#it’s a waste of time!!!! completely!!!!

[salemlunaa]

STOP TRYING TO GET YOUR DESIRES,THEY’RE NOT COMING ᥫ᭡

stop trying to manifest things, they are never coming.

You guys need to stop manifesting things in order to get stuff, and you guys say that you don’t but ultimately, you do. you burn through methods like no tomorrow and then go to asks and dms to say that nothing works for you

But in order to manifest you need to understand that your desires aren’t coming, they’re already here, stop trying to do mental gymnastics to affirm the right way or visualise the right way with a 100 step manifestation routine trying to get your desires because they aren’t coming, they’re already here. And that’s what manifestation is:

reminding yourself of what is true

what manifestation isn’t:

using methods to get anything you dream of

instead it’s:

creating a reality where you have said desire, in imagination

it’s done

remind yourself of it whether it be with affirmations, visualisation etc

So stop trying to get results because they aren’t coming and never will, something that is already true isn’t waiting to happen, it just has already. So if your desire, which isn’t a desire anymore isn’t waiting around to become true, why are YOU waiting🤨?

If a loved one brings you a plate of cookies, you’re not going to beg: “please can i have some cookies” (affirmation that you lack cookies) you aren’t begging because the cookies are already infront of you. Instead you would thank them “thank you so much for the cookies” (affirmation that you do, in fact, have some cookies infront of you)

Those two phrases are affirmations, whether the cookies are materialised in the 3d or not, confirming whether you have them or not are affirmations. Treat your desires as those cookies, they’re here already therefore you can’t beg, why would you beg for something that’s here, why would you be desperate for something that has come.

Now, imagine if a friend comes over to your house to hang out, you aren’t gonna ignore them and say you’re waiting for them to come, while completely disregarding the fact that they’re already here because that’s rude and you also look insane anticipating the arrival of a friend that is literally sitting infront of you. Think of your desires as that friend, why are you ignoring them, while also looking and waiting for them at the same time, when they are RIGHT INFRONT OF YOU??

You can rack your brain to the point of insanity to get your results, you can be in this community for years and they just won’t come, sorry babe. You have to wake up and realise it’s already done or nothing will get done. Wether you do this by subliminals, robotic affirming, visualising, you need to remember that when it comes to your prize, these methods aren’t helping you cash out your prize, they’re simply reminding you that you have that prize.

Again, if you can’t understand it’s already done, nothing will ever get done. ever. You can apply for two hours before you go back to complaining (which is affirming that you lack that desire), you can affirm for a day before looking for your desire, but it’s never gonna happen, because it has already.

This is your life, you can spend years on and off applying this mindset while other actually get what they want, but this is your life and another day has gone by where you’re still looking for results you’ll never get. Don’t waste your life away doing the same thing you did yesterday, today’s the day to finally have enough with your mindset and fix up!!

STOP ANTICIPATING THE ARRIVAL OF SOMETHING THAT IS ALREADY HERE!! 🐊💋

[chiscaralight]

thinkin' about modern au overworked, sugar daddy!wriothesley. he’s so pent up and frustrated from his stupid job, what better way to relieve tension than with that cute body of his sweet, sweet sugar baby?

which is exactly why he has you like this, nose pressed against his hard pelvic bone as he fucks your mouth in the living room of his huge penthouse. The job pays extremely well, a little too well, and he has no idea what to do with all the money. so he’ll throw it all at you! with the way you’re working those lips around his cock, he might just buy you your very own. your sweet laugh is muffled, but he doesn't know why you think it's funny. he's being dead serious.

he's not very patient either, because he doesn't even let you get your clothes completely off! your cute little skirt is bunched up around your waist, his large hands gripping at the fat off your ass as he bounces you up and down on his length. it's insane to him how small you are, fully able to hold and use you like this. you can't even fight back at this point, you're just going stupid on his cock! that expression on your face, the way your nails are digging into his shoulders, is the exact reason why he can't get enough of you.

and he's ripping your shirt, the sound of buttons popping off ringing in your ears so he has access to your tits. you whine in protest as he bites down on your sensitive bud. not because it hurt, but because this is the thousandth time he's ruining one of your favorite clothes! he's detaching momentarily, groaning about how he'll replace it. he doesn't even know why you complain, he'll buy you twenty more of the same type if you want. just let him take good care of you tonight, and you can ask for whatever you want.

the two of you barely make it up the stairs when he decides he doesn't care enough for a bed to walk the remaining what, ten feet? so your back is pressed to the cool wall of the upstairs hallway, tongue chasing his own as he fucks up into you, strong arms hooked under your knees. you're moaning into his mouth, eyes starting to water from how thick he is. no matter how many times you let him lay waste to you, your tight cunt struggles to fully take him as he drills into you. but it's exactly what he loves.

he stops to put you down, pressing your face into the wall before he slides back in again. you can't even hold back the sister noise that leaves your lips and he's grunting at the sound, hips slamming forward in one thrust. unable to catch your breath before he moves again, your moans start to sync with the slaps of his hips while your tears run from the pleasure. your eyes are squeezed shut, brows furrowed as you take his cock just as you always do. but his eyes are watching you. this is why he'll never quit that fuckass job. who'll make sure you're living as lavishly as you deserve? the money isn't even the drive, it's that sweet fuckin' cunt that turns him into an animal,, primal instincts activated as he ruts into you with his orgasm. he'll make sure he's pumping you full of his cum just like he whispered in your ear a few minutes ago. maybe he'll stop paying for your birth control too and fuck a kid into you, then he'll be sure no one else can take that mind-numbing pussy away from him.

your lips are pouted as he guides you back to his room. it'll never not be funny how difficult you find it to walk after, but it's not like you asked him to go that hard? he ushers you into the bathroom and offers for you to spend the night. it's late, and you can pick whichever one of his cars you want him to drop you off in tomorrow. you pretend to think, knowing fully well you'll snuggle into his soft sheets anyway. when you finally do, he's quick to follow, his hard chest pressing into your back. his lips are hot on your neck, followed by a large hand raising your leg. since you're staying the night, another round wouldn't hurt, yeah?

[syluslnd]

SO going to request an imagine of sylus finding you at a nightclub when you decided to go out with Tara and a few other hunters one night cause I love you’re writing 🤍 maybe when it’s still in the early stages of their relationship but he’s wanting to make his claim obvious, even if everyone is wasted!

jealous sylus • imagine

As you laughed with your friends, sharing stories and teasing one another, you caught a glimpse of Sylus across the room. He leaned against the bar, his presence commanding even in the thrumming crowd. He was dressed sharply, exuding an aura of danger and allure that turned heads, but his eyes were locked onto you.

For a moment, you felt a thrill at the sight of him but it was quickly overshadowed by a hint of mischief in your heart. You turned back to your friends, flashing them a playful grin as you swayed to the music, completely unaware of the storm brewing within Sylus.

From his spot, Sylus’s jaw tightened as he watched you, laughter bubbling up between you and Tara. He knew he shouldn’t feel this way—jealousy wasn’t an emotion he easily entertained. Yet, seeing you smile and flirt with the others ignited a possessive fire in him that he struggled to control.

“Look at her” he muttered to himself, his voice low and slightly irritated. “Does she even realize what she’s doing?”

His gaze remained fixed on you, the way your laughter lit up the dimly lit room making his heart race with a mix of pride and frustration. He took a sip of his drink, trying to maintain his cool demeanor but inside he was losing his composure. The sight of you flirting and dancing with others stirred something primal within him, a protective instinct that was impossible to ignore.

“Hey! Sylus!” Tara called out, waving him over with a grin.

You glanced back, surprised to see him, your eyes lighting up. “What are you doing here?”

“Just making sure my little kitten is safe,” he replied smoothly, masking the possessiveness in his tone. But the way he stepped closer, shoulders squared and gaze sharp, conveyed an unspoken warning to anyone who dared to look at you.

You laughed, the sound melodic in the chaos of the club. “I’m fine! Just having fun!”

“Fun?” he echoed, his voice low but playful, though the glint in his eyes suggested otherwise. “I see you having too much fun.”

You nudged Tara, laughing even harder. “See? Sylus is just jealous!”

His expression didn’t change, but you could see the way his fingers tightened around his glass, the subtle flicker of annoyance crossing his features. “Jealous? No sweetie, just protecting what’s mine.”

As the night progressed, Sylus stood by watching you dance and chat, his internal struggle growing. Every time you threw your head back in laughter, his chest tightened. He could feel himself slipping into the depths of jealousy, the heat rising within him at the thought of anyone else getting too close.

When you turned to your friends, leaning in for a secretive whisper, he stepped forward, a possessive presence suddenly looming over you. “Time to go” he stated, his tone brokering no argument.

You turned, surprise etched on your face. “But we’re just—”

“No ‘buts’” he interrupted, voice firm but still playful. “You’ve had enough fun for one night.”

Your friends exchanged glances, clearly amused by Sylus’s sudden appearance and his claim over you. Tara shot you a conspiratorial grin, stifling a laugh as Sylus took your hand, leading you away from the thrumming chaos.

“Seriously?” you said, laughter still in your voice. “You can’t just pull me away because you’re jealous!”

“I’m not jealous” he insisted, though the slight tightening of his grip on your hand suggested otherwise. “I just don’t want you to be the center of attention for every guy in this club.”

“Me? I’m just having fun!” you retorted, but you couldn’t help the smile that crept onto your face.

“Yeah, fun that involves too many eyes on you,” he replied, finally allowing a smirk to play at his lips. “You’re mine,kitten”

His words sent a thrill through you, the possessiveness in his tone igniting a warmth deep within. “Okay, okay! I get it!” you laughed, relishing the attention he was giving you, despite the way he pretended to be annoyed.

“Let’s get out of here before I have to start marking my territory” he teased, his eyes dark with amusement and something deeper, a promise of more to come.

You rolled your eyes, but the flutter in your chest told you just how much you liked this side of him. As he led you out into the cool night air, you felt the weight of his presence beside you, a comfort that wrapped around you like a protective cloak. And despite the teasing, it was clear: Sylus was claiming you as his own, jealousy and all.

[dmysterioblog]

Prompt to a request (if it is okay) 🫶

Agatha and innocent fem reader+ corruption kink

Reader hasn't even had her first kiss and Agatha teaches her how to tongue kiss and so much more(fingering and magic strap)

Breeding kink as well plsss

Neighborly Desires

Paring: Dark!Agatha Harkness x reader

Summary: You had recently moved into Westview. Your mother had passed away and you wanted a new start in a small town. Agatha was your neighbor there and she didn’t waste any time welcoming you into town. She thought you were so adorable and so innocent…she wanted to be the one to corrupt you. She needed to be patient, careful, and precise.

Warnings; dubcon, corruption kink, enchanted strap, fingering, mommy kink, cunnilingus (r receiving), breeding kink.

Word Count: 3.7k

A/n: This request has been sitting in my inbox since DECEMBER of 2023…I am extremely sorry but I hope this makes up for it. 😅

You had recently moved into Westview. Your mother had passed away and you wanted a new start in a small town. Agatha was your neighbor there and she didn’t waste any time welcoming you into town. She watched you struggle to carry the boxes back and forth from your car to your living room and grinned. You were wearing a cute little pink dress and she couldn’t help herself.

“Hiya hon! Do you need some help with that?” You heard a friendly voice from behind you. You swiftly turned around to look at the woman, almost dropping the boxes.

“Careful, there, sweetheart. We don’t want you hurting yourself,” Agatha chuckled, taking a box from you.

“T-thank you,” you blushed, slightly embarrassed at your clumsiness. She helped you put the boxes inside your house before turning towards you.

“I’m Agatha, your neighbor to the right,” she smiled at you kindly, stretching her hand out for you to shake.

“I’m Y/n,” you shook her hand, longer than intended, “And thank you so much for helping me with those boxes. Would you like something to drink?” You offered not knowing what else to say, fidgeting with your hands.

“Y/n...” she tasted your name on her tongue, “What a beautiful name for a beautiful girl. Tea would be wonderful.”

“Alright, just give me a second until I find my cups,” you chuckled nervously and disappeared into your kitchen. Agatha walked to your living room and sat down. She thought you were so adorable and so innocent…she wanted to be the one to corrupt you. She waited patiently for you to finish up, thinking of all the things she had planned for you.

“I’m so sorry! I completely forgot where I packed everything. I would forget my head if it wasn’t attached to my body,” you joked as you handed Agatha her tea.

“Thank you, hon,” she took a sip, “So, what brings you here?” She asked, curious on how a girl like you ended up in this shitty town.

“Well this was my mother’s home and she passed away a few weeks ago so decided to move in.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she held your hand, gently running her thumb over your knuckles.

“No, it’s okay. We weren’t really close and I wanted a new start.”

“Well if you ever need anything don’t hesitate to knock on my door, alright sweetheart?”

“Y-yeah,” you blushed at the nickname and she grinned. You two talked for a little while longer before you bid her goodbye and continued unpacking your things. Agatha walked home with a smirk on her face. You were too cute for your own good and she knew she was going to have fun with you. The fact that you were alone in this town was a bonus.

Days passed, and her visits became more frequent, her presence becoming very comforting. Somehow many things started to break inside your home and Agatha always seemed to be there to help. She was slowly gaining your trust and finding how truly innocent you were. You hadn’t even had your first kiss, how adorable could you possibly get? Yet beneath her warmth and sweet reassurances, a cunning plan took shape. She needed to be patient, careful, and precise.

Agatha now stood next to you in your kitchen. She had offered to help you cook dinner with the excuse she didn’t want you to eat all alone. She made sure to put her hands on your waist and press her front against your ass every time she walked past you. You, of course, didn’t think anything of this, too oblivious to think badly of Agatha’s touchy behavior. She couldn’t help but tease you a little more. She leaned in close to your ear and whispered.

“You’re doing great, sweetheart.”

“T-thank you…” you tried to hide your flushed face and she chuckled.

“Why don’t you go clean up while I make the table?” Agatha said as you were finishing up.

“Okay!” You obediently took your apron off and started walking to your bathroom to clean up.

“Good girl~,” she said under her breath but just loud enough for you to hear, making you flush once again.

You quickly went in, washed your hands, and fixed your hair. While you were in the bathroom, Agatha debated whether or not she should put a spell on you so she could take you right then and there but she wanted to take her time with you. By the time you walked out, Agatha had the table set up beautifully. There were candles and rose petals on the table. It was almost like a romantic dinner. How did she do this so quickly?

“Agatha, this looks beautiful.”

“Just like you,” she complimented you, booping your nose.

“Thank you, Aggie.” You recently started calling her that. Agatha didn’t seem to mind the newfound nickname, in fact, she loved it.

“Of course, darling.” She pulled out your chair and gestured for you to sit down. She was such a gentleman. You were completely oblivious to her true intentions.

You both sat down and ate dinner. Agatha asked you all kinds of questions, she wanted to know every little detail about you. What made you blush, what made you upset, what made you cry, what made you break. You answered all the questions, not thinking anything of it, and asked some yourself. You liked Agatha, more than you actually thought. God, you were so naive.

Eventually, you both finished eating dinner and she helped you clean the dishes. She always found a way to touch you even if it was just touching your hand when you passed her a plate or spoon to dry off. She saw the slight tint on your cheeks when she did.

"We should do this more often, don’t you think?” Agatha asked, her voice carrying a hint of something you couldn't quite place.

“I would love that!” You said happily. Agatha smiled, her eyes seemed to glint in the candlelight. After you were done doing the dishes Agatha started gathering her things to go home but you stopped her.

“Can you stay and watch a movie with me?” You asked, not wanting for her to leave yet.

“I think it’s a bit late, sweetheart,” she said, wanting to hear you beg for her to stay.

“Pretty please?” You grabbed her hands in your, caressing her knuckles with your thumbs, giving her your best puppy eyes. Agatha pretended to think about it, a sly smirk on her face. You were just so cute, how could she possibly say no to you?

“…fine, I’ll stay, but not too late. You need to go to bed soon, deal?”

“Deal!” you said, excitedly, pulling her towards your couch. She sat back while you picked the movie, settling for Rapunzel, it was your favorite comfort movie. After you started playing the movie, you sat next to Agatha, subconsciously snuggling to her side. She smiled as you snuggled against her. Her arm wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you closer to her.

“Is this your favorite movie, sweetheart?”

“Mhm!”

“Who’s your favorite character?” Agatha asked, combing through your hair.

“Mother Gothel,” you mumbled.

“Mother Gothel, huh?” she raised an eyebrow, “Why her? She’s the villain of the story.”

“I don’t know…” you frowned slightly, “I just like her character I guess…”

“Hmm. If I were Mother Gothel and I kidnapped you into my tower, what would you do?”

“I would never leave.” Agatha was very pleased with your answer and pulled you closer.

The movie went on and by the time it was over, you were fast asleep on Agatha’s shoulder. You looked so peaceful, so vulnerable, Agatha wanted to take you right then and there but no, she had to hold herself back. She picked you up and carried you to your bedroom, gently placing you on your bed. She tucked you in before leaning into your ear.

“You will be mine.” Was all she said before leaving to go back home.

—

Over the passing weeks you had gotten attached to Agatha, almost obsessively. Maybe it was her caring nature or your mommy issues coming to bite you in the ass. You were sitting on your couch with Agatha once again. She had picked the movie this time, telling you it was a surprise. She started playing the movie and you soon found out it was titled Carol. You had never seen it before but curled into Agatha’s side, wanting to feel her warmth.

The movie was good and all until the motel scene. Watching as Carol and Therese started kissing and touching each other made your core feel warm. Agatha noticed the way you were trying to hide your flushed face and how your thighs clenched together and smirked. She had you exactly where she wanted you.

“What’s wrong, baby? Are you cold?” she asked, pulling you closer, placing her hand on your thigh.

“I’m f-fine,” you stuttered out, unconvincing. She chuckled and gently started rubbing your thigh. Her touch was so warm and comforting, it made you want to melt against her. She moved even closer, cupping your face to make you look at her.

“You’re trembling, sweetheart. Are you sure you’re fine?”

“I-” you realized how close your faces were, noses almost touching, “Aggie-” she finally crashed her lips against yours. You closed your eyes, savoring how soft her lips were until you pulled away, looking away from her. She smirked at your reaction, enjoying how flustered you were. She gently turned your face to look at her again.

“Sweetheart? Did you not like it?”

“No! I loved it, it's just that…I don’t know how to kiss,” you said, embarrassed.

“Aw, sweetheart,” she cupped your face, “You’re so dumb and innocent you don’t even know how to kiss. How cute.”

“Wha-” She pressed her finger against your lips, shutting you up and brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Just follow my lead. I promise you will love it,” you hesitantly nodded and she kissed you again, this time moving her lips against yours and you did the same. She poked her tongue between your lips and you opened your mouth to let her in. You did your best, following her lead and moving your lips and tongue like her. Agatha moved her hand to squeeze your thighs, sliding them closer to your soaked core making you squeal and pull away.

