#the inconsequential collapse

[mumblelard]

the neodymium microcosmos or the anticipation of received forms

last week was the seventeenth anniversary of my first post in this place and after three thousand one hundred thirty-seven posts, i am pretty sure i'm still not doing it right

my kids and my girlfriend came over friday night and we drank pink lemonade tequila spritzers and ate pizza and shared this week's stories. it was a really nice night

yesterday, a cover of thirteen by big star came on the radio, and i was barely able to explain to cassidy how that song always makes me cry just before i lost my voice

last night i dreamt of quitting, i dreamt of a magazine cover with red stars on a blue field and no words, and i dreamt again of walls filled with pastel fauna absent menace or comfort

today, i am spending the day with finn and fall and they have surprises in store!

this week spans bloomsday, the solstice, the full moon, and midsummer

i'm spending next weekend in the mountains up near the gorge and my anticipation grows

[danidoesathing]

(I like to think that Giopara did know Viktor was sick in some way-the two of them had been working together long enough for him to recognize Viktor's tells-but he didn't catch on to how bad it was. He just saw Viktor trying to hide his coughing fits and (not unreasonably) thought it was something like a very persistent strain of bronchitis. He didn't even consider the possibility of a terminal illness because why would he? Viktor's symptoms had other explanations, and his partner always went out of his way to hide and downplay any sicknesses he got. (Even the blood could be explained by nosebleeds.) And after the Exile, Giopara was way too bitter and hurt to read through his former partner's notes.

(When the truth comes out, he feels awful. Because he knew Viktor had something, but he'd never pried or looked into it: he'd just brushed it off as Viktor's normal refusal to admit he was sick. If he'd tried to look into it, if he'd been more persistent, would Viktor have told him? Could he have helped? Or would forcing answers out of his partner only have made things worse? Giopara's haunted by thoughts of what could have been.)

oh yeah yeah yeah like. viktor was never in great health and tends to get sick often so he wouldn't think much of it. the only time he'd really get concerned would be any day he'd be out of the lab (the day he collapses and is in the hospital, but after that he still wouldn't take any time off lets be real). even if giopara did ask or push about it he likely wouldn't get an answer (depending on when it happened to, if it were after the fiasco with blitzcrank, even asking about it would've spiraled into a fight) (and honestly i could easily see a situation where giopara would like to help vik whenever he got sick, but even if viktor allowed him to it would affect their dynamic and would require them to be. vulnerable. gross). while arcane vik might've allowed himself to be slightly more open about himself with jayce, lol viktor would fight tooth and nail to keep himself from being seen as weak, especially by jayce. he never would've willingly let jayce know he was sick regardless of the circumstances (the exile only proved it to be the right decision in his mind). the idea of viktor being terminally sick doesn't even cross his mind

of course he doesnt find out for years and years after they become enemies and once he does it sends him into a spiral. hes gonna be going over everything in his head and wondering when it even started and why didnt he tell anyone (him) what was going on and how did he not notice his friend lab partner was dying. woe! eternal guilt be upon ye

[thorough-witness-enjoyer]

I love it when Destiny takes time to show the smaller moments of the universe.

Eido nerding out over preserving culture, people celebrating the Festival of the Lost, baking cookies when the temperature drops, Zavala knitting, Osiris and Saint being tender, random guardians and their friends that we might never get another lore entry on, guardians who we get a handful of lore entries for their shenanigans, conversations about beliefs between characters we know and love, and so, so much more.

In the face of tremendous loss and pain, there are always moments of unconquerable joy and love, even if they are brief. Love can be found in every tale, every crevice, and every event in Destiny despite despairing circumstances and it wins. Maybe not immediately, maybe long after the lovers have perished to their situations, but it always triumphs. It’s seeds always burst through an inhospitable soil to grow into the shade others will lay under, resting their heads upon a person they would propagate a whole forest for.

It is the small moments like finding unlikely companions, enjoying a deeply brewed tea, or collecting candy on holidays that keeps people fighting for the ability to experience such delights.

Destiny is about a universe of people who will choose to survive and endure no matter the cost. It is the assuring sight of different species of children playing in the streets of the Last City that people will suffer time and time again to protect. It is the thought that there will always be a precious experience in life awaiting in the future that makes people want to even keep the very POSSIBILITY of suffering.

Eris has saved the universe to bring justice to her fireteam, protect humanity, and save the ones she loves like Ikora, Mara, and Drifter. That is enough.

Misraaks has helped us in our endeavors to protect Sol for his people and Eido, to see them prosper and grow. That is enough.

Some guardians may fight just to bring in enough glimmer to enjoy a drink at a tavern. That is enough.

Some people right after the Collapse may have continued on because they didn’t know what else to do, they didn’t know why they had it in their spirit to continue on upon a charred Earth. That is enough.

These are all enough to warrant the continuation of a universe that allows for these possibilities. These are enough and more to fight for with bleeding callouses and busted knuckles.

It is moments so fleeting and small that leave such an impression on us that we will fight against odds so enduring and large. We fight for justice, for hope, for good food, for the smell of blossoms in Spring.

We will do it over and over again for it is our right to determine our fates, no matter the indifference we receive from the universe itself and no matter the wants of those who equate the small to be inconsequential.

[goldfades]

i definitely think that hard launch - joe burrow should become a series!!!!

i wanna see the parts on what exactly happened the night they met, their first kiss, first time, everythingggg

★ FIRST KISS

❪ for my kelce sister x joe burrow series ❫

─ warnings | first kiss stuff!!! just a fluffy little blurb to start off my series

─ ev's notes | guys, i have so many fics already written for this series, i just need to edit and they'll be out!

⇨ missing out on updates? check out my masterlist!

It had been an easy kind of night, the kind that unfolded naturally, without the weight of expectations or the pressure of anything more than just being in each other’s presence.

The two of you had ended up at his place after a late dinner, neither ready to say goodnight just yet. It wasn’t unusual—some nights stretched longer than they should have, conversations spilling past reasonable hours, neither of you wanting to be the first to leave.

You weren’t sure when hanging out alone with Joe had stopped feeling like something casual, when the ease of your friendship had started carrying a different kind of tension underneath. Maybe it had always been there, lingering just beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to break through.

You were on the couch, half-curled into the corner, feet tucked under you. Joe sat next to you, his long legs stretched out, one arm resting lazily along the back of the couch. A game had been on earlier, but neither of you had been paying much attention to it. The conversation had drifted from football to music to a bunch of random, inconsequential things.

Then, somehow, you started laughing.

It had been over something so unbelievably stupid—something Joe had said in passing, something you had responded to in a way that sent you both into a downward spiral of uncontrollable laughter. It was the kind that snuck up on you, the kind that made your stomach ache and your face hurt.

Joe had tipped his head back, shoulders shaking, laughing so hard he could barely get a breath in. And you? You had collapsed into the cushions, gasping between giggles, barely able to sit up straight.

“Stop,” you wheezed, pressing a hand to your face, trying to catch your breath.

“I’m not even doing anything,” Joe shot back, grinning, but even as he said it, he let out another breathless laugh.

You turned to him then, still laughing, still breathless, and that’s when it happened. It was subtle, that shift. The kind that sneaks up on you, the kind you don’t notice until it’s already too late.

You were both still smiling, still catching your breath—but suddenly, the air felt different.

You weren’t thinking about the joke anymore. You weren’t thinking about anything except the way Joe was looking at you, the way his laughter had softened into something quieter, something almost thoughtful.

Your breathing slowed.

Joe’s eyes flickered down—just for a second—to your lips.

It was fast. Barely noticeable. But you noticed.

Your heart thudded against your ribs.

You didn’t know who moved first. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was you. Maybe it didn’t even matter.

Because one moment, you were just sitting there, too close, still grinning, still catching your breath—and the next, his lips were on yours.

Soft. Warm. Gentle, at first, like neither of you wanted to shatter the moment, like you were both hesitating at the edge of something unspoken.

The taste of laughter still lingered between you, the remnants of whatever joke had led you here, but now, it felt like something else entirely. Something heavier. Something real.

Joe’s hand found your jaw, his thumb grazing your cheek as he tilted his head slightly, deepening the kiss just enough to make your fingers tighten against his chest.

And then—just as quickly as it started—you pulled back, gasping for air. But neither of you moved far.

Your forehead rested against his, noses brushing, and when you opened your eyes, Joe was already looking at you.

There was something in his gaze—something unreadable but intense, something that sent a shiver down your spine.

You could speak. You could laugh it off, pretend like it hadn’t just changed everything.

But you didn’t.

Because Joe didn’t move away.

And neither did you.

[childrenofcain-if]

The relationship between MC and Elias has my entire effing heart 😭 idk how you made the dynamic so sweet and made me care for him when I've only known him for two chapters??

Since he's so gentle with us, I wonder how would it go if MC came home one day from like elementary school crying because they were bullied? How would Elias handle it?

the door slammed behind you with a loud, echoing sound that seemed to punctuate the misery weighing you down. your black, polished shoes scuffed against the marble floor as you trudged into the vast, empty foyer, tears streaming down your cheeks.

it was all too much—the laughter, the jeers, the malice-filled words of those kids at school that stabbed and twisted in ways you didn’t understand but hurt all the same.

elias had always been good at spotting storms on the horizon—first the trembling lip, then the stutter in your words, and finally, the cascade of tears that seemed far too heavy for someone so small.

when you came through the door just now, your face blotchy, streaked with heartbreak, he felt the summons of your sorrow like a riptide dragging him under. he had been in the middle of something—work, life, whatever inconsequential thing adults tangled themselves up in—but it evaporated the moment he saw you.

“oh, little apple,” he murmured as his eyes took in your tear-streaked face, the slump of your shoulders, the hiccupping breaths you couldn’t quite catch.

he dropped everything, his folders and papers scattering to the floor like leaves in a gust of wind. his long stride brought him to you in seconds, and then he was crouching, lowering himself to meet you on your level.

you were shaking, your fists tight as if holding onto the last frayed threads of your composure. he reached out, hesitant, the way you would approach a wounded animal, not wanting to startle you.

you couldn’t speak at first. the sobs came in waves, each one ripping through you, and the effort to shape words was too much. instead, you let go.

you collapsed against him, your small arms wrapping around his neck as if he were a lifeboat and you were caught in the middle of a stormy sea. he smelled like lavender, cedar and ink and something faintly sweet, like the peppermint candy he always kept in his pockets.

his arms wrapped around you, strong and warm, and for a moment, the world felt a little less like it was spinning out of control.

