#anyway im approaching the finish line

[smute]

this is going to sound arrogant but i have yet to hear about a fancy office job that doesn't make me go "oh wow i could do that" and yet when i read an ad for something like junior assistance assistant that pays minimum wage and makes access to indoor plumbing sound like a perk im like "god im so underqualified"

[izzy-b-hands]

A fill for the prompt 'canon era' on my Izzy Hands Bingo card!

A slightly happier one, focusing on Ed and Izzy and their relationship,and how that intertwines with their relationship with Jack. Bittersweet, maybe is more accurate a descriptor for this one. (essentially Ed/Izzy with a dash of Ed/Jack and an overall sprinkling of Ed/Izzy/Jack on all of that.)

Because Izzy knows they'll get hurt again. Jack will get bored and disappear, again. And all the various emotions that well up for both of them with that will be an overwhelming wave to face, again.

But at least they'll be together again.

[oceantornadoo]

protective ex-husband!simon, implied violence/break-in

“i know! and that’s when i told her-“ you paused, your hand halfway to the keys at the bottom of your purse. your apartment door was open, a menacing sliver of darkness awaiting you. “hey, i’m going to have to call you back.” you ended the call with your friend, slowly backing away from your door. shit. you knew you locked the door when you left for work, and no one else had a copy of your key. a creeping sensation came over you, like someone was watching from within. slowly, you retreated, taking the elevator down to your apartment’s lobby as the anxiety crawled through your body. you wracked your brain, wondering if you should call the police. wondering if they would even believe you. there was only one call to make.

“come on, pick up.” you tapped your foot impatiently as your ex husband took forever to answer the phone. it was all you could do to not think about your home being violated, about a potential stalker or date gone wrong.

“‘ello?”

“si- simon, it’s me.”

“i know, lovie. that’s why i picked up.” you let out a quiet sob of relief at his voice, the bottle on your emotions starting to leak.

“what’s wrong?” his voice changed, immediately hearing your silent tears. he could always read you too well. “i don’t want to bother you but” you hiccupped. shit. “but my apartment door was open and i’m pretty sure i closed it, i usually do. i don’t know if im being silly but now im in the lobby and im just scared, simon.” there was a fumbling sound, the echoes of simon zipping up his jacket and pulling on his shoes.

“go to that cafe across the street, dove. go get yourself one of those overpriced hot chocolates. i’ll be there in 15.”

9 minutes later, your shaking hands were tapping random patterns on the cafe table, unable to raise your drink to your mouth without spilling it. your eyes were locked onto the wood grain, counting lines to distract yourself.

suddenly, a gloved hand covered yours. you looked up and there he was, your ghost in all his glory. you forgot everything for a second, forgot the past arguments and the strained silences, and flung yourself into his arms. you breathed in his comforting scent of pinewood that masked his cigarettes, a cologne you got him four years ago for christmas. your face was wet, and as he pulled you back to check you for injuries, his thumb brushed a stray tear away from your face. you didn’t even realize you were crying.

“‘s okay, baby. i’m here now. give me your keys.” you fumbled for your keys, purse strap sliding off your shoulder as your hands shook too much to keep it balanced. simon caught it gracefully, finding your keys in the same pocket you always kept them. “stay here. i’ll be back.” you nodded instinctively. only when you saw his figure retreat to your apartment building, clothed in all black like a figure of death, you realized you hadn’t told him your new apartment number.

twenty minutes passed. simon’s presence had worked like medicine as your heart rate has now dropped back down to normal, your hands stable enough to finish your drink. any other person would be worried for simon’s safety, but you knew the only person you should be concerned for was your intruder.

“you’re stayin’ with me tonight.” he was back, looking exactly the same. he wasn’t even winded. “thank you simon, but don’t be ridiculous. i can get a hotel. you live so far from my work anyways.” he approached you, crowding into your space as he leaned over you, even with a cafe table in between. “consider it payment then.” he tilted your chin up with his left hand as he hid his other one, covered with blood, in his pocket. “one way or another, you’re in my bed tonight, dove.” you gulped at that. “and i’ve got riley in the car. you wouldn’t abandon him, would you?” of course he had gotten your cat when he checked out your apartment. riley hated men, but never simon. cheeky bastard.

“you win.”

fast forward a couple of hours and you were getting ready for bed at simon’s, belly full from the meal he had made you. riley made himself at home on the living room couch, of course. “he’s in my spot.” you gestured to your cat on the couch. “wha’ d’ya mean?” your husband simon was now in sweats and sweats only, clean from the shower he had after you both got home back to his place. you pretended not to see him methodically wash blood out of his fingernails, reasoning quite easily with yourself that it was for a good cause.

“my couch for tonight.” simon moved toward you and you avoided his eyes, trying not to stare at how beautiful he still was. muscular but thick, torso adorned with scars you used to trace on sunday mornings when you both stayed in bed until the afternoon. he gripped your chin, forcing you to make eye contact. “told’ya you were in my bed tonight, dovie.” you swallowed and he watched your throat move, memories of you swallowing something else countless times rising to the surface.

“don’t be silly, simon. that would cross a line.”

“what line?” his arms were crossed now, drawing your attention to an unfamiliar tattoo right above his heart. a small dove.

“we’re not together anymore, simon.”

“you’re still my wife.”

silence. he was always like this, pushing you until you broke. he was unwilling to compromise, even on the smallest of issues. usually you’d fight him, spit fire until you lost your voice. tonight though, you were reminded of how he was the only person you were able to call, the only one committing dark sins without asking, all for your safety. instead, you threw your hands up and walked into his bedroom, mechanically stripping as you put on one of his shirts and a pair of boxers. you felt his eyes on you, burning a hole through the fabric. you were tired, so tired of this push and pull.

“what.” you whipped around, all venom. his eyes were impossibly soft, holding yours with a peaceful caress. “you’re as beautiful as the day i lost you.” your fire went out at that. “you’re just trying to get me naked.” you mumbled, looking down as you fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. you watched as his body came into view, pressing your forehead against his bare skin.

“could see you in a thousand layers and you’d still be the most beautiful person i’ve ever seen, dove.” ever so slowly, your hands crept up his body to grab his shoulders and neck. he picked you up with ease, turning the lights off and tucking you both in bed. “when did you get the tattoo?” you asked in the dark.

“3 months and 12 days ago.” what would have been your 3rd year of marriage, your anniversary. you lowered your head and gave him a kiss right where the tattoo was. “can we talk about it in the morning?” you snuggled into him, that familiar scent calming you once again. “always, dove.” he kissed your forehead, smiling in the dark.

----

idk why im obsessed with the break-in and simon to the rescue trope but its fueling me lately

[loverboydotcom]

that post i made on my writeblr about how there's this one story i have out with a mag that i want rejected because i have a story i think suits the mag better.....live cam footage of me receiving the rejection email on my rainy evening walk

[ihopeiexplode]

📱 “Desperate lover boy” [←Previous]

—

it's been a week. and your back to acting dryly with him and constantly avoiding him,

every time he tries approaching you you're always running away from him, seriously why are you even ignoring him? he didn't do anything wrong this time, right?

the deadline for your project is fast approaching and yet you still refuse to go see him despite that, you still wrote, and so did he

—

Eventually, the deadline came along, meaning you get to submit all your daily documentaries and after that, both of you would read what you two had to say about each other for the past month

You'd walk into your professor's office taking a seat right next to Sukuna while you avoided eye contact, he did the same with him clenching the armrest

"ahem, I finished reading both of your works and I must be quite surprised about what you two have written down"

"Especially with how you two are acting when your papers say the complete opposite, but either way you both passed, you can read each other's papers now"

With that you both looked at each other before grabbing the folders with both of your names, you grabbed the folder under Sukunas name while he grabbed the folder under your name

If anything you were curious on what he wrote, after all what does your professors even mean by 'when your papers say the complete opposite'?

as you read through Sukunas paper, each paper you read through your eyes widen in disbelief there's no way he really feels this way right?

However once you read through the last one your jaw immediately dropped...

“Day 30”

y/n's still ignoring me. I hate it not to mention every time she's finally alone I just have to get approached I don't want her getting the wrong idea but with how girls keep throwing themselves at me for the past week? I doubt it.

fuck this. After this whole project bullshit if she won't talk to me I'll make her, one way or another

Maybe I'll even—

Right when you were about to read the last line suddenly sukuna snatched the paper out of your hand as he stormed out of the office

"right when you were about to get to the good part too,"

Your professor would suddenly say as he let out a chuckle causing you to turn your head back to look at him in confusion

"the last part said he's planning on asking you out today but is scared you'll reject him, but after he finished reading your paper I'm pretty sure he has nothing to worry about"

"I'm just surprised how oblivious you two are... Anywho, you should go talk things out with your soon-to-be boyfriend Hm?"

—

That's what you did, afterall you wanted to confront him about it all, you practically asked everyone he knew! Yet none of them seen him,

Well, there's one person you haven't asked yet...

—

You grabbed your phone and dialed yujis number waiting for him to pick up

"yuji have you seen Sukuna...? I asked everyone..."

"hiii y/n!! Anyways, that kinda depends, whats the situation?"

"the project were—"

"the park, the one with the lake"

"are you sure?..."

"duhhh, that's where he always goes to when he can't get you out of his head, last time I asked he said: 'Because y/n and I would always hang out here back when we were friends....' I'm surprised he even told me that"

"I see, thx Yuji,"

—

Eventually, once you reached it you found Sukuna sitting down on a Bench while reading through your paper, even from afar you could see how red his face was as he read through word by word,

You'd slowly approach him tapping on his shoulder, If you were anyone else he would've pushed you into the lake, but it's you so...

"were you really serious about asking me out?"

"..."

"yes..."

"well? Aren't you gonna do it now?"

"wait what....?"

"don't tell me you think im still gonna reject you after reading my paper..."

"I mean.... Well... I planned on doing it somewhere else.."

"I see, so just a kiss then? I don't think I did it right at the first time"

He'd just stare at you dumbfounded, he knew you were forward with your words but not that much...

"so? Yes or no?"

Without any hesitation, he immediately cupped your face before pulling you forward and crushing his lips into yours, this time you returned the kiss, unlike last time...

After that he'd pull away with his face still red,

"taking that as a yes then?"

"So.. what are we?"

"what do you think??"

"fuck you."

"love you too"

"you're annoying...love you too..."

—

[⛩️] @: Likes & Reblogs R appreciated! ^^

A/N: woohoo the end guys wowoeowowow what do ygs think!!!

Taglist: @catobsessedlady @hellomeow12 @0-candlecove-0 @shivzypuff @swirlingcurses @1-800-choke-that-ho @attackonnat @chilichopsticks @getoxmahito @memenojutsu @uhnanix @ichorstainedskin @needtoloveoutloud @love-me-satoru @s-j320 @allthestarsarecloserrrrrrr @goj0ssunglasses @svtvrnal @haitanibros0007 @punkhazardlaw @mslydiaa @jayathelostdragon @caileysdead @rixyaaaa @minzxec @rzcnlb @cadibearrr @sukunaspillow @dervngedgf @rayrayline

[randombush3]

revocate animos (with or without me)

alexia putellas x reader

part one, part two, part three, part four

the second half of this part (it didn't fit in one post lol)

words: it's over 14k. i had lots to say.

summary: the final part, which originally had a different ending but i was told it was evil so i changed it.

warnings: it's mainly just sad, there's a bit of smut though

notes: i could give you so many excuses as to why this is being posted now but no one wants to read that so i'll just say sorry x

anyway, i got very lost along the way at points and had some serious plot crises that had me tearing my hair out. i researched children's behaviour to the point of needing an honourory qualification, and i spent the last three hours ignoring my girlfriend while i finished this off.

for as much as i put these two through (and myself tbh), i'm sad to finish it off. BUT ALSO NOW IM FREE.

have fun reading! and sorry about the length of it

London smells of dirty rain and exhaust fumes, of a homelessness crisis and inflation attempting to impersonate that of the Weimar Republic; greyish streets, cracks in the pavement, thousands of spices from all over the world. Grubby patterns, hidden by the smudging of millions of bottoms, coloured poles that used to match the train line but no longer do. You breathe it all in, eyes closed as the motion of the underground jerks you sideways, the train leaving London Bridge just as you left Barcelona. Without looking back. 

You had laughed when they told you they’d send a driver to get you from the airport. The luxury of some shiny black car held no appeal when compared to the familiar Northern line, its blackened route well-travelled and your own brick-road home. 

Part of this choice to ‘slum it’ is borne of your desire to return to the past; a time before the fame and the fortune, when camera flashes came from your parents’ Sony Cyber-shot and not paparazzos with a hunger to splash you across the front page of a slimy gossip magazine. There was no Alexia, then. The extent of Spanish in your life was Anya studying for her A-levels, and you’d spend time writing songs without it feeling like pulling teeth. Without having to relive some of the worst moments of your life. 

Those hadn’t happened yet.

God, you were so naive then back then. 

Your London shows are in Wembley. Two nights, two journeys through your album, through your heartbreak. Both are sold out. 

“See it, say it, sorted,” you mouth along to the voice, pushing the handle of your suitcase upwards, rising from your seat. The doors of the tube swoosh open, the yellow line of the platform attacking your tired eyes as Highgate station is revealed to you. You hear a whisper of ‘is that Y/n L/n?’ but you don’t turn around. 

The wheels of your suitcase gurgle against the bumpy pavement leading up to your house, but they grow quieter as you approach. They must sense the tension, glad to have the smoother surface of your driveway to move across as you force yourself to continue walking forwards. 

A woman is standing on your porch. Her body swivels around as she hears you stop just behind her. 

Leah takes in the sight of you, deciding that you definitely did not enjoy Barcelona. “I was just about to ring the doorbell, but I guess you wouldn’t have answered the door anyway,” she says with an awkward chuckle, not sure if you want to talk about how rough you look. You cried the entire flight, and refused to contact anyone once you had landed, hoping they assumed your plane had crashed and you had drowned somewhere in the English Channel. 

“I got here in the morning.” Your voice is unused. It croaks, shattered. 

“Let me get your bag?” asks Leah, rather firmly, leaving you no room to decline her request before she has stepped off the porch and into your personal space. She looks up at you, wondering how you manage to look so beautiful even now, hand blindly reaching out for the hard shell of your suitcase as she stares. “How’re Nico and–” 

Your lips silence her before she is finished. Leah freezes, surprised this is the moment you have chosen to kiss her.

But she misses you as soon as you pull away. 

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper, and she cringes at the self-loathing that drips from your words. A tear rolls down your cheek, but you are unsure whether it falls because you have kissed her or because you want to kiss her again. “I shouldn’t have done that.” 

You must have argued with Alexia. Leah’s realisation weighs heavy on her heart. Something has to have happened for you to have made your move, because Leah had been starting to accept the idea that you were still in love with your ex and she was nothing more than a friend. She had been looking forward to your concert tonight, in all honesty, and was excited to see you again, glad to have you in her life in any way, shape, or form.

“Because,” she starts hesitantly, “because you didn’t like it? Or…” 

“Leah.” 

“If you wanted to kiss me again, I wouldn’t mind.” 

“Leah,” you repeat, the vowels almost failing to drop from the tip of your tongue. This is a dangerous game, but the look in Leah’s blue eyes tells you that she is happy to play it. “Leah, I… I shouldn’t have kissed you?” 

“Is that a question?” 

You blink. “I’m not sure.” 

“If it’s a question, I’d say that the answer is the opposite. And that we should go inside.” She slides her hand over the metal handle of your suitcase, warm skin covering your fingers where your grip is still curled around it. “But only if you want to.” 

Do you want to? 

