. thank you”, toto couldn’t help the pride that swelled in his heart when he heard you thank him.

“anytime schatzi”, he spoke looking at you, “that is what I am here for”

seeing toto through a phone screen and seeing him in person were two very different things. ihis man was a giant, his towering height and broad shoulders gave him such a dominant vibe something that you found incredibly attractive and the way he looked at you made you weak at the knees. he looked at you like you were everything, his eyes trying to work out every single detail of your face and commit it to memory. yes, he was almost double your age but you did not care, he was one of the most attractive men that you had ever seen.

“i hope you don’t mind but i ordered a bit of a tasting selection for us that way you get to try everything”

“i don’t think i would have been able to pick if you asked me to order, i have no idea what half of this stuff is. i’m used to chicken nuggets and chips” you spoke and he chuckled softly finding your opposing lifestyles very endearing.

you and toto continued on this little meeting just talking about all sorts and drinking wine as you did so. You felt comfortable in his presence, like he could protect you from anything. you told him all about anna and your friendship with her and her boyfriend while he told you about his children. you listened intently enjoying learning about the man. yes you could have googled him but you saw no point in it. you wanted to learn who he really was. not who the internet thought he was.

there was a moment where the vibe between you switched from friendly to something a little different. you had been talking to him and using your hands as you talked, a quirk that you had whenever you were a little nervous. and one of your rings had fallen off your finger and onto the floor so naturally you bent down to grab it but toto had beaten you to it and gotten to the ring as it rolled to his feet. when you sat back up straight the strap on your dress had shifted down your shoulder revealing more of your breast to him and toto’s mind almost short circuited right there, you were pulled from his dreams. he was sure of it.

toto stood from his seat making his way over to you, his fingers gently ghosted over your shoulder reaching down from the strap of your dress, pulling it back to its previous place. he then reached for your hand, “here you go babygirl”, he spoke in a hushed voice as he slid the ring back onto your finger his eyes looking deeply into yours as he did. you pulled your bottom lip between your teeth as you looked at him, trying to control all of the not so family friendly thoughts that were currently racing around your mind. your eyes flicking down to his large hands for a moment, thinking about what it would feel like to have them roaming over your body, touching you in ways you could only imagine.

toto still had your hand in his and he decided to be bold, he pulled you to your feet and he then took a seat where you had been sat. he gently patted his lap, giving you the choice, if you were uncomfortable then he would just let it be call his driver and ask him to take you home. but you were not uncomfortable. instead, the idea of sitting in his lap made your heart race in your chest. you gently moved to perch on his lap, his hand on your lower back as your body rested against his toned chest. “this is where you belong darling”, he whispered into your ear as his free hand sat on your thing gently rubbing circles on your clothed skin.

toto continued talking to you, asking you questions about your life, your likes and dislikes, he wanted to know it all but your brain had gone to mush, you were sat on the lap of an incredibly attractive, powerful, older man. it was like all your dreams had come true and you did not know how to keep your composure.

“are you alright there darling”, he asked in between his questions and you nodded your head but it was clear that he was not satisfied with just a nod. his hand moved from your thigh to your chin tilting it upwards to look at him, “use your words doll, what are you thinking?”, he asked.

“i’m okay toto”, you spoke quietly, “this is just nice, i haven’t sat like this with anyone in a long time”

“i know darling”

his hand moved back to your thigh but this time on the one with the slit in your dress. his hand gently moved under the fabric and you gasped softly, you turned to look at him but he had craned his neck to kiss you. it took your breath away as you kissed him back just as passionately feeling his hand find your panties . he slowly pulled away to look at you, “you are beautiful doll”, he spoke as he moved his lips now moved to your neck kissing  up and down your skin as his hand moved your panties to the side.

“please”, you whimpered.

“please, what?”

“please touch me”

that was all the invitation that toto needed as his fingers quickly found your clit, his knee had wedged in between your thighs to keep them apart and he used the slit in your dress to allow his hands entry to your sensitive spot. His fingers rubbed at your clit, soft moans falling from your lips. toto was taking it all in, watching over your shoulder seeing the way your cunt was already glistening for him. god it drove him crazy. he wished he could just fuck you right there but he had other plans. toto moved your dress up to bunch it around your waist allowing him to wrap his arm under your leg, this allowed him to be able to push a finger into you and he could feel the way you clenched around his hand, oh he wished he could feel that on his cock. toto knew exactly what to do to pull those delicious moans from your lips as your head laid back against his shoulder. you were in such an intense feeling of bliss as you felt your orgasm begin creeping up on you.