“it’s alright,” he murmured into your hair, though his heart was pounding. he could feel the dampness of your tears soaking into his shirt, the slight tremor in your body. “whatever it is, we’ll fix it. i promise.”

when your tears finally slowed with time, elias gently pulled back to look at you, his brow furrowed in concern. his thumbs brushed away the lingering wetness on your cheeks.

“want to tell me what’s going on?” he asked, his tone patient in the way only he could manage.

you hiccupped, clutching at his shirt. “they—” you sniffled, the words coming out shaky and uneven. “they took scooby-doo.”

he blinked, confused for a moment, before realization dawned on his face. “the keychain?”

you nodded, fresh tears spilling over. “the one mama gave me for christmas.”

a flicker of fury crossed his face, but he buried it quickly, his expression softening as he focused on you. “and who is ‘they’?”

you told him about the kids at school, their cruel laughter echoing in your ears even as you recounted the story. how they called you names for being smarter than them, for being the kid whose mom didn’t love them enough to live with them. how they’d grabbed your backpack and yanked the keychain off, holding it high above your head and tossing it to each other while you tried, unsuccessfully, to snatch it back.

elias didn’t interrupt. he let you talk, his jaw tightening with every word, though his hands stayed gentle on your shoulders.

as soon as you were done, he scooped you up with the same ease as when you were smaller, holding you close to his chest as he stood.

“shh, it’s okay,” he whispered, his voice soft and soothing as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “i’ve got you. those kids are never going to hurt you again. not ever.”

you nodded, your chest still heavy but a little lighter than before. elias always made you feel like the world wasn’t as big or scary as it seemed.

elias’s lips pressed into a firm line, a resolve hardening in his expression. “i’m going to talk to your school,” he promised. “the principal, the school board—whoever i need to. they won’t be getting away with this. but for now...” he softened again, his hand resting against your cheek comfortingly. “for now, let’s focus on making you feel better, okay?”

you sniffled against his shoulder, rubbing the remaining tears from your eyes. “how?”

“first,” he said, carrying you into the living room, “we’re going to get you something to eat. you can’t face the world on an empty stomach.” he set you down gently on the couch, brushing a strand of hair from your damp cheek. “what sounds good? mac and cheese? pancakes? ice cream for dinner?”

the corner of your mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile. “mac and cheese?”

“as my little apple wishes,” he said, bowing dramatically which made you giggle.

he sent the servants away, muttering something about needing the house to feel smaller and cozier. he then moved around the kitchen while narrating his every step of making mac and cheese as though he was starring in a cooking show. “breadcrumbs on top, obviously. otherwise, it’s just noodles pretending to be a meal. and a little extra cheese, because that’s how my little apple likes it, hm?”

when he set the plate in front of you, it looked a little lopsided, but it tasted like comfort and love. while you still preferred your mom’s version, your dad wasn’t a bad cook either.

you ate together on the couch, and elias told you stories about his own childhood, about the time he’d fallen off his bike trying to impress a girl or the disastrous school play where he’d forgotten all his lines. he made you laugh, the sort of laugh that bubbled up unexpectedly and left you breathless.

after you’d finished your plate, he pulled out a tub of your favorite ice cream, letting you eat it straight from the carton as he turned on the TV.

“now,” he said, flipping through the channels, “i seem to recall a certain detective dog who’s pretty good at cheering you up. what do you think?”

you nodded, curling up next to him on the couch. he wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close, and together you watched episode after episode of scooby-doo.

at one point, he even joined in on the theme song, his deep baritone blending awkwardly with the high-pitched melody. you giggled so hard you nearly fell off the couch, and the sound of your laughter seemed to melt something in him.

by the time bedtime rolled around, the weight of the day had eased, replaced by the kind of tiredness that settled in your bones after too much crying and too much laughing.

elias took your big yawn as a hint and carried you upstairs to your bedroom. he tucked you into bed like he always did—tucking the corners of the blanket just right, the way you liked it.

when he leaned down to kiss your forehead, you grabbed his wrist, your voice small. “will you stay, dada?”

his expression was gentle as he nodded. “of course.”

he sat on the edge of your bed, his large hand resting gently on your hair, stroking it in slow, soothing motions. you closed your eyes, the world finally quiet and safe.

and then he started to sing.

“close your eyes, have no fear. the monster’s gone, he’s on the run, and your daddy’s here.”

his voice wasn’t perfect, but it was tender and warm, wrapping around you like the blanket he’d tucked in so carefully. each word he sang wrapped around you like a lullaby spun from safety and love.

“beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful child…”

by the time he reached the bridge, you were asleep, your breathing even and peaceful. but elias stayed, his hand still resting against your hair, his gaze lingering on your face.

“goodnight, little apple,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “dada loves you so very much.”

and as the night deepened and the house fell completely silent, elias sat there, guarding your dreams with the quiet, unshakable strength of a father’s love.

[alastor-x-reader-stories]

Hey! I was wondering if you could write sequel to selfish or something similar because im the mom/therapist to most of my friends and that one shot was greatly loved by me! no rush tho I absolutely love all the stuff you've made

okay. thanks for the kind words too (❁´◡`❁) ----- SELFISH PT 2

You’ve been standing in front of Alastor’s bedroom door for a good ten minutes. On one hand, you craved his company, on the other hand, Alastor was a sadistic manipulative sociopath with extremely violent tendencies. Logically the answer was to walk away. You didn’t. Though you didn’t knock. You didn’t know if you wanted to knock.

You were so tired.

So tired you just couldn’t bring yourself to care anymore. You sighed and took a step backwards, preparing to turn and walk off when the door opened. Alastor stood there, his head cocked to the side.

“Did you need something, dear? I assume so saying you were standing there for quite a while.”

You stared at him. Any words you had planned leaving you to your own devices. Your feet moved on your own accord, stepping up to the Radio Demon and you slumped, resting your head against his chest. Alastor didn’t move or respond. Perhaps you were slumping against the wall and imagining it was Alastor. You couldn’t bring yourself to care.

Alastor let out a heavy sigh, his warm breath fanning over your head. A wave of self-conciousness overwhelmed you. Taking a step back – Well, you were going to take a step back. Force a smile, apologize, then meander off to deal with your problems solo. Instead, as you went to move, Alastor hooked one arm under your knees and another across your back and picked you up bridal style with all the ease in the world.

“Do I weigh anything to you?” You said with a small smile.

“Weight is not a relative measurement, dear.” He hummed as he carried you into his room.

“It kind of is? Depending on the planet, or even on Earth it can depend on the elevation.” You rambled mostly to yourself.

“Relative from person to person.” He clarified.

“Aw.”

Alastor dropped you onto his bed without ceremony, laughing as you flailed about in surprise. You shot him a glare he ignored and decided to just curl up onto your side, your back to him.

“Sorry for bothering you.” You muttered, eyes drooping.

The bed creaked as Alastor put his weight on it. One clawed hand gently ran through the hair on your head. You melted at the gentle touch.

“You’re never a bother.”

“Oh, that’s such bullshit.”

“Ha! Okay, fair enough.” Alastor snorted his amusement “The amount of bothering you are doing is inconsequential, is that better?”

You chuckled at the bluntness “Yeah. Thanks for being honest.”

The silence lingered. You closed your eyes, feeling overwhelmed by ….. feeling overwhelmed. Your body felt heavy, your heart felt constricted, your mind felt like cotton. All the while Alastor stroked you head, humming gently.

The peaceful quiet was broken by a harsh, cracking sob. Alastor’s humming stopped the same moment his hand froze. You coughed harshly and curled in tighter on yourself. You felt pathetic.

“I’m sorry-“ You said, trying to stifle your sobs “I-“ This was too much, too embarrassing. You got up quickly and headed for the door “I’m sorry- please forget this happened, I’m…. Sorry!” You ran off, not looking back at Alastor. He didn’t say anything and didn’t stop you.

You ran back to your room, slamming the door shut behind you and pressing your forehead to it as you took long, shaky breaths. What were you thinking? You shouldn’t have bothered anyone with your emotions. Let alone Alastor. He already helped you once, going out of his way to comfort you. Asking for more was just selfish. The Radio Demon no doubt had other things he could be doing and you had no right to interrupt them just because you were sad.

“I’m so pathetic.” You whispered to yourself, pulling away from the door. Wiping your eyes you went to your bed, kicked off your shoes, and collapsed onto the covers. The best thing to do was wait for it to blow over, then you can go back to helping the others. They all had their own problems to deal with, so you shouldn’t be bothering them with yours.

At some point you must have fallen asleep. Because when you opened your eyes again, you were tucked in under the covers, surrounded by overly fluffed pillows, soft jazz was playing from somewhere, and Keekee was sleeping on your stomach.

“Good Morning, dear!” The familiar staticy voice rung out. Almost swaddled in soft things, it took you a moment to wiggle free enough to look at Alastor.

He was sitting at the foot of your bed, reading some novel or something with his legs primly crossed and a cup of coffee in one hand.

Keekee let out a disgruntled meow and you relented and started stroking her back gently. The cat settled again, purring her satisfaction. Silently you looked at Alastor, tilting your head in your unvoiced question.

“Coffee?” Alastor said, motioning with his mug for emphasis.

“Er…No thanks.” You said “Alastor, what’s going on….?”

“I asked if you wanted coffee?” He said it like it was obvious, head tilting at an unnatural angle.

“No, I mean….This?” You motioned vaguely at your bed.

“Haven’t the faintest idea!” He hummed “You didn’t come down for breakfast so I trotted along to check on you and here you were!”

You glanced at the clock on your bedstand. “…Breakfast isn’t for another hour.”

“Clearly that clock is behind.” Alastor said flippantly, sipping out of his mug.

You mocked fear “So someone broke into my room and moved me in my bed?”

Alastor stiffened a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. “…Yes...”