You value your friendship, you really do; Leah has been there for you many times since you met her, never asking too many questions. She means something more than what you crave from her, and doesn’t deserve to be the woman you use to detach yourself from reality. 

But Leah is looking at you with desire that has been missed, relentlessness promised by her toned muscles. Leah is looking at you as though you are the only star in the galaxy or the sun on a rainy day. Leah is looking at you like she wants to devour you, and you, with no soul left to give, resign to letting her have your body.

“This won’t change anything, right?”

It’s a mean question. You know that. 

“Course not,” Leah lies. 

You let it convince the both of you. 

Pink glitter covers the dining table at one end, and shiny green stars are scattered on top of the brown grain of the wood on the other.

“She might be at soundchek,” Alexia explains to Nico, who is finished with his Mother’s Day creation and is now intent on FaceTiming you to show you the card he has made. “And cards are supposed to be a surprise. That’s why we made envelopes!” 

“But you said my card should be put in a museum,” he replies with a frown, his nose crinkling in confusion just as yours does. “So we show her now.” 

“Mi amor, that’s not how it works,” laughs Alexia, reaching out to ruffle his hair. With Elena settled comfortably on her healthy knee, gleefully pushing piles of glitter around so that it mixes with the glue smeared on her card, it is safe to say that this year’s cards are going to be successes. “Mama has promised to call when she gets home, and you can tell her that you have a surprise for her. That will build up the excitement, and make it even better when she gets to open it.” 

Your son has become a cynic. “And when will that be?” 

“Mother’s Day is on the 19th, so we have three days to wait.” You have purposely chosen a chartered route to Tokyo that flies via Barcelona so that you get to spend the day with your children before your fortnight in Asia to end the first half of the tour. “Do you want to write the words out for Lela once the glue has dried?” 

“I don’t know what Lela wants me to say,” he explains with great concern, turning to his sister with a very serious expression. He speaks to her in English, because he knows that this card is for you. He understands that there are two Mother’s Days, though he thinks it’s because he has two mothers, and that Alexia’s day is in May. When Alexia opens her mouth to speak, Nico is quick to shut her down. “Calla, Mami, no sabes nada de inglés.”

Your legs slam together but find no available route with Leah’s body in between them. 

It feels… good. 

Liberating.

You haven’t brought her into your bed, which she notices but doesn’t comment on. It’s excusable to be on the sofa, to have stayed downstairs for the hours she has spent trying to make you feel better, because the clock has only just ticked its way to lunchtime. You laugh to yourself at the thought of that, amused by the notion that you have already eaten.

Leah is curious when it comes to you. That much you had expected, having been aware of her lingering gazes long before the sores on your heart had calloused into tougher muscle. She has been waiting for this resiliently, and you present yourself to her as though you are a new toy she finally gets to play with. She kisses you slowly at times, to memorise the warmth of your tongue or the jut of your chin, but she often grows impatient, wanting nothing more than to end her torture and find out what it is like. 

What is it like to have a woman like you? To wake up next to you, kiss you, touch you? 

How does your mind work? What do you smell like just after getting out of the shower? Does your accent ever slip, or is it really that posh? 

The air in the living room is hazy now, and your eyes close in bliss as you let your sweat seep into the grainy fabric of your white sofa. Leah doesn’t crawl into your open arms as you assume she will. 

She wipes her mouth. 

Although Leah has enjoyed this very much, she knows that this instance has not been you allowing her to start to love you. It has been for her to help you forget how much pain you are in. Somewhere deep down, she cares, but she doesn’t try to search for the emotion.

“So,” she says with a giggle, as if you are two teenage girls, best friends who have decided to kiss so that they can practise for the real thing, “do I need to send an apology present to your makeup artist?” Sitting back on her knees, she swipes one hand down to pluck her t-shirt from the floor, pulling it on top of her naked body before sending you an exaggerated smirk and prodding the developing bruise on your neck.

“Fuck,” you groan, batting her hand away. “I completely forgot I had that thing tonight.” You also need to call your children before Alexia bans your name from her household (if that hasn’t happened already). 

“That ‘thing’ being your concert at Wembley?” 

“I’d have thought selling out Wembley is the norm for you now, Captain,” you tease, clearing your throat. “England have done it, Champions of Europe for the very first time.” 

“You’re freakishly good at a commentator’s voice.” 

“Gotten used to being my own commentator. Only Spanish streams in my house – even United matches!” You smile at your own frustration but it quickly sours as awkwardness drops on top of you. You bring your arms up to cover your bare chest, but Leah clears her throat with softened eyes and you no longer feel so exposed. 

You feel safe.

“What happened in Barcelona?” You shake your head at her question. “That bad, huh?” she presses. 

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” you tell her, grey clouds hanging over you as your voice darkens and lowers. “Like, at all.” 

“I think you should. It’s better it comes out now than later when you’ve had lots to drink and no idea who you’re ranting about it to, isn’t it? And it’s just me; I’m not going to judge you.” 

“But you know her. You know her friends.” Your hands move to cover your face. Leah can have your body, but you don’t want her to have your tears. “Thank you for caring, babe, but I think I’m going to handle this one on my own.” 

“Well, you know that–” 

“You’re always a phone call away.” You smile, tears sucked back inside you, bottled away in glassware you store in crates labelled ‘VERY FRAGILE’. Desperate to change the subject, you adjust your position on the sofa, sitting up. Leah tries very hard not to stare at the curves of your chest. “You know, Lee, I never thought you’d be that good in bed.” 

…

Alexia is in desperate need of advice. 

Her muscles contract and relax, the tissues pulling on her bone, which, in turn, pulls her. She is strung along, driven perhaps by her leap in recovery and impending comeback. She almost breaks out into a jog, but the church she has dragged herself to comes into view before she can gain speed. 

She had not expected this from herself. 

It’s nothing special to her, though she will admit that the architecture of the building does hold some sense of divinity, but the heavy wooden door is propped open and she is drawn inside. 

The Sacrament of Reconciliation, Fridays, 17.00-17.30. 

Alexia checks her watch, the golden links gleaming on her wrist, catching the sunlight that filters in through the glass windows. 

She catches a glimpse of white behind the doors of the Confession booth, becoming acutely aware of how empty the church is. The curtain has been pulled back, bunched to the left-hand side carefully, as though the previous handler had moved with peace. 

It can’t be that bad, can it? 

It’s just like therapy. 

Her feet carry her forwards once more, leading her into the wooden booth. It smells old. The cushion she kneels on is blue, she thinks, but she cannot tell because it goes dark once she pulls the curtain shut. 

Alexia is not a religious person. Sure, she signs the cross before stepping onto the pitch, and, like most people she knows, she is baptised, but her faith is limited to that. When she tore her ACL, she spent evenings trying to pray, trying to force her to believe in Him. It would have been comforting to know that someone had a plan for her, was watching over her carefully with the knowledge of how it was going to play out. It was to no avail. 

But somehow she knows what to say, and so she does. 

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” She recites the words like lines from a play, head bowed in shame as she writes her next sentences in her mind. “This is my first and, probably, my last confession.” 

Silence. 

She rests her hands in her lap, shuffling around to ensure she is not pressing down on her knee in any way that is harmful. It would kill her to have to push back her return to the pitch because of some stupid thing she has spontaneously chucked herself into. 

“I messed up.” She laughs. “No, that is actually an understatement. I know this is a church and I really shouldn’t swear, but I fucked up. Father, I had Heaven in my hands and I threw it away as though it were meaningless. Was it greed? Was it greed that led me to do it?” 

“Do what, my daughter?” 

The priest sounds younger than she’d thought he would be. 

“I had an affair with a woman whom I am certain I do love a little bit, but, by doing that, I destroyed a life that was perfect. Was it greed?” 

“I think you know the answer to that.” 

“Was it temptation?” Alexia tries again, desperately. Part of her yearns for the priest to tell her it was the Devil so that she can shed the responsibility. “I love my wife. More than anything, I love her. I do not think my own life is worth living if it is not in service to her, to our children, to the smile she reserves for her favourite people. I… I didn’t attempt it, but I thought about killing myself.” She swallows the lump in her throat. “Only once, but I thought it all the same. My sister called me selfish.

“It’s just – forgive me – fucked, isn’t it? I got carried away. I got lonely, I was alone. I craved something to make me forget, to pinch the gaping hole in my life shut. I relied on it to make me feel better, and it did for a time. But now it has made me feel much, much worse.

“And I am sorry! I am so, so sorry. I have grown sick of the word; I’ve used it so much that it holds no meaning anymore. It doesn’t do my regret justice, nor my quest for forgiveness, and I’m really on that quest, Father, I want to stress that to you. I lost my temper and said things I should not have said – things I don’t even believe – but I did not mean them then, and I do not mean them now.” 

“You are not religious,” accuses the priest, very gently. His voice washes over Alexia’s ears like a wave of warm saltwater from the Mediterranean, and she feels comfortable enough to swim into the expanse in front of her. “Our God is forgiving, but it is not His forgiveness that you seek. I cannot give you a prayer that will make her absolve your sins, because our holy words are not spells.” 

“Father,” croaks Alexia. As her lips part, she tastes the saltwater of the sea, dripping down her cheeks as though the tide has come in and there is no other option than for her to be flooded. “Please help me. I don’t know what to do.” 

The priest speaks, but she assigns the voice to someone else. 

The first thing you forget about a person is what their voice sounds like. It lingers like a feeling you can’t quite name; distant, distorted, enhanced by fantasy.

Alexia does not remember her father’s voice. 

The realisation is crushing. 

She knows his words – they are her prayers – but, like Catholics do not know the voice of their God, she can no longer hear the voice of hers. 

What would her father say if he saw her like this? On her knees in a Confession booth, backed against the wall with nowhere to hide?

This is not the girl he was proud of. Alexia, of course, is not that eighteen-year-old anymore; she hasn’t been for a decade. But, recently, the legacy of that unknown Levante player has disappeared. 

Alexia is so very lost. 

She does not know where she is in her own city. In her home. 

She does not know her place in her life, much less her place in yours – if you will still grant her one. 

She has not felt the thrill of football for months, has driven herself to Hell and back, and considered giving up enough to be on the brink of actually doing it. 

She has seen countless meals hit the water of her toilet, never digested, never deserving of the very thing that keeps her alive. 

She has counted your sacrifices, memorising the digits of an ongoing figure so that she can punish herself with the knowledge. 

She has tried to forget English, tried to improve her English, and taken vows of silence. 

She has cried and cried and cried until the only thing left for her to excrete is her hot, red blood. 

She has searched for a way out of the maze. She has failed every time. 

Alexia is lost without you, and she knows it. Everyone knows it, perhaps even you yourself. Do you revel in that fact? Do you enjoy it? 

You have a right to watch her suffer. You do, you do, you do. 

Alexia runs a hand through her damp hair, sweating as she sobs in the booth next to some stranger who she will never meet again. Her mouth is dry but her cries are wet and raw, and they scrape her throat as she chokes them out, losing her breath and falling silent only to catch it and begin again. The cushion burns her knees as though she is trapped in an inferno, the darkness blazing against her skin. 

The priest talks to her for a long time, not letting her leave until she has calmed down. She sniffles, wiping her nose with the back of her palm before softly pressing her thumbs to her blotchy cheeks to clear the final tears from them. 

When he is finished, he instructs her to take a few deep breaths, which she does. “You are not entitled to her forgiveness,” he reminds her. He begins the Prayer of Absolution – he insists for the sake of closure – and Alexia walks away from the church no more than five minutes later. 

She is still stuck in the maze, but she has restored that voice in her head that she knows will help her find her way out.

…

“So you went to church?” Olga asks with an amused smile, taking the first sip of her latte, relishing in the gentle burn of the liquid. She needs this coffee; she stayed up late last night because she knew Alexia has been struggling. There is nothing worse than being asleep when Alexia calls her for help. 

“I have no idea how I ended up there,” Alexia explains, somewhat defensive about yesterday’s catharsis. “Confession is way better than therapy. There is too much accountability in therapy.” 

“You have a lot to account for.” 

She huffs out a breath, taking a sip of her own drink. “I know, Olga, but I cannot change the past, so what would you like me to do?” Olga doesn’t reply. The brunette parts her lips, but promptly closes her mouth when she sees Alexia’s slight discomfort. “Mama wants you to come to dinner tonight. I… I do too.” 

Olga’s smile is big and genuine. “I’d love that,” she answers. “Eli is the best cook out of our friends’ parents. Everyone knows that.” 

You’re in London, childless, and are watching the grand old Arsenal play (reluctantly, forced to by Leah if anything). Alexia has seen the pictures of you at the match on Instagram; she has already felt the frustration that you are most-likely never going to watch Barcelona play again unless it is to support the other team. Like clockwork, Alexia seeks to fill the gaping hole you have left in her life. Somewhere, somehow, the lines of friendship between her and Olga have blurred. 

…

It takes just over a month for Leah to crack. 

You appear in London every two weeks, attending meetings and events, but she has decided, once and for all, to see through your excuses. You come to London for her. She knows that, and so do you. Leah’s ego has not reached a size where she believes she is enough for you, but the facts (and Lia Wälti) tell her she is wrong. 

Except, what Leah tends to leave out is that no matter how many times you let her sleep with you, she still is unable to access a certain part of your mind. 

She has never been upstairs in your house because you always prefer to go to her place in St. Albans. She has never slept in your bed, nor woken up next to you. 

You talk to her like she is still the same old Leah, the captain you befriended during the tournament of her lifetime, your entrance in her life intertwined with the ecstasy of winning the Euros. She closes her eyes and thinks of how you looked that summer; white England shirt, sunglasses pulled down over your eyes. Smiling, cheering. For her, she greedily claims to herself.

Sometimes, in her mind, you lift your sunglasses – you always seem to be crying when she pictures this – but Leah is only vaguely familiar with the timeline of your divorce. This is the issue.

There is a door that you have locked and refuse to let Leah find the key. It leads to heartbreak, to Nico and Elena, to a family you once had. 

“I wish you would let me in,” Leah says one day. (The day she cracks.) She tears her ACL two days prior, something that makes you feel guiltily nauseous, and you have come to visit her. She knows that you had flown over the minute you had swapped custody with Alexia. 

Your legs curl into your chest as you try to reduce the amount of space you are taking up on Leah’s sofa, cautious of her injured knee. Leah misses the warmth of your thighs, and wants to revoke her conversation starter instantly, pained that she has to even ignite the fire of this forbidden topic. “What do you mean?” comes your quiet reply, unwilling to disturb the peace of her living room. The peace of existing side-by-side. 

“Exactly what I said.” Leah nods to emphasise her agreement with herself. “I wish you would let me in, because how do you expect me to love you if I don’t know you?” 

She sees the bullet fly through the air; she sees the moment it hits you, the way you go rigid. Dead. Dying? 

“It’s crazy because it usually takes years for me to feel about someone the way I feel about you, and I just… I just wanted to tell you that it’s okay to let me in. I want to hear everything, to know everything.” 

“Oh.” What had you expected when you kissed her? “Oh, Leah.” 

“You don’t have to apologise.” She assigns your guilt, the tears in your eyes, to your distance. Perhaps you hadn’t realised, perhaps it is a coincidence Leah has never slept in the bed you used to share with Alexia. Maybe you are unaware that Leah has never heard you speak Spanish, and doesn’t know a single thing about your life in Barcelona. 

You’re a busy person, after all. 

“No, no,” you dismiss quickly, shaking your head. Leah can’t help but wonder if the paranoid voice in her head is right; has she been reading too much into this? “Fuck, I am such a twat.” 

But you don’t elaborate further, asking how she’s feeling, distracting her from your realisation about her realisation. Before Leah knows it, you are making her laugh harder than she has in a month, and soon, like most good things, your visit comes to an end. 

