#spelling errors are yours

[2deadboys]

Edwin accidentally brushes his hand against Charles'. And Charles thinks hes trying to hold hands and hes like 'aww mate, all you had to do was ask' and grabs Edwins hand and starts swinging their joined hands between them.

It wasnt Edwins intention. But tbh hes not upset with this result.

[lurkinginnernarrator]

au where SQQ does undergo the 'qi-deviation' and is 'changed' but in reality the twin of Shen Jiu, Shen Yuan made a comment one day about how all Shen Jiu did was bitch about his martial siblings. Never one to turn down a golden opportunity,

Shen Jiu: bet

And so the twins decided to switch lives!

The qi-deviation is just so they can explain away any differences of temperament and so sj can hightail away easier.

Shen Yuan: this is going to be so easy

(spoiler. it wasn't)

Between useless sect meetings that could've been not even an email but a text message, reading fifteen different preteens attempts to sneak in dick jokes into their poetry assignments, the head cook alerting him to the fact that they've somehow run out of rice??? They're the greatest cultivation sect??? How does that happen???

Anyway, two of his Hall masters eloping together and taking an extended honeymoon (he's happy for them, but. Who's going to teach those classes now??? Him. Apparently.), sect politics and his 'martial siblings' barely even attempting a farce of civility or courtesy AND his guqin strings needing to be replaced and restrung ?

Shen Yuan is sorry 🙏🙏please come back🙏🙏🙏

Cue the allotted period of switching ending and Shen Yuan dramatically throwing the fan on the ground as Shen Jiu rolls up and goes "thanks for the vacation didi"

[thesunisatangerine]

playing for keeps – chapter four

alexia putellas x barçakeeper!childhoodfriend!reader

warning/s: coarse language; mentions of: grief, death, drowning; not proofread

(a/n in the tags) [chapters: one, two, three, four]

word count: 13.1k

[1]

‘Can you meet me at the playground?’ was Guille’s message the night after your graduation, casting a blue streak over a relatively warm summer night. The short hand of the clock hovered over eleven when you got it, and you had half a mind to ignore it–because how dared he do this now?–but you sent him a reply before heading out of the door.

The playground was less than ten minutes away but you took the corner; the one that led around the block. He could wait, you thought. After all, you’d been giving him just that: the luxury of time. But he never did anything with it did he, so why would you rush? And what could he possibly want now after months of ignoring you? Was this a final goodbye? After everything you’d been through together, was this really how it’s going to end? 

You sniffled and ran the back of your hand over your eyes as you walked the last few yards to the park.

Tap tap tap.

The distinct sound of football-to-shoe brought you back. Ahead under the yellow glow of the lone streetlamp that lit the playground, with his back turned to you, was Guille juggling a football. A breeze brushed your cheek and it carried the familiar sweetness of Guille’s body spray. You remembered when he started using it—it was around the time you’d complained to him about how you found the scent of guy’s deodorants repugnant, and that you could only stand the new scent that he bought. And after that, it was all he’d ever used. You couldn’t help but wonder if that was around the time he started liking you, and the thought made you recoil. 

The ball reached another high, this time going over Guille’s head, making him turn, but it never connected to a touch. Instead, it landed on the ground. Its momentum carried it to a stop just a few paces away from you but you made no move to kick it back. You dragged your eyes away from the ball and found his finally.

For a moment, it was as if the world stood still. You soaked in the state of him: there was a heaviness that swelled in the skin beneath his eyes which were devoid of their usual light; his arms sagged heavily by his sides, contorting the contours of his silhouette to a shape that displaced the confidence you’d seen him wear so easily growing up. Even in the low light, the jagged cut that interrupted the line of his left brow remained prominent, but it was gone from view when dark curls fell to cover it after Guille ran his fingers through his hair.

He cleared his throat before he spoke, yet his voice still broke over his words. 

“Hey. Uh–thank you for coming,” he smiled a little. “Can we talk?”

You eyed him carefully, letting a moment of silence settle in the air as you crossed your arms. Only after you noted a slight movement in Guille’s throat did you skim the sole of your foot over the ball, sending it his way. When you met his eyes again, something akin to relief shone in them––or maybe it was gratitude?––before he kicked the ball towards you again. That went on for a while; back and forth the ball went during which no one said a word. From the way Guille kept clenching and unclenching his hands, you doubted he knew what he even wanted to say, least of all how to say it.

Still, you waited. 

Another moment, he stopped the ball, wiped his hands on the sides of his shirt before stuffing them in his short pockets, his posture awkward and stiff. He opened his mouth and in the breath before he spoke his first word, your heart dropped to your stomach and you braced yourself.

This was it.

“I–I want to apologize!”

You blinked. That… was unexpected.

“I know it’s probably too late, but I don’t think I can live without saying it, you know?” He shrugged as he smiled, but it was too crooked, and his eyes shone. 

“I’m really sorry. For what I did, and what I said. Those hurt you… I hurt you.”

He released a shaky breath, bit his lower lip as he swiped a thumb at the corner of his eye.

“I’m not expecting to be forgiven and I understand if you don’t want to be friends anymore. I just–I’m sorry. And I want you to know that I had the best time with you.” 

His lips curled up to a smile but the quiver of his chin broke the curve and his tears spilled. 

He looked so young then, so much like a lost little boy who looked nothing like the boy you met when you were eight: newly-transferred Guille who became the smallest out of all the boys in your class yet, with his quiet confidence, he towered over them with his head held high. You remembered him as he was then when he first introduced himself to you, his cheeks rosy from playing too much under the sun and just a little out of breath when he asked you to be in his team during recess. He did it too without any snide remarks, something you’d gotten used to from playing with the other boys in class. He never brought your being a girl up even when your team lost, and it was the first time you were treated as an equal on the field at school. 

And he just stuck with you, and you with him; all the shared lunches, the laughter, the late night banters… there was no way you could let this friendship go. 

This was so stupid. 

“This is stupid,” you choked as you hastily wiped a tear away but it was quickly followed by another. “Come here, you idiot!” 

You surged forward and wrapped your arms around him, the force of it nearly knocking the both of you over. It took him a second but when the weight of his arms settled on you––when his comforting warmth finally seeped in––you were hit by just how much you’d missed him.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” were the strained words spoken against your ear as he hugged you tighter. 

“You’re an idiot,” you mumbled on his shoulder. “It’s going to take some time but we’ll be alright, I forgive you. And I want us to remain friends, under two conditions if you’re up for it.” 

He pulled away slightly to wipe his cheeks, and gave you a small smile. He was a bit breathless when he said, “Anything.” 

There was a light lilt in his tone and you understood he meant it, so you nodded, returning his smile. He followed you when you went to sit on one of the benches, situating himself so there was enough space between you for one person.

Looking him in the eye, you started, “I know it’s a lot to ask but if you have any plans to wait for me, I want you to forget about it. I love you and I care for you, but I need you to understand that a brother and a friend is all I will find in you.” 

His eyes strayed downwards and they clouded over. He closed them with a sigh and when they opened, he looked at you and you found a lightness in them that comforted you; his face bore a friendly warmth that you haven’t seen in a while.

“I understand, and you don’t have to apologise.” 

He scooted closer so he could bump his knee against yours, now grinning. His playfulness made you smile.

“And one more thing,” you added after a moment, and he nodded for you to continue. “You… you have to make amends with Alexia.” 

The grin fled from his face and you didn’t miss the way he flinched. His knuckles whitened and tension brewed in his muscles. And when his eyes darkened, you couldn’t help but frown at the change in his demeanor. You reached out to touch his shoulder.

“Guille––”

Then, like a spring, all the air of rigidness left him. He threw his head back and released a laugh that caught you off guard. When he regarded you again, the curve of his lips remained.

Then he said in a tone filled with mirth, “You know, if she hadn’t knocked some sense into me that night, I’d probably still be wallowing in self-pity like an entitled prick.”

At the reminder, your eyes wandered to the scar on his left brow but they lingered only for a second.

“And yes, done. She hates my guts,” you opened your mouth to protest otherwise but when Guille gave you a pointed look, you closed it immediately, “but I will patch things up with her. Besides, I need to thank her for straightening me out.”

You gaped at him.

“It’s that easy?”

He shrugged, still smiling.

“I mean, yeah? It’s either those or losing you, and I know I value you more than I do my pride and ego.”

There it was again, his quiet confidence. It diminished though when he brushed a finger over the bridge of his nose, eyes darting down to his feet briefly before meeting yours again. And when he spoke, there was more than a little uncertainty that bled into his tone, and maybe a little bit of hope. 

“Besides, we’re friends. Right?”

You scrunched your nose at him in answer as you grinned.

“Damn right,” you confirmed. Then you punched his shoulder for good measure. His jaw dropped open in an offended gasp. He sat there wide-eyed for a moment before he locked an arm around your neck, his free hand mussing up your hair in an instant, and you could only shriek and chortle at the action. 

In that moment, you felt as if a weight had finally been lifted off your shoulders. And there was no better way to truly feel the lightness of being than having somebody to laugh with. Then a comfortable pause washed over you both as you caught your breaths. In the silence that settled, you leaned back on your hands and kicked your feet up idly in the air. 

It was Guille who spoke first. 

“You don’t have to answer, but do you like someone?”

Your feet stilled. And then, without bidding, a series of images flashed through your mind of brown hair, freckles, hazel… Warmth coiled and gathered in your chest as if the ghost of a hand hovered over it. 

“It’s her, isn’t it?”

A distinct pop went off somewhere in your neck from the speed by which you gaped at him. Guille’s eyes remained trained ahead and his face was relaxed, void of any judgement… Surely, he didn’t say what you thought he said, right? 

You swallowed, throat dry, and choked, “What did you say?”

“Alexia.” He turned to you then, and smiled; small but not unkindly. “She’s the one, isn’t she?”

Blood thundered in your ears, and your heartbeat tripled. 

“No! I–That’s ridic–”

Warmth over your hand; Guille had taken yours into his, and the ice in your skin thawed instantly. Only when Guille tightened his grip to still your hand did you know just how badly you were shaking. 

“Hey, look at me. It’s okay. I won’t tell anyone, I swear,” his voice was soothing and he squeezed your hand for good measure. “I think, deep down, I’ve always known. Maybe that’s why I treated everything as a competition because I felt threatened by her. And I never understood why you always gravitated towards her like she’s your own Earth. But now I know. If… If I ever made it difficult to come to terms with your feelings for her, I’m sorry.” 

His words and their sincerity brought a calm with them, stopping the surge of panic in your veins. And, like a tide, it receded. Finally finding your voice again, you spoke. 

“You–you’re not angry?”

His brows rose.

“Why would I be?”

Then he gave you another smile. You understood it was meant to reassure you but you couldn’t help but notice that the corners of his lips were somewhat weighed down with sadness. Still, judgement made no home in his eyes. 

“I won’t tell anyone. I promise. And if you ever want to talk, I’m here.”

A brief pause as his eyes wandered. 

“I–Maybe not for a while. It’s not that I want to, but I think some distance will do me some good. I want to respect your boundaries, and for me to do that, I need to get my feelings sorted out. I’m… I’ve made up my mind anyway. I’m leaving the city.” 

“What?” You choked. “When? Where are you going?”

Then a spark of anger went off. You jabbed at his shoulder. Guille yelped suddenly, his eyes became wide with surprise. 

“You jerk! Is that the reason why you’re finally saying sorry?!” 

“I–No, of course not! I mean, yeah, but no!” He gestured in the air. “What I’m trying to say is… I’m here because I want to make amends, not because I feel like I had to. Besides, I won’t be leaving for another two months.” 

Oh.

“Oh.” Your cheeks felt warm. 

“Yeah, ‘oh’.” He repeated with a sarcastic note but a playful spark lit up his eyes. 

You apologised sheepishly. Then, “Where are you headed? And what are you going to do?”

Guille shrugged, leaning back against his arms as he looked up at the night sky.

“I don’t know yet. I was thinking of travelling for a bit, maybe go around Europe first? Do you remember how Aunt Aloma lives in London? Yeah, she told me I could stay with her if I ever planned to go there for university.”