“That’s freaky as hell.” You said, gripping your blankets “We need to tell Charlie or Vaggie that someone is sneaking into the guests’ rooms at night-“

“Oh goodness gracious, you know it was me.” Alastor huffed. You dropped the act, letting yourself have a good laugh.

“Yeah, I know.” You wiped a tear out of the corner of your eye. “Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it.” Alastor hummed, turning his attention back to his book.

“…Why did you-“

“I believe I said think nothing of it.”

You stared at him. Replaying the events of the previous night, a horrifying realization dawned on you. “I’m sorry, Alastor.” His ears flicked in your direction, his eyes darting to stare at you. You fidgeted “You didn’t have to do this- I was just- Oh geez, okay I just mean I shouldn’t have bothered you to begin with you don’t have any obligation-“

“Since when do I do things on ‘obligation’?” He said, his grin straining “My dear, I only do things if I desire to. It was not for obligation, or guilt because I know that would be your next conclusion.” Alastor tapped one claw gently against you nose “It was simply because I felt like it.”

You focused on Keekee purring on your lap “….why?”

“Think nothing of it.”

A small smile found its way to your face. Think nothing of it…? You chuckled quietly “Oh, Alastor…”

“Yeeessssss?” He said, craning his head backwards towards you and twisting it 360 on his neck.

“AH! Don’t do that it’s creepy!”

“Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.” He responded, spinning his head again in the opposite direction.

You threw one of the pillows at him. Alastor cackled maniacally.

=============

BONUS:

After you ran off the night before….

Alastor: “NIFTY HOW DO YOU MAKE A PERSON LESS SAD.”

Nifty: “Soft things and a happy cat!”

Alastor: “Understood-“

Nifty: “Not Husk.”

Alastor: “…Keekee?”

Nifty: “Keekee.”

Alastor: “Got it. Tell no one about this conversation!”

Nifty: “Yessir!

[simp-ly-writes]

For All Time

Paring: 10th Doctor x Fem! Time Lord!Reader

Summary: Many, Many worlds ago you were married to the Doctor. That was until a war tore your home planet and species apart and you were part of the lucky handful that managed to make your way out into the universe- alive. As you go through many regenerations of yourself, you run into the Master, an old friend of yours that you faintly remember. He tells you of the Doctor, warns you of your spouse and from then on, you are on a mission to never interact with him. Should be easy... right?

Warnings: 3300 words. Angst with no HEA. Themes of death. Depictions of Blood.

A/N: This is my first time writing for Doctor Who and I have only watched 12 hours worth of video essay's on the series. Please be kind and I hope you all enjoy~ :)

Masterlist | Taglist Request | edited.

You were terrified of time lords, the Doctor in particular and as to not be a hypocrite, you were scared of yourself- of everything you could fuck up for all time- that you already did fuck up for all time as the Master had already reported to you all those regenerations ago.

He told you of the horrors you made, the inconsequential decisions you thought to be just so now added up to a few hundred deaths on your hands as universe's threatened to collapse and the possible elimination of dozens of species painted your hands in guilt. Your finger nails pressing into your palms as you shook your head, trying to wring the statistics out of your head. But in the sliver of a smile, his dark eyes filled your thoughts as he placed a hand on your shoulder and leaned closer to your face, tears began to well up in your eyes.

You felt his breath on your neck as he brushed your hair away from your face, drinking up your tears while whispering in your ear, "But you haven't done the worst, love." He emits a small chuckle, his head knocking slighting against your own as you lean further back into the wall for support. "It is the Doctor that damned us all and yet we are the one's to be blamed, for everything, for all time, now and forever. He has killed millions, and nearly every little lover he calls companions he takes on his tyrannical adventures."

Your voice meek, throat clogged with tears as you sniffle for air, "I thought I was the only one, old friend... I thought that- that-"

"From what I know..." he cuts you off, taking a step back, allowing you room to breath as your legs give out from underneath yourself, your back falling against the wall before you are sat on the floor. Your fingers picking away at the grout between the tiles as you count the tiles of the room, doing your best to blink away the tears. "... its just the three of us and if I can offer you a tidbit of advice form one friend to another..."

He stand at full height, leaning down to lift your chin, that sliver now a toothy grin as his fingers dig into your cheeks, pressing your lips together, his eyes flash over to them before continuing his eye contact as you wince at the force he handles you with. "...continue to run away from us all." He drops your head, as if your skin burned his own and by the time you gain the momentum to look up once more, there are no traces he ever was here- he ever exist, a mere fragment of your imagination. You pick yourself up the floor and take his advice to heart.

--

So thats how you found yourself, sat underneath an umbrella in early spring within France. You and your Tardis concluded the time to be the mid two-thousands as you tried not to let the everlasting smell of piss on the streets keep you from enjoying an early brunch.

You watched as various tourists rolled themselves out onto the streets, snapping hundreds of pictures with their digital cameras, kids pointing at various things in storefronts, leading their parents chasing after them. A small smile casted upon your features as you listened to their little feet run across the cobbled streets, cheering loudly at the sweets in the window.

The Sun begins to peek out from between the clouds as you cast your gaze down to escape its shinning rays sneaking underneath your cover. Taking a sip of your now ice-cold coffee, you jolt in your seat, unaware that it was yourself who clattered the cup to the plate, trying to set your drink down. Dropping your shoulders down, your cheeks warm as the kids from earlier snap their heads towards the noise as you begin to pat your pants dry from the spilled coffee.

You swear lightly underneath your breath, your book-ruined and the liquid threatening to ruin your pants as well. Taking a napkin from the holder, you pat yourself down before opening the book in your lap, trying to air out the pages.

But soon the book and outfit become the last of your worries as your ear twitch to the familiar mechanical wizzing sound of what could only be a Tardis. Sweat instantly forms in your palms, your eyes dart around the streets, looking, watching, waiting for his arrival. You hate to admit that the panic holds yourself still, strapped to this very chair to witness the horror about to be unleashed yet all these humans appear none-the-wiser to their upcoming demise.

And when you think all those tears you shed were now buried away yet new ones burn your vision blurry as you grip the table in wait. What of the children, the families, the lives of them all? Your brain presses, kicking into hyperdrive, asking yourself if you are ready to die. But what will he do if he finds me? And your mind goes blank, incapable of thinking of what tortures you would endure.

So you present yourself human, plastering a fake smile, bright eyes as silent tears run rivers down your cheeks. Your breathing staggered just like your hearts, threatening to exit your body and make a life for themselves. It would be better to die, you convince yourself, the words echoing through your soul, it is better to die, die, die.

--

It feels like lifetimes move as you await his presence, eyes casting down the various alleyways, ears pointed for the sounds of agony and screams in his pleasure for universal domination. "He's killed millions," the Master's voice whispers into your ear with the breeze following by the sound of two beating hearts.

It was hard to miss the way your heart slowed, matching the breaths in between his own. His steps organized in the crowd surrounding him as a woman follows just behind his every step. His hair caught you first, its frazzled appearance as if he dragged his hands through the roots a few hundred times yet no stress coated his features, not a single wrinkle or crinkle besides a smile that has you loosening your grip on the table.

His direction leads him closer towards the coffee shop you sit in front of as a child runs across his front, stepping on one of his sneakers, an involuntary gasp escapes between your painted lips yet the Doctor takes no attention nor comment to them, simply continuing his way through the crowd. You hear his voice above all the afternoon commotion, his accent catching you off guard, "Say Donna, have you ever seen Paris or the South of France? I must say that this tower of theres is nothing in comparison to some of the future civilizations I've seen, I should, I will take you to one in the future or well, when we are done here."

The woman nods along to what he says, biting her lip, a knowing smile growing across her features as if she is cooking up a line to fire back, "Well the last time I was here was with you but we didn't really get to have a getaway besides running from those martians trying to KILL US! This is much better, oh!- did you see that woman's sandwich! How about lunch?"

Your eyes are wide as she tilts her head in your direction. You embody the appearance of a deer in headlights before swiftly unfolding the newspaper on the table, doing your best to read the various headlines with plausible interest.

The Doctor hums thoughtfully, looking to where Donna's eyes had landed, his eyes narrow in of the outrageously large paper that covers your face as he leans closer to Donna, "is that newspaper big, or is the woman just small?"

Donna laughs, knocking her shoulder with the Doctor as he shuffles back, head tipped down into a playful glare. "Well, spaceman. In comparison to you, anything appears larger than life."

"Do you want that sandwich or not?" The Doctor responds, eyes already bored and looking at the various other shops and people on the street, subconsciously looking for a threat to ruin the day.

"Well, yes-"

"Then lets get you that sandwich," and with that the Doctor is taking large strides up to your table. Curiosity brimming with excitement to uncover whoever was behind that paper. His heart rate began to climb, the walk now a light job as Donna wondered whatever has gotten into the Doctor.

--

You tense in preparation, saying your grievances underneath your breath as the man reaches forward, ripping the newspaper that had gradually been pressed closer to your face as he leaned closer to you. You pick up the book in your lap, spreading the pages wide open. Wincing once your fingers trace up the spine, finding a new crack upon its surface- that too is torn out of your hands.

In a childish effort- you close your eyes, hands racing across the tables surface before feeling the soft material of a serviette. Your plate clatters against the wooden table as you rip the cloth from underneath, waving it in the air to unfold it and subsequently into his face as he audibly complains. Swiftly opening your eyes, you look through the thin material, tracing over his blurry outline and hard-to-reach features while leaning back as far as your chair allows you too. Your feet hooking under the tables legs as only two chair legs hold you from toppling over.

The man huffs, his chair scraping against the pavement in a horrifying screech as your tableware clatters to the floor, bits and pieces of porcelain scraping across your leather shoes and socks. He peers over your napkin, eyebrow raised, brown-eyes peering to see your wide ones. You watch as his other eyebrow races to match the other, a small gasp escapes between his parting lips with fingers brushing against your own. He steals away the last of your cover, casting it aside to a nearby empty table.

The Doctor leans closer to listen to your hearts beating rapidly in your chest as he casts a hand down to feel his own. By the time he looks back up at you, a charming smile has one threatening to spread across your face but the Master's words make it fall the next moment as the Doctor gently clasps your hand between his own, taking the seat behind himself, pulling you forwards to sit level.