Returning to Barcelona is a little weird. 

You feel as though you have done nothing but check over your shoulder the entire journey, staring the past straight in the eye and wishing you could change it. 

You hadn’t meant to make her fall in love with you. (But she has. Oh, she has.) 

This week’s swap is no different; the same park as usual, the same pleasant weather to undergo an unpleasant task. 

On the bench usually occupied by Olga, a different, blonder head comes into view. 

“Irene?” you ask in surprise, wondering if she has been sent in Olga’s stead or just so happens to have brought Mateo, her son, to the very same park. You sit down beside her, somewhat pleased to not see Alexia’s henchwoman today. “Where’s the free childcare?” 

The defender’s eyes narrow, as though she is debating whether or not she should tell you. 

Irene has known Alexia for a long time, and, by extension, has known you for a long time too. She is calm, level-headed, and mature, much like Alexia. Except Irene hasn’t ever thought to cheat on her wife. 

You are clearly in a lot of pain, and you have a right to be; Irene does not rise to your comment. “Olga has gone on holiday,” she states with practised neutrality. 

“Ah, they’ve broken up.” 

Eyebrows raised, she turns to you, breaking her line of sight that encompasses Nico, Mateo, and Elena. The playground is small enough, and very safe. “They were never together.” You wait patiently for her analysis of whatever the fuck was going on between them. “Olga said she wasn’t what Alexia needed. She’s on holiday with Carla, and I guess she is quite upset.” 

“And Alexia?” You know Irene does not like to gossip, nor stir the pot. So you can be nosy about how she is doing. 

“I think her ego was bruised, but she sees Olga’s point. She has been… better recently. She’s focused on getting back onto the pitch, and Jona is only saying good things about it.” Irene’s eyes brighten at the thought of her captain’s recovery, and her tone soars through the air. The entire team has worried for Alexia, spending their own nights tossing and turning, wondering if the old version of her will ever return. “I know you two don’t speak, but if you did, you’d get a glimpse of what it was like before.”

You can’t help your smile, and Irene does not make you feel pathetic for wearing it. “Good.” 

“I heard you were in London?” 

“Visiting a… friend.” Irene is not a gossip, you remind yourself. “I think I might have to stay in this country for a bit and let things cool down over there.” 

She chuckles. “Whose heart have you broken?” She won’t tell Alexia, when Alexia inevitably asks about you, that you are seeing someone. Not that you have confirmed that to her. 

“I’m yet to break it,” you tell her, sighing, “but I know I will, and that is much, much worse.”

“Hey, at least you have two weeks of being endlessly busy to keep your mind off it.”

Children change a lot in two weeks, so Irene then launches into an update on school, clubs, and everything else. She gets the information from Alexia, of course, who writes out a list every time you switch over. No one has ever handed you the piece of paper before, worried that her handwriting will be an unnecessary reminder of the pain she has caused you, but, for some reason, Irene does today.

You are not put off by the swirling Spanish in front of you, instead choosing to study it. You have spent hours in Alexia’s lap as she scrawls out football notes upon football notes, scribbling prompted by footage or, freakishly, her own memory. From the lightness of the indentations of the pen, you figure that Alexia is exhausted. From the half-finished sentences, you decide that she was rushing when she wrote this. 

But, as much as you delight in your brief analysis of the evidence in your palms like Sherlock Holmes solving a mystery, you can’t ignore just how greatly you have missed the letters that swim between the lines (and the hand from which they were written). 

Irene spares you your dignity by standing from the bench and checking on the children just as your tears begin to fall. 

…

You take one last look in the mirror embedded in the sun visor, ensuring your hair is perfectly in place and your earrings match your cream, sleeveless turtleneck to poise you just between casual and smartly-dressed. A quiet grumble from the backseat draws your attention away from your reflection, though your last glimpse at your concealed eyebags and red-rimmed irises leaves you feeling a little dejected and mourning the days you’d actually get some sleep. (Or wouldn’t, smoking cigarettes on the balcony while talking Alexia’s ear off.) 

“Mama, we go,” decides Elena with a huff, tugging on the buckle of her car seat. 

It’s Nico’s first-ever recital tonight. 

He started playing the piano in September, when his teacher at school had mentioned how he boasted to the children in his class that he was a musician: ‘if I am Catalan because my mami is Catalan, then I am musician because my mami is musician’. You felt guilty. His teacher says he is naturally talented, voice lacking surprise but praiseful nonetheless, and is proud to name Nico his youngest student at tonight’s show. 

The bouquet of daisies you ask Elena to hold makes her look like a miniature carnival float, and she toddles into the venue by your side while you do mental gymnastics between the knowledge that Alexia will be here tonight and the nerves for your son’s performance. It’s nothing complicated, but you worry he will hate it. This is the only thing he does that is a nod towards you; his one deviation from his worship of Alexia. 

“Mami!” squeals the walking flowers as soon as you make it to the half-full hall. You direct your gaze to the three rows your daughter refers to, every seat lined with either professional footballers or family. With a sudden rush of blood to your head, you feel out of your depth.

You’re not sure whether the hazel eyes that find yours help or worsen that. 

“Keep it moving,” you mutter firmly, holding her hand so she does not make a break for it and tumble right over to the cohort of FC Barcelona and Seguras. Not wanting to get too close to them, you take your seat in the penultimate row, knowing Nico will not be able to see you over the grand piano set up on the stage wherever you sit. “You can talk to her later, sweetheart.” 

She is in an obedient mood, most-likely intimidated by the tension in the air. You tell yourself it’s the stress radiating from the line of performers sitting on the front row. Nico stands on his chair, waving first to Alexia and then to you (it’s your turn with them so you are a lot less exciting right now), before he is lightly scolded by his teacher and the first child walks up the steps and onto the stage. 

Five uninspiring children later, Nico is finally led up onto the stage. His teacher sits down on the piano stool and nudges him forwards. He smiles brightly at the room. You reciprocate, encouraging Elena to do the same to keep her engaged with an admittedly boring event. 

“Bona nit a tothom! Jo sóc en Nicolau i tinc quatre anys i ara aniré a tocar ‘Brillia Brillia Estel Petit’.” The audience melts before him. “Mama, that means ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’,” he whispers loudly. 

You send him a thumbs up. He sends you a grin back, before giggling as he climbs onto the piano stool beside his teacher. 

Situated comfortably, feet dangling adorably far away from the pedals, his chubby, little fingers hit the ivory keys once, then twice. 

You pray this goes well. 

It does. 

He plays with two hands, something you hadn’t expected, and Elena holds in her noisy yawn until after he is finished so she must have been invested in the performance. Your own hands sting after you clap with such prideful force that you are the loudest in the room, and the hoots and hollers from Alexia’s territory only make Nico even happier as he bounces down the steps and back to his seat to wait for the others to do their pieces. 

After the recital has finished, you walk down the aisle separating the seats in half to get to Nico, daughter-less courtesy of a squadron of football-playing kidnappers. 

“How was that?” you ask him smugly, his arms wrapping around you in a tight hug. “I knew you would be brilliant, even when you were scared you weren’t going to be. Do you know how proud I am of you?” 

“This much?” He holds his hand about thirty centimetres apart. “Mami says this much.” 

When he widens his hands, you gesture something even bigger. 

“‘Immensely’ is the word I would use.” 

“Im-men-lee?” 

“Es que nuestro orgullo llena una casa sin techo. Hasta el cielo.” 

“Up to the sun,” you amend, ignoring the way the voice has made you stiffen. You don’t read too much into her misuse of the collective pronoun. There is no ‘our’ in ‘affair’.

Alexia’s hand hovers by your waist for a moment, muscle memory getting the better of her before she draws it back into her body. Nico gives her a matching hug, telling her how much he has missed her. 

You try not to blame yourself for his derailed childhood. 

“You were amazing, petit,” Alexia says, picking him up with one strong arm and settling him on her hip. You grip the wrapper of the bouquet you are holding. “Did Mama get you a gift?” 

He peers at the daisies in your hand with curiosity. Shaking his head, his confusion deepens as he studies the bouquet you are extending towards him. “They are for Mami? Flowers are for love.” 

“I love you,” you tell him, not trying to make a point but instinctively prickling in the presence of Alexia.

The silence is awkward. 

A few metres away, whilst entertaining the sleepy toddler on her lap, Mapi is excitedly talking to Alba. “Y/n hasn’t killed her yet,” says the defender with glee, one of your admirers. The team respected you before, never questioning their captain’s judgement nor family, but when word got out about the affair amongst the older girls, most of them began to see you as more than Alexia’s wife. A new layer to your character was revealed; you are a strong, independent, and successful woman. Football nerds sometimes forget success comes in more forms than blaugrana kits. “They made such a beautiful couple.” 

“They did.” Alba watches as you talk to your son, your eyes actively avoiding the woman in front of you. “Our mother has sent Alexia over there to invite her to dinner. It killed me to see her sit alone.” 

You are too used to the feeling of eyes on you that you no longer notice the weight of people’s stares, but, if this were not the case, you would know that most of the heads attached to the bodies sitting in Alexia’s rows had been swivelled towards you for majority of the recital. Pity is never a desired emotion to have offered to you, but the Barça girls can’t help but feel that way whenever they see your forehead crinkle in an attempt to understand Catalan, presuming you only speak Spanish as you have more than enough on your plate. (And, as most of the players will admit, your children speak better English than them, so one can only assume that it is your main method of communication.)

“She’s a very good mother,” Mapi comments with a small nod, sucking a sharp breath in as she begins to sympathise with you even more. Not a day goes by where she witnesses the suffering Alexia’s idiocracy has caused – as Ingrid, her girlfriend, knows very well – and does not fail to scream in frustration about her best friend’s stupid mistakes.

“She’s a very good person.” 

They fall silent as they see your head tilt up, jaw clenching as Alexia begins to speak to you. 

“Can you hear what she’s saying?” whispers Eli to her daughter, equally invested in the conversation. “I knew I should have sent you; Alex is too socially awkward.” 

“Mami, she is talking to her wife,” replies Alba, though she remembers what happened the last time Alexia and you had spoken and the outcome of that. Maybe that commences her increasing agreement with her mother… “I guess you– Are they coming over here?!” 

Even you seem surprised by how your legs carry you towards the Barcelona clan, a step behind Alexia and Nico. Hesitant would be an understatement, but most of them are too preoccupied with congratulating the four-year-old they have come to watch to notice your tight-lipped smile and trembling hands. 

“Hola,” you say shyly. 

Eli pulls you into her strong embrace without missing a beat. “Te he echado de menos, hija.” 

You try very hard not to burst into tears. 

They take you to dinner; a plan you had known about but not envisioned yourself included in. Although it’s your fortnight, Alexia (through the conduit of Alba) had previously arranged to drop Nico and Elena over to yours before midnight. 

You blow off your FaceTime call with Leah.

The restaurant is on the lower level of fine-dining. It’s chic, but it does not make your children feel unwelcome. The table is set for five places, though Alba informs you that the reason for this is because the reservation was made before she broke up with her girlfriend. 

“Mama, what are you going to eat?” asks Nico, slipping back into his old life seamlessly, mixing his English with the Spanish he knows everyone can understand, his legs swinging underneath the table with an enthusiastic energy. He is still too young to pick up on how far apart his parents are sitting, or how you refuse to let your eyes linger on Alexia’s tanned skin, far too much of it shown off by the tank top she sports in the humidity of the busy restaurant. 

You glance around the room, searching for those who have recognised you. Under the weight of at least four curious stares, you motivate yourself to enjoy your meal. 

“Not sure yet, babe,” you answer. “Alba, do you fancy sharing something?”

“Yeah, of course.” The younger Putellas smiles. Alexia knows who has lost the war.

Dinner passes with light conversation centred on very neutral topics. No man’s land is clearly the children, and you had never expected to be so desperate to continue a conversation about school lunches until the other options are how Alexia had an affair with her teammate or that your song with her favourite singer is topping the charts and explicitly about being cheated on. 

Although you and Alexia both watch how many times your wine glasses are refilled, Alba lets loose, as does Eli (probably to ease the stress on her heart that her girls force upon her). Their cheeks redden and Nico begins to yawn, Elena already curled into your side halfway between dreams and reality. 

“Should we head out?” you ask it to the table, but the only functioning person is Alexia, really, and so you close your eyes to avoid having to make eye contact. 

“I should probably get Mama and Alba into a taxi.” 

“If you call one for them, I will call one for us?” Your suggestion is instinctive; an old habit reminiscent of many similar nights, back when there was love and happiness and a relationship that didn’t feel like walking on a floor made of broken glass. “Or did you drive here?” 

“No, but you drove,” comes Alexia’s reminder. Internally, you face-palm. Parking the car before dinner seems like years ago; something feels different now. “But if you don’t feel up to it, I could drive you home. I haven’t had much to drink and I have nothing else planned for tonight. Elena is practically in a coma anyway.” 

You laugh – a softened version of it so as to not rouse the dead weight of your daughter. 

“Are you sure?” 

It’s late.

“Yes, I’m sure.” 

I don’t care. 

“Mama,” Alba slurs, pulling her mother in close. “The saint has given her sinner a second chance.” 

It may not be as quiet as she thinks it is. Alexia, occupied, is deaf to the comment. You are not.

This is not a second chance. 

This is a lift home. 

The last time all four of you sat in a car together was the day you found out about Alexia’s affair. 

You had suffered then – are still suffering now – but your anger was hot and sharp and new. Fresh wounds. 

Now, though more scabbed-over than healed, those wounds no longer seem to gush blood; you entertain Alexia’s stiff small-talk. 

She asks about the tour, never veering too far off the road of practicality and shared custody. When does it resume? Which has been your favourite show? 

“Wembley is like playing El Clásico in Camp Nou,” she determines, not needing to ask about that because she knows you too well. 

Your memories of the London shows involve a naked Leah Williamson. (If only she knew that!) 

“Yeah, London was great.”

Awkwardness is part of Alexia’s personality; something you are fairly certain you still love. She is shy, though it perhaps comes off as stoicity, and she has never been good at making conversation. You know she hates it, and you know that her eyes, Alexia’s eyes, are gazing at you every time she thinks you are not looking. 

She is weary about the desire darkening her pupils, but she does not do well to hide her hunger nonetheless. 

“Go into the carpark,” you instruct as you approach your building.

Wordlessly, she presses the correct pin into the pin-pad, never having forgotten it. 

She parks the car beside a new-looking Mercedes. It’s not a car for children, and she imagines it reeks of cigarettes – there is no way you have stopped smoking. 

It belongs in the carpark; in your little world of celebrities and male footballers; of money and fame and fortune. (One could argue you lack the latter, what with your current situation.) Alexia’s life has never moulded with yours. 

Perhaps it never will. 

Perhaps she slept with Jenni because they are equals, you think. Because Jenni understands Alexia in a way you cannot. 

“Mami,” cries a quiet voice from the backseat. You stop staring at the grey, concrete walls, snapping back to reality as Alexia shifts to turn her attention to the source of the whimpering. “No quiero que te vayas.” 

“Lela, me tengo que ir.” 

“Pero–” 

“You could always come up to say goodnight to them?” 

It starts off innocently. 

Of course it does. Of course you are nowhere near forgiveness, more likely to forget about the crushing affair before you excuse any of her actions. Sometimes, you wish for amnesia. Sometimes, you refer to the tab open in Safari – ‘is there a drug that makes you forget?’. 

Alexia is granted a tuck-in and a story for each child, glad that their rooms are separate so that her time in her home is prolonged. The walls are familiar, the floor is the same. There are new pictures in new frames, but the old ones have not been removed. If you had ever wished to take photographs of your relationship down, you have never acted on it. 