“Agatha I don’t think-”

“Shh,” she pulled you into her lap, your thighs on either side of her legs, “Let mommy do the thinking.” You frowned slightly at her comment but then she pressed her fingers against the wet patch on your panties, making you lose any train of thought you had.

“You’re so wet baby,” she started rubbing her fingers over your clothed clit, “Is that all for me?” she asked, her other hand gripping onto your hip.

“Hmph…” You unconsciously moved your hips against her hand.

“Use your words, sweetheart,” she commanded, pressing harder against your clit, the pressure sending a wave of pleasure through your body.

“Yes…”

“That’s a good girl.” She growled, moving your panties aside to touch your bare core directly, her fingers sliding between your folds. You gasped at the new feeling. You had never felt like this before. You’ve never touched yourself let alone have sex.

“So innocent…” She said before shoving two fingers inside of you. You were so tight, so warm, so wet for her. She pumped her fingers in and out of you, rubbing your clit with her thumb.

“Such a good girl for mommy.” She praised you.

“Aggie-” you clung to her, wrapping your arms around her neck while she worked on fucking your with her fingers. Her other hand started to sneak under the thin dress you were wearing, finding that you weren’t wearing a bra at all.

“Not wearing a bra?” she pinched your nipple, “What a naughty girl…” You whimpered in response, making her chuckle. She pinched your nipple again, she started biting your neck leaving a trail of marks on your skin. She added a third finger, her thumb circling your clit faster than before and then suddenly stopped.

“Why’d you stop?” You whined desperately.

“Such a needy girl,” she picked you up like you weighed nothing and carried you upstairs like she had done before. She took you to your bedroom and sat you on your bed.

She took your dress off, throwing it elsewhere and started undressing as well. She took off her pants to reveal the enchanted strap she had been wearing. She took off her pants to reveal the enchanted strap she had been wearing. She smirked as she looked at your surprised expression.

“Like what you see, darling?” She pushed you back against the bed and climbed on top of you, your legs wrapped around her waist.

“W-wait-” You started to hesitate.

“Shh, it’s okay baby.” She gently caressed your cheek, looking into your eyes with a soft expression. Her strap was pressing against your core and she started rubbing it against you.

“It’s going to feel so good,” she pressed the tip of the strap into your entrance, “I’ll be gentle, okay?” You swallowed the lump in your throat and nodded your head.

She slowly pushed the strap further inside your warm wall, watching as your mouth made an ‘o’ shape and your brows frowned in pleasure. She let out a low groan as the strap went further inside, your pussy greedily clenching around it. Her eyes roaming over your body, watching every little expression you made.

“That’s it, baby… you’re doing so good. You’re taking me so well,” she said most out of breath.

“M-mommy-” She almost lost the little control she had left when you finally called her mommy, feeling a rush of pleasure run through her body. God she was going to finally make you hers. Agatha’s grip on your hips tightened as she began to thrust into you, slowly at first, making sure you were comfortable and enjoying it.

“Oh, you like calling me that don’t you, darling?” She grunted.

“Mhm!” You nodded your head. She smirked and began to pick up the pace, thrusting faster and harder into you. She leaned down and began kissing your neck, leaving more marks as she went. Her hands roamed over your body, squeezing and pinching every inch of your skin.

“Such a good girl, taking mommy’s strap so well…you’re mine.” Agatha finally said out loud. She continued to ramble on, as she thrusted into you. She grabbed your hands and pinned them above your head, making you completely helpless beneath her.

“No one else gets to see you like this. You’re all mine. Fuck- I’m never letting you go.” Your brain had turned to mush and all you could do was chant a bunch of yeses as she snapped her hips at a brutal pace. Agatha loved how incoherent you were becoming. She loved how easily she could reduce you to a moaning mess. She began to talk to you in a soft voice, praising and mocking you at the same time.

“Look at you. Such a babbling mess. Mommy’s little dumb slut. Isn’t that right? All mine?”

“Yes! All yours!” Your voice trembled as you got closer to the edge, your orgasm building up.

“That’s right,” she moved one of her hands from your wrists to your clit, rubbing it in fast circles, “You’re all mine, and you’re going to cum for me, aren’t you?”

You tried to reply but instead let out a loud sob, tears running down your rosy cheeks from the pleasure you felt. Agatha leaned down and kissed your tears away, her movements becoming more frantic as she chased your release.

“Come on, baby. Cum for me. Be a good little slut and cum for mommy.”

Your eyes rolled back and your mouth opened in a silent scream as you fell apart. Agatha moaned as she felt your walls clench around her, sloppily helping you ride out your orgasm as best as she could as she held onto your trembling legs.

“Fuck- I’m going to fill you up nice and full of my cum, baby, you’re going to be all mine.” She came, moaning loudly as she spilled her hot seed deep inside you. She gave you a few more thrust before pulling out, making you whine in protest at how empty you felt. Her hand on your wrists loosened and she looked down at you with a satisfied smirk on her face.

“There we go…Good girl. You did so well for me, baby. So perfect,” she started kissing down your body, “Now mommy’s gonna clean you up…” She finally let go of your wrist, putting your legs together and bending them against your chest, your pussy now completely exposed to her. She used her fingers to spread your pussy lips apart. She watched as her cum leaked out of you and almost moaned at the sight.

“God look at how messy you are…” she leaned down and ran her tongue over your entrance, licking up her own cum. She lapped at your sensitive core, moaning at the taste of the two of you combined, “You taste so good, baby.”

You squirmed against her mouth, your pussy already too sensitive. Agatha chuckled and wrapped her arms around your thighs, holding you in place as she continued to eat you out. She was going to make sure you were completely clean.

“Stay still, honey. Mommy’s not done with you yet.”

“But it h-hurts-” She looked up at you with a mocking expression.

“I know it hurts, baby. That’s why you’re going to be a good girl and take it, isn’t that right?”

She nipped at your inner thigh before diving back down between your legs. You reluctantly nodded, letting her lap over your puffy folds and sucking on your clit. She moaned against your clit, enjoying the taste of your juices. She swirled her tongue around it before sucking on it again, pulling it into her mouth and teasing it with her teeth.

“Mmmm…there we go,” she kissed your clit before letting go of your legs, “All done.” She pulled you into a kiss, shoving her tongue in your mouth, making you taste yourself. You whined against her lips, finding it hard to keep up. She just chuckled and pulled away.

“Come on, baby. Let’s give you a bath.” She started picking and you absolutely melted into her. She set you on the bathroom counter while she filled the bath. You simply watched her as she put bubbles in the bath and made sure the water was at a good temperature.

Once the bath was ready, she gently picked you up and lowered you into the warm water. She sat behind you, letting you lean against her chest. She began washing your body with a soft washcloth, making sure to be extra gentle with you. When she got close to your core, you stiffened slightly, still sensitive from your orgasm and her tongue. She chuckled softly, noticing your reaction.

“Aww, is my baby still sensitive?” She pressed her fingers against your clit. You tried to swat her hand away and clench your thighs together but she took your wrist and held them against your chest while using her own legs to keep yours open.

“Just give mommy one more orgasm and we’ll be all done, okay?” She said, already playing with your clit, rubbing it in small circles.

“It hurts mommy…” you mumbled, hiding your face in the crook of her neck.

“I know it hurts, baby. But you can do it,” she continued to tease your clit, rubbing it faster and harder, “Don’t you want to make mommy proud?”

“Y-yes-” she smiled and rewarded you by letting go of your wrist and wrapping her free hand around your throat, gently squeezing it.

“That’s my good girl. Keep being good for mommy and I’ll make you feel so good, okay?” The pain finally turned into pleasure and your body pathetically melted to Agatha’s once again. Her grip on your throat tightened slightly making you light headed.

“You’re so cute when you’re like this, darling. All weak and pathetic. You’re mine to use however I want, aren’t you?” She slipped two fingers inside you, making you mewl like a dog in heat.

“I’m close!” You moaned as she nibbled on your earlobe before whispering in your ear.

“Good. Come for me, baby. Come for mommy one more time and I’ll let you rest.” Your hands clung to the hand that was still tightly wrapped around your neck for dear life as you came again. Agatha grinned, loving the way you clung to her like she was the only thing keeping you alive. How pathetic and adorable.

She kept her hand around your neck, slowly applying pressure as you came. Once you came down from your high, she loosened her grip and rubbed your neck softly, admiring the redness she left behind.

“That’s my girl. I’m so proud of you,” she soothed you, combing through your wet hair until the water in the bath became cold. She got out first, getting a towel for you before helping you out.

She gently wrapped you the towel, setting you down on the counter once again to brush the knots out of your hair. made quick work of brushing your hair, making sure it was all tangle free. Once she was done, she wrapped the towel around you tighter and lifted you, cradling you in her arms like a small child.

“It’s time to go to sleep, my sweet girl. You must be so tired huh?” she sat you down in the bed while she went to get you some pj. She made sure to be quick noticing how droopy your eyes looked. She came back a moment later with some soft, silk pajamas for you. She gently dressed you in them before tucking you into bed, pulling the blankets up to your chin.

“Comfortable, Angel?”

“Aren’t you going to stay, Aggie?” Agatha smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair out of your face.

“Of course, I am, darling. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

“You promise?” She leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“I promise, sweetheart. You’re mine, I’m not going anywhere. Now get some sleep.”

[murdrdocs]

thinking about taking care of jack after a LOOONNGGG day. hes spent hours networking, chatting up crowds etc and all he wants to do is come home to his (controversially younger!) girlfriend and let her jerk him off as she asks about his day

disclaimer: this is a piece of fictional work. although based on real people, the characters—and circumstances—presented are entirely fictional and should be treated as such.

slight power dynamics; handjobs; pet names (honey and baby); clothed sex; MDNI 18+ w/ JACK SCHLOSSBERG

you've always thought that jack looked pretty when he was all dolled up. when his hair was swept off of his clean-shaven face and his slim body perfectly filled up a suit that was tailored just for him. when he unlocked a part of himself that you rarely see, even though it's such a big part of who he is. jack's always pretty to you, even if he glares in the mirror and turns his head this way and that before an event, nonverbally expressing how jarring it still is to see himself like the ones who came before him.

you'll tell him he looks good—whether that be via the words coming out of your mouth, or a restrained kiss that worked to transfer as little makeup as possible. maybe a gentle press of your fingers into his shoulders, or wrapping your arm around his back. either way, it was always honest.

but you truthfully prefer jack when he's like this—leaning back against the bathroom counter, his hair fallen out of the swept back wave, curls visible thanks to the late-summer humidity as well as the heat swirling in the bathroom from the previously running shower. you'd shut it off once jack breathlessly complained about wasting water.

he was right, but you still appeared a little upset about having to stop your task to reach a hand into the water and turn the dial off. you were back on jack within the minute, though.

your hand wrapped around his cock, while you stared up at him attentively, smiling and nodding as if you weren't languidly jerking him off and you both were just having a regular conversation. he's keeping up well, only faltering every so often, usually whenever you twist your hand around his tip every few strokes.

but he recovers quickly, clearing his throat and blinking a few times before picking up where he left off.

"then i had the meeting with my editors after lunch..." he continues detailing the events of his day, maintaining eye contact with you the entire time, only drifting off to the side whenever he has to think about something.

you could've undressed him completely, you probably should have, but you like how he looks like this. his pants unbuttoned and shoved down just enough for you to reach into his briefs and tug his dick free. his white shirt—no longer as crisp as it was this morning when you kissed him goodbye—unbuttoned to give way to the thin undershirt he wears. it's been lifted up now by your irreverent hands, sitting towards the top half of his midriff. you have a perfect view of the hair leading down towards his cock, along with his abdomen which tenses and relaxes periodically.

"uh-huh," you nod, glancing down for just a second before bringing your attention right back up.

you're the one getting him off, but his gaze still makes you feel a little hot. the intensity in his dark eyes which are framed by shadows of long lashes. the prominent furrow of his brows when he hesitates, paired with the flicker of his tongue over his lips.

he's so pretty. you don't think you'll ever get tired of looking at him.

"i got a drink from that place we wanted to try." this snaps you out of your daze.

"what? without me?"

jack smiles a bit and your attention is briefly brought to the grooves along the side of his mouth. he speaks through a grin. "sorry, it was on the way!"

"you're a traitor."

"if it makes you feel any better the drink was really—" his words taper off into a moan. it's satisfying to see his eyes screw shut, his mouth falling open.

you would wait for him to continue, to either confirm your suspicions and tell you that the overpriced drink was the best thing he's ever had, or that it wasn't worth his money, but you can tell he's lost his train of thought.

one of his hands lift off of the counter and flail uselessly in the air for a second before it finds you, wrapping around your forearm and then drifting to gently cup your elbow.

"close. 'm close."

as if you needed him to tell you. you can tell, it's written all over him; from the way the center of his eyebrows reach for his hairline, to the way you can feel his dick throbbing in your hand.

the audible slick! gets louder as you increase your pace just enough, determination driving your movements. you keep going, trying to push him closer and closer, waiting for him to tell you what he wants.

his lips hang open, not a single word coming from them, and then he speaks. "talk to me. c'mon, honey. help me out."

you're quick with it. "you're so pretty, baby. i love it when you let me do this. i can feel you, y'know? can feel how bad you wanna come. go ahead. please? for me?"

it gets him every time.

he curves away from you at first, his head falling back, resting between his shoulder blades as the initial spurts of cum shoot out onto your hand. and then he slumps forward, large frame swaying in the air until you catch him. you stumble from the weight, but you're struck still by a long arm winding around your waist, keeping you right there as jack comes into your hand and a little onto your belly.

[samkerrworshipper]

the lawn is dead

it’s suicide awareness month and i want to emphasise the importance of reaching out. you are loved. there are options. you will be missed. suicide is a permanent solution to temporary problems. you can get better. you are not a lost cause. talk to somebody.

warnings: reader discretion advised. heavy suicide, self harm, depression themes

There was an overall assumption that all children were born innocent.

Not you.

You swore that when you were born, a coin was flipped, and it landed on the complete wrong side.

Sometimes you felt like your brain and body were disconnected, that everything inside of you worked separately, like you were a sewed together body on the inside, a internal frankenstein.

It was tough feeling like you didn’t belong in your own boyd, but it was even harder when you knew that you were an imposter inside.

It was ironic, that you had imposter syndrome, and yet there was nothing wrong with your life.

There had been.

Had. No longer. Past tense.

You’re supposed to be happy, you suppose. You have the world at your feet, you have the life everybody wants, the world is your oyster.

It doesn’t matter how many times you rotate those thoughts through your split up brain, it never sinks in, because there is a deeply onset belief inside of you that can’t deny the dishonesty behind the words.

You should be happy, you should be utilising the gifts you’ve been given, you should be appreciating the life you have, and yet all of it just feels like a big ball of tangled up yarn, a clump of knots and mess that makes no sense.

You’re not allowed to feel numb, so you try and pinpoint what it is that you are feeling.

Are is too hard, so you start with aren’t.

You aren’t mad, you aren’t sad or it doesn’t feel like normal sadness, you’re definitely not happy, not scared, are not anxious, it feels like nothingness.

Yet nothingness doesn’t feel so all consuming, nothingness is lying in bed down in bed and doomscrolling until somehow 8 hours have passed and you’ve wasted a whole day and don’t find yourself caring. Nothingness is sitting down in the shower and covering your ears with your hands and finding solace in the intense rain noises. Nothingness is driving until you forget where you were supposed to be going and have autopiloted your way to the opposite side of town somehow. Nothingness is being so obsolete of your own body that everything is a fog, nothing makes sense, you’re devoid of all emotions and all the discombobulated sections of your body.

If anything, this is everythingness, this is all the feelings in the world beating down across your skin. You’re itching with agitation, itching with everything in your life and yet none of it penetrates the surface beyond the rotor of thoughts that continue to circulate like the blood in your veins.

It’s like your sitting inside a plastic bubble, and every variable is crashing down against the plastic. It’s all there, it’s crashing down, but it doesn’t touch you, it doesn’t penetrate, there is just a constant reminder that it’s all there. If you try to break out of the bubble you’re forced to face it, but you feel like you’re suffocating and the bubble is slowly depriving you of oxygen.

A part of you wouldn’t mind for it to suck the life out of you.

Sometimes it’s inevitable, letting the thoughts in your brain win, or syncing the truth out so much that it all distorts into a messy mixture of non-emotions that are more hurtful then helpful.

You’re in a weird funk, that’s hwat you keep telling yourself. With injuries and off-season and change of seasons. You tell yourself that it’s unescapable, that there aren’t any ways to escape the deadly habit that is you’re self-inflicted brain rotting and slowly decomposing.

There are outlets, there are options, but in it;s current state you’re brain denounces them all.

Occasionally, you’re brain falls into the same death trap that it was conditioned into as a child. Survival was solely your own responsisbility, there was no leaning, no relying, just yourself and your own strategies that occasionally kept you functioning.

Most of the time you were fine, most of the time you were able to isolate the darkest, disconnected fragments of your body but not all the time.

Sometimes you don’t though.

Every so often, you suffocate yourself, intentionally or unintentionally isn’t always clear, sometimes you’re so lacking on oxygen and everything that makes survival a possibility that you just stop. Those times, when you stop, when you fall, when you plummet. It’s when you drop into the death pit of unthinkable thoughts.

It’s when you get to the part of your brain that you wish had never been stitched up with all the others.

You try and avoid it, if you work hard on a normal day then you can normally disconnect it from the functioning parts that you rely on, but occasionally, when you’re left to fend for yourself that one part that’s normally off, lights up like a christmas tree.

It flashes bright red, like a alarm in the deepest parts of your brain, and it won’t stop flashing until you do something about it.

You’ve got coping mechanisms that you’ve developed over the years, running, football, eating, cooking, reading, sleeping, sex. None of it has even begun to strike the surface, normally your best bet was sleeping it off, depression, or depressive thoughts always seemed to fade with sunlight, it was the moments in the dark when everything suddenly felt… heavier.

You hadn’t been able to sleep since you’d gotten injured, everything was harder when you had so much weight on your back. Weight to recover, weight to get stronger, weight to be the same on the pitch.

It was a minor injury, some grief with your ankle ligaments that weren’t actually injured but also weren’t fixed, it was annoying, and everyday was a drag.

A drag of back and forth recovery and rest that had your mind buzzing from the inside.

It was no secret that you didn’t handle injuries well, you craved the physicality of being a professional athlete, your brain needed the stimulation that it involved. Without it, you struggled, it was clear to everybody around you that you couldn’t function sitting on the sidelines, it had inevitably made you crazy.

You were walking on eggshells, your friends had tried to point it out to you and you’d ignored it up until now.

It was impossible to ignore it at this stage though.

It was all you could think about, the constant pain, the overwhelming brain fuzz, the weight of it all.