"Hello, darling," he whispers out, unsure if you are truly you as he awaits your answer. He squeezes your hand, ushering you to respond. You hate the way the pet-name makes you feel, the memories that flood your mind and all the time in between. A moment passes between you both before an approaching fiery-headed woman shifts your attention away from one another.

"DOCTOR? DOCTOR! What in the hells do you think you're doing?! Harassing this poor woman- oh I apologize dear, I have no idea what gotten into him today. I don't want that Sandwich in particular, just any sandwich!" Donna shouts out in the Doctors face. You wait for her to take him by the ear like a tired mom yet she smacks him on the back of his head as he drops your hand to ease the oncoming bruise.

With this distraction you quickly stand, throwing an unknown amount of currency on the table before darting down the crowded Paris streets. The Doctor curses underneath his breath lightly, "You don't understand, Donna!"

"What don't I understand? You going after some random human, is she a past companion or something?" Donna asks, eyes casting towards your empty seat that the Doctor glares at.

"Thats my wife!" The Doctor outbursts, grabbing your book and paper in hand before darting off after you, Donna running swiftly after the spaceman. "YOUR WHAT?!" Donna screams out between breaths.

"MY WIFE!"

"Don't you have five of those already?" She teases but the tone is peaked with genuine curiosity.

"Well yes- no. I don't know, they were the first!" The Doctor stumbles the words out, mind a fumbled mess at the sudden shock of you.

"The first, wait. Are they..." Donna's steps come to a halt as the Doctor casts his head back, steps slowing as they regain their breath, he hands your book and newspaper to Donna who holds onto the materials tightly. "...a time lord?"

"Yes..." the Doctor says in a remorseful tone. "....Yes, they are."

--

You lost where you last parked your Tardis as you turn down road after road, cars honking as you interrupt the traffic in your maddened dash. You keep your ears peaked for the two intruders to your centuries of peace. Your mind running a mile a minute for a plan that you assure yourself to be thinking of on the fly as you take another sharp turn, flying into someones arms.

They grip you still, smelling of aftershave and coffee with a dash of honey. You take in a deeper breath, curious to find the undertones before a chuckle has you pulling away, blinking rapidly as they hold onto your elbows and pull you into an empty shop under construction. You curse when seeing those familiar brown eyes, your hands drifting over the soft fabric of his jacket, feeling the small rips and seams before pulling away. Dusting your hands off on your pants, he moves his touch up to your shoulders, giving them a light shake.

"Why are you running, is there an emergency? A planet being overtaken, a universe about to explode?" He rattles off various answers for your selection yet you chose to remain silent. Ripping yourself away from his touch, you watch as his hands flex, itching to hold onto something, to someone, before he reaches into his jacket pocket as you do the same.

Two sonic screwdrivers are presented, shoving the glowing end into one another's presences. The door slams open and shut once more as Donna casts her arms wide and behind herself, blocking any potential escape. "Alright, lets gets things settled here, we don't need to me shoving our sonic screwdrivers at each other now!" Donna announces.

You wait for the Doctor to drop his first, eyes following as his hand open, his movements slow as he guides the technology back into his coat. He nods towards you, beckoning for you to do the same, your hands shake as you press it into your pant pocket for easier access. The Doctor raises a brow to this, looking back at Donna who's sights are set on you with pity.

The Doctor takes a step forwards, you shake your head, hands raised, your voice cracking, "You. Are. A. Monster! A Monster that has destroyed lives! You are in the midst of ruining another just now. If you would PLEASE just let me walk away I can promise you that I will do nothing- a personal moral of mine-"

The Doctors eyes gloss over, memories flash over himself. His arms feel heavy, shoulders slumping forwards as he remembers holding what he thought to be the second-to-last time lord in his arms, the Master as he died- unwilling to regenerate. "But here's the thing, I don't want to just 'let you walk away,' not with how I lost the last one- not when I am so close again to what could be," the Doctor pleads sincerity, his heart shattering at your words he knows a part to be true. But to hear them coming from who he surly believes to be you, it cuts him wounds him as you continuously step away from him as he nears.

The pain, the fear in your eyes, dictating your speech, he wishes to comfort you, hand raising to capture your outstretched one yet you quickly press your hands back into your chest. Right above your heart as it covering it for an attack. Donna sternly voices the Doctors name causing the man to pause in motion. Feet posed for another step, hand outstretched in a welcoming fashion, palm stretching outwards.

"Exactly. What COULD be. Couldn't have said it better myself, Doctor," you spit his name out, copying the Master's tone. "I'd say it even makes things easier on the both of us. Now please, let. me. go. Or better yet- kill me! Kill me right here, right now! I know you want to so just DO IT!" you scream out, words chocking on tears as you cough, hunching your form over. You feel so small, so hopeless as you look over to his companion, silently asking for her to convince him.

"No," the Doctor states firmly, hands now gripped into fists as he struggles to articulate his next words, looking over at Donna for support.

"Then I am sorry," you hush out softly before jumping up with all your strength as you cast a right hook across his nose. Blood pours over your knuckles as you fling your hand to remove the bodily fluid form your skin, making a mad dash towards the door.

You shout an apology to the human companion, having to shove 'Donna' you remember her name to be, out of the way and make your way back onto the streets. The Tardis had to be close, you think to yourself- the feeling in your gut starting to swell alongside your knuckles as you hissed through the pain, flinging yourself back towards your on-the-go home and pressing towards a random position. Pleading towards the console, anywhere but here, but now, with him- please.

--

"Wa-" The Doctor began to say before gripping his noise, casting his head upwards to try and stop the onslaught of blood. Tears cascaded down his features, creating a mess across his face as the liquids dropped down to his collard shirt and suit, staining the material for good.

Donna watched your escape through the window, you paid no mind to turn around, to take one last look no matter how hard your shoulders tensed or your neck tilted until you were out of sight. Shaking her head she walks over to the Doctor, reaching around in her pockets for a napkin as she presents the thin cloth to him.

The Doctor mumbles a thanks, beginning to wipe away at his face from his reflection in the glass. The air in the room is depleting as the Time Lord struggles to choke down air from the weight heaving in his chest. Donna rubs his back, watching as his back tenses before settling yet he refuses to look at her, only looking at the direction you fled in.

A few moments passes and the Doctor and Donna had yet to move form their positions, in a light tone, nervous to cut through the heavy silence too swiftly, Donna softly speaks, "You alright?"

The Doctor stands to full height, tissue dropping to the dirty floors beneath as he kicks away a loose bunch of screws. "I'm always alright." The Doctor nods- as if hyping himself up. He begins to make his way towards the door, looking back with a hand outstretched once more.

Donnas heartbreaks then and there as the spaceman smiles at her. She can see the pain in his eyes, the remnants of tears still in the corner of his eyes and the small sniffles he does his best to hide. She softly grasps his hand, giving it a squeeze. She listens to the breath he lets out shakily before leading them back out the door and in the opposite direction of you.

↳ A/N: what did you think? :)

[just-trying-to-fangirl-in-peace]

Perfect illusion (Sauron x Celebrimbor’s daughter!reader)

-> in which you have to sit by your father’s side as Sauron coerces him into finishing the Nine, realizing just how blind you have been all along

Warnings: No romance, just angst. You marry Annatar (+ implied smut) when you don’t know he’s Sauron, so there’s all the emotional torment and consent issues that come with that. Uncomfortable touching (not smut) after you find out he’s Sauron. Manipulation, mind control and victim blaming as per canon

You sit in your chair, watching your father work. A familiar thing, which you have done a million times before. Before, however, there had never been a shackle around his wrist, or blood marring his brow. There had never been rubble scattered about the workplace, or the sound of battle coming through the window. Before, there had never been The Dark Lord standing behind you, his hands weighing you down as though the ceiling had collapsed upon you.

That is not to say that they are forceful. No, his touch is soft, as it has always been, his fingers brushing your hair gently, almost absent-mindedly. At times they reach your neck or your cheek, grazing your skin and sending shivers down your spine. You dig your nails painfully into your own hands to keep from trembling. It’s the least, even if the most inconsequential thing, that you can still do—to deny him this small satisfaction.

“Stop that,” Sauron says, his voice deceivingly gentle as he gives your shoulder a warning squeeze. “You’ll only hurt yourself.”

Of course, that only makes you want to clench your fists harder. But you force yourself to open them, mindful of what might happen if you disobey.

“You once took comfort in my touch,” he says. If you knew no better, you’d believe the sorrow in his voice is genuine. “It is only comfort I wish to give you now as well.”

His knuckles brush your cheek, painfully tender and excruciatingly familiar. Though you’ve been trying to keep as still as possible, you cannot help but turn your face away, if only just an inch.

His hand stills mid-air, then returns to your shoulder. He takes a breath, quiet but long and deep.

“I have caused you suffering. That is true,” he admits, patiently. “But I assure you that this too shall pass. Once Middle-Earth is healed, and the people will see what we did here... your feelings will change.”

You can’t help how your breath quickens, chest trembling with anger. It only becomes worse when Sauron puts his fingers to your chin, coaxing you to twist your neck and look up into his piercing eyes. “You must know it pains me,” he says, “treating you like—”

“Like you have treated countless others?” your father intercedes in haste.

Sauron’s attention turns to Celebrimbor then, as your father had no doubt hoped it would. The whole time he’d been working, his eyes kept straying to you, as if to make sure you are still alive and whole. To your relief, Sauron removes his hand from your face. To your dread, he is now moving towards Celebrimbor, displeased with his remark.

“Like Morgoth treated me,” he corrects, hovering over your father.

You are not bound. You could, in theory, try to run. But you are not foolish enough to believe you could escape. Any such attempt would only earn you a shackle of your own, similar to your father’s. Though, you’re starting to believe that the cold bite of metal might just be more bearable than the silent imprisonment of your husband’s touch.

Your husband. The word twists in your stomach, carves holes into your heart. It all came so naturally to you when you spoke the vows and sealed the bond. Now, you can’t imagine how you got here. All you know are the facts of what happened, and even those no longer seem to make sense in your weakened mind.