She realises you must not spend a lot of time here alone. Maybe you cannot bear it. Maybe your life in London is more important to you than she had thought. 

Anyway, for as much as she subtly noses around and draws out the night, she has no intention of overstaying her welcome, sure that she probably did that the minute she stepped inside. 

In fact, she is on her way out, under the assumption that you will not want to speak to her.

“So you’re back to playing?” 

“Sí.” 

A doorway conversation. 

You’re English. You’re very polite. Alexia knows this, tries to not get her hopes up. 

“Does that mean you don’t want a taste of this ‘97?” You hold the bottle up to her, the cork lying on the granite worktop with the incriminating suggestion that you have already had a glass. 

“We play the day after tomorrow.” 

“Oh, Ale, this is a good one.” 

How many times have you said that to her before? The same tone, the same look in your eye; red tinting your lips, one hand on a lighter because you smoke when you’re drunk, even if you refuse to touch the cancer-sticks when you are sober. 

“Was this a gift?” she asks, drawn into your magnetic field like a flimsy paper clip; thin, worn metal trying to piece the pages of her life back together. “Or have you been making ridiculous purchases again?” 

“I can assure you that it is not ‘ridiculous’.” You moan in delight as you take a sip from a glass you subsequently hand over to her. “Gosh, that is divine, and you are simply going to dissolve when you taste it.” 

Dissolve she does, but one can attribute that to the company. 

The contents of the bottle dwindles quickly, paired with a vulnerable retelling of her ACL recovery (sans suicidal thoughts and huge, huge regret about the affair – she doesn’t want to bring that up, seeing as you are clearly trying to forget about it), and the warm breeze of the Barcelona nighttime. The salty air from the mediterranean mingles with cigarette smoke, though Alexia softly says that you really should stop. 

You hesitate on your next puff, but you inhale it all the same. “I like my wine smokey.” 

She opens the next bottle for you. 

The wine glasses are soon discarded, pouring becoming shaky and difficult. 

“They sleep all the way through the night here,” observes Alexia, surprised that no little hands have knocked on the glass door leading to the balcony. The last time you had reached for the wine, you’d moved closer to her. You have not yet returned to your original seat on the other side of the rattan sofa. 

You raise your eyebrows, under the impression that they were both sleep trained. “They don’t at yours?” 

“Elena keeps trying to sleep in bed with me.” 

“Maybe she likes you more,” you suggest with a light, alcohol-infused laugh. “She must have been upset to find her place filled by your friend.” 

“No,” murmurs Alexia, “it has never been filled. Though I don’t think you can say the same.” 

You swallow the stickiness of the wine running down your throat.

“Not in our bed. My bed.” You fight yourself. “Our bed.” 

“In Highgate?” 

“Anywhere,” you breathe. 

“It’s been months,” croaks Alexia, your hand pressed against her stomach as you slowly lean into the feeling only she can give you. “Months.” 

You kiss her. Time folds in on itself, and you are transported back to when every touch was electric; when nothing was tainted. The pain of the past months, the heartbreak, momentarily fades into insignificance as you lose yourself in Alexia’s warmth.

Her fingers tangle in your hair, pulling you closer, afraid that this moment might slip away too soon. The taste of wine lingers on your lips, and she craves the softness of them – she has been craving them since July.

“Well, now it has only been seconds,” you whisper as you pull away. 

With a sense of urgency, she chases your mouth once more, strong arms pulling you on top of her, manipulating your body against her with no hint of uncertainty. 

Alexia knows you well.

Her touch lacks curiosity and exploration. Her hands are experienced and confident in their movements, and she has hoisted you up and brought you to your bedroom without needing to have been told that this is what you want. 

“Is this what you want?” she asks anyway. 

“Please.” 

And she really doesn’t make you beg. 

Your hands roam her body with a primal hunger, instinctive touches to the most sensitive parts of her, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Her back is tense, muscles flexing as she pushes your clothes off your skin, her own following their path soon after. 

Parted legs and soft moans. 

She slots herself between your thighs. 

Her tongue is determined, fierce. Sloppier because she is drunk, but, then again, so are you. 

Your fingers repay the favour. 

“More,” you request just as she pulls away. 

“Is it in the same place?” 

You nod, panting.

There is a playful glint in Alexia’s eyes as she finds the strap just where she left it. As she secures it in place, you wipe the sweat from your brow, forcing your mind into the dirtiest of thoughts to ward off the building regret.

The room is dimly lit, and the air heavy with desire. Your heartbeat pulses in the silence, the thrum of the organ drums that guide Alexia’s slow, deliberate steps back towards the bed, kneeling atop the scrunched sheets. 

She positions herself between your legs once more, and you can feel the heat of her body radiating against your skin. She leans in closer, her breath hot against your neck, sending shivers of anticipation shuddering down your spine. 

With trembling hands, you reach out, nails digging into tanned, taut skin. You pull her closer to you, urging her to take whatever she wants. 

You want her to have you. You want her to make it hurt less. 

As Alexia presses inside, a jolt of pleasure courses through your body. You cry out, the sound igniting a blazing inferno within her that grows hotter the moment you ask her to move. Feverishly, her hands move over your chest, finding purchase on your breasts with a dormant possessiveness as her hips begin to drive the strap in deeper. 

Your breath hitches in your throat as you surrender to the overwhelming sensation, encompassed by someone so divine that you begin to separate yourself from all things wrong with this situation. The headboard thuds against the bedroom wall as she pounds her thrusts into a rhythm, and you shut your eyes as you quietly ask her to kiss you.

Tears cascade down your cheeks, but you do not know to whom they belong. Her tongue smothers your moans, and her hips begin to snap into yours more urgently, with more desperation. The pressure builds inside of you, and you feel as though you might explode. 

You feel as though this is the end, and you are glad that here is where your misery terminates. 

You’re glad, you’re really glad. 

Your back arches, your chests pressing together, large hands holding you close to her. 

And then it all comes crashing down. 

Everything. 

You wipe your eyes once the orgasmic bliss subsides, seizing your wine haze as the tide goes out and destroying the blindfold that had deprived you of seeing things straight. Right now, with the pleasant ache between your legs, you can’t quite bring yourself to regret it, but you know you will. You haven’t forgiven her; you’re not sure that it is possible. 

“You can shower, but you can’t stay here.” 

…

Nico knows that he is special. He is lucky, and he is loved, and he gets to go to a very nice school that Mateo (his ‘cousin’) claims is fancy. 

He likes his teacher. She reminds him of someone he once knew – you have suggested the nursery helpers back when he lived in London. He is not sure if you are right, but he doesn’t remember what London was like so he tries not to think too hard about it. 

Nico’s friends, like Pau who is sitting beside him, all think it is really cool that he can speak English. Pau says she hears his mother on the radio sometimes, but Nico hasn’t yet grasped the concept of fame past the annoying camera flashes and big, sold-out stadiums. He dislikes fame as he knows it, anyway, because the cameras hurt his eyes and the stadiums are so loud that he has to wear ear-defenders that squeeze his skull a bit too much. 

“My mum is from Bilbao. My dad is from Barcelona,” states Paula as she swipes a crayon over the sheet of paper her drawing is on. Green wax slowly stains the white to form ‘grass’. Everyone is drawing their family today, although Nico hasn’t yet started, waiting for his teacher to circle their table so that he can ask for another piece of paper. “And this,” Paula carries on, squiggling brown hair onto a smaller version of the stick-figure father, “is Ander, my big brother.” 

“Who is that?” Nico asks, pointing at the fifth figure on the page, guessing that the fourth and Pau-sized person is, in fact, Pau. 

“My sister! She’s called Nerea, and she plays basketball.” Pau promptly makes an orange circle the size of Nerea’s head, which floats in the air between her and her sister. “My mum says Nere is going to be a lesbian, but I don’t know what that means.” 

“My mums are lesbian!” he blurts out, excited enough to garner the attention of his teacher. When she appears, he grins at her sweetly; the kind of smile that has melted many hearts, though Nico is unaware of how many people know he exists. “More paper, please.” 

“Nico, you haven’t even tried with your first one.”

She isn’t harsh at all, but he has slowly learnt to stop asking follow-up questions. Six months of exasperated ‘I don’t know, Nicolau’s has taught him that. 

He shrugs. “Okay.”

He learnt what a shrug was the other day, when Mapi told him off for doing it to her. (“Don’t shrug your shoulders at me, Nicolau Putellas!” she had chided playfully. “All I asked was which of your mamas’ houses we need to go to.”)

“Nico, what’s ‘lesbian’?” 

“Mama says football is lesbian. Basketball might be lesbian! That’s why your sister is lesbian.” 

“My mum says that lesbians kiss girls.” 

“Mama kisses girls! And Mami. And they used to kiss each other but now they don’t speak and me and my sister swap houses.” Nico begins drawing it out for Paula when she peers at him, befuddled. “Here is Mama’s.” A big square, a glamorous-looking woman inside of the blue shape; a stick with a circle on the end of it; the notes he sees in his piano music floating in the air. “And…” he says, tongue sticking out as he concentrates on the opposite half of the page, “here is Mami’s.” 

He draws a football. He picks up the red crayon too, and uses both the blau and the grana simultaneously. “Mami plays football for Barça.” He draws two lines on Alexia’s t-shirt. 11. “Mami made me get 11 at football.” Nico had originally worn the 10, but then the affair had come to light and Alexia was suddenly deep in conversation with his coach and apologising to the boy Nico then had to swap shirts with. 

Then, he drops the crayons in his hand and searches for the stack near Paula. He selects the purple one, gripping it tightly, his friend still listening to him with intrigue. 

“This is me and Lela.” Two stick figures are drawn in the middle of the page; the middle ground between each of the squares. 

Nico sometimes feels stuck between it all. 

When Mami got very sad, he and Elena went to stay with Mapi and Ingrid for a few nights. He held his little sister’s hand as much as he could. He always tries to remind her that he is right there with her. 

Mami once told him that it was his turn to protect Elena. Nico hasn’t forgotten that. 

“I keep Lela safe.” He has encouraged her, slightly selfishly, to call him ‘skipper’, which he has picked up from the Lionesses. Luckily, Alexia has not told him off for it because she doesn’t know what it means. “Lela is my little sister. She is a baby. She doesn’t remember what it was like when Mama and Mami loved each other, but I do.” 

The purple crayon scrapes on the page as he presses it into the white, colour rubbing out in the shape of a heart. “Lela and I are together tot el temps. Mami tries to take me from her sometimes, but I don’t let her.” 

His story – and ability to make Paula pay attention for longer than ten seconds – has already attracted the quiet attention of his teacher, but she moves closer as Nico continues. The four-year-old leaves out how Alexia is usually inviting him to training with her. Since Elena has yet to show any interest in football, it remains her and Nico’s special thing, and, of course, his mother misses him when it is not her turn. 

You benevolently give your permission if you have no prior plans. It is upsetting that the only hindrance to extra time spent together is the little boy who once worshipped Alexia Putellas like a god. 

“Nico, why did you want two pages?” asks Paula curiously, assuming he is finished now that his whole family is displayed on the piece of paper. 

He frowns. “Because now I have to do this.” And with that, he tears the sheet in half. 

Paula’s mouth drops open in surprise, as does his teacher’s. 

“What’s wrong?” comes a mature voice, a hand placed on his shoulder just like it is when the other children in his class cry. Nico doesn’t cry. He is strong and brave, like a little soldier. “Did you not like your drawing?” 

“No,” he replies neutrally, “half can live with Mama, and half can live with Mami.” 

“But now you are ripped down the middle.” 

He traces the jagged edges of the halves of his life. One of his legs is on your side, the other on Alexia’s. 

“I know, but it’s okay. I don’t cry.” 

Alexia does, though, when his teacher talks to her that afternoon. 

…

“I slept with Alexia,” you confess quietly, comforted by the sound-proofing of Anya’s home-studio. She asked for help with her album; your success might be contagious, she insists. “Last week, when Nico had that recital.” You clutch your mug protectively, as if she will strip you of the right to drink your tea to punish you for your crime. 

Anya is unsure what you would like her to say. You search her face for anger, but do not find it. 

“If Gio were here, she’d probably slap you.” 

You snort, almost spilling hot liquid all over yourself. “You two are like my mothers, and you’re the nicer one by far.” 

“God, you are such an idiot.” 

“And a slag.” She waits for your next admission with excitement. “I also slept with Leah Williamson.” 

“Do you think you and Alexia are just destined for polyamory?” Her amusement is quite pleasant, but one thing wasn’t dulled by the wine that night and you have been dying to tell someone about it.

Your knee bounces up and down as you gear up for it, having thought it through 

“I think we are destined for each other.” 

Song-writing be damned, Anya fully removes her headphones, placing the equipment beside her keyboard before letting out a small, exasperated laugh. “You are in love with Alexia again,” comes her accusation, with no real malice behind it. 

“I never stopped being in love with Alexia. She just made it a lot harder to love her.” 

Is that an understatement? 

“Hey,” you say with sudden energy, sitting upright and grasping at your phone, tea wobbling over the lip of the mug and running down your wrist. “Should we go to Bali in August?” 

…

You avoid both of your footballers right until the World Cup camps roll around. 

Leah doesn’t get to go, subjected to the ACL curse. Alexia’s call-up is not necessarily unexpected, but you do find yourself wondering how many more betrayals her friendship with Mapi León can handle. (Mapi is on her last straw, but she knows her friend really needed the win after her hellish year. The Champion’s League was never going to sate Alexia’s hunger to be the best at football – possibly an overcompensation for her terrible relationship skills.)

Your children, this time, are delivered to the park by their very own mother. Alexia beats Leah in this sense, because she has a valid excuse to see you without confessing feelings you do not want to hear. 

“I have something for you,” she says just after she has finished her goodbyes, pressing a small box into your hands. Her voice is filled with nerves and you are intrigued, hating yourself for being so. “Don’t open it until you get back home.” Her eyes meet yours for a moment. I’m sorry, they seem to say. “Alright, have fun in Bali, and don’t forget that I legally have custody but I am not going to go to court to battle you for it as long as you put them in Spain kits for Spain matches.” 

She could, if she wanted to be difficult, have you send Nico and Elena to New Zealand during her weeks. It would be very unreasonable, but the contract your lawyers drew up still stands. 

“They were delivered yesterday. I think it’s going to be a struggle to convince them to put on the worst kit ever.” You still don’t forgive Alexia for cheating on you, but there has come a point where acceptance replaces the animosity. Nico’s teacher has been the catalyst in this step forward. The developmental pamphlets she had thrust in your faces were enough for the two of you to come to a mutual agreement of increased civility (that maybe, maybe was only made possible by the fact that you have very recent memories of each other’s orgasms). “But, yes, I agree to your terms. Don’t forget that his favourite player is Alessia Russo, however.” 

“He is in a phase where I am ‘uncool’! It’ll pass.” 

“If you say so, Alexia.” 

“Anyway,” she carries on, rolling her eyes. “Open it when you get home.” She… presses a kiss to your cheek? “I’m so sorry, mi amor.” 

You blink back your surprise, but she is gone before you can reply. 

The small, neatly-wrapped box sits in the palm of your hand, the corners edging off your skin and sticking out as you stare at it. Nico and Elena continue their (unsupervised) playing, but you manage to call out a warning for ‘five more minutes and then we’ve got to pack’ while you examine Alexia’s gift.

Is this how Pandora felt? 

If you open it, what will be unleashed?

Alexia, before now, hasn’t actively pursued your forgiveness. She has given you the time and the space you had broken-heartedly requested, nodding as you communicated your wishes to her through someone else, never before able to confront the face that tore up your life before your eyes. 