When he mentioned London, a lead sank into your gut. Logically, you knew it wasn’t too far away; the three-hour long flight would be a small price to pay to see Guille again. The fact that he wouldn’t be an arm’s reach away like he was right then—that childhood was departing—made your chest ache. You didn’t know you’d teared up until you felt Guille’s hand on your shoulder and the consequent squeeze there. 

“Don’t cry on me now, I haven’t even left yet.” He said lightly but his eyes were glazed over, too. “Hey, don’t worry, it won’t be for good. Before you know it, I’ll be back here to annoy you. And you know, maybe once I’ve settled in London you could even visit.”

You took his hand and squeezed it back, saying, “Just say the word and I’ll be there. 

[2]

“He’s studying what now?” 

“Sports Psychology. Pay attention.” You swatted at Alexia’s hand but she ignored you. She continued to pinch some more grass from beside where she was laying and let them get carried by the breeze as she threw them into the air. The blades of grass flew freely but some of them landed on her chest and stomach where a bunch of them had begun to pile up. Still, she continued her endeavor. She looked ridiculous but warmth filled you nonetheless, and you smiled as you leaned over to pick them off her jersey. 

Alexia hummed with a note of surprise, “He works fast. He’s only been away for four months?”

“Well, we are talking about Guille here.” 

“Hmm, I always thought Lover Boy would end up in physio–Hey!” 

Alexia yelped when you jerked your thigh that her head was resting on.

“Stop calling him that,” you reprimanded with a light flick to her forehead. At the reminder though, your cheeks warmed. 

She rubbed her forehead as she narrowed her eyes at you, then with a huff and a pout, “Fine, fine! No need to get defensive. Why is it such a big deal anyway?”

“Because, Alexia, we’re all trying to move on.”

“You make it sound like the two of you broke up or something.” She snickered before adding, “Which begs the question, why didn’t you ever go out with him? Minus the fact that he gave you a concussion, of course.” 

Her tone changed at the end, an inflection of something bitter—a bit of her protectiveness showing through—that you chose to ignore. Yet you found yourself unable to answer her anyway. 

You recalled the conversation you had with Guille that night, the way he figured out who held your heart so easily. Ever since, a question gnawed at the edge of your mind, the same one that whispered to you now: were your feelings so transparent? So obvious? 

A brush against your jaw pulled you back and, upon looking down, you were met with the question still in Alexia’s eyes. You shrugged, pulling away from her touch as nonchalantly as you could. 

“Guille is a friend and only that.”

“But you were so close,” she commented.

“Proximity doesn’t always mean intimacy, Alexia.” You were grasping for straws, you knew this. Your eyes wandered before you admitted with another shrug, “Besides, I can’t really see myself in a relationship. Not right now, anyway.”

“Oh.” The sound Alexia made was gentle, barely audible, that you thought it was the wind’s whisper. And then in a tone so soft, “Really? You don’t like anyone? Anyone at all?”

There was something in the way she asked that beckoned you to look back down at her. The scattered rays of the sun dappled her freckled cheeks with flushed amber, and her eyes that were normally a deep shade of ochre shone golden in the light. There was a softness in them that made your heart stutter, and another thing you couldn’t quite figure out, almost a plea, but about what?

You dragged your eyes away from her lips to meet her eyes.

“No, I don’t think it’s for me,” you murmured.

She stared at you for a long time. It felt like being swallowed into their depths and you could do nothing but be swept away, keep the contact somehow, lest she’d find something she shouldn’t see. So you stared right back. 

Eventually, she whispered, “Maybe you just haven’t found the right person yet.”

The lump in your throat remained even after you swallowed. Finally looking away, you hummed out in half-agreement.

“Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”

A pause.

“Do you miss him?” 

“I do. I really do.” You admitted with a sigh. 

After another moment of silence, Alexia continued.

“Would… would you join a club in England?” 

Your gaze flicked back down to her, frowning a little.

“It’s either Barça or Bayern for me, Alexia. You know this.” 

At that, Alexia averted her eyes, picked a fallen leaf, twirled it between her fingers, and then looked at it as if it held the mysteries of the world. 

Carding a finger through her hair, you prompted softly, “Why would you ask that?” 

She shrugged, quirking the corner of her lips downwards. Then she met your eyes with barely concealed vulnerability, voice hesitant when she asked, “So, you’re staying?”

“I am,” you said firmly, smiling at her. “Besides, we’re in this together, aren’t we? Wherever you go, I’ll follow.” 

Finally, her lips broke into a grin.

“I can’t wait to play with you when we get on the first team.” She said with such certainty you couldn’t help but grin back.

“Do you really think we’ll make it?”

“Yeah. We will, you’ll see.”

And you did.

There reflected in her eyes the vision of a future. That familiar splendor of passion—that unwavering resolve—shone untarnished, and the mere sight of it filled you with an overwhelming desire to kiss her. Instead, you leaned down and pressed your forehead to hers.

Alexia accepted the contact with a sigh, and then she whispered, “Sorry to say, but you’re stuck with me, too.”

[3]

You got into Barça’s first team—the both of you did. 

There was a moment where you thought it was too good to be true, and that surely the other shoe would drop any time soon. 

And it did.

Maybe deep down, you hoped otherwise; that the universe would prove you wrong. But the universe had a wicked sense of humor, and you would’ve laughed at the cruelty of the joke if anguish had not choked your laughter tight into tears. The taste of achievement was still fresh on your tongue, still on your way to relishing it, before that same sweetness quickly soured to bitter disappointment. 

Not a year after joining Barça’s first team ranks, the news reached you. Our funds were not enough, they said, and they were sorry they had to cut the women’s team. There was no other way, the club didn’t have enough money to keep the team in the league.

The fact that you got a taste of your dream only to have the rug pulled beneath you was maddening, and it made the pain from the fall all the more worse. The news hit you hard, but Alexia took it the worst.

There was a thin line between perseverance and obsession, and some would even go so far to say that the two were opposite sides to the same coin. You know this. And you also know that Alexia had tossed that coin so many times now that she’d probably forgotten what each of those faces meant, progressively confounding one for the other until they were now one and the same.

Looking back now, the signs were all there: you were blinded by your own loss and your admiration for Alexia that you failed to see it or what it really was—a festering obsession. The signs were there in your time with Espanyol, especially during the first few months after the news of Barça’s restructuring broke; they were present in the way Alexia behaved compulsively, always seething with barely concealed hunger, her tenacity both on and off the field magnified to the tens. It waned somewhat during the season but now with the both of you facing another move—to Levante this time—her obsession resurfaced with renewed vigor, corrupting each knot of her muscle to constrict to their breaking point.

“Ale, do you want to come over to mine?” You asked, leaning against the doorframe of Alexia’s bedroom, while Alexia remained hunched over a folder filled with formations, the same one she’d been studying since last match day.

“Why?” She threw over her shoulder, not even turning to look at you.

You picked at your thumb. 

“I don’t know. Just come and sleep over? Mamá and Papá have been asking about you, you know?”

Finally she turned and her eyes found you. They were flat and the skin under them looked darker than they were yesterday. A slight crease was present between her brows, and her lips drooped slightly at the corners, seemingly unimpressed.

“I just saw them yesterday.” 

Okay, maybe that was a lie.

You shrugged it off, “Doesn’t matter. Come visit anyway.”

“I have other things to worry about,” Alexia grumbled with annoyance, turning around to assume her previous position.

“That’s not going to run away from you, Alexia. Come on.”

 Without letting her get another word in, you took her wrist in a gentle grip and tugged her away from her table. Although you had to admit, it was difficult not to remain unfazed when Alexia got like this, especially considering what she’s going through. Another part of your brain was saying the opposite; that it was because of what she’s going through that you had to intervene like this.

“Hey, wait! What are you doing?!” Alexia protested halfway down the stairs.

“Dragging you to my place, of course.”

“What about my things?”

“You have clothes there. Or, you can just wear my stuff.”

“But we have training!”

“It’s only a light session tomorrow.” 

“But—”

“Alexia.” 

You fixed a stern eye at her over your shoulder and she opened her mouth, as if to say something, before she shut it, sighing in defeat.

The both of you just made it down the stairs to see the front door swing open. Eli entered first, Alba trailing in after. At the sight of her family, Alexia strode to where they were to greet them; she kissed Eli on her temple, and Alba on top of her head.

“How’s Papá?”

Eli gave her daughter a small smile, but the skin around her eyes remained taut, weighed down by something inexplicably heavy. 

“He’s stable, love. The same as when you saw him this morning.” Eli’s gaze flicked to you. “Are you girls heading out?”

You nodded.

“I’ll be stealing away Alexia for the night. Is that okay?”

Eli smiled at you, “Of course.”

“We made some food for dinner. They’re on the stove top.”

“Oh, thank you, my girls.” Eli said, hugging you goodbye after you’d put on your shoes. Then she whispered in your ear, “Thank you.”

In response, you only hugged her tighter. Without meaning to, your eyes fleeted over to Alexia who was having a hushed conversation with Alba. By the end of it, Alexia embraced her little sister, placing another kiss atop her head only this time, Alexia’s brows were deeply creased. 

When you pulled away, you said, squeezing Eli’s hands. “Get some rest, Má. I’ll bring her back first thing after practice tomorrow.” 

And with that, you and Alexia headed out. 

The transit to your place was punctuated with a vacuous silence. Alexia sat beside you, less than an arm’s reach away, but her eyes were trained at somewhere far on the horizon; and she, even farther. But you let her be, there was plenty of time to talk later after all. 

By the time you got home, the lights were already off save for the small night light in the hallway so the both of you climbed the stairs on your toes, making sure to avoid that one creaky spot by the corner.

“You can clean up here, I’ll use the other shower. “ You said, jutting your chin to the direction of the shower. 

Alexia only nodded.

When you returned to your room, the bathroom was empty, a fresh glass of water stood by your night stand, and Alexia was nowhere to be seen. You were just about to head downstairs when she padded into your room with a towel draped over her head and a damp spot from her hair on a shirt you recognised to be yours. 

She must’ve seen the question in your eyes because she muttered, “Double-checked the door lock.”

You hummed as she walked past you, back into the bathroom, and you heard the tap run. 

“Thanks for the water,” you said while taking a sip from the glass she put there.

A sound of recognition came from Alexia.

When Alexia finally finished her business in the bathroom, hair slightly ruffled and almost dry, you were already settled in bed, the sheets on her side pulled off in silent invitation. But Alexia remained standing there, by the golden cast of your night lamp, looking a bit lost for reasons you understood.

Softly, you coaxed, “Hey.”

Alexia’s eyes flicked to you and your heart ached at the sight of them so dulled and weary. It took her another moment but she finally slid in next to you, the warmth of her finally arriving home and seeping into your bones. When her feet brushed over your legs as she shifted beside you, you joked with a hushed giggle to lighten the mood, “Get your cold feet away from me.” 

It worked because her lips quirked up slightly, eyes rolling in jest, but not a second later, her eyes dimmed again, and she looked away. You propped yourself up on your elbow to see her clearly but she refused to meet your eyes. Tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, you whispered, the words cracking under the weight of your emotion.

“Ale, talk to me.”

Silence.

A breath.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” came the hoarse reply.

Breathing deeply, you buried your fingers in her hair to try and soothe her. And again, you spoke in whispers. 

“You know, it’s okay to grieve about it, to be angry about it. You don’t have to be strong all the time, Alexia.”

Her eyes flashed with something red then and she growled.

“And what will grieving get me? The way through is forward and only forward. Do you think the world will stop to give you enough time to grieve? To be angry?”

She continued, each word exhaled with urgency. 

“No. The moment you stop, you will be left behind. And I can’t stop. Not now. Especially not now.”

“Having a moment for yourself isn’t stopping. You can’t expect yourself to go on like this forever. Sometimes, you have to do what’s good for yourself, Alexia.”

A scoff.

“It doesn’t matter what’s good for me. What I need is to get back to Barça. Then, and only then, will I feel at ease.”

“At the expense of what, then? Killing your passion for the sport by making it your duty?”

Alexia startled you when she ripped herself away from you, sitting up so abruptly that the headboard banged against the wall. And when she glared down at you, you found a look in her eyes similar to that of a desperate animal’s; a look where the distinction between fear and anger blurred into something wild. 

Then, through her teeth, she hissed in a low voice.