Over and over and over and over and over again.

Your hands are shaking, your breaths are staggered, your skin is prickly, your throat is dry, your body is cold and there is a deep set pain in the centre of your stomach that no matter how many times you try and shift it away nothing works.

You’re too deep.

Your whole life, it had always been your biggest wish that the part of you that was broken and threaded together would fix itself, medication made it manageable, therapy made it calmer, but sometimes in life it was impossible to contain the uncontainable. Life was unpredictable, and yet your circumstances were on trend with how your life had been recently.

You should have seen this coming, but a part of you thinks that you did and you’d been content with letting all of these thoughts infiltrate deep in your mind.

Sometimes you look at yourself in the mirror, and you can’t even notice it, it’s like all of the pain and trauma will fall so far from the surface on occasion that you’re foolish enough to believe that maybe it’s all finally gone.

Not now, not at all.

But a part of you wants to make it all gone.

It’s all you can think about, you know how easy it would be, you have it all planned out.

The letters are written, the plan has been made for years, it’s your execution that is lacking.

You aren’t scared, you are more than happy for a big blac cloud of nothingness to come and take you from your life, it would make it all so much easier.

You just need to know that you’ll succeed.

Failure is not an option, in ever single part of your life it hasn’t ever been. But specifically with your life.

If you’re out, you’re out, end of sentence.

There isn’t any recovery, there isn’t any coming back, no psych holds, no hospitals, no treatment, just death. It’s an answer, it’s conclusive. Right now it would solve all of your problems, literally, you could count on every single finger and toe how it would solve the fucked-up puzzle of your life. Normally, there is always something holding you back though. Football had been the main excuse for most times, the headlines would be miserable and all of the fuss and fake-sentiment would be so much worse. Once it had been because you were in love, and that was the best reason. But, like most thing you were unable to keep it alive, and so it died out.

It was all a metaphor for your life, football had been good, until it all slowly self-detonated, love had been good but you were a ticking time bomb of sabotage.

It would be oh so easy.

You knew the tips and tricks, you’d been thinking about it for years. Four long vertical lines, deep enough to need stitches but not deep enough that it would all fade immediately. You wanted to feel the pain, you wanted it all to be a big black and red painful mess, your vision swimming and body giving up because of the pain, not because of the damage you’d done.

It sounded so perfect.

It would be oh so easy, nobody would even notice, it would probably be days before anybody even realised you were gone. You would fade from earth and life like nothing, and nobody would care, and you were happy for it to be that way. You were happy to just disappear, you wanted it all to end.

It’s all hitting that hard, you don’t want help, you don’t want to feel normal, you don’t want treatment, you don’t want meds, you just want to be gone. You normally experience life with so many emotions, too many, but right now, in the bubble of your depression, the only think you feel is a desire to vanish.

There isn’t any hesitation, nothing holding you back as you pick up your poison of choice. It’s always been the same since you were a teenager, you’ve known how you’d go out from the minute it had gone downhill from the very first time. That had been a long time ago now, but not much had changed. Sure, maybe your face had matured a bit, you’re body had changed with being a professional athlete, and you weren’t as self destructive but really when it all boiled down nothing had truly changed.

You were the same broken, lost and alone girl that you had always been.

The same girl hiding in the corner of her bathroom in a pair of sweats that made her body seem so much smaller then it was, a razor blade in one shaky hand and the other hand busy forcing the sleeve of her hoodie up, leaving a easily accessible patch of skin.

It was the same old routine, except this time with a different intention.

You had your scars, you had your invisible marks that nobody could see but you. You were as good at hiding them as you were at your depleting mental health. Over the years you’d learnt how to hurt yourself without leaving permanent marks, you’d learnt how to hide it all from the people closest to you.

Until Alexia.

Love made a person dumb, and being in love with Alexia made you happier then you’d ever experienced and from the moment fireworks had gone off between the two of you, your barriers had fallen down. It had been good, until it hadn’t. Once again, you were left all alone, due to your own self-destructive habits. You couldn’t let yourself be happy, you didn’t know what long term happiness looked like for you and it was terrifying.

It had all been downhill from there, if there was no happiness in the future for you then what was the point? Your life was blowing up, football was the only thing you’d ever lived for and you still had football but football wasn’t for ever, if there was nothing beyond that then what was the point. You didn’t have a education, and whilst you earnt a decent amount off of football, it wasn’t enough to live off of, and now you had nobody else to live for.

Your life, from your perspective, had become pointless.

Whilst you were certain that your behaviour and gone unnoticed, that was far from the truth.

Most of your teammates had picked up on your particularly low mood. You weren’t ever the happiest person in the locker room, one of the more lowkey people who always allowed yourself to fade into the shadows. But that didn’t mean that people didn’t notice you, especially the people who had come to care for you.

You were injured, and that had come to be the main justification for your particularly down moods, but there was also a sneaking suspicion across some of your teammates that something more was wrong, that there was some other kind of cause for the way you dragged yourself around the gym and rooms during your days spent doing rehab.

You looked lifeless, like everything human about you had been drained.

Alexia knew it was something more, in her time with you, she’d learnt about your struggles and just when she thought that you’d started to open up to her, you’d cut it all off. So whilst she didn’t know the extensive history, she knew you had your demons, and that whatever was haunting you this time around wasn’t going to dissapear anytime soon.

Alexia could say that she didn’t care about you anymore, but it would make her a liar.

She’d always hoped that the two of you would make your way back to eachother, that you’re insistence that the two of you weren’t meant to be was overshadowed by the doubt you’d always about the relationship would somehow flip and you’d realise no matter how many issues you had Alexia was prepared to love you through all of them.

But as the time passed from the breakup, you only distanced yourself more. The person that Alexia had tried to bring out shrunk right back into it’s shell. Everyone on the team had been elated to see you find your footing with Alexia, it was the first time in your years at Barca that everyone started to meet you as a person and not just as a footballer. Alexia thought it had meant things were looking up for you, but all good things came to an end.

You’d been appearing like you’d slowly been slipping further down a slope, the bags underneath your eyes getting bigger, your sluggish behaviour getting worse, your determination to do you rehab dwindling and your willingness to interact with any person at the club being completely non-existent.

You were anti-social at the best of times, but completely diverting from all interactions was new for you and Alexia hadn’t been the only one to notice, it was evident to anybody with a brain that something was wrong, Alexia had no idea though just how wrong it all was.

The coincidence of an away Madrid game during the time that it was clear you were tanking was something that Alexia was particularly annoyed by. There was no plausible excuse for her to stay back from the trip, she was the captain, and she was perfectly fit to play. Plus, she had no obligation to you, you’d washed your hands of Alexia months ago and whilst Alexia still felt lingering concern for you she couldn’t justify staying back for what could potentially be nothing.

That didn’t mean though that she was going to just leave you be, not when she was so certain that there was something truly wrong.

Alexia wasn’t exactly sure of the severity of your trauma. She knew that your relationship with your parents was frayed to say the least, that you didn’t talk to them at all anymore and every time Alexia had tried to ask about them she had been met with a cold shoulder. So after a few tries she’d stopped trying, she didn’t know what it was like to have a disconnected family, she couldn’t relate or empathise with your issues and it killed her.

She knew you took medications, she had no idea what, you kept your daily medication closely guarded, but she knew it had something to do with your mental health. She didn’t ask about it, Alexia had been through your shut downs with you, and she knew broaching the subject of your mental health could be so detrimental to your mindset. She let you show her as much as you wanted to, she ignored the scars on your body, ignored the way that she recognised the complete disregard you had for your body. It was clear in every single aspect of your life that you had a little bit less concern then everybody else did. You put your body on the line in football, in ways that made Alexia furious. You didn’t flinch away from pain, if anything you stepped into the line of fire.

You hid injuries, you hid sickness, you pushed through it all. It was terrifying for Alexia as a partner to watch you continuously put yourself on the line and act like it was completely nothing. By the end of your relationship it was getting hard to watch it happen.

Your ankle injury was a result of that, you hadn’t even been the one ton sideline yourself. It had fallen down to Irene catching a glimpse of your purple and black swelled up ankle after a training session and her marching you to the team physio to get it checked out. It wasn’t shocking to Alexia, but it did make her wonder how many time you’d chosen to hide your pain in favour of putting up a brave face and pushing through, in all aspects of your life.

Alexia was worried and yet she felt as though she had no right to be.

She’d let you push her away, knowing that in some way or another it could be hurting not just her but you, realisatically she couldn’t do anything about it. If you didn’t want to be in a relationship with her she couldn’t force you, but a part of her thought she might have let go a little to easy.

For her, you would be the one that got away.

She wasn’t ready to let you get away yet though.

Really, if she thought about it, it was Mapi who had highlighted that you weren’t okay, and that maybe it was time for somebody to reach out to you. Mapi had come to care a lot about you, she’d seen how broken both you and Alexia were after the split, Alexia was still functioning though, you seemed like you were losing energy for life as everyday passed.

Mapi had been the one to suggest that she’d check on you whilst everyone else was gone, Mapi being stuck behind with some minor twinges in her knee, it was more precautionary than anything that she took the weekend off. She was more then happy though to be a good friend and spend some extra time with you if it meant getting to the bottom of whatever had been going on.

Her intentions had been to bring around a fresh meal, her mama’s old tapa recipe that always managed to light up Ingrid’s face. If her tapas earned her a way into your apartment then she was hoping to sit down with you, maybe have a chat, watch whatever football watch was on. Something, she wanted some kind of proof that you were okay, that even though you were going through a rough time that you manage, that at some point you would come out of this funk and you would go back to the old version of yourself. Maybe better, maybe you would unearth some kind of happiness from you situation and you would be better off because of it.

Mapi knew the odds of all of that were drastically low, but she was also the optimist of everything, it was the reason that she was so good at making uncomfortable people feel more settled in the team. She knocked on your front door with a extra bit of pep in her, hope that somehow she was going to resolve all of the underlying issues that everyone had been expressing for weeks now but had been too afraid to unearth. Mapi was certain that her approach might actually help, that instead of being the authoritative figure that Alexia, Irene, Marta and Patri were as your captains. Mapi was here as a friend, nothing more and nothing less and she hoped that would maybe encourage you to open up to her.

Mapi waited at least a minute after her initial knock before knocking again.

Your car had been beside Mapi’s when she’d parked downstairs, so she knew you were home. It wasn’t late, but it also wasn’t early enough that Mapi could rule out the possibility of you being asleep. Alexia had shoved her old key to your apartment into Mapi’s hand before she’d left, there weren’t any instructions, but the pure desperation in Alexia’s eyes was making Mapi feel compelled to use it.

Her third knock on the door was met with more silence.

You were probably sleeping.

There were parts of Mapi crawling with the emerging feeling of anxiety, she just needed to see you. You’d skipped your gym session today, something that was extremely abnormal for you, it had been worrying enough for Mapi, but you not responding to her now was sending her into a full on spiral.

“It’s Mapi, if you could open up for me please chica, I have some food for you.”

Mapi doesn’t even hear furniture creak.

She repeats what she said again, and is met with complete silence.

“Chica, are you in there? Are you awake? Just answer me, you don’t have to open the door.”

Mapi, if she looks really hard, can make out the faintest glow underneath your door, maybe a lamp?

Mapi waits a few more seconds, and sprinkles in some aggressive knocks. She’s met with nothing in response.

She digs around desperately in her pocket for the key, her fingers eventually coming into contact with the weight of the key in the back pocket of her jeans.

She pulls it up to the door knob with regret coursing through her veins, she doesn’t feel good about invading your privacy, but she feels even worse about everything else, and it’s all enough to overshadow her concern for your feelings about being left alone. After all, you might just be asleep.

The key makes a click after Mapi turns it counterclockwise twice, Mapi reaches for the door knob, it’s the final barrier between her and you, and without much hesitation she pushes the knob down and it opens.

Mapi shivers with the frigid breeze that comes at her as she steps into your apartment.

As soon as her foot hits your wooden floor she can tell something is off, she doesn’t know what but she can just feel it.

Mapi walks into your apartment slowly, with a quick scan of your kitchen and living space she is certain the room is empty. She leaves her dish of tapas on the couter of your kitchen and surveys the room before hesitantly making her way into your hallway. The door to your guest room is open, so naturally Mapi looks in there first.

“Chica, I came in to drop off some food, are you home?”

Mapi, whilst she can’t physically see you anywhere, has a weird kind of sense that you are here, she’s just not sure where.

The guest room is completely empty, in fact, mapi is sure that there is dust lying on top of the spare sheets. She can’t remember the last time you mentioned having somebody stay, at the very start of your signing to Barca, occasionally girls from your National team would come and visit during breaks. Mapi remembers that time, she wouldn’t have said you were happy, but you seemed a bit more content. It was best Mapi had seen you before Alexia.

Mapi is fairly familiar with your apartment, between game nights, post game drinks and double dates she’d spent enough time in your apartment to know where everything was.

Your main bathroom was empty, leaving your bedroom and ensuite.

Mapi felt like she’d invaded enough of your privacy, your bedroom might be the over step.

But there was the clawing feeling, the same feeling that she’d gotten when she’d walked into the apartment that something was wrong, and she wasn’t going to be able to sleep tonight without getting to the bottom of it.

So with much apprehension, Mapi walks the rest of the way down the hallway and to the door of your bedroom.

Mapi swears that she has sweat through her shirt, even though your apartment feels colder than the Norwegian winter she’d recently experienced.

Her hands are all sweaty, the same they get before any match, she doesn’t know where her nerves are coming from, she doesn’t have anything to worry about, yet.

Mapi knocks as quietly on your bedroom door as possible, she’s made her mind up that if you are sleeping she’ll leave a note with her tapas and take her leave, she doesn’t need to disturb you.

“Chica, I came here to drop some food off, just make a noise and I’ll leave you.”

Mapi waits for what feels like eternity, and after a long stretch of silence she takes the leap.

She opens the door as quietly as possible, and feels defeated when she spots your complete empty bed.

Everything looks normal, in a weird kind of way. Your sheets are made up, almost pedantically. All the corners tucked in and pillows positioned like they would be in a catalogue.

The only light in the room is the light that is filtering in from your ensuite, underneath the door. It’s bright enough that Mapi can see around the room.

She wants to leave. But she can’t, not without checking.

There is a off chance that you’ve gone on a walk, an activity that definitely was not approved by your physios but she supposed you’d never really obeyed them in the first place.

It’s one last room, your apartment seems so devoid of life that Mapi is confident that it’ll be empty.

She tiptoes across your bedroom, everything about this feels so wrong, like she’s invading somebody’s life that she doesn’t even know anything about.

Mapi knocks on your bathroom door.

“Chica, if you’re in there, just let me know and I’ll leave you be.”

Silence. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not even a squeak.

Mapi’s hand is so sweaty that it nearly slips off of the handle on the door, she doesn’t know why she’s nervous, she doesn’t have any reason to be nervous. Yet it also feels like there are a millon under lying reasons.

Mapi plucks up the courage, because she has to, and twists the knob.

Away games are always a weird mixture of relaxing but also having absolutely no time to yourself.

Alexia’s least favourite part about away games is team bonding. Following the first team dinner of every away trip it’s customary to do some kind of team bonding exercise. She understands that it’s important, but after a long train trip to Madrid the last thing she wants is to spend hours trying to get out of an escape room with no phone and all of the younger girls talking her ear off. What Alexia wants is to get back to the hotel and sleep. Yet she’s stuck in a confined space with girls that she loves but wants nothing more to get away from.

Caro and Keira seem to be in the same mindset as her, the three of them all keeping as far away from the ruckus as possible. After two hours of the madness, Vicky of all people manages to get to the bottom of the puzzle and somehow unlocks the door, Alexia isn’t sure of the logistics of it and she doesn’t really care.

The girls all celebrate as the file out, but there is an overall feeling that everybody is ready to head back to the hotel and go to sleep.

Phones are handed back and Alexia almost pockets hers, to tired to look at whatever messages or instagram notifications she has. But it’s the sea of missed calls that catch her attention.

Alexia’s heart drops.

She’s got dozens of missed calls from Mapi and she knows from the minute she sees her call log that something is wrong.

All Mapi can remember is the amount of blood.

It was so red against your white bathroom tiles.

So much blood. Mapi was certain that there wasn’t that much blood in the human body, and yet it just kept leaking out, even as she pressed your towels to your arm, it kept leaking through.

She vaguely remembers going through her very basic medical training. Checking your pulse, it took a while for her to find it but eventually she does. She doesn’t know if it weak or it’s just her shaking hands that can’t pin your pulse down.

She uses a leftover hair tie on her wrist as a tourniquet, she doesn’t think it’s working but she has nothing else.

Compression.

She vaguely remembers her call with the emergency services, struggling to find words but forcing them out of her mouth because she had to.

The lady on the other side of the phone talks her through it, tells Mapi that she’s doing the right things, she walks Mapi through what to do if you stop breathing. Mapi thinks you are, your chest lifts every so slightly every few seconds, but it’s so subtle Mapi swears she might be imagining it.

The lady tells Mapi that eventually your blood should clot, but Mapi finds it hard to believe. Her hands and shirt are covered in blood, your blood, it’s everywhere, red and thick and it’s overwhelming Mapi. Your bathroom looks like a crime scene, a murder scene, and Mapi supposes it almost is.

When the paramedics show up, Mapi doesn’t know what to do, they’re so methodical. One of them talks to Mapi whilst their partner attends to you, Mapi’s hands are shaking, her hands, covered in your blood. She should have taken that extra medical course that they’d offered all the players at the start of the season, maybe it would have prepared her better. Nothing prepares a person for what Mapi just did though, no amount of medical training or training courses could ever prepare a person for what Mapi just saw.

The paramedic assures Mapi that she did everything right, that you wouldn’t be alive without her, and those words make it all worse. Dead. You could have been dead. The paramedic offers to take Mapi to the hospital with you, but she declines, she needs a minute, she needs to have a second to think about herself. The paramedic tells Mapi the name of the hospital they’ll be taking you and takes her name and number to give to the nurses as your contact.

They whisk you off right in front of Mapi’s eyes.

Your body is white, you look so lifeless.

Once you’re gone, Mapi closes the door to your bathroom, she can’t look in there, not at the raw amount of evidence that you’ve left behind. It’s already all over her body, she doesn’t need to see anymore of it.

She sits down on your tight sheets, and she realises that there is a piece of paper sitting at the edge of your bed, a letter.

Mapi cries when she sees it, she lets it all out.

It’s addressed to Alexia and Mapi doesn’t need to read it to know what it’s intention was, what your intentions were, if it wasn’t already confirmed then this only assures it.

Mapi leaves red finger prints on it, picking it up and collecting some of your clothes from your wardrobe before leaving your apartment.

Alexia clicks on Mapi’s contact with so much fear coursing through her body, she’s praying that it’s not here mami, not when Alexia is away.