There was a time when all you ever wanted to do was talk to her, but she tried to forget about that when she realised the extent at which you went to avoid an interaction. When she had understood your desperation to be left alone fully, she began to breathe. The step backwards gave her room to examine just how royally she had fucked it all. 

She now feels a bit more capable of tackling the clean-up, working with a much clearer mind. Everyone is relieved that she hasn’t killed herself, or, at least, that she is keeping those thoughts at bay. 

You realise that she has bought you a ring, and regardless of whether you wear it or not, she wants to tell you that she is sorry.

...

IT'S NOT OVER YET! THIS WILL TAKE YOU TO THE SECOND HALF

[spncrscasey]

Workaholic (j.w.)

Fandom/Characters: House M.D. - James Wilson x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 3k

Summary: Children either bring couples together, or push them apart. Unfortunately in your case, it was the latter.

Warnings: baby talk, miscarriage, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, unhealthy coping mechanisms, tumor/cancer mention, happy ending don't worry, and a BUNCH of pet names (these people are sickly in love- its insane)

a/n: almost finished with season 1 of house and i love wilson so so much, he’s such a cutie patootie. anyway i don’t know how accurate this is because i haven’t seen much of the show yet so im going off spoilers and random reasearch lol but hopefully it makes sense and yall enjoy it <3

You were currently sitting in the bathroom of your office staring at the test in front of you. You couldn’t believe it. Two lines. You were pregnant.

You were elated. As the Head of Pediatrics, you had ample experience working with children, which made you even more excited about the chance of being a mom since starting a family has always been a dream of yours.

However, you were unsure about how your husband would react to the news. Although you had discussed having kids with James on a few occasions, you never officially agreed to start trying. So it would be an understatement to say that you felt nervous about telling him.

You let out a sigh, carefully sliding the test into your pocket before hesitantly rising to your feet. Despite your concerns, you had to tell him, he has the right to know. Leaving your office, you made your way to the Oncology Department to seek out your husband.

Once you approached his office, you noticed the door slightly ajar, letting you know he was inside. You took a deep breath before gently pushing the door open.

“Hey, dear,” you said smiling at him when he looked up from his files to meet your eyes.

“Hi there sweetheart, how's my favorite girl doing?” He rose from his chair and sauntered around his desk to reach you, where he wrapped his arms around your waist, placing a chaste kiss on your cheek.

You didn't respond right away opting to look at your shoes and avoid his eyes, anxious about the news you were about to deliver. He was instantly worried, furrowing his brows in confusion. “Is everything okay?”

“James, honey, I have something I need to tell you.” You whispered but he heard it anyway.

“Of course Y/N, anything.” His voice dripped with fear as he anticipated what you were about to tell him. Considering you were wife number four, he was bracing himself for you to finally tell him you were leaving. Preparing for the worst, almost expecting the divorce papers even though your marriage had been nothing but perfect.

Yet his thoughts were cut short when you blurted out the information you'd been keeping in for the last twenty minutes. “I’m pregnant.”

You gazed into his eyes, trying to decipher his emotions, but they revealed nothing. His expression was unreadable, leaving you feeling even more uneasy.

“We're going to have a baby?” He questioned, shocked. You nodded and pulled out the pregnancy test to show him. He held it, staring at it, bewildered. It was clear he was processing the information, but his thoughts were kept hidden. Yet, you felt optimistic, hopeful that he wasn't showing signs of being upset.

“We’re having a baby!” He repeated with an enormous grin on his face, instantly enveloping you in a tight embrace.

As you hugged him back, a yelp of excitement escaped your lips. He lifted you off the ground, spinning you around as your laughter filled the air. You gently caressed his cheeks, planting quick and tender kisses all over his face. Joy radiating off of the both of you.

He slowly placed you back on the floor, eliciting a giggle from your lips at the way he was suddenly handling you with caution. “Relax, Jamie, I won't break. You don't have to be so careful, you know.” You reassure him, fingers tangling in his hair.

“You're carrying our baby! Some might say I'm not being careful enough!” He exclaimed back, resting his hands on your hips.

There's a comfortable silence for a moment while you both hold each other as everything sinks in.

“I'm glad you're okay with this.” You admit, leaning your forehead against his.

“Okay? Baby, I've never been happier! This is the best day of my life— well, besides the day I met you obviously.” He clarifies, earning a chuckle from you.

“You’re going to be a great dad, James.”

“And you're going to be an even greater mom, sweetheart.” He responds before delicately pressing his lips against yours.

You were eleven weeks pregnant. Your OB mentioned you'd be able to find out the baby's gender at your next appointment. Which you were on the way to right now. James couldn't make it due to a consult House had dragged him to but you reassured him that it was fine. You'd surprise him with a mini gender reveal celebration later.

You already had it planned. You'd go to the baby store and buy an article of clothing corresponding to the gender and wrap it in white to keep it concealed. It would be a special moment between you that you'd cherish for the rest of your life. Just the simple thought of it brought a smile to your face as you walked into the exam room, waiting to be checked out.

The nurse finally entered the room and began the procedure. She squeezed the gel onto your stomach and started the ultrasound. You watched intently, still struggling to comprehend the fact that there was an actual baby growing inside of you. The baby you and James had created, the baby your love had created. Your eyes twinkled in happiness at the idea of the family you'd soon become, the corners of your lips turning upwards.

Your smile faltered though when you noticed a momentary expression on the nurse's face that made you apprehensive. Before you were able to analyze it further, she left, informing you that the doctor would see you shortly.

Your heart began racing. What could that mean? Was the baby okay? Were you okay? What was wrong? Yes, you were a doctor, but suddenly all medical knowledge had left your brain. It's like you couldn't focus on anything but the notion that something was clearly not alright.

Your obstetrician stepped into the room, stopping you from spiraling further. A solemn expression on her face.

“Dr. Montgomery- How’s the baby? Is everything okay? Can we know the sex?” You hurriedly asked, letting it all out at once.

“Y/N, I'm sorry. You've had a miscarriage.” She said, looking at you sympathetically.

The world around you suddenly froze in place. Doctor Montgomery’s lips continued to move, providing information, but no sound reached your ears. It was as if her voice was distant and muffled, and all you could concentrate on was the fact that your baby was gone.

Your surroundings suddenly became blurry, hands trembled uncontrollably. How could this have happened? Both you and James had been incredibly careful and wary throughout the pregnancy. What went wrong?

You didn't even realize when she exited the room, leaving you in solitude with your thoughts. You felt numb, detached from the world that kept on spinning as if the devastating news didn't matter. Why was everyone going about their day as if nothing had happened when you had just received such heartbreaking news about not being able to have your baby? You hated it. You were mad at the world, mad at the doctor, mad at yourself.

You got to your feet and made your way to your husband's office, almost as if on autopilot. It felt surreal like your body was being guided by some invisible force through the busy corridors. It was as though your legs were moving of their own accord, taking you where you needed to be, letting your mind wander.

You suddenly found yourself standing in front of the glass doors, unsure of how you had ended up there in the first place. You hesitantly pushed the door open and entered.

As if you hadn't been through enough today, James’ office was found to be empty. The one person you needed at the moment wasn't here, which frustrated you even more. Logically, you knew it wasn't his fault. He's a doctor too. He probably got stuck with House’s consult, yet you were too distraught to think clearly, your distress clouding your judgment. So instead, you took a seat on the couch, waiting for his eventual return.

You sat there, lost in thought, staring into space, unaware of how much time had passed. Not even the sound of the office door being pulled and James entering could draw your attention.

He, however, saw you. Face instantly beaming. “Hey hun, how was the appointment?” He inquired, clueless to your expression since you had your back turned.

Noticing your lack of acknowledgment, he swiftly rushed over to you. Kneeling in front of your seated body, taking your hands in his. “Y/N, sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

His touch finally snapped you out of your thoughts, causing you to meet his concerned gaze. Tears filled your eyes as you whispered, barely audible, “I lost it.”

“Lost what angel? What's going on?” He questioned further, slowly moving his hands to cup your face.

“The baby, James. I lost our baby,” You explained, letting out a sob while falling forward.

He quickly caught you, putting his hands around you to hold you tightly, unable to believe the news himself. He clutched onto you, not only in a way to comfort you but himself as well. Tears kept streaming down your face, and the reality of the situation finally sank in. It felt like you hadn't come to terms with it until just now. You nuzzled your face into his chest, no doubt soaking his dress shirt, but you were too overwhelmed to care.

You could hear a few sniffles coming from him too, which only added to the heartbreak you were feeling. Knowing that you were the cause of his pain, the reason behind his tears. It made it all the more unbearable. The realization that you were the one who had resulted in the end of the life of the baby you both had hoped to raise was finally getting through to you, and it was crushing.

If you had communicated your feelings, he would have immediately reassured you that he would never hold you responsible for this. And he would have been right. No matter how upsetting it may be, these things happen, it wasn't your fault. But your brain wasn't functioning right presently, and all it could see was the pain you believed you were causing the both of you.

You lost track of how long the two of you held each other like that. Time was spent with you mostly crying, and him trying to hold himself together while whispering sweet nothings into your ear. It was supposed to be comforting, but it wasn't. Nothing he said would bring your baby back. You let him try regardless, knowing it was his way of coping with the loss.

It had been two weeks since you found out. Two weeks since your life changed for the worse.

There were many ways to deal with a loss. Attend grief support groups, see a therapist, journal, meditate— yet here you were, ignoring all of those and overworking yourself to death instead.

In your head, if you couldn't save and care for your own baby, you were determined to do it for others.

As a result, over the past two weeks, you've thrown yourself into your work. You'd been getting home late while leaving early in the mornings, picking up extra shifts, and spending more time at the clinic— all to avoid confronting the event that occurred.

Was it healthy? No. Was it working? Yes.

You found yourself isolating from everyone and everything. Even your own husband. You didn't mean to avoid him, it just happened that way because you were hardly ever at home anymore. Cuddy had even asked you to go home and rest up on multiple occasions but you refused each time, insisting that you were fine.

You were currently at the clinic, examining a patient who had an unknown mass in her stomach. It was likely a tumor so you were forced to page your husband, Dr. Wilson, Head of Oncology.

You didn't want to do it, knowing that if you paged him here, the conversation would end with him forcing you to open up. As it would be the first time you two would have an actual exchange in the last two weeks. But for your patient's sake, you were ready to set aside your personal issues and focus on her well-being. So you did what you had to do, and hesitantly paged him.

He was inside the exam room within five minutes.

Unbeknownst to you, seeing your name on his pager spiked his heart rate. He hadn't truly spoken to his wife in what felt like forever and seeing that she needed him was a relief. This was finally his opportunity to talk to you.

“You paged me, Dr. Y/L/N?” He asked as he stepped inside.

“Yes actually, Dr. Wilson, could you check what that mass is on the left side of her abdomen?” You pointed toward where the mass was.

“May I?” He asked the patient, motioning towards her body to which she nodded.

Upon receiving the woman's permission, he proceeded to examine the mass. He assessed that there was a high likelihood of it being a tumor, but a biopsy should be scheduled to confirm the diagnosis and see whether it is cancerous or not.

You thank him and turn back to the lady. “You're free to go, ma'am. I'll schedule the biopsy and the hospital will call to let you know when it is.” You inform her as she leaves.

After she leaves the room, you tidy up and restore everything to its original state before attempting to turn toward the door when you feel a tug at your wrist.

“That's it?”

“Is what it? I thanked you for your assistance now I'm going to order the biopsy you mentioned. Did I do something wrong Dr. Wilson?”

“You realize we're alone right? You don't have to be so formal.” He replies, tone filled with something you couldn't put your finger on.

Before you had a chance to reply he continued, “Why haven't you been coming home?” This time you understood his tone, accusatory.

“I have been.”

“Oh that's right, you get home every day past midnight and leave before sunrise. So you're home about what? 4-5 hours?” He summarizes.

“What do you want me to say, James?” You sigh.

“I want you to talk to me! Talk to your husband. Let me in! Stop avoiding me Y/N!” He raises his hands in the air, exasperated.

“I'm not avoiding you, I've just been busy with work.” You reply, purposefully ignoring the first part of his statement.

“Believe me, we've all realized how much of a workaholic you are.” He rolled his eyes.

You both stayed silent for a moment before he spoke up, voice softer this time, “Honey I know losing the baby was hard but-”

You cut him off before he could finish the sentence. The sudden mention of your baby made you see red.

“Don't you dare mention my baby.” You spoke, voice sharper than a thousand knives.

“That was my baby too, Y/N! This loss has been difficult for me too!” He yelled back, making you flinch yet you didn't back down.

“Really? Because I don't recall you being there that appointment.” It was a low blow and you were aware of it. You didn't truly blame him but you were being put on the defensive and you were willing to say anything that would get him to drop the topic.

“That's not fair and you know it,” He shook his head in disbelief.

“What's not fair is that our child is gone, James. Gone.” You let out, voice shaking at the last word.

“I know sweetheart, I know.” He pulled you in and you let him, willingly giving into the embrace you'd missed so much. He held you with one arm while using the other hand to stroke up and down your back like he'd done many times before. The comforting touch, so familiar yet so longed for, enveloped you, evoking a profound sense of solace. In that fleeting moment, serenity washed over you, bringing a deep sense of peace, even if it was temporary.

“I don't deserve this.” You mumble into his chest.

He moves his hands to your shoulders, pushing you aside to get a better look at your face, “What do you mean?”

“I don't deserve your kindness. I killed our baby and here you are- comforting me.”

He looked at you dumbfounded. Like you had just said the most idiotic statement known to man. You were blaming yourself for this? He grabbed your chin, bringing your face up so you could look at him.

“Y/N, you know I never blamed you for any of this right?” He asked rhetorically. Knowing you wouldn't answer, he continued, “You didn't kill anyone. You're not responsible for what happened. It's not your fault. I need you to understand that.” He said firmly.

“I just feel so empty James, like a part of me is missing. A part that I'll never be able to get back- and I just don't know what to do with myself anymore.” You confess, eyes shutting in exhaustion.

He moves one hand to the back of your head, absentmindedly playing with your hair, soothing you while you speak.

“It feels like this emptiness is going to last forever and I'm not sure how I'm going to deal with that Jamie.”

Oh, how he had missed hearing that nickname leaving your lips. It made him feel at home.

Perhaps things were slowly getting better.

“It's going to take time, but we’ll get through it Y/N. I promise. Let's just take it one day at a time, alright?”

You nodded, lips slightly quirking up.

“I'm sorry for pushing you away and avoiding you for two weeks.” You look down, embarrassed. “I also apologize for not being there for you. I know you've been dealing with this too and it wasn't right of me to abandon you in a time of need where I should've been by your side instead.”

“That’s okay,” he says drawing you in closer once more, wrapping his arms around you making you sway back and forth. “Just promise me that you'll come home with me tonight, so we can enjoy a nice and relaxing bath together.” He adds.

“Oh, I definitely promise that.” You reply, smirking at him before adding, “I love you.”

“And I love you, angel.”

[bestpigeon]

THE FALLEN ONE

LUCIFER X MALE READER

You, an angel, betrayed heaven and refused to kill demons. How will this go?

Words- 1.4k

Warnings- swearing, gore, fighting, gay

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It was extermination day. How exciting.  The truth is, i genrally despise extermination day. We get sent down to hell to kill souls. yeah, theyre evil and in the pits of hell for a reasom. however i dont believe that its the right thing to do. i mean, its still souls were killing. They dont deserve death. Were not very angelic if were killing souls? For what, so they wont revolt? They will anyways.