“It is my duty! It always has been. Don’t you see? It has always been more than a sport to me. It’s not the same for you and I don’t expect you to understand because you—”

She stopped herself, facing forward in an instant, pinching the bridge of her nose as she setted her arms over her folded knees. 

Slowly, you rose, and only the sound of sheets settling around your waist filled the air. This momentary reprieve was mainly for Alexia’s sake—she was overwhelmed, that was clear to see—but maybe you needed a moment yourself because what she said hurt you. Still, you soldiered on because this was for Alexia. 

She tensed upon your touch, her muscles rippled beneath your palm as you dragged it from the small of her back, tracing the contours of her spine to the nape of her neck, but by the time your hand finally settled on her opposite shoulder, some of the tension had melted away.

“No, you’re right, I don’t understand,” you began, voice strained. “I don’t understand why you’re so adamant in destroying yourself. This—this shutting your family out with what’s happening with you. Your mother is worried sick. She’s asking about how you are, Alexia, do you know that? Your own mother!” 

Alexia released a weary sigh and then said in an even wearier tone.

“She has no need to worry.”

You almost scoffed at that, but stopped yourself although you couldn’t help the severity that bled into your next words.

“How could she not when you’re working yourself to the bone? Tell me, how do you expect us not to worry?” 

Silence. Then the murmur of folding fabric when Alexia curled into herself, head buried in the arms folded over her knees. In that cavern of her own making, a ragged breath echoed, followed by the shuddering of muscles. You ached at the state of her, and there was a lump in your throat that you couldn’t swallow. 

And barely above a whisper, you breathed, “You cannot carry the whole weight of the world by yourself. You’re not Atlas, Alexia. Let your family in.”

“Ale,” you tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. Red eyes peered from the darkness of her arms and it broke you, but you had to plead, “Talk to me. Please…”

“I–I’m scared,” she choked out finally. “He’s getting worse. It’s the second attack this month and I—”

Her fingers dug into her arms when she tightened her grip.

“I thought winning the Copa de la Reina last year would give us enough exposure but it wasn’t enough. So, I wanted to do it again this season to prove that we belong in Barça but instead, we lost to them.” A ragged breath. “And now we’re going to Levante. I just–”

She looked up at you, lips quivering with a whimper, “I just want us to go home.”

“Oh, Alexia.” 

Without saying another word, you put your arms around her, forehead pressed close against her ear and the hitch in her breathing resounded loud and clear.

“It’s frustrating, isn’t it, how far we seem from getting back?” Alexia’s back tensed in answer but you only hugged tighter. “But that’s not true at all.”

You felt Alexia lift her head and you moved away just enough to see how she eyed you with confusion. You gave her a small smile as you grazed your knuckles over her tear-stained cheek.

“On top of your club activities, your national performance has been nothing short of exemplary. Those matter. And with all the articles they’ve been writing about you, it’s only a matter of time now.” Brightening your tone a little, you added with a playful smile, “you probably won’t finish your season with Levante before Barça gets their hands on you.”

A corner of her lips lifted up upon your remark so you pushed on.

“I know it’s not the same as being in Barça, but what you’ve achieved so far has got to count for something, Alexia. Your father… he’s so, so proud of you.” Your tone shifted, now firm. “And I doubt he’d be happy to know that his daughter is pushing her body past the point of injury to get into Barça. You know your mother and sister have been covering your ass, right? Uh-huh, yeah, I thought so.”

“You need to let yourself breathe,” you kissed her temple, then her shoulder. When your eyes met again, you found a soft look in hers that reminded you of when you were younger. Smoothing her hair again, you asked, “Can you do that, Alexia? Not for us, but for yourself?”

Alexia regarded you for a long, silent moment. Then she closed her eyes, opened them a breath later, and nodded, her lips curling up to a sincere smile. In response, you couldn’t help but grin back at her.

Sensing that her mood had elevated, you placed one last kiss on her temple before you reached over her, towards the lamp to turn it off, leaving your room illuminated by the blue glow of the moon. Alexia needed no guidance to rest her head against your chest and immediately, you wrapped your arms around her. She sighed deep in the crook of your neck and you were filled with a sense of belonging—of wholeness.

Your eyes fluttered shut to the rhythm of  Alexia’s heartbeat pressed against your side.

“I’m sorry”, came the whisper.

“What for?”

“I shouldn’t have said what I did, about you not understanding. That was wrong, and I know all of this means everything to you like the way it means everything to me.”

“I appreciate that, Alexia. Don’t worry about it.” 

“And I’m sorry for—”

“Ale,” you mumbled, pressing a kiss on her crown, “you don’t have to apologise for anything.”

A pause before a deep exhale heated up your neck.

“Thank you, then.”

You hummed, already halfway to dreaming. And with one last reassuring squeeze at her hip, you found yourself murmuring, “I got you. Good night, Ale.”

“Good night,” Alexia said with a kiss to your neck and you slept with a smile on your lips.

[4]

“Alexia! Can you please—Shit!” 

It was too late. 

The box on top of the one you were carrying slid and fell, and all you could do was cringe as it spilled all of your toiletries by the front door. 

“Oops, sorry.”

You turned to Alexia with a glare of slight annoyance, but when you saw her sheepish expression, with the corners of her mouth pulled down and an eye twisted to a flinch, you let it go. With a roll of your eyes and a slight shake of your head, you signaled for her to proceed ahead as you held the door open with your weight. Once inside, she settled her boxes down on the tiled floor, letting out a small grunt as she did so, before she took yours. 

You’d just finished picking up the toiletries when Alexia asked, “That’s the last of it, yes?”

Turning to face her, you saw her wipe the sweat off her temples before settling her hands on her hips. She scanned the would-be living room occupied by some stacks of boxes. Apart from the couch and mattresses, almost everything else needed to be unpacked and organised.

You placed the toiletries on the nearest counter and made a beeline for the couch. On your way, you patted her back and replied. 

“Yep. Just let me take five, and then we can open ‘em up.”

You face-planted on the couch with a groan, which then turned to a sigh not a second later. Those boxes took more from you than you’d anticipated, making the stiffness of the couch feel as soft as clouds to your bones. 

The strain from your eyes began to dissipate the moment your eyes fluttered shut, and you could feel the peace that awaited you in that velvet darkness when you were ripped back to wakefulness the moment a warm, crushing weight pressed onto your spine. 

Alexia had taken it upon herself to drape herself over you like you were the couch itself. 

“What—Alexia!” You yelped, “Get off me!” 

But of course, she did the exact opposite.

“Why? I was just getting comfortable,” Alexia deadpanned. 

She shifted on your back and she at least had the decency to prevent her elbows from digging into your back as she did. The next thing you knew, her front followed the curve of your back, blanketing you in her warmth, while her arms wrapped loosely around your waist.

Your heart thundered in your chest and you tried not to think too hard about it so you snorted out, “I hope you’re comfortable.”

“Since you asked, yes. I very much am, thank you.” 

“You’re so annoying.” 

“I carried those boxes for you.” 

“You didn’t have to if you didn’t make me drop the toiletries.”

“I told you to tape up the box, but you didn’t listen to me, so whose fault is it exactly?”

You rolled your eyes. She was right, but you weren’t about to tell her that. 

“You’re impossible.”

“Impossibly right, yes.”

See? You didn’t have to tell her. 

You scoffed, “Why do I even put up with you?”

“Because you love me,” Alexia said in a matter-of-fact tone that made your heart jump. “Now shush. Let’s nap for a bit and then unpack.”

Alexia yawned, snuggling closer into you. If she heard the way your heart pounded, she didn’t comment on it. As you drifted into a warm slumber, there was weight that pressed against your chest—a realization of some sort—but about what, you didn’t know. 

Only after you woke to find Alexia had unpacked the boxes containing essential items and ordered a bag-full of takeaways; only after the both of you finished dining on paper plates, crossed-legged on the tiled, living room floor, laughing with your mouths full when Alexia made a mess of her food because of her inability to use chopsticks; only after Alexia found her Polaroid camera and took photos of the two of you, her arm slung casually over your shoulder, her lips pressed against your cheek. Then, and only then, did you recognise what that weight was for what it was. 

You knew then: you were utterly and irrevocably gone.

You were in love.

And you could only pray that the heat from your cheeks wouldn’t sell you out. 

[5]

With all the changes that came with moving shelters and clubs, there was no time to think about home. Between getting used to your new club schedules, being acquainted with your new coaches and teammates, and familiarising yourself with the local area, your mind had no energy left to ruminate by the end of the day. And the difference between staying over at Alexia’s—or vice versa—for a few nights and living under the same roof together for the foreseeable future became increasingly obvious as you settled in your apartment in Buñol. 

It was all new but the both of you managed and even somehow established a sort of routine. While you did most of the cooking and half of the cleaning, Alexia did the groceries and, thanks to her natural affinity for the sun—her words, not yours—she insisted on doing the laundry. You teased her about it but more often than not, her weather predictions proved accurate to the forecast, saving the both of you the trouble of dealing with damp clothes. 

But as routine fell into place, so did the yearning for home.

The thing about missing home was that it brought on a different kind of longing. It was the kind that burrowed deep, the kind that dug a gaping hole in your chest and left you at a loss for how to fill it. It provoked the desire to turn back the hands of time, live in a memory, and step back into a moment already gone by. 

Yes, there was a sense of freedom that came with living apart from your family, and sure the distance between Buñol and Mollet was only a three-hour drive or a five-hour train ride away. All of those things are true, but you’d be lying if you said being away from home didn’t feel heavy. 

No more was the comforting presence of your parents at hand nor the jovial company of Alexia’s family nearby; it was just you and Alexia.

And the world never felt bigger than it was now. 

You were lucky, though, to have Alexia with you. She was a piece of home that you took with you, and just having her by your side helped ease the ache somehow. But you have to admit, living with her brought on a different kind of pain. 

Ever since you realized just how deep your feelings for her ran, being around her had only gotten more difficult. Everything and everywhere reminded you of her, and everything she did would send a jolt to your heart that left you breathless. Something as simple as her running her fingers through her hair, or a small smile; a brush against your cheek, a hand against the small of your back—you were sure you were this close to going mad.

The intensity and frequency of these… stutters had only seemed to increase by the day, and frankly, it was beginning to scare you. That, and the questions that had been nagging you lately.

What would Alexia do if she found out that you liked her way more than a friend should? That you liked women? Could Alexia like women? She probably didn’t. She would hate you for this, wouldn’t she? What about your parents? How would you even go about telling them? Would they still love you? What if—

The sound of the key being slotted into the lock, followed by the opening and closing of the door cut your thoughts short. And then came a soft sound, barely audible.

“Alexia?” 

You called out but there was no response so you padded over to the living room. Just before the end of the corridor a small movement caught your eye. You couldn’t help the gasp that escaped your lips even if you tried.

“What—”

The kitten mewled softly again, rubbing itself against the beige tone of the walls as it took you in with those large, yellow eyes. Its coat looked bright and pristine, nearly as white as the petals of the tree heath flowers that bloomed at home in spring. The same flowers that filled the garden of your home with their sweetness. 

“Hey, there. How did you get in here?” You cooed, crouching slowly, before you reached out your hand towards the kitten. It took a cautious step back but you waited patiently, keeping your hand where it was. A moment later, it seemed to have found the courage, stepping forward tentatively to sniff at your finger, before it licked your knuckle. Then it ducked down, nuzzling its head against your palm, its eyes closing from the contact. 

Warmth flooded your chest and you whispered, “Oh, you’re so adorable!”

“She’s yours.”

Your eyes flicked up to find Alexia leaning her weight against the wall, her arms crossed, head tilted slightly to the side; her eyes lidded with something you couldn’t quite recognise but you felt their warmth. The soft smile on her lips made her face look radiant and beneath her gaze, you couldn’t help the heat that rushed to your cheeks.

As an excuse to hide your face, you dipped down your chin to pick the kitten who only yawned in response. 

“Mine?” You asked as you stood up and walked over to where Alexia was, stopping just an arm’s length away.

Alexia only hummed in agreement, her smile still as soft as ever.

At that, you reached and draped your free arm around her neck, whispering against her ear, “Thank you.”

She moved, finally, wrapping her arms around your waist to pull you closer.

“You’re welcome.” Her words, murmured though as they were, curled through the smile you knew she still wore and made their home in your heart. 