You know who you used to be, when the world still made sense: daughter of Celebrimbor, the greatest of Elven smiths. You think his talents mixed with your mother’s magic may have resulted in your gift to manipulate materials in particular ways which do not necessarily come naturally. You know the mithril had refused to be coaxed into joining with the other metals without your intervention. You know Halbrand had been the one to suggest that you try it.

You know how easily he had endeared himself to you from the moment you met, and how confusing and sharp the pain had been when he disappeared without a trace. You know how quick you had been to let him into Eregion when he returned, despite Galadriel’s inexplicable request that you refrain from doing so.

You know the transition from Halbrand to Annatar had been unexpected, if not jarring, but in the end the pull you felt towards him was unchanged. You know there were touches, desire... trust.

You no longer know why. Because there never was a reason—not a true one, anyway. Only his deception, his mind games. But at the time, you didn’t know. At the time, it had made perfect sense when, one night, you had found yourself at the dining table, anxious about giving your father the news of what had happened a mere few hours prior.

Annatar was to your side, sitting at the head of the long table, while your father was across from you. He may be the Lord of Eregion, but he had insisted that an emissary of the Valar should take the most important seat. Yet despite your father’s deep admiration for Annatar, you were not sure how he would react.

“As you know,” you began tentatively, “Lord Annatar has been a close and trusted friend to me, these past few weeks. As he has been to you.”

“Indeed,” your father nodded. His unsure smile and knitted brow told you he was at a loss for what you were leading up to. You opened your mouth, but found yourself quite tongue-tied. You glanced at Annatar, who graciously took over.

“However,” he continued, lips forming a gentle, almost bashful smile, “after a time, we found that there were... deeper feelings between us.”

Though he was speaking to Celebrimbor, his gaze sought yours. You met it, heart fluttering as he wrapped your hand in his, resting them on the table in such a way that the new ring on your finger was in your father’s line of sight.

“Annatar has proposed marriage, father,” you finally say, turning to him. “And I have accepted.”

Your father blinked, eyebrows lifting in an expression of wordless surprise. When words failed to leave his mouth, Annatar took it upon himself to break the silence once more.

“My friend, I...” He trailed off, uncharacteristically hesitant in his choice of words. “I am well aware I should have asked for your blessing beforehand. Especially since things have progressed with such unusual haste, but—”

“Oh, nonsense!” your father burst out, as if finally regaining his senses. “Nonsense, my friend, this...” A short laugh bubbled out of him as he turned to you with a face-splitting grin. “Such wonderful news! Oh, my dear,” he took your hand in his, gazing in wonder upon your betrothal ring before he pressed a kiss filled with fatherly love to your knuckles. “You could not have found a better match,” he praised.

“The same is true for myself,” Annatar said, giving you that kind smile of his that never failed to have you return it.

Relief washed over you. All was well.

You’d be lying to say there isn’t a part of you that resents your father for giving you away so eagerly. He could not stop you no matter who you chose to wed, but with anyone else, he’d have at the very least warned you that the engagement had happened much too quickly. He’d have been more cautious of your betrothed, tried to determine whether or not their intentions towards you were true. But Annatar, in your father’s eyes, was of divine nature, and the thought of becoming kin with one of his kind had filled your father with such pride, it overshadowed all else.

You wonder if he is as ashamed of that moment now as you are. And of everything that came after.

You’re not sure if speaking the wedding vows had somehow allowed Sauron better dominion over your mind, or if you were simply too far gone by then. Little by little, more and more over time, you came to depend on your husband. When your father began acting strange and ill-tempered, Annatar alone knew of his ailment, and he alone could help him heal. He alone could provide the comfort you needed as you watched your father lose himself by the day, unaware that the same was happening to you.

He always knew when and what to say to bring you peace. He never seemed to leave your side, whether in the presence of others or alone. And you craved being alone with him more than anything else. He was an expert lover, so attuned to the needs of your flesh, it was as though he could slither beneath your skin and discern for himself which of his touches felt the most exquisite. Being near him was a delight in itself, but intimacy with him was simply addictive.

Warm morning light flooded through your window, and you wondered how you were supposed to ever leave this bed. Lying on your husband’s chest, skin to skin in the afterglow of your love-making, everything else in the world seemed so inconsequential in comparison.

“Do you ever sleep?” you asked, wondering suddenly how it had never crossed your mind before. He was always by your side as you drifted to sleep—most often spent from yet another passionate exchange—and he was there to greet you each time you awoke. Yet he was not of your kind, and an emissary of the Valar seemed to you above such things as sleep.

“It is not in my nature to sleep,” he admitted, fingers tracing gentle lines up and down your spine. “But I rather enjoy laying by your side as you do.”

Your heart soared at the quiet adoration in his voice. And before long, you found yourself aching for him once more. You brushed his neck with your lips, lightly at first, and then with more insistence, making your desire known.

“Again?” he asked, faintly amused.

You lifted your head, the smallest furrow in your brow. “Does it bother you?”

“Not in the least,” he replied. If that wasn’t reassurance enough, his lips caught yours, and he moved so that your body was safely beneath his, and even the thousandth time would not have been enough.

You can still taste his kisses—and they feel like ash. You remember how each time you became one, it felt better, but only now can you see how it made things so much worse. A corner of your mind, growing larger by the day, was always occupied by him. Each time you aided in the making of one of your father’s Ring designs, you did so with thoughts of Annatar. You know now why he wanted it that way—your craving for his touch, your utter devotion to him, seeping into the Rings the Power, one by one. You think you might have known even then. But he was always careful not to push you too far, to bring you back from the brink of suspicion before it ever started to take shape in your mind.

Even when the reality of things was undeniable before your eyes.

Your last night before finding out had been spent in a dreadful haze. Sleep felt more like a waking prison as you dreamt of terrible, yet distant things, hearing screams without seeing where they came from, seeing blood and ashes on streets you felt you should but could not recognize. You were grateful to wake up and see the sunlit sky beyond your window. Its light adorned your husband’s hair beautifully, the familiar sight of him sitting on the edge of your bed bringing you further relief.

“There you are,” he greeted softly, brow creased with a trace of concern. “You gave us quite the scare.”

“What—?” Your attempt to speak ended in a cough, as if you’d been breathing dust instead of air. Annatar left your side in haste, returning but a moment later with a glass of water.

“Here,” he said, putting the glass to your lips. You took it gladly, relishing the water soothing your throat. Once Annatar had helped you sit up and settle against the pillows, you asked, as you had meant to, “What happened?”

There was pity in his gaze. “Don’t you remember, my love?”

You shut your eyes, trying to grasp at figments of blurry images. “I was outside, I think. Mirdania was there. And you. And...”

Annatar shook his head, speaking as softly as if to a frightened child. “Earlier in the day, perhaps. When you collapsed, you were in the forge, with me and Lord Celebrimbor. When you sought to aid your father in merging the metals for his latest attempt at the Nine, your efforts over these past weeks took their toll on you.” He gave you a sympathetic smile, fingers brushing your cheek. “You fell right into my arms.”

“I did?”

His words did evoke images. The memory was there, somewhere. But the more you tried to reach for it, the more your insides churned.

“Be at ease,” Annatar soothed. “You merely slept through the night. I have watched over you all the while, and I shall do so until you are better.”

Better. Yes, you would get better.

But you knew, deep in your bones, that you were not well. The sense of dread within you refused to recede, lingering in the furthest corner of your mind even in the moments where you felt the safest. Something deeply rooted in you wanted it all to be over—the work, the forging, the ailments, your father’s as well as yours. You wished so desperately for things to return to the way they used to be before the Rings, it felt as though a great fist had clenched around your heart and refused to release it. But then again, before the Rings, there hadn’t been Annatar. And your need for him hurt just as terribly.

In the end, everything hurt. Everything.

“Are you in pain?” your husband murmured. You hadn’t realized tears were already sliding down your cheeks.

You broke into sobs.

He slipped beneath the covers and wrapped you in his arms. It became even harder to breathe, and you clung to him all the harder for it, desperate to find that peace that he had offered you time and again.

“Hush, my love,” he cooed, holding you close to his chest as you wept for reasons unknown. “All will be well soon.”

You had fallen into his arms, just like he’d said. Only, you hadn’t been inside the forge, but outside, just as your mind had fruitlessly struggled to remind you. You were there when the siege alarms began to blare and chaos erupted in the streets. When you saw your husband walk amongst it, you had run to him at once. Asking where your father was, wanting to stand united with your kin amidst the unfolding madness.

Darkness had engulfed your vision instead, shrouding your memory as well. He must have carried you back to your chambers himself, crafting an illusion within your mind to match the one in which Celebrimbor was already trapped.

It makes sense now. How desperately you had clung to the very source of your misery. One cannot satisfy thirst by drinking sea water, but you, in your foolishness, had drunk enough to drain the sea.

“You chose it,” he now tells your father, speaking of the suffering he had inflicted, “not I.”

And there’s a part of you that believes him, even as another screams inside you that his words are poison. You cling desperately to the scrap of reason within you which recognizes that his claims are atrocious—that it is Celebrimbor who forced Sauron to torment him, that he is the true author of his own torment. You watch in disbelief, feeling as though you’re falling through the floor, waiting for your father to refute Sauron’s lies as if hearing the truth spoken out loud will save you from shattering to pieces at the bottom of the abyss.

And you can tell he wants to. There is defiance in Celebrimbor’s eyes as he glances to you, the fire of his will still burning beneath the burden of his torment. But, slowly and surely, he tames it. Averts his gaze in shame.

“Very well,” your father says. “Give me the blame. Punish me as you see fit. You have already taken my city. But I beg you,” his voice trembles, tears gathering in his eyes, “let my daughter leave.”

A smirk tugs at Sauron’s lips. “Your daughter...” He returns to your side, gathering your stiff hand in his and thumbing your wedding ring. “...is my wife, Celebrimbor. It is only natural that she should remain at my side.”

You and Celebrimbor exchange a despairing glance. Your father, determined to plea for your freedom—you, fearing the consequences he might bring upon himself.

“Please—”

“Father, don’t—”

“No!” he cries out. “I all but pushed you into his arms.” Tears slip from his regret-filled eyes. “That is my fault.”

Sauron takes a seat next to you, his brow furrowed as if he couldn’t possibly grasp the reason for such grievances.

“She has given herself to me freely,” he says, your hand still trapped in his as he wraps an arm around your shoulders. “Have you not?”