Adam was giving us a pep talk. I was on the front lines since im a worthy soldier. Adam was talking, shouting, about Vaggie. Vaggie betrayed us ages ago, Lutes long life plan is to kill her and rip out her other eyes or something. I sniker at the thought and i get a large death stare from Lute. Adam then shouts something that i didnt care enough to listen and everyone started charging through the portal and into hell. I fly down into the dome that some percular demon had created. It was all green and weird.

I land and look at the other angels either killing canibals, or getting killed themself. i scurry into a corner and hide near some broken rubble. I suddenly hear a chuckle. i whip my head in panic to.. shit, Lute.

"well well well. Really thought youd slack and get away with it?! this isnt the first time ive.. caught you avoiding battle." she says as she chuckles at my patheticness.

I roll my eyes and stand up. I flap my beautiful and delicate white angelic wings behind me. I turn my mask to face Lute.

"what? all to join in on killing souls? They arent innocent, yeah, but.. they dont deserve this-" i say before getting lunged at. Lute jumps ontop of me and we tumble backwards. I groan in agony and annoyance

"your so fucking pathetic. how about you join Vaggie? You and that bitch can rot down here. Worthless fu-" she says as she grits her teeth. I interup her by thrusting her off my lap and kicking her aggressivly with my legs. I stand up and point my spear at her.

"i am NOT going to join in with this shit anymore! you will not control me like the freak you are" I say as i squint my eyes under my mask. I didnt want to be controlled like a peasent, a doll, a puppet. Not anymore.

She laughs and stand up clearly pissed. She glares at me before thrusting her spear near my stomach. Like the trained angel fighter i am, i quickly dodge it easily. We fight back and back for a while. Both throwing some degrading. Some Lunges, spear attacks, grunting later, Lute has me pinned to the floor with a spear aimed at my head. I look up at her with nothing but hate and anger.

"Fucking kill me- Just like you did to Vag-" I say in anger, before getting interupted with a spear being jabbed into my leg. I scream out in pain as the angelic spear peirces the flesh on my leg.

"Yeah, us angels kill pathetic souls like you. People who dont deserve life, or the honourous position your in" She says as she lifts her spear up, prepaired to finish me off, finally. Then, out of the blue, Lute gets blasted with angelic power. I flinch and cover my face in worry. It was another angel, so i thought. Until i looked up and saw the King of hell himself. I leaned on the floor on my elbows before quickly pulling myself backwards. It was..over? All the angels were leaving, going back to heaven, including Lute.

Lucifer approaches me and knees beside me, he glares at my with symapthy. My mask was half cracked, you could see half of my face. "you alright kid?" he says as i looks down at my legs.

"um..yeah, im alright apart from the yknow, big slash in my leg-" I say before i clear my throat.

"why did you help me? Im an angelic warrior, im on the other side..?" I say confused as i cock up an eyebrow. Lucifer chuckles and smiles warmly. I thought it was a big perculiar, i mean demons being nice?

"I couldnt help but overhear your conversation while fighting Adam, by the way i absolutly destroyed Adam- anyways, your not like the other angels." He says as adjusts his beautiful white and red wings behind him. Though his wings were like mine, they still were different. More majestic i should say.

"mh..yeah well i dont agree with the extermination.. yknow? killing innocent- well not innocent, but killing souls in genral.. its, not something us angels should do." I say, as i spoke i kept eye contact the whole time. I could see the visible change in Lucifers expression. It seemed to soften, he clearly shared the same opinions as me.

"right, exactly the reason i saved you. You think like a real angel. well, now your in hell, but..better then death, right?" I coudnt help but notice he started to move his arms, one around my lefs anad the other around my back. He, bridal style, picked me up and held me in his arms. I gasp and i tense slightly. I glare up at him and he smiles at me before bringing me to the other demons.

He puts his hand on my leg and heals it, he closes his eyes as he does so. I couldnt help but realise how pretty he was. I blush at the thought before he puts my down on the floor. I smile when i realise my leg was healed finally.

"thank you" I say quietly. I see a collection of other demons looking at me weirdly, i dont blame them, im meant to be trying to kill them afterall. I smile awkwardly before Lucifer wraps his arm around my neck and pulls my to the group of demons. Some blonde demon approached me, her name was Charlie, Lucifers daughter.

"hey..? dad why is there an angel here?" she questions as she steps a step infront of me and twists her head. I look at her awkwardly and i cant help but notice vaggies peircing eyes stare aggressivly at me.

"um..im joining you? i guess? i betrayed the angels. Its just..not right to kill souls without reason." I say, i see Charlies face light up slightly. I feel Lucifers hands go onto my shoudlers.

"See Char Char! Hes on our side." He says i blush slightly when he gets really close, he leaned his head near my shoulder. Vaggies feirce appearence calmed slightly, though it was clear shes still on edge.

"oh! well hi! Its nice to meet you! Its amazing when we have other members of the Hazbin Hotel!" She says before she hugs me. I gasp when she lunges towards me and i flinch, my eyebrows lift in confusion but i hugged back soon as later. I didnt think kind souls existed in hell, maybe it isnt that bad?

I smile awkwardly. "Thank you- i appriciate it" I say as Charlie steps back and smiles at Vaggie. I notice the other demons were just doing whatever, mainly chatting and laughing together. I cant help but smile. Demons arnt that bad?

I feel the hands on my shoulders move and turn me around. I glare down at Lucifer, huh, didnt know he was that short.

"Are you all healed?" He says as he touches my waist and stomach to check if i was okay. I blush slighty and chuckle awkwardly. "yeah- yeah im fine your majesty"

"please, its Lucifer, and im glad your alright." He says as he smiles warmly at me, i return the smile.

"They might take a while, but they should warm up. Angels dont do well round here, but they will adjust." He says as he smiles. His hands were still on my shoulders.

"alright, im thankful still, thanks for helping me. Lute would have killed back there." I say smiling at him. He chuckles before walking towards his daughter.

I watch as he leaves. My thoughs are bombarded with all different things. Am i in the Hazbin hotel now? Hell can be nice? Well somewhat, i mean, i did nearly die down here.

Maybe, just maybe hell isn't too bad? My thoughts get interrupted by a huge explosion behind me, i turn to see a few demons ripping an angels wings to death. I squint in disgust, realising i should get us to that. Other than that, this couldn't be that bad.. I might even like it here.

[its-avalon-08]

hearts intertwined (hamilton x sister! driver!rosberg) p17

chapter 17: enemies and crashes

series masterlist avaspeaks - im sooo sorry i havent updated this series in so long. anyway here is pt17!

It was race day at last. Over the past few weeks Nico and Lewis had become more civil and friendly. Lewis and Y/N had their fair share of moments where they felt as if they were the only ones who existed, hiding behind a facade of nonchalance, the two often sneaked in looks where they would just appreciate one another.

The air crackled with anticipation as the lights flickered off at the start of the race. Y/N, her adrenaline surging, shot off the line, her Red Bull a blur of crimson against the asphalt. To her surprise, she managed to slip past Max, taking the lead into the first corner.

Lewis, watching from his Mercedes, gritted his teeth. He knew he had to reclaim the lead, but Y/N was driving like a possessed woman, her every move calculated and aggressive.

The race was a battle of wits, with Y/N and Lewis trading places at every opportunity. The crowd roared, the tension palpable. Then came the pit stops. Y/N's crew executed a flawless pit stop, sending her back onto the track just behind Lewis.

The two cars emerged from the pit lane neck and neck, a battle royale brewing. Y/N, her eyes locked on Lewis's rear wing, pushed her car to the limit. She was inches away from his bumper, their cars a blur of color.

"Lewis, defensive driving!" his race engineer, Bono, barked through the radio.

"She's trying to take me out!" Lewis retorted, his voice laced with frustration.

Y/N's radio crackled with Liam's voice. "Y/N, focus! This is a dangerous maneuver!"

"I don't give a fuck!" she shouted back, her voice filled with adrenaline. "I'm winning this race! This is not slipping away from me."

Lewis was furious and shouted into his radio, "What the fuck is she doing right now? This will end both our races."

The tension between them reached boiling point as they approached a high-speed corner. Y/N made a daring move, clipping Lewis's front wing. Lewis's car spun out, crashing into the barriers. Nico gasped in shock of how all this had played out. "FUCK FUCK FUCK, What the fuck was that man? No I'm fucking done." Lewis shouted over radio. "Lewis are you okay?" Bono asked anxious. "Im fucking fine. No sorry Bono, I'm- I'm just shocked sorry everyone." Lewis responded. The crowd gasped as flames erupted from the wreckage.

Y/N's heart pounded in her chest. Fuck, fuck, fuck what had she done? But she kept her focus, determined to finish the race. She crossed the finish line, the checkered flag a blur of victory.

As she climbed out of the car, her team swarmed her with congratulations. She was elated, her adrenaline still pumping. The win was sweet, but the way she had achieved it left a bitter taste in her mouth.

She spotted Lewis being helped out of the wreckage, his face a mask of anger. She looked away, guilt gnawing at her conscience. But deep down, a part of her felt a strange sense of satisfaction. She had won, and she had beaten Lewis at his own game.

The post-race celebrations were muted, the shadow of the crash hanging over the paddock. Y/N avoided Lewis's gaze, her heart pounding with a mixture of triumph and remorse.

Lewis, meanwhile, stood alone, his face a mask of fury. He watched as Y/N celebrated with her team, a pang of jealousy piercing through his anger. He had lost the race, but more importantly, he had lost something else – respect for Y/N.

The night stretched ahead, a long and lonely one for both of them. The victory had come at a price, and the consequences would linger long after the champagne had dried.

The post-race press conference was a tense affair. Y/N had already given her interview, her victory still ringing in her ears. Now it was Lewis's turn to face the music.

The first few questions were standard fare, about the race conditions and his car's performance. But then, it happened.

"Lewis," a reporter began, a mischievous glint in her eye, "there was a particularly aggressive move from Y/N on lap twenty-three. Can you comment on that?"

Lewis's face hardened. His jaw clenched, and his eyes flashed with anger. "Aggressive? That was reckless," he spat out, his voice low and dangerous. "She took me out of the race. That's not racing, that's dangerous."

The room fell silent, the tension palpable. The reporter pressed on. "Y/N has a reputation for being a fierce competitor. Do you think that crossed the line today?"

Lewis leaned forward, his eyes boring into the reporter's. "I don't think she cares about lines," he growled. "All she cares about is winning, at any cost."

The room was electric. Y/N, watching the interview from her team's hospitality suite, felt a cold dread wash over her. She had known her move was risky, but Lewis was a fierce driver too. Why was he acting like he hasn't done this often? He did it to Nico more than once.

The reporter pressed further, but Lewis had retreated into a shell of fury. His answers were curt, his tone clipped. It was clear that the incident had left a bitter taste in his mouth, and he wasn't afraid to let everyone know.

As the interview ended, Lewis stormed out of the room, his face a mask of anger. The world could see the animosity between the two drivers, and the rivalry had taken a dangerous turn.

--

The paddock was abuzz with post-race analysis. Y/N, still riding the high of her victory, was surrounded by her team, their laughter and congratulations a welcome antidote to the tension that had gripped the race.

Then, she saw him. Lewis was standing alone, a solitary figure amidst the bustling crowd. Their eyes met, a silent battleground of unspoken words and simmering emotions.

Mustering her courage, Y/N walked towards him. The closer she got, the more she could see the anger etched on his face. It was a stark contrast to the usual composed demeanor he was known for.

"Lewis," she began, her voice barely a whisper.

He turned to face her, his eyes cold and distant. "Y/N," he replied, the words dripping with frost.

The silence that followed was heavy, laden with the unspoken accusations and recriminations.

"I won," Y/N stated simply, her voice steady.

Lewis scoffed. "By taking me out."

"It was a racing incident," Y/N retorted, her voice rising slightly. "You should know better than anyone what it's like to be on the receiving end of a tough move."

Lewis's jaw clenched. "But you took it too far," he countered. "You could have caused a serious accident."

Y/N looked at him, her eyes challenging. "Racing is dangerous, Lewis. That's the risk we take. I made a calculated move, and it paid off."

A bitter laugh escaped his lips. "Calculated? Or desperate?"

Y/N's anger flared. "Desperate? I was in the lead! You were trying to overtake me on the inside. I had to defend my position."

Lewis took a step closer, his voice low and menacing. "I would never do that to you, Y/N. Never."

The words hung in the air, a stark contrast to the fierce competition they had displayed on the track. Y/N felt a pang of guilt, but she quickly pushed it aside. She wasn't going to apologize for winning.

"But you've done it to people before Lewis. You did it to my brother. Don't act like you're a great saint, because truly you. are. not. Actions speak louder than words, Lewis," she replied coldly. "You'll just have to learn to accept it. We were racing, I was faster, I won. That's that"

With that, she turned and walked away, leaving Lewis alone with his thoughts. Lewis spoke up, "You're making enemies Y/N. And regardless of what I have done, I would have never dared to risk your life." Saying so he walked away. The victory tasted bittersweet, the adrenaline rush replaced by a growing sense of unease.

Y/N was swarmed by Max, who finished P2, her brother, Christian and more, all congratulating her. But she felt a metallic taste in her mouth. Was it guilt or something far more dangerous?

taglist: @laura-naruto-fan1998 , @xoscar03 , @torossosebs , @jajouska , @lindsayjoy444 , @barcelonaloverf1life , @charli123456789, @heyheyheyggg

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[drunkhee]

exam season sucks ──── ⵌ ENHA HYUNGS

pairing: student! enhypen hyung line x afab! reader genre: fluff , crack wc:0.4k

synopsis ; reader is stressed over exams and they try to help MAKNAE LINE

heeseung ★彡

heeseung realises a bit too late that you were stressed out, as you were already in tears with your head resting on your hands. as you were about to bash the book onto your forehead, heeseung swipes the book away from your hands.

'baby...' he frowns putting the book aside. 'come here.' he smiles as he heads towards his bed, following after him. you were engulfed into his warm embrace as he hums you a tune. the tune was from the first song he ever sang to you, and it made you relax with the thought of the memory.

'are you feeling better now, baby?' he smiles as he strokes your hair, pulling you closer to him.

jay ★彡

he has been watching you for a while. initially jay thought that your rigid and stiff posture was because you were focused, but he soon realised that you were holding in tears as you dreaded your exams. he approaches you from behind and places his hands on your shoulders.

'you're so tense babygirl, you've got this exam ok?' he whispers into your ear, massaging your shoulders. jays fingers apply pressure, undoing knots you didn't know you had from studying.

'does this hurt?' he would occasionally ask as he moves around your back. 'you're doing great baby, i'll do this again if your back starts hurting again ok?'

jake ★彡

jake insisted on studying on his bed, which wasn't a good idea on his part - he couldn't focus at all unlike you. where you were busy typing away, he was too - doing a 'how fast can you type' test online. and many more.

as he got tired from his many tests, he closes his laptop and scoots towards you. you haven't written anything. nothing.

'y/n? are you, uh, okay? baby?' he asks looking at you who's sat there frozen. jake takes the laptop off of your lap and puts it away giving you a hug. 'aww baby, i'll give you a hand later ok? i've finished mine anyways. cuddle break?' you nod as he wraps his legs around you and you melt in his arms for the next few minutes. or hours.

sunghoon ★彡

you were both studying at the library when he hears your stomach grumble. he was already sick of studying, but he noticed that you were still doing work so he waited for a sign from the heavens to relieve him from the demon called studying for exams.

'y/n do you wanna grab some lunch?' he asks as he starts putting his stuff away. he looks at you when you didn't answer, 'oh no, baby...' he says rushing over to your side.

'i can't leave, i'm so not ready for this exam hoon. ' you grumble, eyes not leaving your screen.