“What are you going to name her?” Alexia asked.

“Nona.”

“Nona?”

You hummed in confirmation. You pulled away just enough to make space to look at Nona, and you tried hard not to focus too much on how Alexia had settled her hands on your hips. 

“Mamá, Papá, me” you began, putting up a digit on your free hand as you listed each one, “You, Alba, Eli, Jaume, Guille…”

“And Nona,” Alexia finished for you, smiling down at Nona. Alexia met your eyes again.

“Your family of nine?”

“Mine,” you nodded, “And yours, too.” 

Alexia beamed down at you but then she scrunched her nose. 

“Does Guille need to be there?”

“Alexia!” 

[6]

It was raining when Alexia told you.

On a damp Monday night, a few months following your move to Levante—after the both of you found an apartment in Buñol, and after that fateful day of realisation—she said something that changed everything. 

Throughout the day, you couldn’t help but notice how strange Alexia was behaving. She’d twisted and fiddled with the hem of her jersey during today’s practice enough that she’d torn a hole through one spot. She’d twirled that loose lock of her hair so many times that you’d already lost count, and on the drive home, more than once, sped through a yellow sign. Even now, she was silent beside you as she helped cook the meal for you two tonight when usually, she would have gone over what happened at practice twice at this point. 

And at the rate she was going, she’d end up gnawing off the skin of her lower lip. 

“Why don’t you go ahead and clean up first?” You said as casually as you could, taking both of your plates off the table and moving towards the sink.

Alexia eyed you. 

“Is everything alright?” She asked. You caught a sight of her over your shoulder, sitting up, more alert than a second ago. 

“No, nothing. Why do you ask that?”

A pregnant pause.

“Because you normally let me help with the dishes.”

You shrugged, turning back to the sink. “Seriously, Alexia. It’s nothing. You just look tired. Now go so I can shower. We can put on AHS after.”

Another pause and then finally, you heard the scrape of her chair against the tiles.

“Alright,” she mumbled before her footsteps receded.

Much later, when you’d finished cleaning up and showered, the two of you wounded up on the couch, wrapped in each other with an episode of American Horror Story playing in the background. Alexia’s head was tucked in the crook of your neck while you played with a loose lock of her hair when you finally asked her.

“Are you ready to tell me what you’ve been worrying about all day, or should I keep pretending that I haven’t noticed?” 

You kept your tone light, almost teasing, because you had a feeling that whatever Alexia was about to say had weight to it. And surely enough, as soon as the question had left your mouth did Alexia stiffen against you and her breathing stilled. It took her another moment to pull away, untangling herself from you, before she reclined against the couch. 

Without so much as looking at you, she countered, “Could you hate me?”

The question jarred you and you couldn’t help but frown in confusion. What kind of question was that? You looked at her—searching for answers as to why she would ask such a thing—but Alexia kept her eyes fixed to the TV while the flashing images made shadows play on the smooth neutrality of her forehead and cheeks. You found no answer, so you replied truthfully. 

“No. Disappointed maybe, but hate? I can’t think of anything that would make me hate you.”

At that, her shoulders curled forward, arms crossing over her chest, and her chin dipped down so low it almost looked uncomfortable. 

She said softly, “Just think about it.”

Silence settled—heavily. 

You gnawed your lip, turning over everything in your head, as you tried desperately to come up with something. But nothing.

“Honestly, Alexia, unless you killed someone, I really can’t think of anything else.”

“I—” Alexia started but a choke cut off the rest of it. 

The sound came out so suddenly that it seemed to reverberate, bouncing off the walls and resounded loud in your ears. You sat up, alert, fully facing Alexia who now had her hands over her face, shielding her eyes from your view. She drew in a breath, and what she released was something shaky. 

You’d never seen her like this before, and you’d faced more than a handful of adversities together. What could possibly be making her hurt like this? Your gut twisted at the sight of her and you were filled with an overwhelming urge to take her in your arms. Instead, you settled for a light touch to her knee.

“Alexia,” you began softly, “What is it?”

Under the shield of her hand, you saw her lips quiver. Then a tear ran down her chin.

You ached at the sight but you remained silent.

“I’m—” Her lips twisted to a grimace. “I—I don’t know how it happened I just—”

Another pause.

“I like women.”

For a moment, the air stilled; almost like a vacuum had swallowed up all sounds. And then something swelled: blood rushed into your ears, and, as if life had broken a shell, a flood washed over you, filling each and every bone; and it felt a lot like hope. 

The raw sob that escaped Alexia’s throat broke you from your epiphany. She must’ve misunderstood your silence because now, she’d curled even further into herself, palms digging into her sockets. You shook yourself, mentally scolding yourself for getting distracted, before you moved closer to her.

“Oh, Alexia.” She flinched away when she felt your arms around her but you only clung tighter. “Thank you, Alexia, for trusting me with this. I want you to know that you don’t have to hide from me, that this doesn’t change anything no matter how that voice in your head might tell you otherwise. You’re still Alexia, and I—I love you all the same. I don’t hate you, I promise, and I won’t. I’ll always be here.”

When you whispered those words into her ear, she finally sagged into your embrace, turning her head so it rested, again, in the crook of your neck where she released a sob. This time, it sounded more from relief than from grief. 

There, on the couch, you held her until she fell asleep. 

“You know,” you whispered in the dark, tucking a lock of Alexia’s hair behind her ear long after she’d fallen asleep. Alexia didn’t stir, and you continued to no one in particular, “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

And there with your whole world in your arms, you finally allowed yourself the luxury to hope.

[7]

When you were seven, just a few months before you met Alexia, an idea dawned on you. Sick and tired of the kid’s pool, with its small and, if you were being honest, slightly unkempt water, the large one next door offered freedom—a tantalizing concept for a child. You stood at one end of that pool and found a face of determination reflected back at you. You were going to do it; you would swim across the length of the pool and make it to the other side. 

And then, you jumped in.

It took about a minute or two before your muscles started burning, hardening to a cramp with every stroke, and yet the other side didn’t look any closer. That was when it sank in; the pool was far too large. There was a brief moment when you gasped for air and remembered to swim towards the nearest edge, just like your father taught you, but by that point it was already too late.

Water rushed into your nose and mouth, bringing stinging hopelessness in their wake, clogging your throat with a muffling silence that stifled your scream.

Your father barely caught you in time.

Yes, you remembered all too well that burn in your lungs. 

If that pool was a frozen lake, what would drowning feel like? 

In Barcelona, the lakes never froze in winter. Even the westerly winds that brought the Atlantic squalls slithering under each door in the city in cold February weren’t enough to make the chill settle in. The only time your bones truly felt the bitter meaning of winter was when you’d gone to Norway to attend a relative’s funeral, and the occasion did nothing to lessen the cold. It was also the first time you’d ever stepped foot on ice, and the fear that lanced through you at the sound of the first crack—seemingly almost like a thunder out of the blue—left you rooted to the spot, fearful that a breath could put you under.

Waiting for death felt just like that; like walking on a slate of ice. 

And the aftermath? 

A drowning of a different kind.

Every phone call was a step on that thin slate of ice; every step a space closer to certainty, each one a crack on that fragile surface, another moment closer to a falling in. The thing was, death was as true as the ice giving way but no matter how inevitable the end may be, or how slow the unfurling of that mortal coil may seem, the force of the fall was no less devastating. The ice would shatter and there would be a split-second when you’d feel suspended, held by a single thread of hope for one last miracle—the only miracle that mattered—but there was no saving you from the freezing waters. 

And nobody ever told you about how quickly you would sink under; about how the cold would bite their way down to the bones while your blood sang that familiar rhythm of life, a bitter reminder of the clear division between past and present—the antecedent and the aftermath; and just how painful it would be to be stuck in-between remembering what once was and what could have been.

In that space, in that frigid depth, no amount of screaming nor air could prevent you from drowning. Without the arms of a father to save you, how could you not drown?

And the worst part?

There was no bottom to grief; you either float or sink in that frozen lake.

And Alexia sank. 

[8]

Days passed, weeks, then months; the world kept turning. Life demanded you to be present and compelled you to move forward like everyone else. And yet still, even after changing everything in its wake, grief lingered as it always did. 

There were still times when you’d catch Alexia turn from every mirror, eyes casted down almost out of fear of what she’d see. How could you look at your reflection when every bit of skin there held the reminders of what you’d lost? Every reminder brought with it a memory, and what were memories if not a mouth full of teeth? It was a mouth that took every opportunity to bare its teeth, to gnaw at that hole in your chest until the edges were raw again—like they never healed to begin with. Again and again, it bit; its teeth, painting themselves red.

But if anything could transcend time itself, it was the resilience of the human spirit. Even if her father was never far from her mind, Alexia pressed forward; now for two hearts instead of one. 

Winter ended finally, and the sun rose again. And when summer arrived, so did the news. 

“Llorens spoke with me today,” Alexia spoke over the running of the tap. You looked at her over your shoulder, she was leaning against the frame of the kitchen door. She said the next part in a tone so soft that you barely caught it.

“He said… They asked me to rejoin Barça.”

Your eyes widened and it only took you a moment before you ran to her, wrapping your arms around Alexia’s neck, while Alexia returned the embrace by putting her arms around your waist. 

“Holy shit, Alexia! That’s amazing!” You practically screamed into her ear. Pulling away to look at her, you found pride shining in her eyes but for reasons you couldn’t quite understand, there was a weight that burdened the corners of her lips. You knew just how much this meant to her, getting back into Barça, and it worried you that she wasn’t celebrating like you’d expected her to.

You asked gently, “Hey, what’s wrong?”

At that, she sighed heavily, tightening her hold around your waist as she did. She gnawed at her lower lip, brows creasing.

“You haven’t heard anything from them?”

“No,” you admitted, ignoring the twinge in your chest. “It doesn’t matter, Alexia. This is your opportunity to go back. When are you due to leave?”

“I—I told them I’d get back to them tomorrow.”

Your eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets.

“What! Alexia, what’s gotten into you?”

“I don’t want to leave you alone.”

Finally, you recognised what it was that was casting its familiar shadows in her eyes: worry. Although you were grateful that she was, it was completely unnecessary and borderline irrational. She shouldn’t throw away what she worked hard for because you couldn’t perform at the same level, and no way in hell would you let her feel bad for your own inadequacy. 

You took her face into your hands, looking into her eyes as you enunciated each word slowly.

“Alexia, listen to me. You will meet with Llorens first thing tomorrow, and you will put that pen to paper, do you hear me? And then you will leave Levante without me—” when she opened her mouth, as if to protest, you pressed a finger to her lips. “You will leave Levante without me, and you will play for Barça come this season. There are no ‘buts’ here, Alexia. You have to do this. You owe yourself that much.”

Alexia remained quiet but she looked at you with large eyes that made your heart ache the way it always did for her. 

And then, “What about you?”

“I will work twice as hard. And I will meet you there,” you whispered, losing yourself in the depth of her eyes. “I promise.”

Alexia nodded and slowly, a smile made its way onto her lips.

“You better.” She mumbled. Then she added playfully, “Now get your hands off of my face, you’ve made it all wet.”

You flashed her a devilish grin before you wiped one of your hands down her face. 

[9]

It wasn’t until a month after your first game with Barça that you saw Diana again. 

With her line of work, it was no surprise that she was an incredibly busy person. That meant her stays in Barcelona were brief enough that she couldn’t make it to any friendly hangouts the way your other friends’ partners could, only ever having the time for Alexia which was the most important thing. So when Alexia messaged the group chat last night that she and Diana would be lunching with you, Patri, Tori, and Mapi today, everyone received the news with barely hidden enthusiasm. 

And this was how you found yourself sitting at the head of the table with Patri sitting on the other end, Alexia and Diana to your left with Alexia’s arm draped casually over the back of Diana’s chair, while Mapi and Tori sat to your right. As you all waited for your food to arrive, you engaged in a light and friendly conversation. Mapi and Tori were a lethal duo when it came to jokes, almost having all of you keel over from laughter, causing the eyes of the other patrons in the restaurant to flit to your table, and you were sure you saw barely hidden amusement on the face of the waiter that served you. 