“toto”, you warned

“i know schatzi, just let go for me”

and you did just that, coming undone your chest heaving up and down as you turned to kiss him, much softer this time, gentle, almost loving. you slowly pulled away. toto pulled your panties back over and your dress down.

“what about you?”, you questioned and he chuckled softly. “as much as i would love to take you to a room upstairs, we have a plane waiting for us, we are going to spain to visit ares del maestrat, you said you wanted to go so i am going to take you. so we can’t get too carried away here”, he spoke and your jaw fell to floor, so this was what real princess treatment felt like.

[kiyomitakada]

okay fuck it i went to a leonardo da vinci exhibit today and now i have a leonardo da vinci death note AU in my head because i am a parody of myself so you can fucking have it i guess what do i even do with this

light yagami: young genius polymath who is good at literally everything

unfortunately for him he is a foreigner in italia (his family immigrated) so the government is not letting him anywhere near their weaponry projects. instead he does art. yes light yagami painted the mona lisa no i do not take criticism i’m in too deep

his portraits are predictably amazing. smash hit. soon aristocracy from all over italy is contacting him to draw them and their mother. this means he doesnt even have time in the day to draw giant fuckoff warship designs anymore. what point is there to life, he sulks.

eventually he accepts a commission from one kyosuke higuchi! we’re italianizing him because i really don’t think this AU works otherwise but let’s call him higuchi anyway. higuchi is a fifty-something duke of something or other who has recently married one misa amane who is twenty-something (the same age as light). misa is the subject of the portrait because higuchi just loves his darling wife so much (read: they had a shotgun wedding and higuchi needs to keep up appearances)

light is like wow someone who isn’t white it’s been like five years. i kind of feel bad for her, this situation is very suspicious. hello miss amane if you’ll just sit down over there while i get my brushes

misa (seeing the first person who has been even remotely sympathetic to her absolutely horrific life, noticing he hasn’t tried to make any advances on her at all [this is a good thing]): I AM DRASTICALLY IN LOVE WITH YOU.

light: what

misa’s plan of seducing light predictably fails because he’s light, so she explains she has to get the fuck away from higuchi somehow

light is like okay well i am sorry to hear that but what does this have to do with me.

misa, tearing up: im a damsel in distress! also i can get you information about his court

light: whats his job

misa: financial advisor

light: oh fuck yes okay

so light’s plan is now to worm into the yotsuba court to get funding and hopefully sway them enough to let him pitch his cool weaponry ideas so he can Change The World. he does need income in general too (both for himself and his family; expected lifespan was way shorter then obviously).

misa’s plan is to kill higuchi somehow which will be much easier with light as backup she thinks

so. light packs up and moves to the yotsuba court which is thrilled to have THE light yagami portrait artist (i do more than portraits…) in their employ

oh yeah, misa mentions, the prince of the yotsuba court is kind of… weird

light: you could have told me this before

misa: ehe. dont worry about it!! it’s just um. he had a weird personality shift a few years ago? and now he refuses to wear royal attire. he always dresses like a peasant.

light: well it’s not like i’m going to be there to judge him on fashion am i.

THAT’S RIGHT. SIKE THIS IS AN ISEKAI NOW. yes L does remember light killing him <3 he (L) woke up in fifteenth century renaissance italy in a twenty-something-year-old body immediately after the heart attack. by some miracle he already knew italian.

so everything is going swell until one day light walks into his workshop to find the prince flipping through his notebook

light, sleep deprived: hey what the fu—i mean. uh. good morning your highness

there’s no need for that formality. call me L.

(…but your name doesn’t start with an L?) thank you, your highness L. um. sorry i know my handwriting’s messy.

on the contrary i find it completely readable, as long as one reads backwards and caesar shifts it three letters forward.