'come on bubs, you're just gonna get grumpier by the second. my treat.' you look up at him as he flashes you his smile. how can you say no to that?

vi's thoughts;

PURRR i have an exam tmr which i should really be revising for rn... BUT IM NOT anyways its 12AM i need to get up at like 4/5 to study sm more so good bye yall :D

(c) drunkhee 2024. pls don't steal/plagiarise my work ! lmk if you wanna be in my taglist!

[certifiedcallahanstan]

The memoir of a horny fangirl

chapter 2

Warnings: This is a pretty heavy chapter, it shows a really vulnerable side to Hazel and the shitty side of the reader. I had to get this chapter done, so the rest can be lighter and more *spicy*. The next chapter will get back to baseball hazel!!

This chapter contains: sa

It’s been a couple days since you had received the picture and you know you shouldn’t be upset, Hazel is a grown woman and is allowed to kiss whomever she wants, it’s not like you two are together anyways. That however doesn’t stop you from trying to avoid her.

P.J invites you to the coffee shop with Josie and Brittany to do quote on quote “studying” which really means she wants to talk to you all about her latest hook up.

Despite your initial reluctance, you find yourself getting caught up in the conversation.

“and i mean it wasn’t a fucking normal sized strap, that shit was like- fucking xxl” P.J moves her hands at least a feet apart from eachother trying to demonstrate the size and josie scrunches up her nose.

“I don’t need to hear that P.J, you keep that to yourself” she huffs and you cover your mouth trying to stop a laugh from escaping.

For a brief moment, the weight of your emotions regarding Hazel and the photo fade into the background as you lose yourself in the conversation until eventually Brittany convinces everyone that we should probably study.

You pull out your notes adorned with doodles of different sea creatures and facts about them when you hear a familiar voice approach the table.

“Hey guys” the voice that belongs to the shaggy brunette starts “Josie told me you all were studying and that..” she looks at her phone reading the text “We are about to kill P.J, please come before one of us commits a felony”

P.J just responds with a huff a mutters something along the lines of “you all are just mad i get more hoes” as Hazel pulls out a chair and joins the group.

You scoot slightly more away from Hazel hoping nobody will notice. unfortunately these chairs are millenniums old and makes and obnoxious screeching noise

You cringe inwardly, feeling a flush of embarrassment creep up your cheeks as all eyes turn in your direction.

Hazel's gaze flickers briefly in your direction, her brow furrowing in confusion at the sudden noise.

"Sorry about that," you mumble, offering a sheepish smile as you try to play off the noise. "These chairs are... uh, not the most cooperative."

Everyone seems to accept that excuse as they get back to their previous tasks. You start shading in the sea creature you were previously drawing in your journal when you feel P.J looming over you.

“what the fuck knuckles is that” she says as she points at your drawing

you look down at a your notebook where you had draw what looks like a eel-shark hybrid

“it’s called a frilled shark” you start explaining as all eyes look at you “they get their name from the frilly appearance of their gill sets. In fact they’re one of the few sharks that eat their prey whole…”

You trail off awkwardly, realizing that you may have gone a bit overboard with your explanation when you see everyone blankly staring at you. Clearing your throat, you try to steer the conversation back on track.

"Anyway, um... yeah, it's just a cool creature I thought I'd draw," you finish lamely

“I think it’s sick”

you turn your head to the voice and see Hazel smiling at you “i mean a shark that moves like an eel?”

"Yeah, exactly!" you respond, a smile spreading across your face as you meet Hazel's gaze. "It's pretty fascinating how they've adapted to their environment."

fuck why does she have to be so damn irresistible.

your thoughts are cut off by the slamming of a text book and you see Brittany getting up “my brain feels all mushy, im going home to take a nap”

Josie nods, putting her computer in her back pack “i should probably get back to Isabel” and P.J mutters something about going to “fuck then duck” whatever that means.

Soon enough it’s just you and Hazel, you try to ignore the tension, but damn it’s so thick you could cut it with a knife.

For a moment, neither of you speaks, the silence stretching between you as you both seem lost in your own thoughts. You fidget nervously, unsure of what to say.

Finally, Hazel clears her throat, breaking the silence with a hesitant smile. "So... um, how have you been?" she asks, her voice soft and tentative.

You swallow, trying to push aside the swirling emotions that threaten to overwhelm you. "I've been okay," you reply, your voice slightly strained. "Just... you know, trying to stay busy with school and stuff."

and not making out with random red heads and getting chlamydia you add in your head.

Hazel nods, her gaze flickering briefly as she seems to search for the right words. "Yeah, I get that," she says quietly “hey um..have you been avoiding me? i’ve tried to text you but you haven’t answered and everytime i try to come up to you you walk the opposite direction”

your jaw clenches as you start putting everything in your shark printed back pack “what reason would i have to avoid you Hazel” your voice tinged with frustration and hurt.

she runs her ringed fingers through her hair and you try not to notice the prominent veins “that’s what i’m trying to figure out, did i do something?”

“not everything is about you callahan” you grunt out as you try to gather all your loose papers

“here let me help-“

“i don’t need your help” you shove her arm away and in the process her hand hits an open water bottle spilling water all over your notebook. the notebooks that has three years worth of research in it

A sense of panic washes over you as you scramble to salvage what you can, frantically wiping at the water with trembling hands. Hazel watches helplessly, her expression a mixture of concern and regret.

"I'm sorry," she says softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't mean to... I was just trying to..."

You cut her off with a sharp gesture, your own frustration boiling over as you struggle to contain your emotions. "Just... leave me alone, Hazel," you mutter, your voice thick with emotion.

she steps back as her eyebrows knit together “this wouldn’t have happened if you just let me help. Maybe instead of pushing people away talk to them”

You can see the hurt etched in her features, and for a moment, you feel a pang of guilt tug at your conscience.

"I'm sorry, I just..." you begin, your voice catching in your throat as tears threaten to spill from your eyes. With a heavy sigh, you toss your notebook into the trash and sling your backpack over your shoulder

"I have to go," you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper as you turn away, unable to face Hazel in that moment. With each step you take, the distance between you and Hazel grows, the ache of regret gnawing at your heart.

Hazel just presses her lips together and nods before you see the same red head from the photo calling her name in an annoying high pitched voice.

You watch in silence as Hazel hesitates, her eyes briefly searching yours for any sign of a response. Before you can gather your thoughts, she turns away, putting on a fake smile as the red-headed girl approaches.

"What's up, Becca?" she says, her tone polite but strained, the artificiality of her smile not escaping your notice.

you turn away, knowing that it's not your place to intervene in Hazel's personal life. And also if you stayed there someone would be getting punched in the face, and here’s a hint. it wasn’t going to be you.

—————————————

“Did you say sorry at least?” Isabel ask as you lay upside down on her bed, letting the blood flow rush to your head to try to forget about what Josie now calls “they great water incident” that happened last week

"Yeah, I did," you reply with a sigh, your voice muffled from your upside-down position. “kinda.. i dunno. I mean you should’ve seen the way that becky, bexar, what ever the fuck her name is held onto her”

P.J shoves a handful of chips into her mouth and shrugs “i say kill the bitch”

Josie tosses a pillow at her face and huffs “We already have one murderous charge against us, we don’t need another”

Isabel nods in agreement. "Exactly. We'll figure this out without resorting to murder,"

“fine” P.J huffs holding her hands in the air “but just know that i know people”

“mhmm” you hum as you launch yourself back into an upright position on the bed stealing chips from P.J’s bowl.

As the group starts debating whether han solo or darth vader would be better in bed, you can’t help but wonder at this exact moment what hazel is doing.

——————————————

Hazel sits on her bed in her apartment talking about how the frilled shark can unhinge their jaw and eat prey at least twice their size as the red head sits and stares at her.

Hazel has never been one for social cues, she sincerely honestly thought that Rebecca just needed a friend, and sure they made out at the party but in her defense her face looked similar to yours in the midst of her 6 shots.

So here they are in Hazels apartment, Hazel blabbering about the eel-shark abomination (that she most definitely didn’t spend five hours researching after finding out about it)

“Rebecca? did you hear what i said” she stops and tilts her head with wide eyes

Rebecca nods and turns to Hazel “mhm- yeah the shark is like- long or some shit”

“you seem distracted” the brunette mutters “and it’s not called a long shark it’s called a frilled shark because-“ her sentence is interrupted when she hears Rebecca let out a drawn out sigh and move closer to Hazel.

“Yeah that’s kinda gross Hazey and i’m bored so how about we have some fun…”

“i don’t know what you mean-“ hazel starts before the girl lifts her shirt off and suddenly Hazel realizes why this girl has been being so nice to her.

"I... I don't think that's a good idea," Hazel stammers, her voice tinged with unease as she shifts uncomfortably on the bed.

“come on baby” Rebecca whines as she crawls into an unwilling Hazels lap “I’ve heard how good you are in bed”

And it’s true, Hazel was amazing in bed and she has had her fair share of hookups, but usually she knows about them before.

"Rebecca, I... I really don't think this is a good idea," Hazel insists, her voice shaky as she gently tries to push Rebecca away. "I'm not interested in anything like that right now."

“shhh” Rebecca whispers out as she slams her lips against Hazels and suddenly everything seems too much, Rebecca’s lips are wet, the lights are too bright, the AC is too loud. Panic grips her as she struggles to push Rebecca away, her thoughts a jumble of fear and confusion.

"Stop," Hazel manages to choke out, her voice barely audible over the rush of blood in her ears. She pushes against Rebecca's chest with all her strength, her heart pounding with urgency.

Rebecca pulls back, frustration evident on her face. "What's wrong?" she demands, her voice tinged with irritation.

Hazel's chest heaves as she tries to catch her breath, her mind reeling with a flood of emotions. "I... I told you to stop," she says, her voice trembling

Rebecca's expression darkens, her features contorted with anger as she takes a step forward. "You're just playing hard to get,"

Hazel manages to push Rebecca off her lap and quickly stands up, putting some distance between them.

"I think it's best if you leave," she says firmly, her voice trembling slightly with the effort to maintain composure.

With a frustrated huff, Rebecca storms out of the room, leaving Hazel alone with her racing thoughts and pounding heart. As she sinks onto the bed she grabs her phone with shakey hands and presses your contact then the call button.

“Hey what’s up” your voice bellows out from Hazels phone

“Hey i don’t know what-“

“HAHA JK this is my voice mail, leave a message or don’t i don’t care” your voice interrupts and Hazel can’t help the tears that fall down her face

“Hey..i don’t know if you’ll see this but Rebecca was here and i thought we were just friends, i mean i know i kissed her but i was drunk and..anyways we were talking and-“ Hazels voice cracks “-and she climbed on me and i told her to get off but she didn’t and- and she kissed me and maybe it’s my fault but..i don’t know what the point of calling you is because i’m pretty sure you hate me. I dunno, i just needed to tell someone.”

She presses the hang up button and brings her knees to her chest letting out a sob. How could she have been so stupid? Flash backs of when her dad would buy her these new suits and buttons up because he knew you hated dresses, but then make her get dressed in front of him flashed back into her mind.

Despite her best efforts to push those memories aside, they continue to haunt her, casting a shadow over her as she cries herself eventually to sleep.

———————————

it’s not until two days later that you see the voice mail, you’re sitting in your biology class with your airpod in when you click the play button.

“What the fuck?!” you blurt out when it finishes and suddenly all eyes are on you.

You smile sheepishly as you gather all of your belongings and rush out of the classroom calling P.J

after three rings she answers with a “I’m talking to this really hot chick so this better be important”

“You remember when we said that we weren’t going to kill anyone anymore”

P.J hums “well YOU ALL said that, i never actually agreed to it”

“Yeah well…it’s time for some killing..or at least seriously maiming”

as you explained the situation to P.J, the last thing she said before she hung up was

“let’s go kick some leprechaun ass”

————————————

Okay so YOU didn’t kick some leprechaun ass, P.J insisted she could take Rebecca herself and you assuming it went well because as you were driving (well over the speed limit) to Hazels house you receive a message from P.J saying “i’m like 75% sure she’s still alive, anyways if police come questioning you, say a rabid bear attacked her”

You chose not to question her further.

You get to Hazels house and you take a deep breath, you’ve never been good at comforting people, usually you just pat their back and give them water. You assume that probably won’t work for this situation .

Taking a deep breath, you exit your car and make your way to Hazel's apartment. Each step feels heavier than the last, the weight of the situation bearing down on you with each passing moment.

you knock on the door three times fast, two slow, that was your signature knock for her since middle school. As the door swings open, you're greeted by the sight of Hazel, her eyes red-rimmed from tears. Without a word, you pull her into a tight embrace, holding her close.

“y-you came-“ Hazel mutters out as you pull away and she wipes her eyes

“yeah of course haze, im sorry i didn’t see the voice mail till today”

Hazel nods, her expression grateful as she steps back, allowing you to enter her apartment. As you settle into the living room, Hazel gestures for you to take a seat on the couch beside her. You can sense her hesitancy, so you squeeze her hand and softly smile.

“you can talk to me about whatever, you know that right haze?”

Hazel meets your gaze, her eyes reflecting a mixture of emotions—vulnerability, fear, and a glimmer of hope. With a shaky breath, she begins to recount the events of that night, pouring out her heart and soul to you.

And all you saw was fucking red. How the fuck could someone do this to her Hazel, her sweet, beautiful, funny Hazel?

Your heart pounds in your chest as Hazel's words sink in, each one feeling like a blow to your own sense of justice. Anger simmers beneath the surface as you listen to the betrayal she endured, your grip on her hand tightening instinctively.

Taking a deep breath to steady yourself, you meet Hazel's gaze with determination burning in your eyes. "Hazel, I am so sorry that you had to go through that," you say, your voice firm but gentle. "But I promise you, we will get through this together. I won't let anyone hurt you like that again."

Hazel coughs out a laugh and looks at you with wet eyes “That’s supposed to be my line”

You smile softly at her response, a flicker of warmth spreading through your chest. "Well, consider it borrowed for now," you say, returning her gaze with sincerity. "Because I mean every word of it. I'm here for you, Hazel, no matter what."

In that moment, as you sit together in quiet solidarity, you know that your bond with Hazel runs deeper than words can express. And with that unspoken understanding, you both find solace in each other's presence.

[thefairygodmonster]

I have a tricky relationship with the idea of “finish” when it comes to my art. Something Ive been trying to change so that art is healthier and more fun for me.

See, “finished” historically for me has always meant inked, colored, and rendered, preferably with decent lighting, something clean. HOWEVER, this definition does not vibe AT ALL with how I art. Past experiences have made it hard to break away from that academic approach. This sense that art needs to be made in a certain order and that all the steps need to be filled out for it to be complete. Its like filling out a form. You cant turn it in until all the boxes are ticked. Thats so inorganic for me though.

Id like to use pooka to snap out of it. I have all these fun rough drawings Id LOVE to get on paper and in color. That idea of the “nice paper” is messin with me though, bringin up old outdated thoughts of “dont mess up this is the final.” But nah. Art doesnt have to be like that.

Im messy, I love mess. I love my sketchy energetic lines full of personality and emotion. I dont wanna downplay that with my own hangup about art bein this or that. And if I mess up, I can work with it or do it again and better! Thats whats fun about it is just that repetition till it finally clicks.

Anyways this is jusy me ramblin to psyche myself up to finally break that mental fence stopping me from doing what I want to do. Time to make the sloppy stuff.

[wraithinkorporated]

Just got done grinding to finish Side Order with the Final Pallette, and as I lost my second to last run to Asynchronous Rondo, Marina said something that I found interesting.

A smarter person wouldve screenshot it so I could put it here, but I didnt plan on making a post about this until I started really thinking about it. She said something along the lines of "The spotlight reminds me of the lights during concerts."

I found this interesting because I thought it was odd that Marina would associate her pride and joy, making and performing music, to the Spinning Horror Prison.