Lunch was going well—for your part especially—with all things considered. So you took this time to appreciate Alexia and Diana together just like this because you never got the chance to. And it was clear that the both of them made quite the pair; so beautiful that they almost looked untouchable. They kept their displays of affection sparse and yet the smallest of gestures held a thousand words. In Diana’s presence, Alexia seemed so happy and she had an air about her so light she was almost like the sun. 

You couldn’t help it, you smiled at the sight. Seeing Alexia like this was enough for you, and you knew this. She deserved this. If only Patri could stop eyeing you with worry, you could keep pretending that twinge in your chest didn’t exist. 

Everything was going well, but the universe—as it seemed to become accustomed to lately—was adamant to prove you wrong. Or, maybe you should’ve just crushed your feelings under foot once and for all. It was when the food arrived that things took a turn for the worse. 

When the last dish was delivered by the waiter, Tori, Patri, and Diana fell in a conversation. Mapi, you spied, was not so subtly texting someone beneath the table—Ingrid, you guessed, by the way her eyes shone and her nose crinkled in delight. Alexia on the other hand was left to fend for herself… against her food. 

After all this time, Alexia still couldn’t eat properly with chopsticks. It was definitely the bulkness of her hands that made her clumsy with the delicate tools; you’d told her as much before. You bit your tongue before you could tell her that again. Instead, you teased her.

“Are you playing with your food?”

Alexia glared at you but still, color rose to her cheeks as she grumbled. 

“Shut up. You know using these things is difficult for me.”

“Stop sulking. Besides, I already taught you before.” You rolled your eyes. Then you instructed, “Open your palm.”

She pouted but she did what you asked anyway.

“Your hands are too big so you have to hold them at the very end. Let the bottom one rest in the crook of your thumb, yes, that’s it. And hold the top like you’re writing with a pen. Loosen up a bit, you’re too tense.”

You adjusted the placement of the chopsticks slightly, “Just close your thumb over the sticks and move your—That’s it! You got it, you got it.”

With a triumphant smile, Alexia finally succeeded at her attempt to pick up her food. And when her smile curled over the food she put in her mouth, a warmth flooded the cavity of your chest. The sparkle in her eyes just then somehow made you feel like a teenager again. 

You didn’t know what it was that drew your attention to her, but your gaze flitted over to Diana. You weren’t sure what you expected; maybe that she was still talking with Patri or Tori… only she wasn’t. She was staring at you with a face set in a stoicism so neutral—her lips drawn to a careful line—that you had this unsettling feeling that she was everything but impassive. Her eyes betrayed her the most: they were sharp, barely narrowed, and there was an attentiveness in them that made you feel transparent—exposed—as if she could see right through you; as if she’d found something. 

A chill ran through you, and you shuddered internally.

Quickly, you averted your eyes back down to your meal. Developing an excessive interest in your food, you receded into yourself and tried to school your face to what you hope was impartial nonchalance. A little later when you finally felt brave enough to chance a look at Diana, you saw her talking to Patri and Tori again, laughing and smiling as if the moment between the two of you never happened.

You relaxed and you found breathing easy again. 

Maybe you were just being paranoid.

But really, you should’ve known better.

[10]

Time, with its infamous predisposition to fly, had snuck up on you. 

A blink of an eye found you stepping out of a plane in the middle of August and the next thing you knew, December only had days to breathe. Ending the year at the top of La Liga, together with your clean sheets, was nothing short of a relief. It was a testament to how you’ve integrated yourself with the team so far, but you knew enough that this shouldn’t call for complacency. In fact, it demanded the opposite; you needed to work harder especially with the match against Lyon looming closer in the horizon. 

For now though, rest was due. 

Most of your teammates had either flown themselves home or somewhere far warmer than Barcelona’s dropping temperature. For those who stayed, like you, you needed to find a way to amuse yourselves without freezing. Tonight, it seemed that the club was the unanimous choice: what better way to stay warm and have fun than to get drunk and dance? 

That was how you found yourself under flashing lights nursing your own glass while you watched the rest of your team get their freaks on from the bar. You knew Patri was already four shots down—you all had only been here an hour; Mapi and Ingrid were getting a little too cozy in a secluded corner, which you couldn’t fault them for since it was Ingrid’s last day in the city before she had to go home; Alexia had vanished with Diana to do who knew what, while Aitana and Ona were losing it on the dance floor. 

Aitana and Ona spotted you hanging out at the bar so they began to wave you over with enthusiasm. You shook your head at the display, smiling, and made to move off the counter you were leaning on when a tap on your shoulder caught your attention. But before you could turn to see who it was, a familiar voice pierced through the music. 

“I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Standing behind you was a woman; the stewardess that ushered you off your plane. Out of her work clothes and the dull setting of a plane, her beauty shone through untarnished. Gone was the sleek hairdo and instead, she’d opted to leave her hair down. Her short hair barely grazed her collarbones, you noted, and as you traced their outline, you found the piercing in her sternum glinting in silent invitation. She was wearing a simple black dress that revealed just enough of her chest to entice, the thin fabric of it accentuating the curves of her waist, and it stopped just halfway down the length of her thighs to reveal the intricate lines of floral tattoos on her side. 

Finally catching yourself, you tore your eyes away and found her gaze. What you found reflected in them was amusement and you tried to stop your cheeks from burning. 

As casually as you could, you said, “Oh, hey, it’s you. I… actually never caught your name.”

“Micah,” she replied, extending out a hand. You took it as you told her yours. She leaned on the bar, waved the bartender over who gave her the drink she asked for, and took a sip. Then she turned back to you. 

“You know, I never expected to see you again. And in a gay club, of all places.”

“Why not a gay club?” You asked with a small laugh.

She shrugged, one corner of her mouth quirking up almost sheepishly.

“I may have searched your name up after I met you. No history of relationships, just multiple pictures of you with the same guy. I thought he’s your boyfriend, so.”

“Is it a guy with curly hair?”

“Yeah.”

At that you let out another small laugh.

“That’s Guille, my best friend. He’s like a brother.”

“Oh.” Micah’s cheeks flushed. 

You gave her a grin, “Yeah. But just to clarify, I am, in fact, into women. Exclusively.”

As if a switch has been flipped, Micah’s demeanour shifted, eyes now smouldering. The change affected you in ways you didn’t anticipate and with your slight height over her, it became difficult to keep your eyes where they should be, especially when the silver glint of her piercing tempted your eyes downwards. But just as the alcohol had thinned your blood, your self-control frayed all the same; your eyes roamed down to her cleavage which you admired briefly, before you met her gaze again.

That seemed to be the signal Micah was looking for because she stepped into your space, her drink now sitting forgotten on the counter. She dragged her fingers up your arm, all the way to your exposed collarbone where she traced the skin there while she watched you with dark eyes, her plump lip between her teeth. 

You shivered; she was so close now that the heat of her body washed over you. 

“Really? Prove it, then.” Micah whispered, ghosting her lips over yours.

You leaned forward when she pulled back slightly, as if magnetized to her lips. Then you asked, “How?”

“Dance with me.”

She dragged you to the dancefloor and you let yourself be swept away in the sea of bodies moving to the same rhythm. And then the both of you danced, her body against yours, your hands tracing her outlines as you pulled her closer as she did the same to you. 

Time blurred into a singularity after that but it existed again when, at one point, Micah took your cheek into her palm to pull you down for a kiss. Her lips were searing hot when they branded yours that you couldn’t help but gasp and moan into them, a sound which Micah gladly swallowed. 

It had been a while since you’d been touched and you didn’t realise just how much you missed it: the skim of skin over skin, the languidness of your blood turning to molten rush; how you missed the deprivation of air from your lungs and the delicious ache that came with it. And how you missed touching another. Your hands sought the exposed skin of her back, relishing the softness beneath your palms as you settled them there, respectfully just above her ass, to pull her in, flushed to your body.

She sighed and she looped her arms around your neck; deeper, hotter.

And in the heat, you lost yourself. 

You couldn’t remember how the both of you made it to your apartment, only that she ended up on top of you, head between your legs as you gasped out her name in the dark. And when she braced herself against her elbow, her other hand working you over the edge once more, you couldn’t help but note how beautiful she was with her curtain of brown hair, her lips slightly parted, eyes shining in the dark.

And when you came on her fingers with her lips on yours, you had a nagging feeling that this felt a lot like when you were nineteen. 

[11]

Clutching your head, you tried to soothe the remnants of your hangover as you headed over the door. You squinted at the light that shone through when you opened it and when the blob in front of you assumed a semblance of familiarity, you croaked out a question.

“Alexia? What’re you doing here?”

“Wow, you look like you’ve been hit by a truck.” Alexia teased but when you glared at her, she finally answered your question. She lifted her hand and that was when you noticed what she was holding. “Got your jacket. You left it at the club last night.”

You blinked at her, eyes still squinted, and enunciated each word slowly. “You drove all the way here. To drop off my jacket.”

She nodded.

“And you couldn’t have waited until dinner tonight?”

“Nope. The jacket was of utmost priority, obviously. Second priority, of course, is to check that you haven’t dropped dead yet. Third, to make sure you show up at dinner on time.” Alexia stepped back and gave you a once-over. “And by the looks of it, you need more than just a check up.” 

“Fuck you.” 

At that, her brows only creased as she threw her head back to laugh. 

“Rough morning, huh?” 

“I’m glad you find my hangover amusing.” You grunted, turning to shuffle back into the kitchen to make the coffee you were about to prepare before a clown interrupted you. “Close the door, you’re letting all the heat out.”

“Okay, Grumpy.” Alexia said behind you and you heard the door close. A rustle of fabric, and then, “Go drink some water and maybe then you can actually hold a conversation.”

You rolled your eyes even though she couldn’t see your face. 

“Shut up. I’ve only been awake for an hour.” 

“Sure.” Alexia dragged out her answer like she believed what you just said—she didn’t.

You turned on the coffee machine and pressed the button for a double shot. The sound of whirring filled the air.

“You want some coffee?” You asked, looking at Alexia over your shoulder who you found was not-so-subtly craning her neck to look down the hall. When she saw you looking at her, Alexia flashed you a questioning look.

“Are we alone or… ?” Alexia trailed off but before she could finish the question, you nodded. She walked to the counter and picked an apple from the fruit bowl.

“Oh, okay, good. And no, thanks, I already had a shot before I left home this morning.” 

You returned to your coffee, placing the cup aside so you could prepare the milk. 

Beside you, you heard the running of the tap and then a rustling of clothes followed by a slight thump. From the corner of your eye, you spied Alexia leaning against the counter. 

You just finished pouring the milk into your cup when you heard Alexia hum before the unmistakable bite to the flesh of an apple. Lifting the cup, you took a sip and welcomed the bitterness of caffeine on your tongue. 

“You know,” Alexia started, “you never told me you liked women.”

You froze. 

The lingering euphoria from last night—along with the excitement from Micah’s proposal for a next time when she left early this morning—immediately vanished. There was something about the nonchalant way that Alexia got you; it cut you deep. And the wounds you thought were long healed now bled through their stitches. A dot of coffee stained the white countertop, followed by another, and before your cup slipped from your grip, you put it down and pressed your shaking hands flat on the countertop. 

“What?” Your tone was tame but you were everything but. Pressure rose in your veins because how dared she. How dared she.

“I’m not mad or anything, I’m just surprised that’s all.” Alexia laughed lightly but the sound grated at your ears. 

“Was that a recent development? Did you find that out in the States?” Then she continued with a bit of guilt seeping through her voice. “If you found out before you moved to Angel City, I hope I never made you feel as though you couldn’t share that with me. And if I did, then I’m—”

“Please, don’t insult me, Alexia.”

As if finally detecting the ice in your tone, you saw her head turn towards you from the corner of your eye, but you made no move to look at her. 

 “I’m not insulting you. It’s just–I’m a terrible friend for never seeing the signs and that I couldn’t be there for you.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” You scoffed but it sounded more like a choked sob than anything. The world blurred before you and you watched as your tears mixed with the coffee stains on the counter. 

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Came Alexia’s concerned voice before you heard a rustling of clothes, and then the touch to your shoulder. The reaction of your body was visceral: you stumbled back as you slapped her hand away as if she’d burnt you.

“Don’t touch me!” Heat pricked around the skin where she’d touch you, and you felt as if something was crawling beneath. “Get out.”