(oh SHIT he’s onto me) haha what are you talking about?

in fact i think this mechanical dragonfly contraption is rather ingenious.

oh aha that’s not important, just a passing fancy honestly

[ignoring him] if only you had some better way of providing torque, because as it stands the spring engine is extremely poorly designed.

what the fuck did you just say to me

[they end up physically fighting over the notebook because of course they do. meet cute!]

some more details:

ryuk is the patron light eventually gets after being in higuchi’s court for a bit

rem is higuchi’s personal assistant, who was disowned by her own royal-blooded family because her family sucks. she hates her job. if it weren’t for misa she’d probably be on the other side of the country by now

i don’t know where the wammy kids are. they’re definitely competing to be the heir to L’s throne but also they’re not related because there is no way that all the wammy kids (the whole orphanage of wammy kids) could have come from the same person. maybe some kind of insufferably high collar royal boarding school? did they even have those? help me

kiyomi and teru are both advisors in other courts (which are extremely corrupt, light seethes, in his perfect world there wont be any of those anymore) (you work for a court light) (thats different)

okay i’m done for today. you never know about tomorrow though. /threat.

[ @deathnotetober day 12: isekai ]

[troublesomesnitch]

Abraham (Grantchester) x Reader

Inspired by Ewanmitchellcrumb's amazing Abraham fics, in particular this one.

Contents: smut. first kiss, making out, dry humping, handjob. Porn without plot (and porn without penetration).

Warnings: arranged marriage, oldfashioned gender roles and attitudes towards sex and marriage. Abraham being dickish (but he's trying to be nicer)

Words: 3600

Purity culture and dry humping, name a more iconic duo, i'll wait.

-

The rain is beating hard against the tin roof.

You are huddled up against the wall, your arms wrapped tightly around your legs to keep warm. You had gone out for an afternoon walk to find some peace and quiet, and maybe pick some of the first little spring flowers, when you were suddenly caught in a torrential downpour. Not too keen on the idea of sprinting all the way home, you scrambled to take shelter in the first place you could think of: a dilapidated shed at the edge of a muddy field. The old farmer used to store tools and machinery there, but now it stands abandoned and in disrepair, full of cobwebs and mouse droppings.

If one was alone it might be quite an unnerving place, located as it is right on the border of the woods.

But you are not alone.

Abraham is sitting right across from you, dressed in his usual plaid jacket and red neckerchief, his long legs stretched out on the floor. When you stumbled inside he was already there, having sought shelter from the rain himself.

You only narrowly managed to convince him to stay.

As a young, unmarried girl, you are not supposed to be alone with men. Not even with Abraham - especially not with Abraham. The two of you will be getting married in just over a month, but the rules of courtship are strict, and every minute you spend with him must be chaperoned. Something that he has, surprisingly, taken very seriously. Maybe because his first attempt at an engagement didn't exactly work out as planned.

Still, your parents are satisfied with the match, and for the most part, you are too. Abraham is quite handsome, you think, with those splendid blue eyes, and he's just a few years older than you. A little rough around the edges, but he doesn't mind hard work, and he is good with children and animals, and those are fine qualities in a man.

Sometimes, he lets you sit and watch while he cares for his horses; cleans their stalls and their hooves, brushes their coats, takes them out to the pasture for excercise. He speaks so calmly to them, firm voice when they disobey him and soft when they are skittish or scared, and there is something so endearing about it. You wonder if he will speak to you in the same way once you're married. Harsh when you disappoint him, but gentle when he lies on top of you at night. You'd like that, you think.

Right now, Abraham doesn't speak to you at all. It is not too out the ordinary, as he isn't particularly talkative in the first place, but you had hoped that being alone with you might loosen him up a little. Instead, it seems to have had the opposite effect, and for the past twenty minutes or so, he has occupied himself with throwing pebbles and broken bits of plaster at a glass jar on the floor.

Not the most riveting pastime - but it does give you an idea.

"How about we make a game of it" you suggest, when the silence has become so deafening you can hardly bear it. "Best of five. If you win, I'll bring you lunch tomorrow - anything you want."

"Yea?" Abraham hums, looking up and right at you, clearly intrigued.

"And If I win - " you pause, a deep scarlet blush creeping up your neck. "If I win, I want a kiss".

"No" he says, right away and with a stern expression, his mouth forming a thin line.

"Just one -"

"No" he repeats, but it's a little softer this time, and he gives you a cocky half-smile. "You'll get one soon enough, don't you worry about that".

"But I won't win" you try. "You know I won't. Or" - you eye him teasingly- "do you really think you might loose to a girl?"