And then I started picking at another thing that I found odd about Asynchronous Rondo: the wretched noises it makes even before you approach it. Many have pointed out that it's """singing""" Ebb and Flow, which is a very interesting and cool detail, but Why? Why is it the only boss (I believe, since I haven't seen mention or noticed this from the other bosses) that is echoing one of Off the Hook's songs -- and not only just one of their songs, but the prolific Ebb and Flow? Sure, there are motifs of their songs throughout Side Order, but none of the other bosses are actively singing them.

The conclusion I came to is that Asynchronous Rondo could be a twisted interpretation of Marina's worst thoughts about being an idol -- as she said herself, the bright light being pointed at her. The panopticon represents that at any given moment, she could be being watched. The sudden carnival motif that plays in the song -- she's on a stage, putting on a performance at any given moment. The many faces spouting a distorted version of Ebb and Flow, the nebulous fans voices muddling together into one cacophonous symphony of her own making.

Anyway Im very unwell about this. And to be clear, I dont think these are Marina's active thoughts about being an idol. It was revealed that Order/Smollusk was made from the intrinsic desires of its creators, so this is likely just another implication of that.

[oceantornadoo]

protective ex-husband!simon, implied violence/break-in *gender neutral version*

“i know! and that’s when i told her-“ you paused, your hand halfway to the keys at the bottom of your backpack. your apartment door was open, a menacing sliver of darkness awaiting you. “hey, i’m going to have to call you back.” you ended the call with your friend, slowly backing away from your door. shit. you knew you locked the door when you left for work, and no one else had a copy of your key. a creeping sensation came over you, like someone was watching from within. slowly, you retreated, taking the elevator down to your apartment’s lobby as the anxiety crawled through your body. you wracked your brain, wondering if you should call the police. wondering if they would even believe you. there was only one call to make.

“come on, pick up.” you tapped your foot impatiently as your ex husband took forever to answer the phone. it was all you could do to not think about your home being violated, about a potential stalker or date gone wrong.

“‘ello?”

“si- simon, it’s me.”

“i know, love. that’s why i picked up.” you let out a quiet sob of relief at his voice, the bottle on your emotions starting to leak.

“what’s wrong?” his voice changed, immediately hearing your silent tears. he could always read you too well. “i don’t want to bother you but” you hiccupped. shit. “but my apartment door was open and i’m pretty sure i closed it, i usually do. i don’t know if im being silly but now im in the lobby and im just scared, simon.” there was a fumbling sound, the echoes of simon zipping up his jacket and pulling on his shoes.

“go to that cafe across the street, dove. go get yourself one of those overpriced hot chocolates. i’ll be there in 15.”

9 minutes later, your shaking hands were tapping random patterns on the cafe table, unable to raise your drink to your mouth without spilling it. your eyes were locked onto the wood grain, counting lines to distract yourself.

suddenly, a gloved hand covered yours. you looked up and there he was, your ghost in all his glory. you forgot everything for a second, forgot the past arguments and the strained silences, and flung yourself into his arms. you breathed in his comforting scent of pinewood that masked his cigarettes, a cologne you got him four years ago for christmas. your face was wet, and as he pulled you back to check you for injuries, his thumb brushed a stray tear away from your face. you didn’t even realize you were crying.

“‘s okay, baby. i’m here now. give me your keys.” you fumbled for your keys, backpack strap sliding off your shoulder as your hands shook too much to keep it balanced. simon caught it gracefully, finding your keys in the same pocket you always kept them. “stay here. i’ll be back.” you nodded instinctively. only when you saw his figure retreat to your apartment building, clothed in all black like a figure of death, you realized you hadn’t told him your new apartment number.

twenty minutes passed. simon’s presence had worked like medicine as your heart rate has now dropped back down to normal, your hands stable enough to finish your drink. any other person would be worried for simon’s safety, but you knew the only person you should be concerned for was your intruder.

“you’re stayin’ with me tonight.” he was back, looking exactly the same. he wasn’t even winded. “thank you simon, but don’t be ridiculous. i can get a hotel. you live so far from my work anyways.” he approached you, crowding into your space as he leaned over you, even with a cafe table in between. “consider it payment then.” he tilted your chin up with his left hand as he hid his other one, covered with blood, in his pocket. “one way or another, you’re in my bed tonight, dove.” you gulped at that. “and i’ve got riley in the car. you wouldn’t abandon him, would you?” of course he had gotten your cat when he checked out your apartment. riley hated men, but never simon. cheeky bastard.

“you win.”

fast forward a couple of hours and you were getting ready for bed at simon’s, belly full from the meal he had made you. riley made himself at home on the living room couch, of course. “he’s in my spot.” you gestured to your cat on the couch. “wha’ d’ya mean?” your husband simon was now in sweats and sweats only, clean from the shower he had after you both got home back to his place. you pretended not to see him methodically wash blood out of his fingernails, reasoning quite easily with yourself that it was for a good cause.

“my couch for tonight.” simon moved toward you and you avoided his eyes, trying not to stare at how beautiful he still was. muscular but thick, torso adorned with scars you used to trace on sunday mornings when you both stayed in bed until the afternoon. he gripped your chin, forcing you to make eye contact. “told’ya you were in my bed tonight, dovie.” you swallowed and he watched your throat move, memories of you swallowing something else countless times rising to the surface.

“don’t be silly, simon. that would cross a line.”

“what line?” his arms were crossed now, drawing your attention to an unfamiliar tattoo right above his heart. a small dove.

“we’re not together anymore, simon.”

“you’re still mine.”

silence. he was always like this, pushing you until you broke. he was unwilling to compromise, even on the smallest of issues. usually you’d fight him, spit fire until you lost your voice. tonight though, you were reminded of how he was the only person you were able to call, the only one committing dark sins without asking, all for your safety. instead, you threw your hands up and walked into his bedroom, mechanically stripping as you put on one of his shirts and a pair of shorts. you felt his eyes on you, burning a hole through the fabric. you were tired, so tired of this push and pull.

“what.” you whipped around, all venom. his eyes were impossibly soft, holding yours with a peaceful caress. “you’re as beautiful as the day i lost you.” your fire went out at that. “you’re just trying to get me naked.” you mumbled, looking down as you fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. you watched as his body came into view, pressing your forehead against his bare skin.

“could see you in a thousand layers and you’d still be the most beautiful person i’ve ever seen, dove.” ever so slowly, your hands crept up his body to grab his shoulders and neck. he picked you up with ease, turning the lights off and tucking you both in bed. “when did you get the tattoo?” you asked in the dark.

“3 months and 12 days ago.” what would have been your 3rd year of marriage, your anniversary. you lowered your head and gave him a kiss right where the tattoo was. “can we talk about it in the morning?” you snuggled into him, that familiar scent calming you once again. “always, dove.” he kissed your forehead, smiling in the dark.

—

someone requested gender neutral so i hope i did you justice! i consider dove, love, lovie, and baby to be gn so i didn’t change them if you were wondering

[cupidjyu]

pay attention to me! pt 2

(98 line) what if you’re not paying attention to them ??!

genre: cuddling, lap-sittting? fake arguments, fluff ofc! notes: im back!! i think it’s my goal to start posting more! so, if you guys have any ideas im always open :D anyways, please enjoy!! ly :) word count: 1k

juyeon

you recently have been picking up random hobbies out of complete boredom. though, you do end up ditching them a week later. this week’s new hobby is knitting. you had gotten the hang of it after a bit so you were now sitting on the couch, practicing your new skill, your tongue poked out of your mouth slightly. you can hear juyeon shuffling next to you, knowing he’s just watching shows on his phone. 

but then your knitting was paused when you felt him wrap his hands around your waist. he lifts you up and brings you into his lap. he’s a strong person after all. startled and confused, you stare up at him. after a while, you snuggled into his hold, though you never continued your knitting.

it’s quiet.

“continue your knitting,” he mumbled.

you nodded and continued. but then you stopped again.

“what’s this for then?” you eyed how you were literally sitting on his lap, his arm wrapped over your body protectively. there’s no response so you turn to face him and he’s staring back down at you with red ears.

“just missed you,” he whispered, so quietly you almost missed it.

you giggled. 

“you missed me?” you reached your hand up to his cheek and pinched it. he only blushed more at your actions, clearing his throat and looking away. you stared at him, teasingly. "so?"

"why're you making me repeat it?" he looked down at you with red ears. you only stared at him with expectant eyes. he sighed. "yes! i missed you. you just kept on doing your own thing and i want to hug you."

"oh, my juyeon," you smiled, pulling him into a kiss. "you're so cute."

kevin

“so i was thinking…”

you didn’t look up from petting your pet cat. she was just being so, so cute today that you couldn’t resist her. but you were still listening to kevin ramble about his favorite types of music. you always loved the topics that he talked about. 

but then you heard his words stop. 

“excuse me.”

you stop petting the cat. you look up at him only to see him staring down at you with narrowed eyes and furrowed eyebrows.

“huh?”

he huffed. 

“were you not paying attention to me this whole time? for a cat?”

you reeled back in shock. “no, no! sorry kev, i promise i was listening.” you had to hold back the giggle threatening to leave you because you always thought that he’s cute when grumpy.

he rolled his eyes, turning his back to you and crossing his arms. “sure, whatever.”

“c’monnnn…” you got up from the bed and approach him with a mischievous smile. then, you wrap your arms around his whole body, pulling him into a tight-back hug.

“you’re so annoying,” he muttered, though he still melted into your hold. you could even see his smile growing.

"you're smiling."

"am not."

"are too."

he turned around and looked at you with a grumpy expression.

"i'm not."

"sure." you leaned up and pressed a quick kiss to your cheek. after, you led him to the bed to lie with you and even play with the cat together.

chanhee

“what do you think?”

you were busy, reading over your essay over and over in fear you missed any part of it. you were just on your last paragraph, so determined to finish it early so that the two of you could go on a date.

but then you heard a particularly loud huff of breath.

you looked up and widened your eyes at the sight of him just standing there with a (cute) pout. he had his arms crossed as he looked at you expectantly.

“can you repeat that?” you smiled sheepishly.

“i was asking,” you could see his cheeks turn pink slightly as he shifted shyly on his feet. “what do you think?” he looked down at his own outfit.

you grinned. he was dressed quite differently, though it still fit his style. he just looked so… cuddly and cute that you just wanted to hug him tightly.

“you look amazing!” your hands formed into a heart, pointing it towards him.

“should’ve said that earlier,” he grumbled, though you could spot the smile growing on his lips.

“sorry,” you apologized, feeling guilty.

he waved you off, “it’s okay.”

and in a flash, he’s on top of you, tackling you into a cuddle. he pecked kisses all over your face, hugging your whole body tightly. 

“ack, chanhee.” you giggled.

“can’t you take a break from work?” he pressed a quick kiss to your cheek.

"i'm almost done." you turned back to your laptop.

"hurry," he whined. you sat back up to continue typing. you felt your heart warm when you felt him snuggle into your side, watching you work.

changmin

oh, the show was just getting so good. you were practically on the edge of your seat, watching as the main character slowly walks down the dark hallway. you weren’t always one for scary shows, but this was one that changmin had suggested and you actually liked it. plus the room lights are off, adding to the scary atmosphere.

the thing is, you didn’t notice him sitting next to you, trying to ask you a question.

“y/n. y/n.”

the character is almost going to open the door… and…

but then you’re completely startled by changmin’s loud scream. it’s so, so high-pitched and scary. you immediately got thrown into a panic as you practically scramble into his lap. you wrapped your arms around his neck and hid in his shoulder.

after a few moments, he pulled away and looked down at you with an adoring smile.

“am i your prince? you came straight for me.”

you punched his shoulder, feeling your face heat up quickly. 

“why would you scare me like that?”

he’s silent for a moment, thinking of the right answer. but then he shrugged.

“i want attention.” he smirked. he leaned down and gave you a soft kiss. then he tightened his hold on you and pulled you into a warm hug.

"it's scary though."

"okay, sorry," he laughed. "but, pay attention to me please?"

"you're the one who recommended this show!"

[sawturn77]

𝑶𝑪𝑬𝑨𝑵 𝑬𝒀𝑬𝑺 (𝒇𝒖𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒈𝒖𝒓𝒐 𝒎𝒆𝒈𝒖𝒎𝒊 𝒙 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓)

02: somebody I used to know.

MASTERLIST.

january 1st, 2018.

----

suguru saved me from the awkward silence and wiggly eyebrows from satoru. "y/n! come help me set up the table, please!" "coming!" i bolted out of there. phew, at least im free from embarrassment now. . once i got in the kitchen, yuji and nobara were arguing about who was going to eat the most food. suguru handed me the utensils that went on the table. i realized hadn't talked to him since i got home. he gently patted my head instead of ruffling my hair like satoru. "how was your visit to the ice rink?" he asked, gently smiling at me. "It was good, until i hit my head and fell on my butt." suguru chuckled at my defeated tone. i started to set the table, placing the chopsticks, spoons, etc in front of every seat. i watch as yuji and nobara approach him, talking to him comfortably. i didnt know they were friends with megumi. he seems like the closed off type, especially now.

----

soon, shoko arrives and everyone eats. i have to admit, my brother sure can cook. im starting to think hes like satoru's malewife..anyways, after everyone finished eating, we had a drawing, and whoever drew the short stick had to wash dishes while everyone else got to play uno. God was NOT favoring me today. there were two short sticks, and guess who got them! me and megumi. FREAKING MEGUMI. you know what? it cant get more awkward than this.... right?

wrong.

here, we stood right beside each other, shoulder touching shoulder, leg touching leg. i wanted to crawl in a hole and disappear. the worst part was, he wasn’t even bothered by it! he didn’t even acknowledge it! surely, if i was him, i’d at least be stealing glances! oh, well, maybe he isnt that kind of guy. he was never interested in stuff like that. the two of us stood at the kitchen sink, washing dishes. the entire time, i was wondering how to start a conversation and barely got anything done! megumi had done most of it. now he probably thinks im useless! he’ll never associate himself with someone so unhelpful. “so,” i started, lips trembling. he glances at me. how come his eyelashes are so long? does he use mascara? “how..how have you b-been lately?” i wanted to curse myself. who the hell stutters nowadays!? “alright. what about you?” i could feel my shoulders tensing. i had heard his voice earlier, but now, im really paying attention to it. just thinking about it makes my stomach do axles. “good, actually.” i smiled, desperate to keep myself from squealing. minutes past, he hasnt said anything after that. okay, you dont wanna talk to me, cool. fine. whatever. (squealing) part of me wanted yuji and nobara to come in and start being annoying to break the ice. hell, maybe even satoru would do. after what seemed like decades, we finally finished washing the dishes. i sighed in relief, but i couldnt have a moment of grace before my heart nearly jumped out of my chest. i felt a napkin on my cheek, wiping soap off my face. “sorry,” he muttered. kill. me. please. “you had soap on your face.” i laughed awkwardly while he just looked at me, “really? i-uhm, i didn’t know! thanks.” what the hell, y/n?? what is your problem??

yuji and nobara ran towards me and megumi, bombarding us with a fury of words i didnt understand. something along the lines of, “guess what?? i won against mr. gojo!” “no, kugisaki cheated!” “the hell? i didnt cheat! all of you just suck!” “cheater cheater, pumpkin eater!” “grow up!” megumi frowned at their antics. “idiots” he muttered.

an: hey guys sorry for the short chapter😔i kinda rushed bc i have to gts early bc i have school tmrw. but i will be posting tomorrow or the day after that! it normally takes me two days (4 hours total) to write this much anyway

TAGLIST: @fillmeup6969 @morgyyyyy @kasumitenbaz (OPEN)