“What?”

Finally, you looked her in the eye and the force of the movement made your tears fall. Alexia stood there frozen, mouth agape, eyes wide and brows knotted in horror. You couldn’t care less; looking at her hurt and you wanted her out of your apartment—now. 

“I said leave.”

Alexia ran a frustrated hand through her hair and she pleaded, “Tell me what I did!”

“Get out, Alexia!” 

She opened her mouth, stopped midway, and finally shook her head. With one last look at you, she turned for the door but before she stepped out, she turned back to you. She sighed then said in a small voice.

“I don’t know what happened but I’m sorry anyway. I… I’ll see you tonight.”

With that, the door closed. At the click of the lock, you slid down to the floor; your back against the surface of the cabinets with Alexia’s half-eaten apple by your feet. 

She really did forget, didn’t she? And you were the only one who remembered because between the two of you, it was only you who cared enough to latch onto the memory. She didn’t care, and you doubted she ever did to begin with. Why did you think otherwise? Why?

Your face fell into your hands, and you sobbed. 

Stupid.

You were so fucking stupid. 

[ricketycr1cks]

And if I say Mac grew up equating love to cigarette burns and absent fathers and getting told to toughen up, that Mac doesn’t understand love that isn’t conditional, love without equal parts hate or distaste, that never in his life has Mac understood earnest love, that even though Dennis isn’t trying to, he often ends up re-confirming this idea in Macs head, that love is hatred, that-

[seeker-ophelia]

This is a love letter to all the tumblr artists who got us through 10 years

10 Years of Hurt and Angst and Pining and Loss

Sincerely, you artists are da real MVPs

Everyones tagged below the cut

fenharel shame - @rainhol

rook & solas - @fideox

chibi Cole - @sincaotic

adoribull - @orientalld

lounging solas - @an-established-butt-dent

leliana & nug - @doodlownick

kieran & OGB - @thejaguar9art

morrigan - @girl-gwoe

fenris - @fridgemeats

isabela - @milton-chamberlain

varrics phone - @haverdoodles

stressed out varric - @dailydadoodles

rook face - @larkoneironaut

tiny solas - @nikyu0

Target solas (&spiderverse solas/rook) - @pinacoladamatata

spite - @loustica-lucia

manfred - @themaybug

assan (&Alistair w/ cheese) - @olessan

varric - @milton-chamberlain

DJ solas - @chromunist

merrill - @thedragonhermit

puss-in-boots (aka lucanis) - @gormlessboy

anders - @pinkfadespirit

tired soals - @greypetrel

cass/lily/josie - @briccko

Sincerely, thank you guys so much.

7 Sleeps. 168 hours left.

[princecassiel]

Ask me about my OTP:

How would a thumb war go?

How do they go about solving arguments and what do they usually argue about?

How do they celebrate their anniversaries?

What acts do the couple do for the other that they absolutely adore? (ex: A knows B hates peeling oranges so A does it)

What matching outfits do you imagine the pair wearing?

How did they become official?

How did they act with one another during the crushing stage?

During the crushing stage, how did they try to get each other's attention?

What did the pair compromise for each other, if they did?

What is an incredibly heartwarming moment between the two?

What do you love about them?

What is their ship name and why?

How would the pair do in an escape room? What kind of room would they choose and would they get out?

How do they work together?

What do they do to make each other laugh? Doesn't have to be on purpose either.

If they're separate and they see something that reminds them of their beloved. What would it most likely be and why?

What do they do that make their partner think, "Damn, that's hot." (Could be an innocent gesture)

Do they have a dirty secret they hide from one another? What is it and why do they hide it?

Do they have a place/object that is specifically theirs? Where/What is it and why? (ex: Odysseus and Penelope's olive tree bed)

What is a secret that only their partner knows?

How did they meet and their first impressions upon meeting each other?

What AUs would you like to explore with them? If you have, what AUs have you done and what happens in them? Do you have a favourite?

What is a hobby/habit that one of them is into but the other can't get behind, and vice versa?

Did they have romantic rivals that wanted one (or both) member of the OTP? Who were they?

Did they ever have a disastrous date? What happened?

What tropes does your OTP fall under?

What made you start shipping them?

How do they divide up the chores? Who does what?

What is their home like and how do they decorate it?

What memes do you associate the individual characters/OTP with?

What's their cursed couple Halloween costume?

Do they remind you of another OTP you love? Who and why?

Imagine this OTP on a couple date with another OTP of yours. How does it go?

If they get married, what would their wedding be like? (Location, food, guests, wedding outfits, etc)

Is there a travel destination they wish to go to?

Do they have a couple bucket list?

What did the couple introduce to one another? (Can be a product, hobby, way of doing things, etc.)

What is something they admire about the other?

Before they were dating, did they have supportive friends who tried to set them up? What did they try to do?

What symbols do you associate with your OTP and why?

[amazingdeadfish]

More Swap au pls 👉🏻👈🏻

Of course, if you want to

I've been meaning to find an excuse to draw them again, and you've given it to me on a silver platter.

[chiisana-sukima]

What's your opinion on the take that Sam is always running away?

The short answer is I think spn's ethics are insane.

The longer answer is that if you did a rewatch and counted up all the times that Sam objectively "runs away" from a problem/his family/etc and all the times Dean "runs away" from the same, I'm not sure who would actually win. But I do think the narrative frames Sam as the one who runs, and that, over the long term, it treats "running away" as his cardinal sin.

For example, when Dean runs away from his mistakes in Road Trip, the narrative does frame that as immature and self-destructive, and punishes him with the Mark of Cain. But by s11, this is reframed briefly as a "we" problem in s11a (Sam: "if we don't change, right now, all of our crap is just gonna keep repeating itself") and then never held against Dean personally thereafter. Whereas Sam's equivalent attempt at running away--the s4 demon blood arc--continues to be held against him by the narrative until at least 13x21 (Cas: we let Lucifer out of the Cage.)

Even more interestingly, at least to me, with the exception of Stanford, the narrative also tends to treat Dean's episodes of running away from Sam as "abandoning" him, but Sam's episodes of running away from Dean as "betraying" Dean.

This is Dean abandoning Sam to his fate as Lucifer's vessel. The narrative punishment is extreme, but not only does Dean get a do over in the same episode and it never comes up again, but the quote is remembered by fandom primarily as a quote about how close they are. And I do think that's borne out by the narrative. If Dean abandons Sam, the world will literally end.

Meanwhile though:

When Sam screws up with Dean, he's betraying him. The problem isn't just that Sam is an addict or that he ran away from Dean's attempt to forcibly detox him for his own somewhat questionable "good", but that he did so with a demon whore. It's portrayed as a personal betrayal in a way that Dean abandoning Sam to Lucifer is not.

In some ways, Sam is even the more steadfast brother. He may physically leave Dean at times but he never stops believing in Dean's capacity for good. When it's his turn to lock Dean in the panic room because Dean gives up and runs to destruction at the hands of Michael, he doesn't do it. And in the Mark of Cain arc, he affirms that even if Dean kills him, he accepts it as necessary and still believes Dean is a good man.

Which brings me to spn's ethics and fandom's response.

If there's one single thing that spn is entirely, completely, one hundred percent consistent on, it's that tumblr is wrong. You can't just walk out; leaving is always wrong and will usually end the world. It's wrong if it's temporarily for the evening because you'd like to have Thanksgiving dinner and your family doesn't do that, or for four years because you want to go to college, or for forever because all your remaining loved ones have been killed before your eyes, or if it's only a partial withdrawal because you want better boundaries in the face of years of violence and autonomy violations. (To be clear, spn thinks the violence and autonomy violations are wrong too; it's just especially adamant that the only appropriate response is self-sacrifice.) The only reason Sam is finally allowed to temporarily leave in the finale is because he so obviously no longer wants to.

And all of this, to be completely blunt, is batshit fucking crazy. And I mean that in the clinical technical sense of the word. As a system of ethics it's an enormous mess, as a behavioral guide it's guaranteed to result in inappropriate assignment of blame and unnecessary suffering, and it's hard to interpret it all for me personally as anything but a response to trauma.

I do think that on an emotional level there's something wildly compelling about it though, and it's fiction, after all, so there's nothing wrong with it as a fantasy. The idea that if only you could prove your loyalty strongly enough your family would finally accept you, flaws and all, is an impossible wish many of us have spent a lot of our real lives trying to actualize. And seeing it happen on screen when it can't happen irl can be cathartic, much like revenge stories can be cathartic even though irl revenge is a terrible idea. The vibes are, in short, without flaw.

The thing that's hard for me though is remembering that everyone irl grows at their own speed. Not everyone is in a position to cleanly separate their emotional enjoyment of a plotline or theme from their intellectual calculus about whether or not it makes any fucking sense--especially when those plotlines or themes are about violence, betrayal, abandonment, and abuse. And it's hard for me to remember sometimes that huge swathes of meta aren't actually the result of [insert negative judgement here] but are just reflective of a different series of experiences than the ones I happen to have had.

Honestly I find it frustrating. I wish people would be better about separating out what the story is saying from what they think of that message themselves. I feel like the format of fandom meta is often kind of a disaster. It adopts an authoritative, academic tone, but is usually actually used to express personal feelings and wishes without acknowledging that it's doing that.

It's not that I think people should have to disclose their personal experiences to write meta--on the contrary, sometimes that's helpful but sometimes it just makes it worse. Rather, I wish people would get in the habit of using more "I" statements and acknowledging their subjectivity more overtly. Back in the days when dinos roamed the earth and I was an undergrad, I learned that the use of the third person passive voice in academic writing is a political choice. It grants the illusion of more authority and objectivity than actually exists. I wish fandom would take up my professor's call to abandon it to some extent and say "I feel hurt that Sam left Dean alone with John to go to college" rather than "Sam is always running away".

[badgalsasuke]

The other day I was thinking about how wild it would be if people spoke about Brokeback Mountain the same way the Naruto fandom speaks about Naruto and Sasuke's relationship. Like imagine people going "Jack and Ennis relationship isn't written romantically because they married women and had children with them" and then we are shown miserable marriages, neglected kids and both men still seeing each other without the presence of anybody else, y'know kinda like... N+S

Obviously the fact we're shown sex scenes between Jack and Ennis is the reason why the audience can't simply say it's a platonic brotherly friendship like they love to do with every mlm ship with romantic homoerotic writing that also keeps its writing PG-13.

But TRUST if there weren't sex scenes people would deny their homosexual romance and say that, for example, the scene were Jack and Ennis are shirtless and chasing each other playfully to then lay on the ground in each others arms is just bros being bros. Just like Sasuke telling Naruto they know each other hearts is just bros being bros, or Naruto wishing upon a shooting star for Sasuke and saying he will be the home Sasuke can return to is just bros being bros *eye twitch*

[dipplinduo]

Announcement: A Wild DIPPLINSHIPPING HYPE WEEK appeared!

As you may know, the Indigo Disk DLC released on December 14th, 2023. In anticipation of the upcoming 1 year anniversary, we're banding together to celebrate the wonderful conclusion of the DLC storyline and all of the swoony & angsty moments of dipplinshipping as a whole!

This event and its prompts are based entirely on community ideas and voting. According to final responses, most dipplinshipping community members prefer to celebrate from Saturday, December 14th, 2024 (Indigo Disk Anniversary Date) to Friday, December 20th, 2024.

Event Guidelines:

Any art form is welcome. Whether you want to draw, paint, write, create music, or so on - we love and encourage it!

Participation is entirely up to the creator. While the official start and end dates of the celebration week are outlined, you are more than welcome to release submissions at your own pace and liking. If you only want to do 1 or 2 prompts, no worries! If you want to do all 7, have at it! Just make sure you're having fun. :)

Please mark your content accordingly and remain mindful of community safety and comfort. I plan to promote all content that is created for this event, but will not be promoting inappropriate themes (e.g., NSFW, violent/graphic content, inappropriate treatment of minors or pokemon, or any other related themes that may be questionable or discomforting). Off theme submissions will also not be promoted (e.g., OC shipping).

How to Submit:

Use the Tumblr hashtags: #dipplinshipping, #dipplinshippinghypeweek2024.

Submission Link for AO3 Collection.