It's the same argument you would use against your little brother, and when Abraham's face settles into something very offended, you can hardly believe it actually worked. But all boys are the same apparently, even when they're grown men. Always have something to prove to the world and themselves and each other.

"I win - " he grumbles, "you bring lunch every day, rest of the week. And your mum's cider."

It's Wednesday today. Four days isn't a lot, you can manage that. There's not much cider left, but Mum will understand, she'll be happy to know that you're taking good care of your soon-to-be husband.

"Alright then" you nod. "You go first."

The odds are against you, because Abraham has had plenty of time to practice already, something you forgot to consider when you issued the challenge. But you are determined put up a good fight, not only because you ache to know what kissing is like, but also because you want to know what Abraham is like. If he's rough or gentle. If he's a passionate lover, or someone who just wants you to lie still and be quiet when he performs his marital duties.

As expected, his first stone goes straight into the glass; yours unfortunately bounces off the side of it. But then Abraham narrowly misses his second one, while yours actually hits the intended target. It gives you at least a glimmer of hope.

And then, something happens. Something very strange.

Abraham picks a rather large stone, but he overshoots by just a little and it lands on the dusty floor.

And the next one does too. And the one after that.

It must be on purpose, it must be. But his face betrays nothing at all, only the same disgruntled expression he always wears, and soon there's only one pebble left. Your very last one, and it lands in the glass with a loud plink.

"I won" you state, in complete disbelief, and the corners of Abraham's mouth twitch up a little.

"Looks like it, yea"

You eye him with suspicion. "But you hit - you got four in a row just before we started -".

"Beginner's luck" he shrugs, rising to his feet and brushing his hands on his trousers. When you hesitate, he cocks his head. "C'mere".

You do not need to be told twice, instantly flitting to his side and tilting up your face like you've seen ladies do in the movies. Abraham breathes deeply, and he places his hands on your waist to pull you closer. He smells nice, like fresh rain and firewood and a little bit like damp wool. You close your eyes.

"You ever kissed a man before?" he murmurs, so close that you can feel his warm breath fanning over your face.

You shake your head - of course you haven't.

There's no response to that, only calloused hands touching your face, Abraham's nose brushing your temple. He bends his head, and when he presses his lips to yours, you are not prepared for how soft they are, and how warm, and how gentle. His mouth opens slightly, his tongue slipping just past your lips, and then he releases your face and pulls back.

"There" he mutters, but you are not ready to part from him yet. Your hands cling to his jacket and your eyes are heavy and hooded when they flutter open.

"Again" you breathe.

He shouldn't, he really shouldn't, you are absolutely not allowed to do such things before the wedding. But Abraham is a young man, and since your engagement was officially agreed upon, he has surprisingly managed to stay out of trouble - mostly, at least - and away from neglected young housewives and the reverend's shapely daughters. It has been... a while since he last touched a girl, and you are the prettiest little thing, with your wet, parted lips and your hair frizzed from the rain. How could he possibly resist when you're looking up at him like that, begging for more?

Your first kiss was sweet and demure, but this time, Abraham wraps both arms around your waist and runs his hands up your back. He nibbles at your lower lip before he slides his tongue into your mouth, deeper this time, so he can brush it against your own. When you mewl it goes straight to his crotch, and he deepens the kiss, tilting your head to the side with a finger under your chin.

You mustn't, you shouldn't, you can't, but your body is burning with want, and you think Abraham's must be too. He's holding you closer, letting his hands wander over your body, your hips, your waist, the small of your back. They move to squeeze your bottom, and when he pushes his hips forward, there's something hard poking at your stomach.

It sends a jolt of excitement down your spine.

In theory, you know what a man looks like under his clothes. The men work outside in the summer, and many take off their shirts and roll up the legs of their trousers in the heat. But you have never seen a man fully naked, and you have never felt a man's body pressed up against you like this. Abraham's chest is hard, and his shoulders are broad, and his arms feel so strong when they're wrapped around you. He moves to kiss just below your ear, and you take the opportunity to let your hands roam tentatively over his chest and his stomach, even reaching under his jacket to feel the warmth of his skin through his shirt.

It's nice, but it isn't enough to satisfy your curiosity. You want to touch him there.

Abraham breaks the kiss when he feels your hand inching towards his crotch, but he doesn't stop you. Just looks at you stunned, with darkened eyes and a slight flush across his handsome nose. His... his - cock is straining in his pants, and you brush your fingers over the bulge, feeling how he hardens even more at your touch. It is clumsy and inexperienced, but Abraham still closes his eyes, and his hand comes down to cover yours and press it harder against him.