“Ale-Alexia, thank god you picked up, gracias a dios.”

Mapi’s voice is quivering, Alexia’s not sure if she’s ever heard her voice like that before.

“Maria, what’s wrong? Why did you call so many times?”

There is a sob on the other end of the line, and Alexia starts to pray, to any god that whatever Mapi is about to tell her isn’t going to be bad, she can’t handle bad news right now.

“She was supposed to be sleeping, I was so sure she was sleeping. There was so much blood, I thought, I didn’t think there was enough blood in a person’s veins but there was so much of it, it just kept leaking out of her.”

Alexia’s heart and stomach are at her feet, she clutches for a wall, a solid form that she can rely on so that she doesn’t collapse.

“Who, Maria, who? What are you talking about, where are you?”

There is another sob, a deep sob, like Mapi’s being tortured.

“Y/n, I went to visist her like you’d asked, an-and she was, I thought she was dead.”

Alexia heart feels like it’s on a rollercoaster, like it’s returned to a normal level for a second, before plummeting even deeper.

“What do you mean Maria, what are you talking about.”

Somebody in the group must have realised Alexia’s discomposure, because she can feel a group of eyes on her, like everybody is trying to figure out what is happening on the other end of the phone.

“She left a letter, she-she I thought she was dead Ale, why would somebody do that to themselves? Why would she want to do that to herself.”

Alexia is aware that Mapi is clearly in some kind of post-traumatic state, that it’s going to be hard to get to the bottom of this but she’s managed to string the details together. From what Mapi’s said, you’re still alive, but it can’t be good, not by how Mapi has made it sound.

“Maria, I need you to listen to me. Where are you? Where is she? What is wrong with her.”

Alexia can hear Mapi trying to take some deep breaths on the other side of the line, somewhere in the crowd Ingrid is pushed forward, looking at Alexia with so much confusion. Mapi doesn’t often have anxiety or panic attacks, but if she were, Ingrid is certain that she would be the first person for Mapi to call, yet she’s received none.

“I-I’m at the hospital with her, she’s been moved to the ICU, I haven’t seen her yet but the nurses told me they had to perform CPR in the ambulance and that she was rushed to surgery when she got here. She’s been stable since but she’s in critical condition.”

Alexia doesn’t know what to do, she wants to be with you.

“Maria, I’m going to hand you off to Ingrid okay, talk to her, let her calm you down. I’m going to talk to the staff and try and figure out a way for me to come home, talk to Ingrid, okay?”

Ingrid looks confused but takes the phone from Alexia regardless, allowing Alexia to walk towards the staff, her face sullen and body hurting from the pressure of all of this.

Mapi thinks you look worse, somehow.

All of the wires and cords and the bags and needles make your body look wrong. Nobody should need so many weird connections, yet considering the state you were in Mapi is oddly comforted by it all, she wants you to be getting as much help as your body needs.

She still got your blood on her, one of the nice nurses had helped her to wash it off her hands and arms, and Mapi had stolen one of your sweatshirts she’d haphazardly grabbed as a replacement for her shirt, but she can still feel it on her body.

She’s been sitting in the same chair since the nurses let her in to your room, it’s next to the window, so when Mapi feels compelled to cry, or can’t handle looking at your body any longer because it gives her a flashback, she looks out the window at the bustling city of Barcelona below her and it oddly comforts her. Life goes on, everyone elses life goes on, but yours almost didn’t.

Her mind goes to dark places thinking about the what if she hadn’t of come to check on you? Mapi knows the answer to that question, even a few minutes later and your body would have been even more lifeless then when Mapi found it, except maybe instead of most of life being drained from you, all of it would have been.

They still don’t know for sure what it’s going to look like when you wake up, Mapi was hardly paying attention when the doctors came to talk to her, they were speaking so many words that Mapi couldn’t even pretend to know the meaning of. She remembers bits and pieces, the parts that she knew she’d have to remember in case Alexia called again and wanted an update.

You’d lost a lot of blood but they were working to try and replenish it, you’d needed nearly 100 stitches all together, the scars were all about 6 inches long and just almost ½ and inch deep. You didn’t hit any major arteries or veins, but you grazed one of them and that was most likely why you bled so much. Your blood might have not clotted because of the antidepressants in your system potentially mixed with the ibuprofen you were taking for your ankle. They don’t know when you are going to wake up but they emphasise you sleeping isn’t a bad thing because you’re body is getting the rest that it needs to repair itself.

Mapi doesn’t understand the measurements or the way medications work, she knows your body needs rest but she also desperately just wants you to wake up. Selfishly, even if it’s just for a second so that she knows that you are okay, so that she can stop blaming herself for killing you. She’s always going to somewhat blame herself for this, but you dying would be the straw that broke the camels back.

Alexia doesn’t think the whole way back to Barcelona, the staff managed to get her on the last flight out of the night, with Ingrid.

They both don’t say a word after Alexia briefs Ingrid on what she learnt from Mapi on the phone, it’s nowhere near enough information and it leaves Alexia’s brain stumbling, she’s so uncertain of everything.

There is a chauffeur waiting for them at the airport which takes them straight to the hospital, Alexia doesn’t even pretend to be flattered when the reception staff immediately know who she is and takes her straight to your room. She has one concern. Everything else is just background noise to her.

Seeing you makes Alexia feel sick, literally, it’s a few seconds before she feels the bile rising. It’s been building for hours now and she rushes into the bathroom adjacent to your room and ungracefully let’s her stomach go directly into the toilet bowl.

Once she’s done and she feels less like her heart is going to fall out of her throat she gets up and puts on a brave face, walking back into your room.

Mapi has tears streaming down her face, Ingrid is trying to talk to her but Alexia can tell that none of it is getting through to her.

“Mapi, what happened?”

Alexia wants to know, she needs to know, she needs to know how you got here.

Mapi is shaking, her whole body, it’s almost scary the way that her body vibrates against the chair she’s sitting in.

“I-I went to check in on her, dios mios, it was so cold, she was-she-.”

Ingrid stops Mapi.

“Alexia, we can do this later, she can’t handle this right now.”

Ingrid looks as terrified as Alexia feels, but her fear is for Mapi, it makes sense, Mapi is the love of her life. Alexia doesn’t think she’s entitled to the same fear, she let you go.

“No-no, she wants to know.”

It’s clear that every word is pulling Mapi further and further apart, but she pushes through.

“I-I just needed to see her, I went through all the rooms until I got to her bathroom.”

She lets out a sob before continuing.

“There was so much blood, it was all coming from her arm, I tried my best, I tried my best.”

Mapi sobs again, this time it’s so deep and guttural that Alexia is so horrified about what is to come.

“I tried to stop it. She was supposed to be sleeping, I thought she was just sleeping. She was unconscious, blood everywhere, and it just kept coming, it wouldn’t stop. I tried my best.”

Ingrid is murmuring words into Mapi’s ear, Alexia doesn’t know what to say, she actually can’t think of a single word to say.

“I called the ambulance, but she coded in the ambulance, they had to give her so many stitches, so much blood.”

Mapi keeps repeating the same words, over and over again, like it’s a mantra.

Alexia needs to stop it, for her bestfriends sake.

She walks to the otherside of the room, gently pushing Ingrid to the side so she can squat down in front of Mapi.

“Maria look at me. You did your best, you saved her life. You are no more to blame for this then anybody else is. You did so well, she’s alive because of you, she is breathing and sitting in front of us because of you. You did that.”

Mapi doesn’t look like she believes Alexia, but it’s a reprieve from whatever trance she was in.

“How about you and Ingrid go and get something to eat, I’ll stay here with her, if anything happens I’ll call you, okay?”

Mapi looks apprehensive to get up, but Alexia watches Ingrid give her a look and it’s the first time since Alexia’s walked into this room that she sees a little bit of normality return to Mapi’s face.

“Sh-she left you a letter. I think you should read it.”

Mapi pushes it into Alexia’s hands like it’s poisonous.

“Thank you Mapi, I will, go and take a break.”

Alexia presses a kiss to Mapi’s hand, before moving to allow Ingrid to help her up. Mapi is uneasy on her feet and for a second Alexia thinks she might collapse or vomit. She eventually finds her footing though and follows Ingrid out of the room.

Alexia looks down at the letter.

It’s got dried blood finger prints on it, she presumes from Mapi, it secures all of this in some weird way. This is all actually happening.

Alexia takes her time opening it, this is tangible evidence of all of this and a part of Alexia wants nothing more then for it to disappear, so she can pretend none of this has happened.

She wasn’t even there for it, she can’t imagine what Mapi went through, she already feels like every part of her has been stripped away with this.

She feels like she’s an imposter in this all, she doesn’t know what to do.

You’ve never expressed to her anything about family or parents, she doesn’t think it would be right to call them without your permission. She wants to call her own mami but that feels a bit silly, although she knows somehow her mami would give her all the right advice. She doesn’t want to talk about any of it though, it feels wrong. This is such a personal issue, she doesn’t even think she should know about it, she doesn’t have any right considering that Alexia could have very well contributed to this whole issue.

The letter is white, off white possibly, it’s hard to tell with the harsh fluorescent lighting.

The marks that would have been bright red at some stage have faded to a dull reddish brown, it’s imprinted deep into the paper.

Alexia flips it over, gently opening the seal with her fingernail and letting the flap open up.

The paper inside is the same colour, except even though she can only see the flip side it’s clear that there is black scrawl all over it.

Alexia could make it disappear, act like she read it, it would make it all so much easier, it would save her a lot of emotions that she really doesn’t feel prepared to feel. But she doesn’t get to make that decision, she needs to read this, for you and for her.

Dear Alexia,

If you’re reading this then chances are I’m already gone, if I’m not then something went wrong and for that I’m sorry. I don’t want you to think that any of this was about you, or that you or anybody else was responsible. I made this decision, I’ve been thinking about this long before you came and I would have spent everyday thinking about it, no action or intervention would have changed that.

I don’t know how to explain it, but life is different for me. I don’t experience things the same way, I don’t get happy when I spend time with friends, I don’t get happy when it’s sunny outside. I’ve tried it all, I’ve tried to make it work, tried to live life in my body. I think a part of me was always separate though, and as much as I’ve tried to make it work there is no point in trying to fix something that is always going to be broken.

Being with you was the first time that my brain felt quiet, that I kind of felt the experience of happiness that everyone else feels. You made it all better, everything with you felt better, it felt normal. All I ever wanted was to be a normal person, and you made me feel like that. It’s not fair of me to be saying that, you deserved better then me, it wasn’t fair for me to burden you with all of this shit. Fucked up is never not fucked up, you can’t uncrumple a crumpled piece of paper, it will always be creased. I want you to know that I didn’t do this to you, i did this for you. It wasn’t fair weighing you down, I know it wasn’t easy for you when we broke up, you deserve to focus on football. You deserve to have a good life, you deserve to be free. I don’t want you to feel bad, I don’t want you to feel like you’re responsible. Live your life, be happy, for me, experience it all, because I couldn’t.

I’m not myself anymore, although I don’t think I ever was myself. It always kind of feels like i’ve been different people in my own body, and this time i couldn’t handle it. I don’t want to feel devoid anymore, I want to be free. My identity has always been identified as being a good footballer, a great footballer, and I don’t even think I can say that I am that anymore. I am nothing, want to be nothing.

I’m sorry I never loved you back in the same way, I’m sorry I never reciprocated the endless graciousness and love tha you gave me. The smiles, the effort, the constant love, it was wasted on me and my biggest regret in life will be letting you waste it on me. It wasn’t fair, it’ll never be fair, because I loved you back and that perhaps was the most selfish act I’ve ever committed.

I’m sorry, there aren’t enough words that I could use to tell you just how sorry I am. I’m sorry that I burdened you with me, I’m sorry that I let myself be cared for by you, I’m sorry that you have to read this.

I’m sorry.

There wouldn’t have ever been anything I could have done to repair it, I didn’t want to live knowing that I would forever be in debt to you for this. I hope that eventually you will find peace in this, that some good will finally come of me.

Goodbye.

There are tears all over the page by the time Alexia gets to the bottom of the letter, she actually can’t comprehend what she’s just read, she swears that her mind must be playing tricks on her. Why would you think all of those things? What made you think all of those things?

Alexia feels sick again.

Did she make you feel that way? Did she make you feel like you weren’t deserving of living?

There are so many questions circulating her brain, and she doesn’t have a answer for a single one of them, because she doesn’t know. Suicide was your only option, one that could have been very permanent, it makes Alexia’s head swim. You believed that your only option to make it all stop was death. You found a permanent solution to something that Alexia’s considers a potentially temporary situation, had you reached out, had you tried to find help. She can’t criticise you, she can’t even begin to comprehend how hard it would be living as you have, and then having to try and talk to somebody else about that. A part of her wishes you had though, because maybe it would have saved her beind here.

Your body is the exact same it was the last time Alexia looked at you, but for some reason you feel different.

Alexia reaches out for your hand, it’s the arm that’s not covered in bandages. Your hands are cold, but she tries to ignore it. She focuses on the feeling of movement underneath her own hand, it’s the only real tangible proof she has that you are here with her, that you are alive.

Sure there is a beeping heart monitor, and other signs, but she just wants to feel you.

She holds your hand, because she swears that she’ll slip away. Alexia doesn’t know what to do, she doesn’t know how to help you but she promises herself that she’s going to be here, that she isn’t ever going to let you experience life the same way that you did without her being there for you.

—————————————————————

thoughts appreciated …. part 2?

another reminder that if you ever need anybody to talk to i am here, your life is worth living, you are worth it all. <3

[pomefioredove]

Heyy!!! I really liked the young reader (13-14) telling the OB crew that they see them as an authority figure. Can you do it with the first year's please? I hope this doesn't go against any rules thank youu!!!

assuming this is similar to this, which has ace and deuce, so I'll just write for the others :)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ brotherly (encore)

type of post: headcanons characters: jack, epel, sebek additional info: platonic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu

Having been torn from your home, separated from your family and friends, and spit back out in a new place with new people, isn't really as fun as it sounds.

After months at NRC, though, you've managed to make yourself a life here. A new home, new friends, even new family.

Now, sitting close to the person you've become fondest of, you let slip that you seem him as a brother.

His reaction?

should not have said that to Jack. it's not that he doesn't like it, it's that he really does. he puts a lot of value on family, after all, and even before you said this, he considered you a part of his own. this just makes it feel real

now, he just will never leave you alone. making sure you stay out of trouble, insisting on carrying your things and helping with your homework, living for your happiness. it's sweet, maybe a little overbearing, but I suppose that depends on how you look at it

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

you and Epel had always been close. even Vil and Rook have commented on how the two of you are practically inseparable- it was only a matter of time before someone said it

is- is he crying? of course not!!! he's not some sap!! just 'cause you told him he's your best friend and you look up to him as a brother, which is affirming in its own way, doesn't mean 'nothin! he just has something in his eye!

(he's completely over the moon)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Sebek has always been the one to look up to others, not the other way around. his first reaction is to tell you that you should be praising Malleus, or perhaps Lilia, not him. you're wasting your breath!

of course, he thinks about it all day, and then some. it's just that you think he- the youngest of the group, the very last to get his magic- is someone worth looking up to? could it be possible that you hold the same affection for him that he does for others?

and when you confirm, he can't help feeling a little smug

he vows to use his skill as Malleus' guard to protect you both

[steddieas-shegoes]

try again later

for @steddiesmuttyseptember prompts slap, loud, breeding kink, vibrator

rated e | 18+, minors dni | 2814 words | check ao3 for all tags

🤚🏻🤚🏻🤚🏻🤚🏻🤚🏻🤚🏻🤚🏻🤚🏻🤚🏻🤚🏻🤚🏻🤚🏻🤚🏻🤚🏻🤚🏻

Steve’s heart races as he climbs the stairs to his room. He promised Eddie he would wait for him to get back from Indy tomorrow to do this, but he’s been thinking about it all day. Nonstop.

And Robin made him go home to “deal with his problem” even though he was scheduled to close.

His problem being that he’s been hard for the last three hours.

It’s Eddie’s fault, really. He’s the one that bought the vibrator, left it on Steve’s bed, and then fucked off to do band things in Indy for four days.

The first two days, Steve ignored it. It was easy to do because he was still unsure how he felt about using it at all. Eddie assured him he’d love it, and Eddie was usually right about the things he likes, but a part of Steve thought that maybe this was too far.

Until this morning, when he unboxed it out of curiosity, and he found that it had five settings. And that it had a heat feature. And that it would work as a plug, too.

He shoved it back in the box and stared at his ceiling for two hours before he got up and got ready for work.

He was useless at work all day, both Keith and Robin were completely done with him.

Steve sits on his bed and thinks about this.

He could just try it out on the lowest setting and see how it works. He’ll wash it really good and then box it back up so Eddie doesn’t know. He knows Eddie won’t waste any time when he’s back; He’s just as impatient as Steve is.

But he doesn’t want to lie to Eddie, and even more than that, he doesn’t want to break Eddie’s rule.

He kinda wants to, though. A little bit.

He’s usually so good. Always does what Eddie wants, tries to be a good boy for him.

And in return, Eddie tells him he’s good, and gives him what he wants, and makes him feel like he’s flying.

He thinks breaking this one rule might be worth it.

So he unboxes the vibrator again and he makes sure it has the batteries it was supposed to come with in it and he reads the manual slowly so he understands the buttons. If he’s doing this to himself, he needs to be able to feel which button is which.

“Just the lowest setting,” he says to himself as he strips all of his clothes off. “Just to see.”

It’s thicker than he expected, so he opens himself up on two fingers before he even tries to slip it inside.

When he does, he knows he’s in trouble.

“Fuck,” Steve whines, biting his lip as he tries to find the perfect spot for it to fit snugly against his prostate.

It’s not even on yet and he thinks he’s going to come.

Once it’s settled inside, he lets his arms fall against the bed, his breaths heavy as he tries to calm down. He shouldn’t be doing this. He should’ve waited for Eddie.

He reaches down to press the button on the tip of the plug, the one that turns it on.

The moment he does, he gasps and lets out a loud moan.

The vibrations are borderline too much, even in the first few seconds. It’s a dull thrum, but it fills him, and feels like it’s making his heart beat faster and his hands shake.

He’s leaking, probably has been for a while, but it’s so much more than he usually does. Eddie likes to lick it up and spit it into his mouth, make him clean up his own mess.

Just the thought of Eddie doing that now, while turning up the setting on the plug, has Steve gripping the base of his cock to avoid finishing so soon. He circles his hole with one fingertip, clenching around the plug as he bumps up the setting by one.

His back arches without his permission, and tears spring to his eyes as his release shoots across his stomach. It’s heaven and hell, feeling so much while not having Eddie here to kiss him, and play with his hair, and wipe him down.