You glare daggers at him.

“How could I have chosen you freely, when I never knew who you were?” you hiss. It does nothing to deter him.

“Why do you lie to yourself? You knew.” You shake your head. He nods his, insisting, “Yes. Deep within your heart, you knew.”

“Don’t say such things to her,” Celebrimbor pleads, “I beg you—”

“Such things as the truth, Celebrimbor?” Sauron asks roughly, irritated by the interruption. “Tell him, my dear wife,” he challenges, “that you never once suspected I was more than what I claimed to be. That you never felt the caress of darkness within my touch.”

You cannot look at him, or at your father. You cannot speak those words, however desperately you wish you could.

“Tell him,” Sauron insists cruelly, squeezing your hand to the point of near pain.

“I did,” you murmur miserably. Sauron loosens his threatening grip on your hand, pleased.

“Yet even as you cried yourself to sleep in fear of it,” he goes on, “it was within my arms that you took comfort. Because, in truth, you were not afraid of who I was—you were afraid of how little it mattered to you.” A last spark of defiance drives you to make the mistake of meeting his gaze, and his sickly sympathetic smile makes you shudder within his hold. “He needed to create,” he reasons. “You needed to be desired. And I needed you both.”

His arm is no longer around you, but the relief is meager and short-lived as he then cups your cheek, thumb catching the tears that have begun to fall from your eyes. He insists to hold his hand there as you flinch, screwing your eyes shut. A small sigh leaves him.

“Have I not treated you well?” he asks. “Was I not kind to you when you most needed it? A caring husband, a most... generous lover?”

“Hold your wicked tongue!” you all but growl, your head jerking with enough force that he retracts his hand. Your eyes fly to Celebrimbor, and see that he has shut his in great pain. Shame crawls under your skin. Sauron smiles in a mockery of bashfulness.

“Forgive me for speaking of such matters before your father, but it is only the truth. You must admit that. And it need not change.”

His hand returns to your cheek then, pressed more firmly to it, and you only now realize it’s the one he cut. You feel a warm wetness on your skin, and know that once he removes it, his blood, black as the pitch, would be smeared there, marking you even further as his.

“The Rings are nearly finished,” you say through gritted teeth. “You never truly desired me. What more use could you have of me?”

“Who says I never desired you?” he whispers, almost as if wounded. “I would not have made you my wife, if it hadn’t been my wish to make you my Queen as well.”

His voice is so alluring, so saccharine and familiar to your ears, it takes everything in you to remind yourself that every word is a lie. And if you grasp at reason, you can tell why he speaks them. Because of your involvement in making the Rings, you would always have some measure of influence over them, so it serves him well to have you under his control. But not only that. He would relish knowing he has subdued you to his will. That he not only ensnared the mind of the greatest of Elven smiths, but also claimed his daughter as his prize.

A storm brews in Sauron’s eyes as he senses your persisting reluctance. His fingers grip your chin, pulling you close so that his breath falls on your cheek as he speaks.

“You will say yes to me once more.”

You hate how determined he is to make it so. You hate how helpless you are to do anything other than glare back at him.

But what you hate the most is that you are not certain he is wrong.

[auren-zagarra]

I'm sorry but I really need Jamil x virgin reader where they just started dating and Jamil is TRYING to be considerate cause hey normally sex happens only about a month in except my boy is just so repressed that even the most innocent actions get him going cause nobody told him love tends to increase libido

So by the time they actually do it my dude just pounces

ignosce, deus

Content Warning: Jamil x GN!Reader, sex, first time, rough sex, possession. MDNI.

Characters Count: 12864

There is a chasm between love and lust - a shadowed line often blurred in the fever of night. Lust is a hunger, crude and selfish. When one is merely enchanted by the allure of flesh, the soul behind the skin becomes inconsequential. You do not care whether the whispered endearments are lies or truths, you do not wonder if the kiss carries meaning or if the gaze hides sorrow. All that matters is the friction of bodies, the bruising kiss of hips against hips, the raw symphony of breathless moans as the bed groans beneath sin’s weight. It is fire for fire’s sake - consumption without comprehension. But love? Ah, love is a far crueler thing. Love compels you to notice - truly notice. Not just the curve of their lips, but the tremble behind their smile. Not merely the words, but the silences that fall between them. It demands attention to the unseen, the unsaid, the intangible pulse of meaning. When you love, you ache not just for their touch, but for the gentle lift of their laughter, the softness in their glance. You yearn for their joy more than your own pleasure. Love is the beautiful blasphemy where desire and devotion meet - where holy longing dances with unholy want. It is both ache and balm, the altar and the flame. And that exquisite torment, that sacred corruption of the heart was precisely what Jamil Viper felt for you.

He cherished you above all else - a devotion etched into the marrow of his being. Had you merely whispered the wish, he would have fallen to his knees, offering himself wholly without need for persuasion. There was something in your smile - terrible in its sweetness - that stole the air from Jamil’s lungs and conjured dark, honeyed visions of sin. It made him ache to unravel your purity, to drown you in the fevered rapture of his desire, to mark you from within with the sacred poison of his longing. But he restrained himself. He knew that haste was the enemy of delight. To pluck the fruit before its ripeness would only spoil the sweetness, curdle the sacred into something crude. No - he would not defile the sanctity of this yearning with impatience. He chose to wait for you to take the first step, to suffer sweetly beneath the weight of his need, each day a prayer of anticipation. And so, alone in the silence of midnight, he surrendered only to his own hand - his sole confessor, the one witness to his carnal reveries. Fingers slick with longing, he imagined your warmth, your breathless surrender, the way your body might tremble beneath his. Guided by the spirit of Asmodeus, he envisioned not just possession, but tasting your essence as a starving man drinks deep from a sacred chalice.

He spilled himself across the cold sheets - white and warm, a futile offering to a ghost that haunted his every breath. And in that brief crescendo of rapture, as his spine arched and a strangled moan slipped past his lips, he surrendered utterly to the oldest hunger known to mankind. Desire - raw, consuming, divine. Yet the moment always collapsed into silence, and in that silence came the guilt. Heavy. Cloying. Inevitable. He loathed himself for it, for imagining you like that - soft and bare, vulnerable beneath his gaze. He despised the visions of his fingers parting your thighs, the imagined taste of your skin, the phantom feel of your chest rising beneath his trembling hands. It was blasphemy to think of you as both an angel and a temptation, to desecrate you with the wild ache of fantasies. And yet… Fate, with cruel poetry, was already preparing your meeting. Soon, he would find you before him - his delicate little muse, dazed and undone, your form sprawled across his bed like some sacred Renaissance masterpiece. So ready to be ruined, so perfectly awaiting the artist’s hand. And Jamil Viper would wield not paint or brush, but his body, to draw upon your skin the most exquisite hymns of pleasure. 

How could something spun of such fragile silk ignite such infernal hunger? Was it the holy flame of longing that licked at the walls of his heart or the whisper of the devil, slipping between his ribs like a dagger? Jamil Viper no longer sought the answer. For what use had a sinner with purity, when ruin tasted so divine? You were not an object of chastity to him - you were temptation incarnate. A vision so breathtaking it seemed woven not from flesh but from prayer and poison, of a purity he wanted so badly to rip apart. His eyes drank you in as a dying man does his last glimpse of heaven. You were there - bare and luminous, offered like sacrament on silken sheets, your limbs parted in supplication to sin. And oh, what beauty in your undoing - how exquisite the fall of angels when done willingly, with lips parted and no regrets. His lips brushed the curve of your neck, where your pulse beat like a sacred drum beneath that skin delicate as porcelain. That scent was a lullaby and a curse, delicate and damning, pulling him further from grace with each breath he dared to take. His body trembled with restraint, his mind a battleground between desire and devotion. He ached to devour, to paint your soul with his longing, to make you his cathedral and confession. Yet he held his intentions strongly, not for lack of want, but because he loved you too much to desecrate what he adored with brute urgency. But oh, how does one remain a saint when the altar itself beckons, moaning softly in the dark?

You beckoned him closer, as though your very soul had opened its arms in invitation, an offering. His fingers, cold at first like the touch of a ghost, trailed down your trembling form until they reached the soft threshold of your intimacy. There, he began his silent sermon, coaxing from you breathless hymns shaped by a kind of pleasure so foreign, so sacred, it bordered on the divine. Your sighs, delicate and fractured, poured from your lips like incense curling into the high rafters of a cathedral. But he stole them greedily, catching each sound with his mouth - biting your lower lip mid-kiss to quiet the symphony he’d summoned, smothering your cries against the very lips that made you sing. Still, the movements of his hand - measured, rhythmic, dangerously gentle - undid you. The kiss broke as your head fell back in surrender, your spine arching like a bow strung with tension. You were slipping, dissolving into something not quite human. Into a place stitched together from moonlight and madness, where the air tasted like prayer and sin, and your very body trembled like a candle flickering before the divine. A tremor passed through you - delicate and involuntary - as though your soul were weeping beneath the weight of bliss. And then the moan escaped you. It did not belong to this world.

And Jamil smiled.

A dark, yet loving smile, like a priest before the altar, like a man on the edge of ruin. He lowered himself before your open form, the space between you thick with care and lust, as though he were not about to take you - but consecrate you. For in that trembling breath before the fall, you were not lovers. You were soulmates.

At last - after a labyrinth of yearning - he was within you. The sensation struck him like a curse. Your walls, warm and trembling, clasped him in a way no language could ever hope to contain. And Jamil - composed, reserved, master of self-restraint - could do nothing but bury his face against your skin and stifle the moan that clawed up his throat. Even that attempt was pathetic, a soft, broken sound slipping past his lips like prayer escaping the mouth of a heretic. He hated how undone you made him - or perhaps he loved it too much. This was the same man who lived with the grace of silence, who carried the weight of duty every single day. The one whose every step was measured, whose expression rarely cracked. A man forged by discipline, by order, by the necessity of servitude. But not here. Not now. In this moment, you saw not the servant - but the man. A man trembling beneath the euphoria of flesh meeting flesh, of desire shedding its mask and becoming need. His eyes were glassy with disbelief, with awe and his lips parted, not to speak, but to breathe you in, as if your body were the first real thing he'd ever touched in a world built of illusion and obedience.