It feels good for him, despite your lack of practice; you can tell. You cup his crotch, and he lets out a sharp breath and bucks right into your palm. You tilt your face up again to kiss along his jaw as you rub him through his trousers, feeling how he swells and throbs from your touch, until he suddenly swats your hand away.

You worry that you have overstepped, or done something that hurt him, but he leans over you, and tugs at your hips - to pull you down with him, you realise. Right down to the floor, although he is at least gallant enough to shrug of his jacket and lay you on that, rather than directly on the ground.

Immediately, he starts on the buttons of your coat, almost ripping the garment open to part it from your chest. His hands greedily palm your breasts, covered only by your dress and the brassiere underneath, and he squeezes your flesh; pinches your nipples through the fabric and rolls them under his thumbs. They stiffen from his touch and he leans over you and brushes his mouth against your chest, even latching onto one pert nipple, sucking and biting until your dress is wet from his spit.

It makes you whine with both pleasure and pain, and surprise too. You have never been touched like this before, never felt wanted like this before. Abraham's eyes are dark with lust, and it is almost frightening how determined he looks when he hooks a hand under each of your knees to push them apart.

You gasp when he lays over you. His body is warm, and heavy, and it feels so right to lie like this underneath him, caged in by his arms and with your thighs spread wide around his hips. His cock is big and hard and he presses the thick bulge between your legs, and grunts softly at the feeling. You can't help but wonder how many girls have been underneath him before, because he's so unabashed in the way he pushes his hips against yours, so eager when he starts rocking back and forth, clearly mimicking... other things.

Your hands cling to his shirt and you arch up to kiss him again, sighing when catches your lip between his teeth. They don't kiss like this in the movies. At least not in the ones you have seen. Your mouth is wide open, and Abraham is absolutely devouring it, licking your lips, shoving his tongue all the way to the back of your throat. It is rough and needy, and there's a trail of spit between you when he pulls back to catch his breath.

If someone found out, you'd be in so much trouble. Abraham is on you, and his cock is stiff, and he is moving so intimately against you, but you can't bring yourself to stop him. It feels wonderful, having his weight on top of you, having his hard cock pressed against your center. His bulge is big and hard and heavy between your thighs, and he's groaning as he rubs it against you, rolling his hips steadily, rhythmically. As though he was really inside you, and you are not sure if it's on purpose or pure instinct, or maybe a bit of both.

It has you swooning, just thinking about it. How badly he must want you, how needy he must feel, his cock all hard and swollen and his balls so full of his - his come. The thought of it makes you sigh, makes you feel soaking wet, makes that tingling warmth spread even faster in your loins. There are so many things are happening in your body; the kissing, the rubbing, the pressure between your legs - God you've never felt anything like it. You squirm underneath him and spread your thighs wider.

it makes Abraham groan, your hands on his chest and the way your hips are bucking and circling against his cock, and fuck he'll go crazy if you keep making those noises, those soft little whimpers. His cock is pulsing and his balls are pulled tight, and seeing your face all twisted with pleasure has him leaking already.

Truthfully, it was Pal's idea that he should pursue you, just like it was Pal who first spoke to your father on his behalf - but as you are a sweet and pretty girl, Abraham could see no reason why he shouldn't go along with it. He is a grown man, and a grown man needs a wife, and he likes looking at your legs when you help your mother with the laundry. Especially when you wear that grey dress that is a little too tight around your hips. Once you're married he will buy you a brand new one, and a nice pair of shoes with a little heel, and you'll be such a pretty little wife, cooking his meals and washing his clothes and giving him kisses when he comes home.

He moves faster, pressing his hard bulge even tighter against you, and you can feel something building in your body, though you are only barely aware of what it is. Your muscles are tightening and tensing up, desperate for a release that you instinctively know how to find, and you arch your hips up and rub frantically against Abraham's cock. You need more, more friction, more pressure just there, and you hook a leg over his back so you can push up better. Abraham lets you chase your peak, even helps you along by sliding his hand underneath your bottom to press you tighter against him. He is utterly mesmerised by the sight, your blissful expression as you shamelessly use his body for your own pleasure, sighing and whimpering and grinding your little cunt so desperately against him.