He goes from feeling better than ever to feeling short bursts of pain with pleasure, the overstimulation of the vibrations still happening almost too much. He manages to turn the vibrator off with shaking hands, but he doesn’t remove it.

“Fuck me,” he laughs as he tries to settle down enough to remove it.

He closes his eyes and sighs out.

The last thought he has before falling asleep is that he didn’t even get to actually touch his dick.

****

He wakes to a hand on his dick.

He’d panic more if he wasn’t familiar with the hand on his dick.

“Fuck, Eddie,” he moans, thankful that they have their own home, that no one ever has to hear the way he screams under Eddie’s touch. “What’re you doing home?”

“Apparently disciplining you,” he replies, voice cool, smug smile in place.

The room is dark, but Steve can see enough of him to know he’s figured out that Steve didn’t listen to his instructions. The hand on his dick is rough, no spit to glide the way. Steve winces at the drag as he speeds up.

“Come on, baby,” Eddie nips his neck. “You wanted to come so bad you couldn’t wait for me. Now I’m here. Let’s see it.”

Steve whimpers. It hurts, but it’s so good. The weight of the plug filling him up just adds to it as is whole body is jostled with Eddie’s firm movements.

“Can’t.” Steve takes a breath. “Hurts.”

“Awww, you should’ve thought about that before trying my new toy without me.”

And it’s the way he says it, my toy in that tone that makes Steve think he isn’t just talking about the vibrator. Like maybe Steve is his toy.

Steve’s gonna come. He’s certain of it.

Any moment now.

He feels his thighs tense.

Eddie’s hand is gone.

“No!” Steve cries. “Please. I’m so close. Please.”

“I don’t care if you’re close, sweetheart,” his words sting as he pulls away and stares down at where the plug is hidden inside Steve. “What happened to my good boy, huh? I leave you alone for a few days and you decide to misbehave?”

Steve can’t even find words to explain himself. Eddie’s hand is back on him, but this time his fingers are pinching his nipples, twisting just enough for it to bite.

They’re gone as fast as they came and Steve’s gasping for breath, arching up into the touch while wishing Eddie would lick them to ease the burn. He’s a mess of feeling right now and it’s his own fault.

Eddie’s palm makes contact with Steve’s cheek.

It’s hot, fire against his skin. The pain of the slap barely registers as he feels his own release against his stomach.

“Would you look at that?” Eddie hums. “Who knew being so rough with you would make such a mess.”

Steve feels a tear fall from the corner of his eye, but he’s too busy coming down from his high to wipe it away.

Eddie does it for him.

It’s gentle, soft, the opposite of the slap that caused it.

“I’m gonna turn this on now,” Eddie taps the base of the plug, sending shockwaves through Steve’s nerves. “And you’re gonna get to have every setting. Or did you already do every setting?”

“No, sir,” Steve whispers, voice broken. “Just two.”

Eddie nods. “Then I think I’ll have to get two more out of you before we can stop.”

Steve whines. He’s already sore. His cock is trying to get hard again, and he can feel every shift of the plug inside him. He doesn’t even think he could have two more orgasms if Eddie turned the vibrator on the highest setting.

He thinks he might pass out.

“Color?” Eddie asks.

It doesn’t quite break the moment, but it does make Steve focus on his face.

He looks concerned, but he also looks like he’s in awe. He always kind of looks at Steve like that, like he’s amazing him just by existing, just by the noises he makes and the curve of his body.

“Green.”

Eddie kisses the corner of his mouth before he slaps his other cheek.

Steve groans and turns his face away reflexively, but Eddie grabs his jaw and makes him turn to look up at him.

“I wanna see those cheeks get red, baby. Makes your eyes so bright when you cry,” Eddie slaps him again, but Steve’s starting to feel numb. “Just like that. You know why I wanted you to wait for me?”

Steve shook his head.

“Because I know how to make everything good for you. You didn’t even tease yourself a little, did you?” Eddie clicks his tongue against his teeth. “How am I supposed to knock you up if you try to do everything yourself?”

Steve’s cock pulses between them.

“Please. Please, sir.”

“Please, please sir,” Eddie mocks him, leaning down to grip his jaw tight. “Please what?”

“Please fuck me,” Steve tries to say with his mouth forced open.

“Oh, I’m gonna. But what else?” Eddie moves his hand down to Steve’s throat, resting there as a threat, the kind that makes Steve’s eyes roll back in his head. “What did you beg me to do to you on the phone the other night?”

“Wanna be full of you,” Steve continues, trying to focus on what Eddie’s asking.

“Yeah, gonna fill you up so good. Gotta make sure it takes, right?”

Steve nods. “Wanna have your baby.”

Eddie grins down at him as he turns the vibrator on.

He bumps it up to two immediately and Steve thinks this is a different two than the one he had on before he fell asleep. It’s sharp and too much immediately, making him squirm under Eddie’s weight. But Eddie doesn’t allow it, which just adds to the jolts of electricity going through his body.

“I’ll give you one, sweetheart. But first, you gotta be my good boy.”

Steve can do that. He can do whatever Eddie needs him to.

Eddie bumps the setting up again and it’s almost unbearable. How does anyone handle the highest setting?

Oh. Oh. It’s warm.

It feels like…

“Gonna come,” Steve warns. “Feels too good.”

“Then come, baby.”

Steve nearly screams through his orgasm and Eddie doesn’t try to quiet him. He laughs as Steve shivers from aftershocks.

He turns it up again and Steve may black out for a second. He squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth together and his dick stays hard.

“Too much, too much.”

“It wouldn’t be if you hadn’t started without me.”

It’s probably true, but Steve’s already feeling pretty far gone.

“One more, baby boy. Think you can give me another one?”

Steve nods because he can, he knows he can. He wasn’t sure before, but Eddie’s tone makes him believe he’s capable of anything.

If Eddie tells him to come, he will. If Eddie tells him to suck him while he fucks his mouth, he’ll happily do it.

“Look at you, so sweet. You’re so beautiful when you let me take care of you. Can’t believe you thought you could do this all for yourself,” Eddie wraps his hand around Steve’s cock, barely moving it. Steve curls up and towards Eddie with the touch, whimpering at the firey pleasure piercing his stomach. “You’re mine, Stevie. My hands are the only ones who can make you feel this good, my mouth, my cock, my toy.”

Steve’s chest is heaving as Eddie turns the vibrator up to the highest setting.

Words aren’t happening anymore.

Steve thinks he comes, but he can’t be sure.

He’s tingly and weightless, and he thinks if Eddie gets off of him, he’ll fly away.

The plug is gone and Steve whines at the loss. He tries to shove his own fingers inside himself, wants to keep feeling full, but Eddie slaps his wrist.

“That’s mine. Hands up.”

Steve listens because he decided being good is probably better for getting what he wants. Plus, Eddie’s fingers are inside him, four of them he thinks. It burns a little, but it’s not something Steve can complain about past the noises he’s making.

He wouldn’t anyways, not when he knows what he’s getting next.

Eddie slaps his cock.

Maybe he didn’t know what he was getting. He yelps, his eyes shoot open, and he stares at Eddie in shock.

He’s still hard, but it hurts.

“Color?” Eddie asks again, because this is new, and he always asks when he does something new. Even if they’ve talked about it, even if Steve assured him he would say red if he didn’t like it.

The pain was already gone, replaced with an overwhelming need to come. Eddie’s fingers were pressing against his prostate, making him forget about the slap entirely.

“Green, sir, again.”

“Good boy,” Eddie grins as he slaps his cock again, harder. “You like being slapped around? Like when I make you red all over? Look at your dick, baby.”

Steve does. It’s an angry red, almost purple, and he still has cum leaking from the tip. It twitches against his stomach when Eddie grabs it and rubs his thumb across the soaked slit.

Steve is panting, sure that there’s no way he could handle more.

“Gonna give you what you want now.”

Eddie’s cock is pretty average in length, but it’s thick, and he got it pierced a while back. It drives Steve absolutely crazy.

But four fingers stretched him out enough that Eddie’s cock entering him is just a dull ache.

“There you go, baby. That feel good? You feel full now?” Eddie asks as he lets more of his weight fall on top of Steve. Steve is by far the heavier of the two, but he loves when Eddie surrounds him like this.

But he doesn’t feel full yet. He shakes his head.

“No? What else do you need?” Eddie knows exactly what he needs, and he knows Steve is so far gone that talking is damn near impossible at this point. “You need to suck something? My fingers maybe?”

Steve shakes his head. Maybe next time.

“Need your cum.”

Eddie groans as he starts fucking into Steve faster, making the bedframe hit the wall behind them. They really need to look into getting something to dull the noise. They’ll never be able to do anything when they have guests over at this rate.

“That’s all you need, sweet boy? Just need me to fill you up, put the plug in, make sure nothing leaks out so you can give me a baby?” Eddie is breathless now, stomach and arms tense as he holds himself at the perfect angle to hit the oversensitive bundle of nerves inside Steve.

“Mhm, gonna-” Steve moans. “Gonna give you a baby. All the babies. Ten babies.”

Steve feels Eddie’s warm breath against his neck.

“Ten’s a lot, sweetheart,” he laughs against his neck before placing a gentle kiss over his moles. “You gonna come for me again?”

Steve nods, but he isn’t sure he can. He can barely even feel his cock anymore, so he’s not sure he’s got anything left in the tank.

Eddie moans against his jaw, hips stuttering to a much slower rhythm as he comes. Steve feels the warmth inside him, can already feel it dripping out. He whines at the loss.

“I know, baby,” Eddie wipes at a stray tear as he pulls back, but not out. “Come for me. Let me feel you.”

Steve thinks he comes. He’s pretty sure he passes out, too.

When his eyes open again, Eddie’s holding him, playing with his hair and humming softly. He’s still sweaty, but he doesn’t have any cum dried on him. The plug is snug inside him, holding as much of Eddie inside as possible.

“With me, Stevie?” Eddie whispers. It’s the quietest moment they’ve shared since he woke up to Eddie in bed with him.

“Kinda.”

Eddie’s hand brushes up and down his back, fingers poking gently into his spine.

“Can’t believe you didn’t wait for me.”

“Was nervous,” Steve yawns.

“Is it okay?” Eddie asks.

Steve nods against his chest. “Really okay.”

“You’re gonna be sore later.”

“‘S okay. Feel full.”

“We gonna talk about the ten babies thing?” Eddie asks, not judging, never judging, just curious.

“Gonna give you ten babies. ‘S what I said,” Steve is too tired to stay awake.

“Might be difficult with our current anatomy, but we can give it an honest try,” Eddie is laughing softly as he talks.

“Try again later,” Steve barely mumbles out before he drifts back to sleep.

[tpwk-formula1]

Daniel Riccardo Sicilian crust Red Sauce Ham Lemonade Mt Dew (dom!reader) Yes Dessert

Lee-Lee's Pizzeria Menu

sicilian crust hooking up red sauce rough sex ham "You're so infuriating. Walking around like you own the place and then come back to my room to get fucked properly" lemonade body worship mt dew dom/sub dessert yes served by Daniel Riccardo

Daniel x FWB! reader

TW - riding, dom(kinda reader), more sweet sex than rough, face sitting, praise

WC - 1600+

Y/N POV

"Danny come here," I tell Daniel when he finally shows back from the Paddock well past 2 in the morning.

I was tired, my body was exhausted but Daniel was wired and needed to be doing something I could tell that much.

"Do you want to talk about anything?" I asked Daniel when he crawled into the bed next to me.

He just shook his head and we fell silent for a few minutes just sitting on our phones decompressing from the long day when he finally spoke up.

"Can I ask you something?" Says Daniel making me up my phone down and give him my full attention.

"Of course always," I reply back softly.

"Can you be in charge?" Daniel asks making me raise a brow slightly in confusion.

"In charge of what Danny?" I ask back.

"Like can you like dom me?" Danny asks softly making me smile and laugh a little.

"Why?"

"Cause I wanna be a pillow princess for a day," Danny replies back making both of us bust out laughing before I finally just shrug my shoulders and agree.

"I mean it seems fun," I tell him softly.

"Strip, now," I say after a couple seconds instantly making the atmosphere in the room change. Daniel was staring at me with his jaw dropped in complete shock at the change in my voice.

"I didn't say stare at me. I said to strip now," I tell him again when he made no effort to start stripping. I gently pushed Daniel's shoulder snapping him out of whatever trance he was in and instantly started stripping into nothing leaving him completely bare on top of the white comforter the hotel had provided.

When Daniel was sprawled out on the bed I pulled off my sleep shirt leaving me in just lacey panties I was planning to wear to bed.

I crawled on top of Daniel's lap and bent down to kiss him a few times muttering a few incoherent words before trailing my kisses down his jaw and neck making sure to hit all his sweet spots.

"You're so good Daniel, you deserve the world," I tell him softly while still placing soft kisses around his chest.

With the way that I was bending down over Daniel's body, I could feel his cock getting harder at the praise making me smirk slightly.

"Already getting hard for me I can feel it," I tease while taking just the tip of my finger and tracing from the tip of his cock down to his balls where I grip them into my hand slightly making Daniel hiss.

"I love the sounds you make," I continue teasing while I slowly start jerking his cock off.

"More, please give me more," Daniel whines making me smirk and shake my head no while still keeping the same slow pace that I know is torturing Daniel.

When Daniel was rock hard and even leaking a little bit of precum I release his cock resulting in Daniel letting out a loud whine in retaliation which just makes me smirk more before I slip my panties off taking a few extra seconds due to the weird angle I was at.

Once my panties where off I crawl next to Daniel's body up to his head where I give him a soft smirk before swinging one of my legs over his head so my soaked core was above him.

"I wanna cum two times and then I'll give you want you want," I tell Daniel making him instantly wrap his arms around my thighs and pulling my down so I was seated right on his mouth. Daniel wastes no time in pulling my clit into his mouth making me let out a loud moan.

I lean down slightly and pull Daniel's cock into my mouth sucking on the tip slightly.

I knew what I was doing to Daniel's cock would not be enough to make him cum which had his hips squirming and bucking trying to get more stimulation.

Daniel slipped two fingers into my tight walls and instantly found my G-spot making me moan around his cock.

While Daniel and I weren't technically lovers and just friends we still explored each other's bodies often. Daniel knew how to make me cum in a matter of minutes and I know how to make Daniel cum in a matter of minutes. It was a stupid little deal we made when we were both horny teenagers and now well into adulthood have continued to be each other's person when we are both single. It was nice not having to find a random man to hook up with when I'm in need. I just had to call my best friend and he would be at the door in a matter of minutes.

"Danny," I gasp when I feel my first orgasm approaching making Daniel speed up just slightly which resulted in me cumming all over his fingers and face.

I knew when I moved from Daniel's body his face would be covered in my slick as he has always been such a messy eater.

"Fuck, I need you now," I groan before climbing off of Daniel's face. Fuck the other orgasm I needed Daniel's cock in me right now.

I climb back into Daniel's lap wasting no time in sinking down his cock and instantly start bouncing. I gave myself no time to adjust not wanting to give Daniel anytime for his brain to process the pleasure.

"Fuck," Daniel groans after a few seconds. He was already breathing fast and gripping at my hips helping me keep up the brutal pace that surely would leave me with a bruised cervix but we both needed this kind of fucking right now.

You're so infuriating. Walking around like you own the place and then come back to my room to get fucked properly" I tell Daniel with a smirk making his eyes go wide when he realized what I had said to him.

It was one of the first degrading things he had said to me when we were in the early stages of hooking up and I instantly slapped him in the face not understanding how degrading worked. It was something we had talked about over the years laughing slightly but now in this moment, I could see Daniel's eyes darken in pure lust loving every moment of being my bitch.

"Fuck," Daniel groans, while gripping onto my hips in a bruising fashion. I loved riding Daniel's cock, it was one of the angles that made me feel Daniel all over. Like the way his cock hits all the right places over and over again.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum," Daniel groans while trying to pull me off his cock to blow his load but I just push his hands away and lean down on Daniel's chest before moving my hips in short but fast thrusts making Daniel whine and still try to push me away but I stayed firm in my position.

"Get up, I'm gonna-" But before Daniel can even finish his sentence he starts cumming deep into my pussy making me start cumming just from the feeling of his cum hitting the walls of my pussy.

When I started cumming I stopped thrusting my hips but made sure to keep rocking my hips to help ride both Daniel and I's orgasms out.

"Fuck, I came in you," Daniel says when we both come down from our highs.

"Are you clean?" I ask a question I already know the answer to.

"Yes, you know this," Daniel replies back while turning on his side and pulling me to his chest so we can cuddle.

"Then it's not an issue," I say simply with a shrug. Daniel just shook his head in confusion but not really question it any further. When we got into adulthood we stopped using protection as much but Daniel had always pulled out per my request but I started birth control about a year ago for other reasons and I finally feel like I've been taking it long enough to feel somewhat okay.

"Fuck, I'm gonna wanna cum in you every time now," Daniel says with a smirk making me laugh slightly.

"That's fine, I'm on birth control now," I tell Daniel making me look at me with pure shock. It had been something I refused to take for years scared of it ruining my body but after being diagnosed with PCOS I knew I needed a bit of help.

"Well, whatever you think is best for your body I will always support," Daniel tells me softly before pulling me in for a slow kiss.

"Thank you," Daniel says after a few seconds of silence.

"For?" I ask back a little confused. Daniel had never once thanked me for sex so I was confused why he would start over a decade later.

"For making life a little easier to live, and being the best kind of distraction," he replied back honestly making me smile and wrap my arms around his neck and pull him closer to me.

"You've always been my favorite distraction. And truthfully I loved every moment of tonight," I reply back making Daniel smile.

"I could tell, I'm definitely gonna let you take over more often, love the way your pussy grips my cock when you ride me," Daniel replies back making my face heat.

"Go on a date with me," I tell Daniel making his head shoot up but a smile across his face.

"I know you were in charge tonight but I wanted to ask you out first," Daniel said with a joking whine laced in his voice.

"Beat ya to it! you had all these years to ask," I reply back with a smile.

"But yes, I will go on a date with you. A real one though, one with the intention of making you more than just my best friend I fuck almost daily," Daniel said.

"Good, cause I don't think I can keep seeing you date shitty woman," I reply back honestly making Daniel smile and pull me in a bit tighter.

[i-starcreamed]

Hi I heard you make transformers one oneshot umm I hope you won't mind, this actually a D-16 oneshot " what if his s/o get shoted instead of Orion" or " D - 16 meeting s/o for the first time"

D-16 / MEGATRON X READER

I combined both requests :3

cybertronian!reader SPOILERS FOR TF ONE Puree angst, character death, sadness :(

You were also a miner, like Orion and D-16. You met in a similar way they did.

You grunted, your limbs aching from pushing around the minecart around all day. It was filled with raw energon rock at this point, so it was a lot heavier. Last night, you hadn’t recharged well, and now you felt like you were running on your last drop of consciousness... Your optics widened when you unexpectedly bumped into something in front of you, sending your minecart toppling over and spilling its contents.