Have fun!!! I can't wait to celebrate with you. <3

Special shoutouts to @mimilovesfurret for suggesting this event idea, and to @kekstala, @mandachuart, and @tuttiflutie for co-creating the lovely infographic above on short notice!

With love,

dipplinduo

[bedlamsbard]

If I was grading by hand I would get a stamp made that just says SOURCE? because it is my number one comment on every paper that crosses my desk. alas I am grading on a computer and I just have to keep typing it.

[somecluelessidiot]

Marauders characters as a conversation I had with my friends

Lily: It's mufti tomorrow right?

Mary: yepp

Lily: Thank u!

Marlene: The temptation to say no

Mary: yeah who knows maybe im lying

Marlene: Yeah

Lily: Pls don't lie guys, my heart can't take this. 😂😂

Remus: It's mufti I promise xx

Marlene: No it’s not

Remus: Ignore her Lily

Remus: I'm telling the truth

Remus: She's a liar 🐀🐀

James: neither are telling the truth.

Marlene: welp

Sirius, drunk: What is truth

James: i am truth

Sirius: Woah

James: 😈

Peter: I feel like the concept of truth being evil is not a good thing

Remus: well i mean all truths can be evil if they negatively impact someone which all truths probably do if you took in the impact that they have on every single human being if they were placed in that situation

Regulus: You negatively impact me

Remus: i negatively impact myself bae join the club

Barty: HA real

Sirius: Although who's to say what evil is? Perhaps the people being negatively impacted are evil. Then maybe the truth isn't anymore.

Barty: yes bae get on that

James: I'm too tired for philosophy.

Regulus: im too tired for you but i dont see you shutting up.

[livvylives]

reading tftsa is always an emotional experience especially when you get the short stories focused around the Blackthorns because the absence of Mark just bleeds out. like when you read about Julian being Helen's suggenes and Simon being the witness to Julian's parabatai ceremony you are just burdened with the knowledge that that's not who they would have picked if the circumstances were different. in a different life it was Mark.

[starswornoaths]

In Light of Day

Follow-up for In Shade of Moonlight I had thought lost to the ether years ago (although if you want to read this whole scene from start to finish, Something Like Home is the start of the evening referenced in the fic, followed by First Steps and then In Shade of Moonlight but god. I haven't gone back to edit them please lower your expectations they're old.) Once I found it, I couldn't stop picking at it until I eventually had to just post it already. Hopefully I'll get more of what I've already written posted at some point.

Post 3.3, pre-3.4, it's the morning after the festivities. While there is no hangover to be found in Borel Manor, yearning that spilled over in the moonlight is now examined and re-examined in the light of day. Duty and Devotion are inextricably tied, yet where one can so often subsume the other, other times either may be consumed.

Word count: 4,400

~*~

Serella was relieved to find the sun was rising to greet her the second time she opened her eyes that morning. As mind and body reconnected, she found herself bundled into blankets beside another warm body and comfortably in bed rather than flung to the floor in her sleep. She took in the sight of a barely-familiar room and the faint creak of howling winds pressing an old house, and she knew with immediate and delightful certainty that the previous night hadn’t been a dream.

More pleasant still was the weight of Aymeric’s arm slung over the curve of her hip.

Truly, it was always the small mercies that kept Serella aloft.

With great care so as to avoid waking him, she negotiated the slide of his arm to drape across her back, that she might turn to watch him sleep. There was no force strong enough to stop her from smiling as she took in the sight.

Bereft of the waking world’s worries to weigh on him, his features were slack with rest and smudged into the pillow without care. Once removed from the mantle of his station and free of the pinch in his brow, he almost looked like a different person entirely. In a kinder world, he might know this feeling even when awake—but then, so would she.

Her hand itched with the want to run her fingers through his silken curls, strewn wildly all over and haloed in the morning light. He looked so utterly endearing to her in that moment, with an almost boyish pout pushed into his full lips by the pillow he burrowed into.

Serella felt her heart squeeze. Two things occurred to her in that moment, one right after the next: that she had never seen Aymeric so utterly unburdened and unreachable to the rest of the world, and she wanted to do all in her power to make more moments like these, if only to hoard for herself like a dragon.

Assuming such a thing would even be welcome.

If last night had been a fairy tale, this morning was the stumble out of the fairy’s circle. The moment where everything became real again, and the world was sustainably imperfect.

Still asleep, Aymeric shifted such that his other hand knocked into hers in the scant space between them. Even in dreams, the touch was enough to curl his lips in an unguarded smile he half smothered into his pillow, fingers flexing for a fleeting, blind search of her.

But time was liable to take notice of Serella if she further entangled them. If not time, then certainly duty or any number of things that would rip her from this peace. Rather than risk it, she gathered the pillow beneath her in a white-knuckled fist. As she watched the gilded fingers of dawn blindly fumble for the shape of them through the parted curtain, she prayed the city—the realm—would forget them a little while longer.

In this liminal space between what she had dared to want and what was real, scars from flesh to marrow and deeper still threatened her with their phantom pains. Muscles in need of stretching burned, and the chill in the air threatened to make every joint ache the second she left the blankets. Bones creaked in protest after being still for so long in sleep when she tried to address those aches that howled first. For several long moments, her body was caught in its own space between thrumming soreness from stillness and lancing ache from movement, waiting for the worst of both to ease.

And from below the monotonous agony, a long-standing anxiety welled up from the pit of her rib cage to form a roiling bubble of intrusive thoughts that pressed at her throat. The what-ifs began to whisper in her ears again. Despite her best efforts, what had been muffled to a distant buzz in the previous eve’s heady rush was given crystalline clarity in light of day.

For her heart was but a muscle, and it ached like all the rest.

Such worry always came on the heels of vulnerability. Of course it did; fear was an old and familiar stalagmite that had gradually emerged from the pit in her stomach through years of buried feeling being left to itself. Crystallized and jagged monument of unaddressed pain that it was, its sharpest and highest facets had long since lodged themselves in the spaces between her ribs. To dislodge even a piece of it, something inside of her would surely have to break. The morning light bounced off its raw facets in her mind’s eye, sending her vision swimming with spots until she realized its true source was the thinning of her own breath.

To persevere in silence would be to welcome the press of a blade to her heart, trusting that it would not be run through—and oh, how Serella had bled in the past.

It wasn’t as though the fear was unfounded, even knowing Aymeric to be a good man; blunt though the instrument be, duty could well be what he might wield to beat all they were back to the shadows. Worse—it could well be his expectation that she was of like mind.

Surely not—surely not. And yet…

If Serella had been wrong to let herself be vulnerable, to want—if she had guessed wrong again—

Scratching at the door ripped her from her spiral so suddenly that she nearly jumped. No doubt it was Duchess, whom she heard rumbling from the depths of the manor last night.

A more insistent scratch came as if in answer. Serella strongly suspected such a temperamental old thing would start to yowl if her demands weren’t answered in a timely fashion.

She knew the type.

Peering back at Aymeric, who seemed yet unperturbed by the sound, she found even the thought of waking him to border on criminal—and he doubtless would once Duchess kicked up enough of a fuss.

The lady of the house needed feeding, and Serella was already up. No sense in robbing him of what little extra sleep he could find, after all. Not when her anxieties were so chatty this morn as to already rob her of it.

Decision made, she eased herself from the loose tangle of limbs and tucked the covers around him as he continued to doze. When he pawed at the empty space left by her absence, she compensated him with her pillow. Once freed of darling and duvet both, she slid from the bed entirely with immense care and only minimal popping sounds from her joints as she ambled over toward the door.

Sure enough, Serella was met with the lady of the house peering up at her once she’d eased the door open. More fur than feline, she sat at the doorway like a prim little tumbleweed with indignant green eyes, all dense fur patterned with beautiful mottled browns and brushed to its utmost fluffiness.

“Good morning.” She greeted, slipping out into the hall and twisting the doorknob to soften its closing behind her. “Breakfast?”

Mrr, Duchess rumbled in assent. Serella felt it in the floorboards.

“Well go on, then,” she said with a gesture to the hall, “I know you know where it is.”

With a thump of her tail and a wheezy huff, the acting Viscountess trotted off down the stairs. Her house guest followed gamely, hopeful that she behaved as most cats would and make a dash for her food at the promise of being served.

Blessedly, Duchess was no different: with a startling amount of speed for her apparent age, she made a beeline down the stairs and around the bend to a specific cabinet in the kitchen just beside the pantry. Once sat primly before the little door, she began to paw at a worn patch of scratches at its bottom corner and look up expectantly with the widest, roundest eyes that she could and the softest trill she had managed thus far.

Oh, this was manipulation if ever she’d seen it, doubtless perfected over eight lifetimes’ worth of practice on family and guests. Must have the same teacher as her owner, Serella mused to herself.

After a brief scan to find her feeding bowl—full but for the emptied center of the dish, of course—Serella was soon scooping an appropriate amount of food for the lady.

“Your breakfast, madam!” She said, presenting the bowl in a with a flourish.

Duchess sniffed up at her, nearly thankful, before promptly burying her face in the kibble and paying her guest no further mind.

“You yet possess your hand.” Aymeric’s amused voice drifted in from behind her.

Startled, Serella spun to face him with eyes wide and hands held up to her heart as if she had been caught doing something wrong. It was effortless to find her ease when she saw him leaned against the doorway with his arms crossed and a sleepy smile on his face.

“Of all your accomplishments, that may well be among the most impressive,” he teased with a chuckle, “not even I have managed unscathed every time.”

“I’ll count that as a personal victory, then.” She said, at a loss as to what else to say.

Though she wore a set of his pajamas, she might as well have not changed from her gown last night for how reverently he looked at her. Even at barely seven bells in the morning and doubtless with a bird’s nest in her hair he still looked at her as though she were spun from starlight and woven in his dreams.

Her gaze shied from his, all at once overwrought with raw and tender ache.

“I’d hoped to avoid waking you,” she explained as if she were trying to get out of trouble.

Which was silly, she knew. She’d only fed his cat.

“Seems my stealth could do with a bit of work, though,” she added with a lame gesture between them.

She wasn’t even sure it was meant to be a joke, but he offered her a huff of laughter all the same.

“In truth, your absence woke me more than you leaving,” he admitted, his smile turning bashful when his gaze demurred as he added, “though the decoy was almost as charming as hearing you through the door.”

His ears flushed a faint pink when he glanced back at her and explained, “I reached for you—and when you were not there, it alarmed me.”

Not entirely unreasonable—she had flung herself off the bed in the middle of the night. He’s gracious enough not to mention it.

“I would have otherwise been tempted to lounge with you all day,” she mumbled, and felt near feverish for how hot her face burned at the admittance, “if I thought we could get away with it, at least.”

It seemed to please Aymeric greatly, however; as his smile grew wide enough for his eyes to crinkle at the corners as he looked at her in full again. As if that helped him decide something, he pushed off the doorway and moved closer with steps merry yet unhurried.

Serella still startled when he stopped within arm’s reach. He could have already made contact with her, yet he hesitated, as if wondering what she would do.

Nothing. She did nothing, save for white knuckle the counter behind her with the want to.

She wasn’t surprised at her struggle with letting that last wall between them fall, not after a year or so of skirting around one another. Not with her thoughts swarming her head like an agitated hive. Understanding it did not ease her lamentations. Did not quiet the buzzing.

“That may yet be arranged,” he murmured, unaware of her struggle.

His hand drifted to skim the thin shirt sleeve she wore with his knuckles, his expression almost shy. At no point on its dutiful march down her sleeve did his hand make contact with her. She felt the comet’s trail of his warmth all the same.

It wasn’t until the tip of his finger hooked on the cuff of her sleeve in a vague pantomime of holding her hand that she realized she had let go of the counter behind her. Startled, she looked up at him with a thin gasp to find him already peering at her through his lashes.

Holding her gaze steadily, he asked, “...If it should please you?”

It’s too early to be this sweet, she huffed at him in her mind.

She shivered despite the warmth of his knuckles against hers when his hand drifted those few ilms lower. Under his attention, her heart felt both deeply tender and fit to burst.

“It would.” Serella said softly, though refrained from giving in to the temptation to unmake the scant distance between them entirely.