His hips moved with the gentleness of a man afraid to break something expensive. Each thrust was deliberately measured, as if you were a fawn in the woods and he feared the violence of his hunger might make you flee. His body trembled with restraint, the kind that wraps itself around the bones like chains. And though now and then his movements grew bolder, the collisions a touch deeper, a breath sharper - he still held back. He refused to let himself fall too quickly into the abyss of instinct. But desire… desire is a patient predator. No matter how he tried to keep it leashed, to cloak himself in control, it stirred beneath his skin like a coiled serpent. Your warmth, your sighs, the way your fingers clutched at him like you, too, were trying not to fall - it was too much. You were too much. And he… he was only a man. A man torn between worship and want, between love and the aching need to consume. His hips faltered, stuttering slightly - not from pain, but from the sweet torment of holding back what had long begged to be unleashed.

You saw it, that trembling in his restraint, the silent war behind his eyes. So, with the tenderness of a lover and the mercy of a saint, you reached up and tucked a single lock of his hair behind his ear. A small gesture, yet it shattered him. That gentle smile of yours, so soft, so impossibly kind, was not permission. It was absolution. It told him he could want, could feel, could allow himself, just once, to take. And with that, the moan left him- fragile, involuntary, painfully human. His hands, once trembling with caution, tightened at your hips in the purest kind of desperation - like he feared that once this moment passed, he might forget the very shape of you - the curve of your waist, the softness of your skin beneath his calloused hands. He held you as if memory alone could not bear the weight of this beauty. As if touch was the only way to etch your presence into his soul. Then his rhythm changed. The slow cadence gave way to something deeper, needier. His hips moved like a dance guided by demons, each thrust translating his love in the language of flesh. The speed grew - not wild, but unrelenting. The kind of rhythm that made your toes curl, your spine arch, your mouth open as the ecstasy bloomed deep within your soul. And yet, never once did he treat you like something base or vulgar. No, this was not carnality devoid of meaning. There was fire, yes, but behind it was devotion. He fucked you like a man who had fallen to his knees before a god. You were not a body to be used, but an altar, and he the penitent - offering up every last piece of himself for the chance to taste divinity.

Still, it wasn’t enough. Even as your body trembled beneath him - torn between heaven’s promise and the cruel bliss of mortal sensation - it wasn’t enough for Jamil Viper. No matter how many times you cried out, no matter how many times your body convulsed in climax, pulling him deeper into your silken abyss - he remained starving. He had wanted to be gentle, to savor you like one sips wine from a sacred chalice. But how could he remain composed… when the way you clung to him, squeezed him, begged him without words, made him forget his name? How could he resist, when your soft chest rose to meet his mouth, and the moment his lips found your skin, you pulled him closer - tighter - as though you wished to be devoured? And each time you came undone, each divine tremor of your body writhing in euphoria, he felt only one thing: a satisfaction that bled into need. Not guilt. No, there was no shame in giving you pleasure so sublime it rivaled salvation. He did not blame himself for losing his soul to your body, for offering up his control to the altar of your moans. But still… it wasn’t enough. Despite having poured himself into you again and again - each release a holy desecration, each climax a request to be forgiven by his own mortal sins  - he needed more. He wanted to taste every inch of you. To map your body with his tongue like a cartographer of sin. To learn the dialect of your pleasure with lips, hands, and breath until you were left trembling and wordless, remade in rapture.

This night would not end. It would stretch into eternity, candlelight flickering against sweat-slick skin, a symphony of gasps and broken prayers echoing off the walls. He would consume you with patience and hunger alike, not as a man tasting his lover - but as a beast honoring his deity. For you were no longer simply his beloved, but an obsession. And he… he was your willing sacrifice, destined to worship every part of you until dawn forgot to rise.

[sst4rdst]

I’m just wondering how yan! Xiao would react to his darling being an escort/entertainer. darling does engage in physical contact with clients and Xiao just has to watch from the window. Does he pick off clients one by one? How does he deal with watching his darling entertain clients from outside the window? Does *he* ever end up requesting his darlings services when all other clients are gone? Just so much to think about!!

warnings : yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, mentions of reader having sex with others but no describing sex scenes. author's note : SORRY FOR THE WAIT NONNIEEEE 😭 my job consumed my soul these last days T.T don't recommend being an adult, 0/10. but i made this one a little longer than usual, hope that's a great apology :']

the first time he sees it, truly sees it, something inside him shatters.

it is one thing to know what you do. to hear it murmured between passing travelers, to catch the lingering traces of perfume on their clothes, to watch the way they return to their inns with a dazed, satiated sort of stupor, as if their time in your company has rendered them whole. he has always known, always suspected, but knowing is different from witnessing.

and now, here he stands, just beyond the glow of your lantern-lit window, the scent of incense curling in the air, thick and cloying, wrapping around his lungs like a suffocating chain. he sees the way you smile, soft and inviting, sees the way your fingers ghost over the wrist of the man before you—no, not a man. a client. one of many.

xiao has slaughtered creatures for lesser sins than the one unfolding before him.

his hands curl into fists at his sides, nails biting into flesh, but the pain is distant, inconsequential compared to the fire searing through his veins. his body is rigid, a silent force of barely restrained violence, watching as you lean in, laughter soft against the shell of another man’s ear.

his stomach twists.

he tells himself this is normal. that this is your job, that there is no affection in the way you let your fingers skim over another’s thigh, no meaning in the way you let them cup your chin, trace the line of your jaw. and yet, his mind betrays him.

does your touch linger like that when you are alone? do your smiles hold the same softness when there is no one to see them? do you ever speak his name in the dark, whisper it like a secret meant for no one but yourself? or is he only ever a shadow, something you will never notice, never choose?

the thought gnaws at him, festers beneath his skin like something diseased.

the rational part of him—small and weak in the face of the hunger clawing at his ribs—knows that this is not something he can change. that you are not his to claim. that you are a free, mortal thing, meant to weave in and out of lives like drifting petals on a breeze, untethered. but xiao has never been good at wanting without taking.

the disappearances are slow at first. a client here, a client there—nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that would immediately raise suspicion. after all, men with loose morals often meet unfortunate ends in liyue’s underbelly, swallowed by debts they cannot repay, by enemies they do not see coming. it is easy for the city to forget them, easy for their absence to be written off as consequence.

xiao does not think of them beyond their final gasps, beyond the moment their bodies collapse into the dirt, empty, discarded. they are nothing. they have always been nothing. but you—you are different.

you still smile when new clients come. you still let them brush their lips over your skin, still let them press coins into your hands, unaware that the man before them is rotting beneath the earth. and he hates you for it.

hates the way you continue as if nothing has changed. hates that he can never be the one you turn to, the one you choose to hold, to whisper to in the dark. hates that, no matter how many bodies he leaves in his wake, you will never belong to him.

but if he cannot have you, then no one else should either.

it happens in the quiet of a late evening, when the streets are empty and the lanterns light flicker weakly against the wind. you are alone. finally, finally, you are alone. no clients, no lingering hands, no laughter that is not meant for him. just you. and him.

he does not enter through the door—he never does. the window is open, curtains shifting with the night breeze, and it is easy for him to slip inside, easy for him to cross the space between you in a breath, a heartbeat, less than that.

you do not flinch when you notice him. you never do. you have grown used to his presence, his silent appearances, his tendency to linger at the edges of your world like a specter you cannot exorcise.

"you're here again," you murmur, voice soft, lacking surprise. your fingers trace the rim of a porcelain cup, half-finished tea still warm within it. "it's late."

he does not answer. he only watches, gaze burning into the curve of your throat, the slope of your shoulders, the places where others have touched, where their fingerprints still linger like something permanent.

you sigh, setting the cup aside, tilting your head slightly. "something's wrong."

he exhales, slow and controlled, as if he has not been unraveling at the seams since the moment he first saw you with another. "i don’t like what you do."

it is not an accusation. it is not even anger. just a fact, laid bare between you.

you blink, quiet for a moment, before a ghost of a smile tugs at your lips. "you don’t have to like it, xiao."

but he does. he does have to like it, because if he doesn’t, if he lets this feeling fester any longer, he knows he will not be able to stop. he will not be able to stop at just a few disappearances. he will not be able to stop at only watching.

your eyes hold something knowing, something almost pitying, and it makes his blood burn, makes his fingers twitch at his sides. but then, you shift, leaning forward slightly, just enough to close the space between you, and for the first time in what feels like forever, your touch is meant for him.

your lips are warm against his, a fleeting thing, a moment so insignificant that it should not matter. and yet, it does. because now, you have touched him. and xiao has never been good at letting go of things he has touched.

xiao’s breath is shallow, barely there, as if the weight of your warmth against his skin has stolen the air from his lungs. he does not move. he does not blink. he does not even think. he only feels. feels the heat seeping into him, feels the sharp, electric buzz beneath his skin, feels the unbearable, suffocating knowing—

that this will never be enough.

your touch is fleeting. it always is. you do not hold onto things the way he does, do not cling to moments as if they are the last lifeline in a raging current. no, you let them slip through your fingers, let them pass without hesitation, without meaning.

just like now. because you release him as easily as you had reached for him, pulling away with a sigh, unaware of what you’ve done, of what you’ve set into motion.

xiao stands there, still as death, his mind blank save for the feeling of your lips against his, the ghost of warmth still lingering on his own. it should be enough—it should be more than enough. but it isn't. it's nothing. a scrap tossed his way out of pity, a meaningless moment that you will forget by morning. but he won’t. he can’t.

his fingers twitch at his sides, aching with the urge to grab, to pull you close, to demand that you understand—that you see him, choose him, the way he has already chosen you. but you only exhale softly, gaze dipping toward the floor, a distant sort of exhaustion clinging to your features. you think this is done. you think this conversation has ended. it hasn't.

because xiao has spent too long on the outside, watching, waiting, enduring—and now that your touch has seared itself into him like a brand, now that the fragile thread of his restraint has finally snapped, he cannot go back to standing in the shadows, to watching you let others touch you, kiss you, take from you what should be his.

his vision blurs, heat licking up the back of his throat, something monstrous stirring in the depths of his chest. it is not jealousy—no, jealousy is too human, too small, too weak. this is something greater, something worse—a hunger that cannot be reasoned with, a possession that has no name.