“Oh, I’m so sorry—“ You hissed, watching all the progress of the day come crashing down onto the floor. You pursed your mouth in frustration; this really sucked.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright. Let me help you out, here.” A calm voice came from in front of you, prompting you to avert your optics toward the bot you had bumped into. You paused--hmmm, he was a handsome bot. You eyed his armor for a moment before realizing you were staring.

“Sorry! Uh, I’d appreciate that. I wasn’t looking where I was going.” You muttered, kneeling down to pick up your rocks, him beside you. He let out a small spurt of a gruff chuckle.

“No worries. Hey, I haven’t seen you around here. I’m D-16.” He introduced himself, you still remember the way he smiled at you. You nervously smiled back

“I’m Y/N. I was actually uh...promoted just recently. I’ve never mined energon before. It’s harder than I thought.”

“Oh, well, it gets easier. You get better at it too.” He said, tossing the last bit of rock back into your cart and helping you turn it upright.

“So where were you headed off to?” He asked, walking beside you now.

You took a deep breath. “To the trains? I was told to report to Elita-1 afterward.”

“Psh, really? That’s a coincidence, so am I.” He said lightly, grinning at you. You couldn’t help but chuckle.

It started as a friendship—you, Orion and D-16. You were a little trio. Despite this, Orion always noticed the particular… attention you paid specifically to D. When the three of you joked around, you would always look toward him to watch his reaction—or rather, his smile. You became bashful when he helped you with something, he, in turn, softened up around you. It didn’t take long for Orion to see right through you—meanwhile, D remained completely oblivious!! History says you were just friends

Eventually, you two started dating! You made a sweet couple, with Orion constantly third-wheeling. You can imagine everything you went through after kind of illegally participating in the race, getting thrown to Level 50 as a punishment, and uncovering the location of the Primes.

You watched as your lover changed, and it pained you. You saw his anger slowly shift and shift, first towards his best friend, then at everyone else. You watched as he became feverishly focused on killing Sentinel.

“D, don’t!”

Your yell went silent as you ran in front of sentinel, the blast from D’s cannon hitting you instead of him. The impact blasted through your chest, ripping through armor, your casing, and your wiring—until it struck your spark. This was the turning point when D-16 became.. Megatron. His optics widened, he stopped seeing red for a split second.

He watch as your body fell, the whole world seemed to come to a halt.

“Y/N!” He yelled and dived after your body, momentarily forgetting about his anger. Before you could fall into the depths of Iacon, he caught your arm. He didn’t waste a second as he desperately tried to pull you up. You had no strength left to help yourself--your body hung limp.

“Why! Why did you do that!?” He yelled at you, his voice shaking. As you slipped between consciousness, you realized you’d never heard your lover so emotional. Not like this.

“You can’t go, you can’t, you can’t you can’t—“

“D…”

Your arm started slipping from his digits. “I’m so sorry…you have to.. stop this. Please,” you whispered out, the light in your optics flickering.

Megatron stared at you, partly in disbelief at you and himself. “I’m sorry. I’m going to fix this, I-I promise,” He hissed, his servo desperately holding on. You knew you didn’t have much time left.

“D, please don’t this. I love you. I always will. No matter what I’ll always remember you as my D-16.” You whispered.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, roaring in anguish as your body slipped from his grip. He watched as you descended into the depths of your planet. You were going to become a part of Cybertron again, just as they all started out as. He’s so sorry.

He’s sorry he’s not the D-16 you knew.

Despite this loss, he still became Megatron. Afterall, he had nothing to lose now.

[starsofang]

“You’re droolin’.”

You whipped your head over to Kyle, who eyed you from the classroom beside you. You sputtered, quickly covering your mouth while he snickered.

“I am not,” you hissed in warning, risking a glance at the room in front of you and praying the man inside didn’t hear.

“Mm,” Kyle hummed, crossing his arms and watching as his students piled into his class, giving him sweet little ‘hello!’s in greeting. “Don’t know why you haven’t talked to him yet. He’s a nice guy.”

Your eyes drifted over to the classroom across from you, staring at the neighboring teacher who’d captured your heart from the moment you started working at the school.

Mr. Price stood at his desk, speaking with a chatty child and smiling kindly, nodding along as he listened. He paid no mind to you, entirely distracted. It was a wonder if he even knew you taught across from him.

It was a painfully one-sided crush. A silly, childish feeling, one you were sure he’d find strange if he found out about you, the quiet teacher that admired him from five feet across the hall.

“I don’t want to make a fool out of myself,” you sighed, shoulders deflating. One of your students waltzed into your classroom, greeting you cheerfully, so you put on a smile, welcoming them in.

“Ach, you’re just worryin’ for nothin’,” he dismissed lazily. “You’ve gotta talk to him one of these days. How else will you get him to ask you out? Or maybe you’re the one that likes takin’ the reins.”

You threw him a glare and Kyle only snickered some more, dodging the pen you threw his way.

Once your last student arrived, you sighed helplessly, tossing one last look into Mr. Price’s classroom. Your heart yearned to talk to him, but your brain begged you to stay in the shadows.

You felt silly for liking a fellow teacher you’d never formally met, but you couldn’t help it. You’d catch yourself mindlessly watching him across the hall, glimpsing into the open door and melting at the way he treated his students.

He was a large man, brutish and tough, but the way he was with his students was the complete opposite. He was attentive, always giving them his direct focus as not to make them feel unheard. His teaching style was fun, and you often heard his kids laughing boisterously with the activities he had planned for the day.

He was a wonderful teacher, and naturally, the longer you observed, the more your attraction grew.

God, you were hopeless. Hopelessly in love, that is. There’d never be a time where you’d muster up the courage to talk to him.

Forcing yourself to look away, you saluted Kyle, entering the confines of your own classroom and willing away the racing thoughts of the handsome teacher across from you.

The day dragged, and God gave you no mercy with your set of kids together. Whatever had riled up your students to be so hyper had cost you your sanity, and it felt like days until you were giving them all a loving farewell, helping them shrug on their backpacks and watching them leave for the busses so they could head on home and call it quits for the day.

As much as you wanted to join in on going home and collapsing into bed, you stayed behind to catch up on grading papers; which, really, you thought was a waste, considering your students were mere kids.

What grades did they need? They were barely at the age of comprehending ridiculous math equations, or what a mammal was.

Regardless, you set forth to work, flipping through an endless stack of papers until you felt your fingers would fall off.

It was only a couple of hours later when a grueling headache slammed against your temples, causing you to groan in the solitude of your classroom. You needed a coffee. Or a shot. Something.

You decided to go with the coffee for now, forcing yourself out of your chair. When you entered the quiet hallways, you noticed the lights off in Mr. Price’s classroom with no sign of life occupying it.

He must’ve gone home for the day. A pity, really. Another day, another failure.

Kyle was no where to be found, either. Even he wouldn’t be able to save you from your own painful misery.

Slumping in disappointment, you made your way to the break room. The coffee in the school tasted like shit, and you avoiding drinking it as much as possible, but you were desperate. Today hadn’t been very kind to you, and your kids had erupted chaos into your life.

You loved your students, but that shit coffee would be the only thing to get you through until tomorrow, where you’d do it all over again.

Upon entering, you shuffled into the break room with your goal set. However, the moment you noticed a familiar somebody sitting at the break room table, sipping on his own cup, it instantly slipped from your mind, forgotten.

“Oh,” Price breathed, looking up at you. He set his mug down, offering you a smile that had your breath catching in your throat. “Hello. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize anybody was still here. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. What were you supposed to say? You’d practiced endlessly on how to talk to him, memorizing a script in your head so you wouldn’t fuck up, but it didn’t entail this. You weren’t prepared!

“I—” You took in a sharp breath, panicking. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, oh god, you looked so stupid—

“You teach across from me, right?” he asked, leaning back in the chair. “I never got to introduce myself. You know how it is with the kids and all, they’re always bouncin’ off the walls, so it’s hard to find the time.”

He cleared his throat, taking another sip of his coffee.

He… noticed you? Sure, it was hard not to, the two of you worked a mere few feet away from each other, but you didn’t know he knew you were there.

Fuck, what do you say? Your tongue felt tied up in a knot. Think.

“It’s okay, Mr. Price,” you said instead, stumbling over your words. “I know the kids get us all caught up.

His eyebrows shot up in surprise, unaware you knew his name. If only he knew the extent of it.

“Ah, well I suppose there’s no need for introduction, then,” he laughed, smiling brightly. You felt your knees buckle. “No need to call me Mister, though. You can just call me John.”

You could feel every part of your body warm up. This felt like a fever dream. You desperately needed Kyle to pinch you awake.

“John,” you breathed out, testing the name on your tongue. It was embarrassing how much you enjoyed it. “It’s, ah, nice to formally meet you.”

“Mm, you too,” John said proudly. He stood from his chair, grabbing his cup to empty it into the sink. “I’ve gotta run, it’s gettin’ late. You have a ride home?”

You nodded dumbly, silently cursing yourself for having a working car.

“Right then. See you tomorrow, aye?” He offered another one of those award-winning smiles, bidding you farewell and leaving you in the break room alone.

You didn’t move from your spot, your feet glued to the floor. Your heart pounded erratically, your mind blurring into a fog.

God, you felt like the school girl with a crush, not the teacher. You didn’t realize how deep your crush ran for the man, but now that you’d gotten a glimpse into conversing with him, it festered into you like an aggravating tick.

When two cups of coffee later didn’t help with the burrowing feelings, you decided to give up on grading papers, heading home to try and scrub your mind until tomorrow.

You were more anxious than ever today. You couldn’t stand still, constantly shifting on your feet while your hands wrung nervously behind your back. Kyle eyed you suspiciously from his classroom door beside you, saying nothing as his kids piled into the room.

Your mind was plagued with thoughts of yesterday, replaying over and over the kindness John had given you. You thought that maybe you were overthinking it.

He was simply being generous. After all, Kyle said he was a nice guy, and surely he wouldn’t have just ignored you when you came into the break room. That would’ve been rude, right?

“Good mornin’,” Price greeted you softly, blinding you with his smile that was nearly buried under his facial hair. “Hope you didn’t stay too late last night. Don’t drink too much coffee today, aye?”

You stared bug eyed as he stepped into the comfort of his classroom, greeting his kids enthusiastically while you stood in your doorway like a complete idiot.

“…What the hell was that?” Kyle whispered aggressively, eyes narrowing in on you. He leaned closer to keep as quiet as possible, but you shushed him anyway, begging him to keep his voice down. “You talked to him?”

“Only briefly!” you defended, resolve crumbling. “We ran into each other in the break room last night and he introduced himself. He was being nice.”

“I’m wounded,” Kyle gasped, feigning hurt. He placed a dramatic hand on his chest. “You finally talk to the man you have the hots for and you don’t even tell me, your friend.”

You groaned, sinking against your door, sulking. “It was a polite conversation, barely one of substance.”

Kyle tsked, shaking his head. One of his students skipped up to the door, greeting a ‘good morning, Mr. Garrick!’. “You’re hopeless,” he sighed, giving you a lazy wave before entering his classroom.

Frowning to yourself, you watched as your final students filed inside, giving you happy smiles. Oh, to be a kid again. Maybe then, you wouldn’t be so worked up over your coworker. You really did have to hots for him.

You stepped inside your classroom, turning to kick out the door stopper and seal it tight. As you did so, you couldn’t help yourself and you glanced over at Mr. Price’s classroom.

You nearly melted into the ground when you caught his eye, and he gave you a gentle wave, smiling kindly.

Quickly ushering the door shut, you hurried to your desk to hide your embarrassment. As your kids chattered amongst themselves, you took a few moments to mull over your pounding over, begging it to slow.

You didn’t know whether or not you wanted him to go back to not knowing you existed, or to greet you tomorrow morning, then the next. All you knew was that you were completely and utterly fucked.

[pparacxosm]

wounded in

(blue-eyed son part 2: electric boogaloo !!!! ; (hate to be that gal but you may have to read the first bit for context); homeless era!patrick zweig x jaded businesswoman!reader; nonlinear narrative; tw office job; tw coworkers; tw mcdonald’s; the sound of music stuff is for myself; i fucking love sound of music; and i fucking love cats (the animal not the musical, though that's lovely too) so there’s that; pushing a patrick zweig can’t spell agenda; tw new england maybe; i gave new rochelle a better rap this time; kiss scene kindaaaa ??..? ; tashi coaching patrick after new rochelle is canon to me; tw descriptions of emojis; what if i told you there’s a part 3; then what)

You hold in a bout of laughter when Patrick brings the drinks to the table.

His hair is longer than the last time you saw him, which wasn’t that long ago, in scale. In bones, in feels like a while.

Dear old New Rochelle. Far enough out that the city is a twinkle on the horizon like a cluster of stars, far enough that there are some actual stars above you, now. It’s odd to see him in New England. It’s odd to see him in jeans. But then it’s September.

There are new lines on his face already. He’s aging quicker now, as if to make a point.

Drinks are on me,

Is the first thing Patrick told you, when you walked in in a juniper parka. Scanned the room, picked out his booth.

Is this the part where you tell me you’ve opened a savings account? you said, trying to seem completely blasé about it. It would have been childish to be thrilled by such meagre chivalry at twentyeight. I feel like I should pay, you’re in my city.

Yeah, but you’ve hosted me enough for now.

That’s what you are, half the time. A host to him.

A museum. Thumbing through a rolodex of all the different shades of blue his eyes could go in one humid night.

You pass on more nights out than you accede to. You got a cat. You’re getting LASIK soon. But what it really looks like is that you’re wearing glasses to show that time has passed.

“What’re you smiling about?” Patrick asks, placing the foamy mug of beer in front of you.

You wipe discreetly under your eyes, spreading the mascara smudge. “Just thinking about how my aweinspiring generosity has rescued you from the misery of total squalor.”

Patrick chuckles. “Well, they say to pay it forward.” He sounds pleased as he lifts his own mug with a wink.

You look out the window. There’s a film of dust on it. There’s dust on the faux-chintz curtains too.

You start to wonder if that’s what he really thinks. That this is him going forward.

Patrick picks up the plastic menu. “We ordering sidedishes or do we want a full dinner? What’s good in Wellesley?”

You try to laugh, though the noise has the distinct tender hue of a sob. But you’re sure you feel mostly fine. “What are you doing here?”

“Hm?”

“What are you doing in Wellesley?”

Patrick looks up at you with bright, twinkling eyes. “Challenger in Boston. Thought it’d be a waste not to come see you.”

You clench your jaw to prevent more runny mascara. It’s stupid. You don’t much like waste either. But you’re not going to weep in front of Patrick like a child.

“You hungry?”

You nod, picking up your own menu, hiding your face behind it.

His hand reaches suddenly across the table, trying to touch yours. You pull away, but make it look like you didn’t.

“Bet you had a hard time leaving Tobes for the night,” he says, trying to lift the mood.

“Um yeah. A little. I like to imagine what she gets up to when I’m away.”

“My sister had a cat, when we were young. My sister was, like, seventeen, and I was eight, so pretty big gap.”

Because he has to clarify those sorts of things. Because you don’t know he has a sister. You don’t know anything.

You find it hard to picture him pinned down in any humane way. It’s always his beautiful leg (now sheathed in denim) writhing in a bear trap. Always his papery wings unfurled and pinned against a picture frame like a butterfly. Something metamorphosed. Something capable of a great change, and that must be tortured for it.

“She found the cat in an alleyway. She called it Patrick.”

You lift your eyes. You feel it bubbling in you like magma, the urge to coo. You feel all soft these days. And maybe that’s just open heart season, and the passage of time. But you see a vivid meridian in your life, and it falls right along the night you met this guy. And this back half is all soft, so you sort of want to blame him.

You swallow.

“Well, that’s sweet.”

Patrick lowers the menu. “Nope,” he shakes his head, that huge smirk on his face, like his name is on every ticket of the raffle, like he’s cheating at something. “Let me tell you what she used to do. She used to put the fucker in, like, a blanket, right? And she’d lift it up like a sack, with him inside, and he’d obviously start clawing and making all of these noises—“

He makes the noises. Just starts whipping his head around and making kitten growls, imitating this cat with his name. You get the sense that this is one of those anecdotes that explains a lot about a person.

“—And she’d come into my room, in, like, the middle of the night—this is real psycho shit—and she’d lift my covers and drop the cat. And the shit would fucking claw at me and bite me, just—“

He’s doing the noises again. And now he’s clawing at the air with his hands.

He stops, and the way he closes his mouth around his grin makes his teeth look like they’re trying to escape past his lips. But it looks sort of lovely.

“When the fuck died, Saskia texted me. She was like, oh, he loved you so much, you should’ve said goodbye.” He pauses, widens his eyes, looks at you with the pointed intimacy of sharing in this ludicrousness.

You roll your eyes. But you catch yourself smiling. You like the idea of him being mauled like that, skin deep. You get the sense that life has done to him a lot of that—those growls and scratches. And that sounds a little fucked. But what you like about it is how he seems so unmoved now, by this psycho shit. This flailing animal, this torture device. Pinning him down. He's laughing.

You try to imagine him as a child, but the proportions are all comically bizarre, in your mind’s eye.

“Pork chops,” you say, throwing the menu aside. “I feel like stuffing my face.”

Patrick gets three sausage egg McMuffins on the way to the New Rochelle Country Club—and fries, and a hash, and a soda—and he’s eating the second by the time you pull out of the drivethru.

There is a compelling sense of chaos to how he drives. Like, he’s so bad at driving. Three different people honk at him in a dozenminute window. And you feel content knowing that whatever had had your heart thumping last night has not shrivelled and died with the morningtime. Though now it’s maybe a partial distress for your safety. But you get the sense that, maybe, this is actually the person you are now. The woman who sleeps beside a rugged stranger and buys him breakfast and doesn’t care how he speaks with his mouth open while he’s eating the fries. Doesn’t care about the writhing mire of half chewed potato on his tongue. The way his lips gleam pink with salt.

“I need to listen to really specific music to, like, get in the zone? If you don’t mind?”

He sounds so uncharacteristically shy, for brief a moment. You have to lean forward and look to see he isn’t joking. He isn't.

“Uh— yeah, of course. It’s your car.”

He slides a Sound of Music soundtrack disc into the mouth of the dashboard.

You laugh so hard you fold over.

He’s got one hand on the wheel, and shifts is his seat, peeling the unfamiliarly clean skin of his thighs off the leather before sitting back down. He’s tearing into his third breakfast sandwich with a reckless abandon reserved for death row. He laughs around the bite, glancing, bemused, between you and the road, and, ultimately, spending more time looking at you.

“What?” he laughs around a halfmasticated mouthful. “What?”

There are tears sluicing down your face. You can’t breathe. You think you can, and then you start laughing again, and you can’t.