Last night had been…perfect. Beyond perfect. Sharing their hearts, even an onze, even for a moment, had been more than she had ever dared hope for. In the light of day, where the dream was over and yet they still remained, she could hardly contain the affection she’d withheld for so long. Just the effort of it made her skin burn.

And yet…

That sharp, anticipatory pain in her heart where the blade could well find its purchase seized her bodily in that moment. The fault lines where it would break from such piercing groaned in warning.

Aymeric seemed to sense her hesitation, as he dropped her sleeve and moved a few ilms away. The hollow space where she had meant to lace their fingers together howled yet she could not force herself to move before at least this fear could be exorcised. She had no more room to bury it, and it would not help her exhume the rest.

“I,” she tried to croak though the words tangled in a lump in her throat.

Swallowing it, she tried again, “I don’t…I don’t know what you hope for us to be.”

At that, Aymeric stilled with a short yet shuddered intake of breath. Even his aether seemed to recoil in response but what startled Serella most was that for all the emotions that rippled along the surface of his heart, surprise was not among them.

The tangle of feelings radiating off of him was familiar—too familiar; not for the first time, she had nearly missed it for how similarly his struggle had mirrored her own. That tense anticipation for pain, the pre-emptive flinch before impact, she could feel every twitch that spoke of routine. The morbid vindication of ah, and there it is, to greet disaster after awaiting it for so long.

Expectant rather than dreading. Because this had happened to him before, she remembered.

In the few seconds it had taken her to make the connection, he had thinned his breathing, as if to make himself as scarce and unobtrusive as he could in this moment. Already, his body language began to shape itself in the familiar form of an apology, starting with the inward flinch of his shoulders.

Even blind, she would feel the way his aether roiled and his stomach dropped out from under him. Sensitive to it all as her Blessing had made her, it was impossible not to know the waves of his emotions as they crashed into her.

In a grim way, it was reassuring: he was just as much of a nervous mess as she.

Suddenly desperate to soothe it out of both of them, she took his hand and chose to be brave.

Body and soul, that surprised Aymeric. He could not catch his expression ere it crossed his face.

“I want to be with you.” she said—and though the words felt strange, like tasting an old secret on her tongue, she relished in the relief at saying them.

The breath left him as though he were struck, even as he beamed at her. As if given permission to breathe again, his chest rose with the slow, relieved inhale that left him in a sigh so deep as to sag his posture.

“Serendipity itself,” he said on the tapered end of his exhale, more air than words.

His hand was gentle when it brought hers to his lips. His warmth splashed across her knuckles in soft breaths as he kissed them once, twice, thrice in reverence.

“I want much the same—it feels at least a lifetime that I have yearned,” he admitted against her skin, peering at her through fanned lashes and a deep flush.

Relief and happiness crushed her heart from all sides at his words, enough that for a moment the swarm in her head scattered in dissaray. How could such an otherwise even toned and collected man have such infectious joy? The nerve of him. The unmitigated gall.

Turning her hand within his hold she instead curled it to cup his cheek. When he leaned into the touch and eclipsed her hand with his own, his lips sought her palm as though they were made solely to kiss it.

Her thumb traced the angle of his cheekbone as she struggled to find the words to say to help him understand. His thumb idly mirrored her movements, blindly pacing the length of a scar on her thumb he had come across as if in a trance as his lashes fluttered.

Seconds passed in the sort of sunlit slowness that moved like honey on a spoon, but Aymeric was eventually stirred to shift within her hold and face her fully. All syrup-slowness, his lashes lifted to let him regard her at length.

“You have concerns,” he said at last, his eyes still searching hers.

“Only one.” Serella answered, relieved and horrified all at once for his perceptive nature.

“I imagine you will find more in time, yet if there is only the one for now, then I would hear it.” he said, and let her hand slip from under his when she pulled it away. “I would help you find your ease.”

Words swam in her head, only forming coherent sentences at certain angles through the muck of her fears.

“I don’t…need any grand gestures. Nothing…announced.” Serella fumbled to explain, the words clumsy and anxious. “And I don’t want any of that—gods, it makes me anxious just to think of—“

“You are not one for ceremony.” Aymeric agreed, smiling.

Serella nodded. Wetting her lips, she tried to persevere, saying, “And—and I know there will be times where professionalism is more important. For both of us, really. I would want that distinction regardless, lest we be accused of corrupting one another’s stations.”

It was his turn to nod. “I agree,” he said.

“But that—” she cut herself off with a wince, bracing for the fall with a deep, steady inhale as she said in a rush, “that doesn’t mean I would be content to be hidden.”

“…Hidden?” Aymeric asked, and it was obvious he was taken aback for the way he almost physically jumped at the thought.

“I only mean—“ Realizing she was wording it poorly, she flustered. “I—I’m not really making myself clear, am I?”

“You are—I am merely struggling to see.” He reassured her.

With a tilt of his head, he asked, “Help me understand? How—why in the name of the Fury would I hide you?”

“It’s just…we’ve fought so hard for so long to reveal the Holy See’s secrets—both small and large.” she began slowly.

“A victory that has cost us much.” he agreed in a soft murmur.

“And…I don’t know if your station allows you to have room for me—but—”

Wetting her lips, she finally sighed and said, “for how hard we fought for the truth of the Theocracy, I would not want us to be the Republic’s first secret.”

Realization dawned on his face for the briefest moments before melting away into relief.

“Ah,” he sighed, gently, before asking, “is that what it was?”

When Serella looked at him again, his smile was impossibly soft.

“Aye,” she said, posture slumping over as the last of a sigh left her, “that’s it. My one concern.”

“Certainly a valid one, but permit me put it to rest.” Aymeric said, reaching for her again.

The first brush of his fingers on her face was enough for the tension in her shoulders to snap with such a force she almost felt lightheaded. Her head fell into his palm like the architecture of him was made to hold her.

He waited until she met his gaze before speaking again.

“There is naught preventing me from being with you, so long as we both wish for it.” Aymeric said, his hand soft as it stroked the apple of her cheek. “Nor would I ever wish to hide—I do not even think I could. Not after,” he flushed clear to the tips of his ears as he finished the sentence in an almost mumble, “not after so long pretending. I could not go back.”

She flushed in kind and resisted the urge to hide her face in his hand. Or his chest. Or the countertop. How many times would she be made to damn his earnest nature before noon? Before the sennight was over? Before the world ended?

May it happen enough that I lose count, Serella prayed.

“Well, then,” she said around a hum, “consider my concern addressed.”

“Good.”

He smiled, though the relief that rippled through him felt tentative to Serella.

“Do you have concerns?” she asked with a tilt of her head and an arch of her brow. “Since we’re clearing things up now—which, by the way, an important start to things, I should think.”

“...Only—only one for myself as well,” he said slowly, all the ease that had found him leaving in fits and starts.

As if wandering, his hand drifted to her hair and began to twirl a lock of it loosely around his finger. His gaze focused on his fidgeting.

He only did that when he was uncomfortable with what he was going to say next, she noted to herself; it was the only time he would ever look away from the person he was speaking with.

“I had not thought to address it—I presumed it was taken as given, but—“

“Better to say it,” Serella said. “Whatever it may be.”

“You have the right of it.” Aymeric agreed, even as he seemed almost reluctant. Still, his tone was even, almost detached, as he explained, “I would never want you to enter a courtship with me bearing—“

“Relationship.” she said.

When he looked at her in surprise, she added, “If you feel the need to court me to make up for lost time, I certainly won’t object, but I’d argue the past year or so has been exactly that. More or less.”

“…Relationship, then.” He said, and for all his trepidation, that seemed to please him greatly. “With perhaps some courtly romance for lost time.”

Though the troubled expression hadn’t fully left his face, even the thought of their bond had let joy rally in the corners of his lips. The melancholy almost immediately regained its dominance as he slowly continued, “I would not want you to agree to such a relationship bearing any misconceptions as to my…dedication.”

“...I don’t follow.” Serella admitted with a shake of her head.

“Pray do not misunderstand,” he pleaded, and she felt his anxiety in her throat. “I would never do aught without consent—“

“I know,” she reassured him. “I trust you.”

“That does not mean, however,” he spoke like it tortured him to do so as he said, “that I could always prioritize you over aught else. If at all, really.”

“Hmm?” She arched a brow—not offended, but still not entirely sure what he meant.

He must have taken her confusion as offense, because he spoke with just a tinge of desperation, as if frantic to articulate, “For however deep my feelings for you might run—so long as I hold even one office—” he winced before continuing, “—never mind two, I cannot hold you above my duties to Ishgard.”

As she thought. She resisted the urge to laugh, knowing how upset he was and how that would look. He had little and less to worry about in that regard—or at least, just as much to worry about as she did, which all evened out in the wash so far as she was concerned.

“Even were I not an officer of the Maelstrom,” she began, searching for the words, “as the Warrior of Light, I have to ask you much the same: can you feel comfortable, knowing I must put not only the needs of Limsa Lominsa but also the realm over you? That I most often must answer to a title before I can answer to my name?”

Aymeric blinked owlishly at her, and then she did laugh at his incredulous expression; clearly he had been so caught up in his own fears he had not perceived aught beyond them.

The sweet fool, she thought with infinite fondness.

“I can,” he said, almost excitedly.

“Then promise me,” she said, moving to lay a hand over his heart. “That you’ll never prioritize me over Ishgard and Her interests.”

“I swear it,” he said.

With a huff of relieved laughter he kissed her forehead.

His eyes were alight with relief and crinkled at the corners with his smile when he spoke again, “promise me in kind that you will never place me above the realm.”

“I would never,” she said—and spoke true.

As if her words dispelled his every trepidation, he smiled in that way that felt like the first rays of sunshine after endless rain.

“Any other concerns?” She asked, her grin returning in the wake of her relief. “Any at all?”

“None,” he responded, at last crossing those last few ilms of distance and curling his arms around her. She met him readily, hands smoothing away the singular cowlick in his hair. “None whatsoever.”

“So it’s us, then?” she asked, both for clarity and because she would never tire of hearing it. “For as long as we want?”

“Please,” he breathed, barely getting the word out before Serella discovered her new favorite feeling: his laughter, humming gently against her lips.

[ghosteded]

i realllllyyy wanna yap about wicked to someone right now

[zecroswe]

Finally found the time to upload this! Design Concepts for the Post canon time travel AU Jayvik rp.

The premise of the AU: After the end of Arcane, Jayce and Viktor get sent to the past in a alternative timeline, a few days before S1 Jayce raids the shimmer factory and before S1 Viktors experiments with the hexcore kills Sky. A lot of chaos is caused as these traumatised timetravelers tries to prevent the worst from happening in this new timeline and cope with all they have gone through.

S2 Jayce and Viktor got the nicknames Defender (Fender by Vi and Cait) and Herald respectivly to avoid confusion with their S1 counterparts. S2 Jayce thinks his nickname is stupid but It stuck, he is getting used to It.

Design notes and context:

*Viktor can put on and remove his Herald mask at will by splitting and reforming his face.

*Viktors extra eyes can now open after an incident were Jayce almost (kinda?) died while destroying the new timelines hexcore.

* The Hexcore stabbed Jayce in the chest, damaging one of his lungs and his heart. Viktor used his magic to put them both in a Arcane Cacoon to safely heal him and save his life. Part of Jayce's chest is now metal, including the damaged lung and half his heart.

*During the same incident, Ambessa threw a spear at the cacoon, piercing It and hitting Jayce straight through the throat. Viktor managed to heal this, but Jayce was physiclly and spiritually unconscious for multiple days. His throat is now also metal, causing his voice to have a slight echo to It.

*Jayce's leg also got affected in the healing process as a side effect. It is now fully metal and is less painful, but his balance is still affected due to the severe damage of the leg, so he uses a cane for support. His leg brace got fused into the leg during the healing process.

*Viktor got the light pink/pale lavender hair color after a later incident were he used a overcharge of Arcane magic to once again save Jayce.

*Jayce has a custom Runic Glove that Viktor designed for him. It allows him to channel arcane energy through It to cast basic spells. (More details in a future post)

*Jayce's cane is part of his new hextech hammer (More details in a future post)

*The cog on their throats is meant to be the original cog from their first hextech experiment. Viktor split it and fused the pieces onto both of them to symbolise their devotion and love. It was in practice a marrige proposal, so they are both technically engaged! : D