When he kisses you again, all the tension breaks.

You gasp, and Abraham watches you intently as a series of tiny little shivers run through your body. A very gentle climax - your first, by the looks of it. You writhe and moan beneath him, and when the waves of your orgasm settle, you are all blushed and looking up at him with glazed, love-struck eyes.

He could probably coax you into sleeping with him right now if he wanted to, but in a - frankly rare - moment of chivalry, he decides against it. You're a sweet girl, saving yourself for marriage and all. Your first time should be somewhere nicer than in this cold, filthy shed.

One way or another though, he will make you finish him off properly, and he sits back on his heels and quickly unbuckles his belt. Abraham's cock is impressive in size, and he is very proud of it; always enjoys the look of amazement on a girl's face when he frees it from his trousers.

You look equal parts intrigued and horrified. It is much bigger than you had anticipated, long, pink and bulbous at the tip, and he boldly gives it a few quick tugs as you watch. Even in his hand it looks massive, and you wonder how on earth it'll ever fit inside you, but that is an issue for another day, because Abraham mutters here and reaches for your hand. Your fingers wrap cautiously around his shaft, and it is hard, stiff, and yet so soft at the same time. You have no idea what to do, but Abraham's hand closes over yours, guiding the strength of your grip and the pace of your strokes.

It turns out that pleasing a man is not difficult at all. All you have to do is move your hand up and down, dragging the skin over the tip of his cock and back down again in a quick and firm rhythm. Abraham dips his head into the crook of your neck, and his hands come up to fondle your breasts, his teeth gritted and his eyes squeezed shut. You quickly grow more comfortable with the motion, and you slip your other hand between his legs to fondle his balls too - carefully, as you know that is a very delicate area for a man. They feel big, and hairy, and heavy in your hand, and he moans when you squeeze them lightly, trying your best to massage them in a way that gives him pleasure.

It would seem that you succeed, because it isn't long before Abraham's body tenses and his balls tighten right in your grip.

" - gonna come" he grunts, and you can't help but hold your breath in anticipation.

Abraham groans, and his cock pulses in your hand, and then his semen starts spurting from the tip. There's so much of it, spilling all over your fingers in thick, sticky ropes, and you keep stroking him through his peak, taking in his ragged breaths, the shallow jerks of his hips, the deep furrow of his brow. It is the loveliest thing you've ever laid eyes on, and when he stills your hand and collapses next to you on the floor, your chest swells with pride. You made him do that.

"Fuck" he pants. There's a lock of hair sticking to his forehead, and you are dying to reach over and gently brush it back, but you are too shy to be so familiar.

"Was it good?" you ask instead, hoping for praise or maybe a nice compliment, but Abraham just gives a hoarse laugh as he tucks his cock back into his trousers. You look away. Despite what you did just a moment ago, looking at it now feels terribly indecent.

Outside, the rain has stopped, the wind has died down, and it is high time for you to return home. You wipe your hand clean with a handkerchief - you can rinse it in the stream on the way back - and turn away from him as you smooth out your skirt and button your coat.

"What do you want" Abraham asks suddenly. "For your wedding gift. What do you want?"

Immediately, you start going through all the lists in your head - there are a hundred things to consider when setting up a new household, clothes and dishware and furnishing, and the little hope chest under your bed is already filled to the brim.

"Well-" you begin, "I'll get linens from my mother, and you already have the stove sorted, and Cora said we could have her old cast iron skillet, but we should probably start saving for a -"

"No" he interrupts, impatiently. "Forget all that, what do you want from me"

He looks sheepish and uncomfortable and it takes you a moment to realise that he is trying to be attentive - maybe even romantic.

It makes you want to throw your arms around his neck.

"I don't know" you mutter, blushing all over again. "I haven't thought about it - you don't have to give me anything"

"I'll get you something. Something pretty, yea?" he grins, wide enough that his cheeks crease and dimple - God, he's awfully charming sometimes, when he wants to be.

You blush even deeper, picking at your nails and responding with an awkward yes, yeah alright.

Abraham doesn't say anything after that, already back to his usual sullen demeanor - but right before the door closes behind you, he grabs you by the wrist and pulls you back to kiss you right on the mouth.

You make your way back home, warm all over from the kiss and the excitement and the lingering heat in your core. And maybe a little bit just from the very thought of Abraham himself.

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