“How do you solve a problem like Maria?” Patrick hums cheerily as he noshes. It’s a gross and wonderful noise, the food moving between his teeth, circumventing Hammerstein.

You think the large coke is probably no performance enhancer, not only because he all but tumbles out of the car when it’s hardly halfway parked (poorly, you’ll add).

“Fuck, need to piss,” he says frenetically.

When you know the notes to sing…, carols Julie Andrews.

You’re still laughing. Crying. Your tummy fluttering painfully.

Patrick makes you order dessert too, since you’re celebrating.

Celebrating what? you had to ask, though, at the time, you were wearing an impish, knowing, frankly celebratory sort of smile.

Patrick feigned great offense. He said, I’m fucking here, aren’t I?

He wants you to have sundaes together. You spill some ice cream on your skirt. He finds that funny. He’s always got this weasel smile, like he’s constantly ready for amusement. He’s shaved, at some point between now and then. The hairs on his face are sparser. The skin on his face looks milky and organic like a crinite litchifruit.

The frumpy diner was his idea too.

He’s spent some time on the veritable extremes of the economic spectrum—that’s what life tends to be for him; veritable extremes, scratching him meanly—and now he just wants to play at being the average wage earner.

“You really are welcome to stay with me, if you’d like.”

Patrick looks at you like he’d rather shoot himself.

You sort of marvel at his sense of pride, as if it were a rare stone, swallowing light and spewing it out at all angles. The Sociology course you took in uni had a whole two modules on personal pride. It is one of the few emotions that are unique to humans.

Patrick—for his weasel smile and beastly hunger and feline anti—is remarkably proficient in being human. In the real, visceral parts of it. In wielding his emotions like kaleidoscope hues. Dancing freely in confinement.

“When are you leaving?”

“Don’t worry about that. If you have time for breakfast tomorrow, we can—”

“Mm, not tomorrow, I don’t think. But I have no plans this weekend.”

You say it with this weird, bright intonation, like you’re jesting. Which—a lot of things feel like a bit of a joke these days. But he seems to understand you well enough. Delivers a curt, unspurned nod, and even a smile. Not the weasley, chronicling one. The wolfish one that makes his eyes crinkle up.

“Come here then,” he says.

Patrick leans in for a hug. You can’t avoid it. He enfolds you in a fascinatingly soft, burning embrace. He still smells sort of musky and acrid. Like even though he can shower regularly now, he maybe doesn’t as often as he should. But you find a gross comfort that. This pleasantly fetid, human man. His cologne smells like a wine cellar.

He says, “It’s nice to see you again.”

Something churns in your belly. Maybe the pork chops. Maybe the ice cream. This whole fucking day. You accidentally deleted some files and IT spent five hours trying to help you unsheathe them from oblivion. You felt like a failure. And now you’re here and,

“Fuck, you’re still so cool.”

You push away from him with a forceful laugh.

You used to be able to tell your sister all kinds of things. But, lately, you haven’t been able to talk to anyone about anything.

Working so many years for a soulless corporate hive mind has turned you into an expert at short, polite, and meaningless feedback that only varies with inflection.

“Right”, “Sure”, “Got it”, “Whatever you think is best”, “Already on it”.

Half the time you sound illiterate. The other half, you sound like you could have written Prozac Nation.

When your sister asks, how was New Rochelle? she expects you to say something annoyingly vague and ominous in your cool, collected adjunct’s voice, like: Everything is under control.

But, instead, you say, “Do you and Mark still go to mass? I really want to start giving more of myself away.” And you’re wearing this smile that’s utterly sincere.

That’s what spooks your sister.

Of course, you want to tell her more. Because your sister married a Herman Melville character; one of those grizzly, stinky, sacerdotal men who don’t want to work but don’t want to lose either. You know your tale of Linklateresque, serendipitous connection would render her mesmerised and marginally jealous.

But, soft and charitable as you may now be, you keep it all to yourself.

Patrick is still in Massachusetts a fortnight later. You say you’d have loved to come and see him play, but you’re really busy, and he says not to sweat it. Insists really. Maybe even begs. Do not sweat it.

You text him, presumably a day or two afterwards, and ask how it went.

Smahsed it!, he texts, and garlands the (misspelled) notion with eight sunglassfaced emojis. You counted. Dibner? he texts.

Then, a moment later,

*dinner?

You get to see your first New Rochelle sunrise.

You slink out of bed with toothfairy softness, even though Patrick is sleeping the sleep of death—with a deep, miserable snore like a resounding dirge to prove it—beside you. Your pillow wall, in the night, had collapsed like Berlin in 89.

You step outside. You check your phone, first, but you do go outside. You do believe in fresh air in the mornings, even if you don’t have the fortitude for mindfulness and journaling.

The parking lot is a vast open soul. Regretfully resigned and stunningly silent.

The sky looks like a bleeding mouth, but the hard grey edges around it don’t seem to care. The concrete enterprises and litter splay do not want anything to do with this bruise. A tart, sort of sewery smell makes your eyes water.

Cars drive by too fast. 

You think, in some faraway capacity, you can hear the soft, rhythmic thunk of tennis balls hitting asphalt. But it’s only your heart.

You hear things. You see things.

You don’t want to sound like some haunted Victorian heiress with a mystical past, but you do.

In the break room, mostly.

So you hadn’t noticed before. Your coworker, Sam, goes fucking wild for tennis. Sam’s slobbering lewd and voracious over tennis. It’s hard to witness. In fact, you feel dirty witnessing this. You should call HR. Sam’s in the break room doing an onanistic oneman scene play about tennis.

Or maybe he just kind of likes it.

And you hadn’t noticed it before.

There’s a lot, for your part, that you were content not noticing around the office.

But now every errant tenniscentric commentary makes your hands feel sore and weightless without the presence of a gun.

“No, you don’t get it, Deirdre, this is like if LeBron played a game at some random Y, and got dunked on by this fuckin’ nobody, and then just… quit the game.” He sounds tumid with bewilderment. “Just fuckin’ dipped!” Sam’s incredulous. “Forever!”

“LeBron…?”

“Fuck, Deirdre, you’re killing me.”

You slot the mouth of your bottle beneath the spout of the water cooler. You close your eyes—zombieleaden, uneven on the tiles; it’s only 10—and listen to the halting trickle, trickle… stream. The plastic goes cold against your palm as the water rises.

“All because of some… fuckin’,” Sam snaps his fingers, “Fuck, I forget the name.”

Peter Zeppelin, your mind supplies dryly.

It is then that Sam chooses to notice you. Points his finger. Wide smile. “Oh-ho, here’s trouble!” says Sam.

Sam and you have had enough one on one conversations for you to list on your one free hand, and you wouldn’t be spoiled for digits. But, all the same,

“Here’s trouble!” Sam announces, “Big shot boss babe, huh? Back from kickin’ rear in New Rochelle. I know you’re glad to be back.”

You don’t say anything. You feign responsiveness, flash a stilted smile. But you don’t say anything. Because what would you say?

Outside the men’s bathroom of the New Rochelle Country Club, you fidget awkwardly, standing against a wall and trying to look inconspicuous. Patrick’s duffel sits at your heels like a staunch hound.

Your gaze meanders around the venue with an idle sense of inquiry.

You’d expected a certain echelon of grandiosity, anyway. And the country club is nice—you feel silly casting any judgement at all—if a little outdated. All glossy wood-panelling and pea green outdoor carpet.

You can see yourself, warped and bleary, upon the polished floor. The bar flourishes a glassy sheen and cloistered amber rows of lavish whiskeys.

Through glass windows, golf splays unfurl, ceaseless viridescence, beset on all sides by sharpcornered hedges.

People mill about with the air of the lookedafter, and polo shirts as white as the maw of God.

Which is nice—it’s all nice—and all, but your chest seems to enwreathe a stark state of dread. You feel the sort of nausea that would rack you as a child. Floating in the curtains at your dance recitals, like an anxious little poltergeist.

When Patrick emerges from the loo, he is whistling. Fluting finely the swooping tune of ‘Sixteen Going on Seventeen’.

“You certainly seem unburdened,” you murmur, gaze shadowing him as he draws near. You know you sound unconvinced. For his part, he looks undeterred.

Slings his bag over his shoulder like it is floatable, even as you know it bears the poundage of half a man’s life.

He grins, flashing a canine.

To you, he has just eaten his weight in greasy, leaden carbcloth, and proceeded to piss for twelve minutes straight.

But Patrick seems imbued by morningshine.

He throws a heavy arm around you, squeezes your shoulder. Says, “Look alive!” Says, “I’ve had a good night’s sleep, a hot shower, the breakfast of champions, and I’m about to get paid!”

You wince a bit at his volume, and also because he seems to be emanating a bit of that morningshine. Not to speak of the heat. Searing from his very bones.

If nothing else you admire his buoyancy. In that way, the warmth—even as the sun blooms above you—is a fascinating comfort.

Like something to be shared.

You say yes to dinner.

You keep having dinner. He keeps taking you out for dinner, and to decent places, too, places you haven’t even been to around here.

You’re sitting across from him. You’re eating, as one does. He’s regarding you with something like awe. Though you wouldn’t know it, because he regards, too, his plate, when the waiter rests it before him, with a sort of comical reverence. Even though you’re pretty sure he’s not starving, anymore.

But hunger’s not always about those sorts of things, you suppose. Maybe he's just still hungry.

He’s winning a lot. Must be, if he’s taking you out all the time, and—hey—maybe you can get him to sign something for Sam. That’d be nice of you.

Patrick watches you eat.

You try not to stare back at him. As long as you keep chewing, you won’t have to ask why he’s still here.

“That’s a nice shirt,” he says after a long silence.

You smile. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t text you for months, many months, after New Rochelle. You’d given him your number, because you wanted to put the ball in his court, and—fuck—here’s hoping you didn’t say that.

But you can’t recall.

It’s been months.

So, when you do get the text, you’re pleased to see it’s aptly contrite.

ypu probably think I’msn idiot, it reads, and it’s late at night and you’re already in bed, stewing over NYT Connections.

You eye the ID. Maybe: Patrick Zweig, but that’s implied—so many implicit little shards—because not a lot of people are so tortured by the prospect of your opinion on them so as to text you at 1 AM. So.

Define idiot, you text back.

dictionary defenition is Patrick Rupert Zweih. There’s prpbably even a lil picture of me next to it.

A few moments.

A bad one.

Ten or eleven emojis of abject terror.

You consider this—not a bad picture of him (though he doesn’t quite strike you as wildly photogenic anyway), just... This Whole Wound—and tap the side of your phonecase in tentative thought.

Your full name is Patrick Rupert Zweig? Tough.

Like ypu didnt already look me up.

You blink. Whoa—okay.

Not a humble idiot, I see, you type.

You don’t know where you get the balls. There’s a sweeping litany of long, gorgeous miles between your bed and New Rochelle, but maybe he can smell you thinking as much because,

Im in MA next week

In the registration room, a man with a binder asks his name, and Patrick sheathes his canine in a way that makes him look conspiratorial and bemused. You suppose it’s become an inside joke.

The ATP official seems to gleam with recognition when Patrick does give his name—his real name—and he says, “Oh wow, that is you!”

You can’t see his face from this angle, but you can envisage the way his moue has settled in confusion.

Apparently, the ATP official was a line judge at the Junior US Open back in 06.

You try to think back to what you were doing in 2006. Probably populating your microcosm in The Sims. Trapping little imitations of those who had scorned you in swimming pools to drown.

“You were really something back then, huh?” says the ATP official.

Your eyes flicker to Patrick’s profile. He doesn’t quite know how to respond to that.

The official hands Patrick a packet. There’s a little map of the facility in there, in case he gets lost. His first match is against one Gonzalez, on court seven.

Patrick says, marginally halting, “Hey, so, is there any chance of an advance payment on the prize money.”

The official blinks.

“Because I know I’m guaranteed a minimum of four hundred dollars even if I get knocked out today—“

You frown a bit at that. The official frowns a lot at that.

“Well,” he says, “Generally we don’t give out winnings until a player makes his way through the tournament…”

A beat.

Then,

“You could always just lose today. Then we’d have to cut you a check this evening.”

Patrick hardens to bone. You hope he has another lifeaffirming piss in him. He doesn’t meet your eyes when he turns to leave, but flicks you a glance that seems to ask that you spare him the judgement.

You leave New Rochelle today. Good as the night’s sleep may have been, he knows better than anyone that life’s loveliest things are fleeting.

So—fine—you don’t begrudge him. Instead,

“He seems hopeful,” you say wryly.

“Must’ve been thrown off by my pretty caddie,” he says dismissively. Maybe a little bristled.

The warmup courts, deep blue plane, shimmer in the sunheat.

Patrick takes the asphalt, flicks his racket around by its handgrip as though refamiliarising himself with the palmfeel for the first time in a while. Which—well—doesn’t give you confidence, at risk of contesting Julie Andrews.

He practices his serve. Starts to work the ball up and down the court. Hits a few forehands, a few backhands.

Then,

“He was lying,” he yells to the bleachers.

The bleachers are mostly empty. A few errant loiterers. Bored spectators who have finished their lunch earlier than their friends. What have you.

He’s looking at you, though. With a staggering precision from so far away.

“What?”

“That guy. He was lying. Or… bigging it up. Or whatever. I wasn’t really something, I was just decent.”

He strikes a ball over the net. You can see, from here, the vibration ricochet through the racketstrings with a shudder that has you expecting music to flutter out.

You lean back in your seat, sort of sliding down against the glossy plastic, a tremor of induced electric tickling your bum through your jeans. You cross your arms.

“That’s kind of bullshit,” you call out.

He spares you a glance, sort of doubletakes, and you can see the corner of his mouth tremble with intrigue.

He takes another ball from the basket. Tosses it up. You watch the neon starsphere spin fleetingly in the air before being walloped to oblivion. And what do you know of tennis? But you do think his serve is a thing of beauty. Beauty measured in power and precision, sure (he hits the ball straight and hard and fast and low, just barely clearing the net), but you can also see the way his muscles work beneath his skin. Which—you know.

Patrick walks to the fence that partitions the courts from the stands. He leans over, rests his arms on the palisade, and looks at you.

“This was the whole problem,” he tells you, “Everyone was always telling me how good I was. And it got to my head. And now I’m here.”

It’s a shabby imitation of humility. What it really is, is an attempt to scale down the apogee, so the fall seems less mythic. So the years seem less unkind.

“I didn’t come here to watch you sulk just because some guy was nice to you.”

Patrick grins. His cheeks are flushed with heat, and there are little spots of sweat on the hollows where his skin and bones meet. But he seems to know not to exert himself fully right now.

“You think I’m sulking?”

“I think you seem pretty torn up for a guy who’s going to play a thirty minute match, and walk away a few hundred dollars richer.”

He makes a noise like you’ve wounded him, but he seems elated.

“A few hundred dollars?” he says, raising his brows. “So you’ve lost your faith in me.”

“I have some,” you allow, and you’re not surprised to find that you really do. “Just don’t choke.”

Patrick wears the smile of a newly crowned Miss Universe. He looks touched that you’re being so frank.

“I won’t,” he says, with a sense of finality and what you feel is an incongruous tenderness. “I’m pretty good at dealing with pressure. My parents always used to take me to work with them and tell employees to come to me at random intervals with madeup highstakes scenarios. Like, pretending to have a breakdown, and saying they needed me to help them out and make the final decision. Some of them could cry on command.”

You try and fail to hide a look on your face that divulges how demented you think that anecdote is. But you try to find something neutral to say.

“Well, maybe you’re lucky,” you tell him. “I was horrifically nervous as a child.”

“Not anymore?” he asks, swinging his racket idly, and you get the sense he’s actually very interested in how you will answer.

So it’s hard not to answer him honestly.

“I don’t know,” you say finally, and you look away from his eyes, and instead at the sky. You’re alarmed to find they are precisely the same tincture of aegean. “Mostly not. But if I have to give a presentation or speak up in a meeting, I have to take one of those beta blockers, you know? Propranolol?”

You are stricken, at odd moments, in New Rochelle, in Massachusetts.

You get the sense that he’s trying to be cavalier. But, at the same time, there’s this unmistakable fragility about him. Like it wouldn’t take much to knock him down.

You are stricken by how he’s managed to maintain this cocksure swagger for so long. With such a brittle, aching core.

How easily it all might’ve been shaken by the wrong person, and the wrong word.

You love the smell of your dear kitty’s head right after a bath. The fluff of dandelions and baby bird. You love toweling her, taking her little paws in your hand and prying the toes open.

Toby pretends not to like being fussed over, but she doesn’t put up much of a fight. In fact, most nights, she falls asleep in your arms.

When he pays you the visit, Ms Tobes is breathing evenly in your arms, your thumb caressing the organtender slope of her silky head.

You open the door, and great weeping gales have been jostling your windows all evening. But he is in shorts.

Patrick’s been in New England for nearly a month.

There’s an odd sort of look on his face, and an unlit cigarette behind his ear.

Hands in his pockets, he leans against the door frame, staring down at you. You feel a remarkable heat radiating from the downy flesh of his bare legs.

He doesn’t seem confident, nor does he seem unperturbed. He seems… pensive and maybe even penitent, but he wears it with a fascinating poise. There’s still something wounded and vulnerable about the way of his shoulders, the slant of his mouth. It's the softness that kills you, anyway, you think incoherently. 

You peer up at him, dubious, through the briar of your lashes. He looks down at Toby, at the sweep of your finger over her head. You do not know if it is he or Toby who purrs.

When he speaks, he is whispering very softly, though there’s a frayed, low seep of his voice in his throat. It feels revoltingly intimate.

“When Patrick died,” he says, “The cat. I felt so shitty. I had this weird feeling of—like—I don’t know. Shittiness. Because of how Sassy said what she said. You should’ve said goodbye. What am I supposed to do with that, y’know?”

You swallow. The hallway is so vacant and noiseless you can hear the plush shuffle of his running shoes against the carpet. Dutifully beyond the boundary of your home, even though he’s been here quite a few times now.

“Patr—“ you croak.

“I’m not in Massachusetts for a game,” he tells you, shrugging hopelessly and almost smiling. But failing to. Which you register. “There’s no challenger in Boston. There’s just you. In Wellesley. All these… fucking ponds everywhere. Private schools. Bunch of rich little assholes who need a tennis coach, I bet. All these res—fuck. You know,” he shifts, taking the cigarette from his ear and gesturing with it between the two of you, “We’ve been out, like, twenty times, since I’ve been here, and there’s still, like, fifty restaurants we haven’t been to.”

You stare up at him. Your palms, where they cradle Toby, grow damp. The throbbing organ of your heart takes up residence in your throat. There’s a sad sort of clanging from the clock in the hall.

You lift one trembling finger to your lips.

Please, don’t say anything else, you beg with your eyes. Please, not in front of Toby.

Patrick’s eyes glint ruefully. Almost ominously. He seems insulted by your gesture, but he understands. He always understands. He never holds anything against anyone.

“No need for that,” he says very quietly. “I come in peace.”

He moves closer, breaking the enclave where the carpet of the hall meets the vinyl of your floor, until he is inches away.

A head taller, yet shrinking, as if you were seeing him from across a room.

He smells very good today. He smells like spice and bergamot and the laundered fabric of his navy blue halfzip. You sort of miss the musk. Of course you think of New Rochelle. You think of Bob Dylan and Hello Kitty and thermostats. Fucking Sally.

You lift your chin.

“I’m not asking you to—“

Patrick leans forward, his nose touching your nose.

“I’m gonna do the tennis,” he speaks the words into your mouth, voice like gravel melting in the sun.

You part your lips. A part of you hates him, hates how he’s insinuated himself in your life without warning. Another part, however, is asleep and betrays you.

He shushes you, though you’re sure you haven’t said anything. It’s just that you’re crying now. Completely still and silent. Weeping like the dead, because the dead weep, too.

He shakes his head, his nose brushing over yours, says shhh like you’re a cat, and, even then, Toby only stirs between your fingers.

“It’ll be good,” he says, and you’ve heard him sound convincing. You know that right now he sounds… something else. And he’s still shaking his head as he whispers, “It’ll be good, I’ll be good. I have a coach, I’m not done, I love the tennis.”

You look up at him. Lick your lips, which, when you’re so close, also means sort of licking his. Sort of licking into him. You want to say, fuck your tennis and fuck you too, but you also want to fuck him and you want to fuck his tennis, too.

You think of New Rochelle.

Patrick’s hand meanders upward toward Toby, and, if his cigarette was lit, you’d see sweeping coils of smoke floating heavenward.

It isn’t lit, but still.

You catch him quickly. You hold him by the wrist.

His skin is nauseatingly warm.

“You love it?” You sound unimpressed now. Your mouth moves over and around and against his as you speak.

“I do.”

“You love it, you love the tennis?” You’re sort of spitting it at him, and he tastes it.

And he thinks of Patrick the cat, how he lay there and was mauled. Pinned down. He thinks he’d let you draw blood, now, if you really wanted to.

“Tennis doesn’t love you.”

“Do you?”

There is time enough for you to answer. But when a sound is finally made it is only Toby, who mewls.

Patrick smiles. You feel the seam of his lips touch your lower teeth. “Didn’t think so.”

He straightens, his lips swiping your nose on his way up. He gently removes his arm from your grasp, your nails scraping is skin.

You exhale sharply. You feel stung.

Poor Toby, caught between your beating hearts. Patrick steps away. He places the cigarette between his lips, and then you do not stop him from touching Tobes. He strokes her gently.

“You got a lighter?” he asks around the cig.

There are three aflame candles in your home right now. He can smell the vanilla. You shake your head. He smiles again. Toby purrs. Patrick’s fingers touch yours between the heather fur.

You feel a strange ignition in your bones.

The game begins.

Everything is quick and violent.

You don’t know if tennis is actually quick and violent, or if that’s just him.

You are astounded by just how much a man can sweat. You are spellbound by the visceral implication of being drenched in one’s own exertion.

Gonzalez is younger. A little bit more thrilled to be here. And he’s got the kind of easy, quick thoroughness that means he probably practices with a ball machine at home, but not a lot of real experience.

Patrick makes brutal work of him.

There is a certain way his muscles tense through his forearm and the pulse travels up his bicep when he strikes the ball. His shirt rises as he twists to send it flying over the net. There is so much laboured breath and dripping skin.

He has you sit exactly where you sat during warmups.

Between sets, he extends his arm, taut and sweatsoused, and points to you with the scratched edge of his racket, one eye closed like he’s mapping trajectory. And he does sort of have this bloodhungry precision in his gaze, like a marksman.

You feel it in your neck, the ache of your focus, how your eyes water for lack of blinking as you swivel your head side to side. You do not close your mouth once.

He hits the ball again, and then again. Each with an almost startling accuracy. Each with a deep and fleshsatisfying thwack that makes your very ear canals thrum with the sort of pain that has you expecting the warmth of dripping crimson on your shoulders.

But it’s not just the force that strikes you. It’s that precision. That bulletgleam precision.

He seems to know, with a profound, animalic certainty, exactly where to place each shot.

At times, they will land exactly where the last landed.

And by the time his adversary cottons on, he has set his hungry eyes upon another target.

It’s beautiful.

You start to wonder if you have ever—ever—looked so fucking beautiful doing any single thing in your life. This strange and beautiful violence. Refined and delicate violence. He is violent and graceful.

Patrick groans when he hits the ball. Makes a guttural sound, a pained sort of sound, like he loses something of himself with each forceful departure.

The sun beams down, and you see his beautiful legs flex aglow with the beautiful gleam of his abject labour.

You think, fuck—

New Rochelle is beautiful.

“You know, I could have gone pro.”

Sam leans back in his Herman Miller chair. Takes a deep quaff of his coffee before pointing to Deirdre with his mug.

“You played for two years in middle school,” Deirdre deadpans, her gaze unmoving from her monitor as she populates a spreadsheet with who the fuck knows.

“This is huge, D,” says Sam, unhurt, “This is like if Jamal Mashburn started coaching the fuckin’ nobody that demolished LeBron at the Y.”

Deirdre seems to have forgotten this analogy, which, for her part, Sam first made months ago now.

“But also if Mashburn was married to Lebron,” adds Sam.

Your computer screen casts depressing polygons across your glasses. You slide your AirPods in. You don’t want to know where Bob Dylan will appear on your Spotify Wrapped.

I met one man who was wounded in love. I met another man who was wounded in hatred. And it’s a hard, it’s a hard— It’s a hard, it’s a hard—

It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

[temilyrights]

"all this to prove a point?" for the writing prompt

emily prentiss x reader

no warnings. no use of y/n or pronouns for reader.

sentence fic prompt

You rub your hands together, trying your best to generate some heat in your body. Emily’s car, while lovely, did not provide the warmth of an suv on a usual stakeout and you were seriously regretting your inability to tell this woman no. 

“All this to prove a point?” You mumble, the humour fading from your tone the longer you sit in the cold car, the September air biting away at your fingers and toes. 

Emily sits with her camera pointed at Morgan’s apartment, a determined glint in her eye. “Better personal life than me, my ass. He came straight home and hasn’t left the building since!”

You roll your eyes, wishing desperately you were home, “Yeah but he’s also not wasting his evening stalking his friend.”

Emily lowers the camera and turns to face you, brows drawn together. “He can’t make accusations like that and not expect me to find proof.” 

“Well maybe if you focused a little bit more on yourself and a little less on him then you wouldn’t need to prove it and you’d have a private life he couldn’t argue with.”  

She scoffs, “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Always so clueless.

You shake your head, annoyed, embarrassed, and frustrated by the woman in front of you. “I’m right here.”

Emily’s frown only deepens and you blow out a breath, “I invited you out for dinner tonight and instead we’re stalking Morgan and have completely missed our reservations. Every time I try to move us forward you find a way to shut it down.”

“Reservations? I thought you wanted to get take-out and head back to one of ours, like usual.” She says with genuine confusion. 

“No, I booked that nice Indian place you like.” 

“Oh,” She responds, dropping the camera firmly in her lap. 

“Look,” you sigh, “I just need to know, okay? Because maybe I’m just failing to get the hint and you’re really not interested but I thought we were going somewhere. I like you Emily.” 

“You like me? Tonight was supposed to be a date and instead I blew you off and made us sit and stake out Morgan.” She says slowly, words strangled.

“Yes.”

“Fucking hell.” She blows out a breath. The car is silent for a moment as she comes to terms with the news and then her gaze focuses back on you. “I’m so sorry. I will make this up to you. I’m taking you for the best date night starting right now.”

Your eyes widen, “Wait so that’s a-?”

She smiles, wide and happy, “Yes, idiot, I like you too. God, why else would I ask you to sit here with me?”

You can’t help but smile too. Head in the clouds as Emily puts the camera away and the keys back in the ignition. 

“Ready to go?” She asks, a playful smirk on her lips that your eyes linger on. 

“There’s just one thing first.” Because you can’t wait a moment longer. You’ve waited years. 

You lean over the centre console, hand cupping her cheek and pulling her towards you to meet you in the middle. Emily’s eyes darken instantly, her gaze dropping to your lips before they fall close and her lips softly meet yours. 

Your body hums, alive as your lips move tenderly against hers. A gentle whine escapes your lips and your body heats up as you regretfully pull away. 

“Mmmhmm,” Emily hums, lips well kissed and eyes dark. “We can definitely do that again.”

“Food?” You ask, voice strangled. Avoiding the knowing look in her eyes, suddenly shy. 

“Oh, babes, I’ve got the perfect place.”

taglist: @ry-kills-jemily @sapphic-stress @xrainydazeteax @mckennamayfairgoode @enduringalexblake @augustvandyne @themoontaxi @prentissology @alexbllake @ssa-sapphic @storiesofsvu

[des-writes]

♥ ━ How They'd Ask You Out; SFW

TW; None

Reader; GN, No pronouns or descriptions used

Characters; Al-Haitham, Kaveh, Kaeya & Diluc

Notes at the end

Al-Haitham considers himself someone that doesn't frequently experience romantic feelings. This is completely fine with him, although leaves him just a little puzzled at first when he finds himself flustered when he meets you for the first time. He doesn't let this be known, deciding to shrug this off as just simple physical attraction, considering you're rather easy on the eyes. It makes sense for his face to heat up when you get near. He doesn't remember exactly when or how the two of you started becoming friends, but he does remember when he realizes his feelings are more then just appearance based. It takes you by surprise when he does confess. It's rather sudden—in the middle of the library to be exact—, blunt and there's nothing romantic about it (he later explains how he deems it unnecessary, why would he put so much time into it without knowing if you feel the same? That would make it uncomfortable for both of you, he insisted). He doesn't want to waste time, he tells you. If you feel the same way then great, he'll plan a first 'date' to see if you're both compatible. And if you don't, he'll just walk away and get over his attraction. It does make him happy when you do reciprocate, however.

Al-Haitham plans the date by himself, mainly because it's a very casual date. He doesn't want anything serious or overly romantic, no loud, public events or romantic dinners where everyone can stare at you two. Instead he invites you over to his home, offers you a cup of tea and talks with you about every subject he can think of (while giving you chances to add your own preferred topics). It's a weird first date, but you feel like you're much closer at the end of it. And Al-Haitham is very pleased to know you two mesh well, even if it doesn't say it out loud.

Kaveh doesn't have a ton of dating experience. He's always been good looking and out-going, with quite a few potential suitors. Despite this, he's only been in a few relationships, and none of them have been serious. When Kaveh meets you he's definitely smitten, eager to spend time with you and get to know you better. He's the type of man who befriends a person before thinking about anything beyond a platonic relationship. You both know each other fairly well before he decides to ask you out. Kaveh doesn't make a speculate out of it, not wishing to embarrass himself or you. He would do it in a very private place, most likely when he's visiting you. He specifically plans a time to come over, give you one of your favorite flowers—which he had very carefully picked out, making sure it was in perfect condition— and asks you out. He clarifies it's a date, just so there's no confusion. Should you reject him, he would be a little heartbroken, but completely understanding. He wouldn't let a rejection affect your friendship. Of course if you accepted he would be absolutely ecstatic.

A first date with Kaveh would be more on the romantic side. He does the actual planning, but asks for your preferences and dislikes before making any official plans. The end he takes you to the small mountain that overlooks the The Palace of Alcazarzaray, where the two of you set up a picnic blanket and have lunch. It's a tranquil time and you both enjoy conversation until the sun sets.

Kaeya is known to be rather extroverted and charismatic. He's the type of guy to approach anyone that catches his eye. He's a very desirable man, with many people of various genders showing interest. Kaeya is a bit of a flirt (whether he means to be or not is debatable). Although it's rather lighthearted, he's would drop it in a heartbeat if it made you uncomfortable. Despite this, he isn't much for casual dating. Until he figures out if you mesh well, he doesn't make a move. When he does, he's very cool about it—although a bit nervous—, simply asking you out whenever he sees you next. He respects your decision should you choose to reject him (although he would ask you at least once more—when he knows you better—before entirely giving up). If you do accept his offer he'll be very pleased, telling you to leave it to him and he'll take care of everything. All he does is tell you a date, time and location (and to dress comfortably).

For your first date he wouldn't take you to do anything fancy or too exciting, but would prefer something peaceful with just the two of you around. He would take you out for a walk, taking you through the forest and up to Starsnatch Cliff. It's evening by the time you two arrive, the perfect time to sit down in the grass and watch the sunset.

Diluc is the opposite of Kaeya, in most ways. He prefers keeping to himself in his free time, and during work hours he isn't overly friendly with his customers. It takes him awhile to warm up to people and that's no different with you. While he can admit you're very attractive, he doesn't intend to act on these feelings. Until he notices you coming to the tavern regularly (whether to drink, eat, or just chat with the others customers). It takes awhile, starting with him greeting you when you come in, to him asking how you're doing, and that turning into having pleasant conversations with one another. When he does ask you out, its spontaneous and when the tavern is closing for the night. He would be disappointed should you reject him, but would understand (and would distant himself for awhile after, mostly out of embarrassment). Should you accept, he suggests having a date right then and there.

He doesn't exactly plan out the first date. It was a spur of the moment thing after all. He's still in his work uniform, but figures the tavern is a nice enough place. Everyone else has left by this point, and the only noise is coming from the music in the background. He would make the both of you rather late dinner, and the time chatting for a good part of the night.

Notes; Kaeya's is shorter then I wanted and I severely struggled with Al-Haitham's part. I'm not as happy with it as the others, but I got it done and that's what matters!

I meant to write something sooner but I totally forgot for like a week and rushed to come up with this tonight 😓 My goal is to at least post once a week (every Sunday maybe?) and if that works out I'll try post more!!! Still rusty with my writing so I'm trying not to overwhelm myself.

[ukulelekatie]

when I was 4, I broke my leg. if you had asked little baby 4 year old me what the worst part of having a broken leg was, I wouldn’t have mentioned the pain, the the cast, or not being able to get around independently. my biggest concern at the time was that I would be missing 10 weeks of dance class and wouldn’t be able to receive a perfect attendance award at my recital that year.

anyway, the whole reason I’m thinking about this right now is because it just goes to show how early on we incentivize perfect attendance and how this feeds into feeling pressured to work when we’re sick or injured. (and that doesn’t even scratch the surface of the many people who are forced to work when sick or injured, which is evil.) now that I’m an adult, I’m still constantly having to unlearn that and remind myself to rest when I don’t feel well. up until a few years ago, I was the kind of person who would show up to class or work with a cold because it was “just a cold” until the pandemic caused me to re-evaluate the importance of staying home and resting when sick. and this should have been obvious already, but as a result I’ve been learning that resting actually makes me feel better faster than if I had just powered through it.

yesterday morning I woke up with a migraine, and after lots of hemming and hawing (and seeking some validation from trusted friends that it was the right decision), I decided to take a sick day even though it was only a “minor” one and I had worked through many like it before. by early afternoon it was almost completely gone, and I started feeling guilty and worrying that I wasted a whole sick day when I was only sick for a few hours. but then I realized that getting to take some time to lie down with my migraine cap on is probably why it went away so much faster than on the days where I stare at a computer screen for 8 hours in a row. shocking, I know.

so anyway, if you’re reading this, you deserve to rest. yes, even if it’s “not that bad”. even if you can still power through it. your body and mind will thank you later.

[pleasantspark]

Every Hypocritical, Contradictable, or nearly everything stupid (Or OUTLANDISH) thing in the HelluvaVerse we're supposed to ignore and move on from

Sin of lust, Ozzie is against forcing one into sex, Forces Moxxie to sing, kicks out when he refuses.

Everytime a guy gets sexually assaulted it's supposed to be seen as bad, or even cute, but when it's someone who doesn't actually mean nothing to the plot at all, it's funny and quirky.

consequences don't exist in Hell but in Heaven they sure do.

Angels claim they don't know "What gets a soul in Heaven" (but for some reason this statement is completely misconstrued in the fanbase and explained away.) But they are able to point out that Angel Dust isn't allowed into Heaven. While Adam writes down the shit afterwards. Either they are frauds who aren't worthy of their status, or they simply don't have the heart to tell Charlie it is, and send her down like Lucifer does.

Name everything Stolas does. Literally everything.

On the topic of the bird bitch, Stolas demands respect from Blitz when he has done nothing to deserve it, he's wasted Blitz time, treated Blitz like shit, and doesn't respect him at all. Stolas is just a bratty prince who doesn't know the value of respect but demands others give it to him.

Adam's views on Sinners are morally gray and stupid at best. What he says can be easily applied to Heaven, and it doesn't make sense.

Angel Dust's abuse is seen as scary and serious while Sir Pentious' getting dragged away is comical, make it make sense.

On the topic of that, we're supposed to feel bad for Angel Dust the entire episode of Episode Four when he comes across as unlikeable. He spent most of his time trying to convince the entire cast on why his porn video is good, while also defending it, and getting yelled at by Husk, and when he gets called out for sexually harassing someone, he storms off like a baby. This is who me and other victims are represented by folks, a sad sack of shit who completely lost all character to be someone to use and dispose.

Adding onto Heaven not knowing what gets a person into Heaven, does that shit also mean not knowing what someone gets into Hell either? Would that also mean Redemption is pointless?

Charlie's apparently blind, because she spend nearly 3 years with an ex-exterminator without knowing she's one? How can we as people believe Vaggie isn't one without knowing the fact she LOOKS LIKE A STANDARD ONE.

Also, HOW CAN VAGGIE SPEND 3 YEARS WALKING AROUND BEING A FORMER ANGEL WITHOUT ATLEAST HAVING SOME SORT OF POWER? SOME SORT OF PULL?

Charlie hasn't seen her mother in 7 years, yet her mother spoken to her in the pilot. She's much closer to her mother, yet her mother is also distant.

Nearly every female characterization is neutered or they are sent back to the kitchen, killed or even made worse because we needed to uplift terrible male leads.

Half of the LGBTQ+ Cast is in Hell, which matches some christians worldviews on people part of the Queer Umbrella, but this show STILL has to paint Heaven in a negative light? I don't even KNOW if SAINT PETER is gay or not. If he is, he also has a stereotypical voice to go along with it, he sounds like a Zestier Timmy Huckerdoo from SML than some guy in Heaven.

Hell is supposed to be the good guys while Heaven is the bad guys, Hell fucked themselves over by fighting against Heaven, making Charlie's dreams UNABLE TO COME TRUE. No one points out this at all. She ruined all chances at redeeming whatever rapist walks into the Hotel with that stunt.

I ran out, I will make more when I thought of it.