"you don't understand," he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. it is not a plea, not a request for you to see what he sees. it is a fact. a finality. you don’t understand—because if you did, you would never let others near you. if you knew the depth of what he felt, you would never push him aside so easily, never let your affections be bought like they mean nothing.

but he will make you understand.

your brows knit together, the first flicker of wariness appearing in your gaze. "xiao—"

he moves before you can finish, before you can even think of pulling away. his hand finds your wrist, fingers wrapping around delicate bone with a grip that is not yet bruising, but firm enough that you freeze beneath him. a warning. a promise.

your lips part slightly, the breath caught in your throat, and for a moment, just a moment, something flashes through your expression—something like fear, like realization. and yet, you do not fight him. you should.

you should struggle. you should demand he release you, should shove at his chest, should scream—should beg. but you only look at him, wide-eyed and silent, and the way you do nothing sets something vicious alight in his chest.

because this means you know. somewhere, deep down, some part of you has always known that you belong to him.

that no matter how many men come and go, how many coins exchange hands, how many nights you spend wrapped in the arms of strangers, you were never theirs to claim. that in the end, you have only ever belonged to him.

his grip tightens just slightly, just enough to make your breath hitch, to make your pulse hammer against his fingers. and he leans in, slow, deliberate, until his lips ghost over the shell of your ear, until his voice—low, quiet, certain—spills into your skin like something inescapable.

"you don't have to do this anymore." a statement, not a suggestion. because this is no longer something you get to choose.

"you’re always like this," you murmur, shaking your head. there is no bite in your voice, only something small, something resigned. "i don’t know what you want me to say, xiao. i told you before—this is my job. you don’t have to like it, but it’s not something you can change."

your words should hold finality. they should put an end to whatever this is, should set a boundary between you that cannot be crossed. but they don’t..

he clenches his jaw, forces himself to look at you, to meet your gaze without letting the heat behind his eyes bleed through. "it can change." the words taste foreign on his tongue, heavy and unfamiliar, but the intent beneath them is not.

your lips press together, your expression unreadable. "xiao." his name is softer now, almost warning. but you do not understand. you never do. because xiao has already changed things.

the men who touched you are gone. the ones who whispered promises in your ear, pressed their lips against your skin, left their scent on you like a mark—none of them will return. he has already altered the course of your life without you knowing, has already started reshaping the world around you to fit his own image of what it should be.

and now, standing in front of you, with the lingering heat of your touch still burning against his lips, he knows this is the next step. the only step left.

"you won’t have to do this anymore."

you exhale sharply, shaking your head. "that’s not your decision to make."

"but it is."

you freeze. just for a moment. just long enough for something wary to flicker across your face. and then, you laugh, short and breathless, as if the weight of this conversation has settled over you all at once. "you don’t get to decide that for me."

but the thing is—he does. he already has.

xiao is not a man who asks for things. he does not beg. he does not plead. he does not bargain with the world in hopes that it will grant him something in return. he takes. and he will take this, too.

because he cannot watch any longer. cannot stand beyond the glass, shrouded in shadow, forced to endure the sight of you letting strangers have what should be his. cannot keep swallowing down the sharp, acrid taste of jealousy until it curdles into something deeper, something unrecognizable.

no, he will not let this continue. he will not let you continue. not like this. not when you belong elsewhere. not when you belong with him.

[girlgenius1111]

talk more

alexia is stressed upon return to the international stage after her knee issues. she has the most aggressive game of her life against you, and you end up injured. you're both not telling each other how much you're really struggling.

this contains a completely made up and illogical game, don't come at me

cw: contains descriptions of a panic attack

-----

Alexia was on edge, even more so than she had been when you'd left your shared apartment a week ago for England camp. She'd gone to Spain's camp, both of you preparing with your respective teams for the upcoming nations league matches.

Alexia was back from her persistent knee issues, with something to prove. You knew how your girlfriend's mind worked, and you knew she was putting a lot of emphasis on this game. It was why she'd been distant the past week, why she was avoiding eye contact with you as you both stood in the tunnel, preparing to go out onto the pitch.

You hadn't mentioned your own problems when you'd spoken briefly to her over the phone. They seemed inconsequential compared to hers. You were exhausted, incredibly stressed, and you felt like responsibility for the whole team rested on your shoulders, what with Millie and Leah both out. You and Mary had stepped up, and the weight of trying to live up to your captains' was crushing. Alexia did this all the time, though, you reminded yourself. There was nothing to complain about. Once this game was over, she would relax, and so would you.

As you walked out onto the pitch, you ignored the pang of hurt when Alexia didn't even glance her way. It was time to play, time to win, not time to worry about your girlfriend ignoring you. Soon, though, you were worried not just for her, but for everyone else on the pitch. Alexia was playing aggressively, and for the most part it was paying off for her. The ref was being incredibly inconsistent with calling fouls and giving cards, something Alexia was taking advantage of. After she practically shoved Tooney to the ground on a corner, you spoke up, annoyed with how reckless she was acting.

"Cool it, Alexia. You're gonna hurt someone." You said quietly, as you briefly jogged past her. She just looked at you, mouth still pressed into a hard line, barely acknowledging that you'd spoken. You sighed, knowing it was just a matter of time before she was the reason someone had to go off.

You didn't expect it to be you. In Alexia's defense, it was a mostly clean tackle. She caught your ankle, yes, but she had touched the ball first, making it clean. Your ankle crumpled under you, though, and you collapsed to the pitch in crumpled heap with a cry of pain. Alexia stood, looking down at you, horrified, as if only now just realizing the consequences of your actions.

She was shoved out of the way by your teammates, who quickly made their way to your side. She didn't go far, though, looking on, distraught, as your teammates called out for the physios, and you writhed on the ground in agony.

They appeared, asking you questions, and Alexia thought she was going to throw up when they called for a stretcher. How had she done that to you? What was wrong with her?

She stepped closer, hesitantly, trying to get your attention, whether to apologize or beg for forgiveness, she wasn't sure.

"Amor," she asked quietly. Your eyes flew to her above you, and your gaze hardened.

"No, Alexia. Go away." You said through gritted teeth.

"Okay. Lo siento, amor. Lo lamento." she said, backing up and chewing insistently on the side of her cheek. The stretcher arrived, and they got you on it. Every sound you made, every groan of pain, felt like Alexia's heart was being ripped out of her chest. She felt an arm on her shoulder, and turned to find Irene standing behind her.

"Go off, Ale, go with her. We're up anyway." It was true, Spain was winning, and there wasn't much time left. Her departure from the game likely wouldn't cause the team any issues. Still, she shook her head. You were being lifted up, carried off the field now. Alexia wanted to rush forward, wipe the tears off your face, kiss the grimace off your lips.

"No, she doesn't want me right now. I fucked up." Alexia choked out. Irene sighed, not really blaming you. Alexia had been playing like a crazy person today, like she had something to prove.

"Go anyway. You get her to forgive you by proving that you're sorry. So go." Irene insisted, and Alexia paused, before nodding and heading to the sidelines. She was subbed off, and she headed into the tunnel after you. She turned towards England's side, not quite sure how to find you. Luckily, Leah was standing in the hall, talking to a member of the staff. Alexia cleared her throat, and Leah turned towards her, clearly trying to keep her expression neutral.

"Where is she?" Alexia rasped.

"Hospital." Leah responded, voice hard.

Alexia sighed, a few tears escaping against her will. She normally would never, not ever, let an opponent see her cry. When it came to you, though, it was like she had no control over herself. Leah softened slightly at the sight.

"Come on, I'll drive you." The match was in London, and Alexia was glad she didn't have to wait an unknown amount of time to get to you.

"I do not think she wants to see me." Alexia admitted, despite following Leah towards the exit of the building.

Leah rolled her eyes. "All she's wanted for the past week is you, Putellas. And instead of giving her that, you break her ankle."

"What do you mean? She wanted me?" Alexia questioned, confused. You'd seemed okay with the distance she'd imposed on you, telling her you understood that she needed to focus.

They arrived at Leah's car, climbing in, and Leah began driving before she responded.

"She's having a hard time. She has this stupid idea that she needs to be just like Millie, or me, instead of being herself, which is why she was chosen to lead. She's stressed and exhausted, not to mention worried about you and your return. She needed her girlfriend, Putellas. More than anything."

The midfielder felt the last of her strength crumble, and she spent the rest of the car ride silently wiping away the tears that ran down her face. She would fix it, she promised herself. She'd do anything to fix it.

-----

Alexia wasn't at the hospital long. You'd asked Leah not to bring her to your room, and send her back to your apartment with your key instead. Your ankle was broken, it turned out. You were in a boot, on crutches, and miserable, that much Alexia knew. If you were furious with her, or just marginally angry, she didn't know.

She showered quickly, throwing on some of your clothes as she left her bag at the hotel the team was staying at, before settling on the couch, knee bouncing nervously. She wished the apartment was a mess or something, so she could clean it, but it was spotless. She'd already ordered dinner from your favorite restaurant, so she didn't need to cook. Leah texted her when they were downstairs, and she tried to swallow her anxiety as she heard the door open.

You hobbled in, Leah following with your bag. Alexia stood, taking a hesitant step towards you. You didn't even really look at her, crutching by her to sit on the couch. You threw your crutches to the ground, and put your head in your hands, the emotions of the day finally catching up to you. Leah placed your bag down carefully, shooting Alexia a glare, before she kissed the top of your head.

"Call if you need me, okay?"

"Okay," came your response, muffled by your hands.

Alexia moved your crutches to sit against the couch, before taking a seat on the coffee table in front of you.

"Amor, I am so so sorry."

"It was a clean tackle Alexia, don't apologize." You reply, voice emotionless. Your girlfriend shifted uncomfortably.

"I am still sorry. And I am sorry I was not available this week. I should have talked to you more."

"It's fine."

"You are not mad at me?" Alexia wondered. At this, you finally lifted your head out of your hands, looking at your girlfriend with bloodshot eyes, and a flushed face.

"I am mad. I just don't have the energy to be angry with you right now. I'm too exhausted, my ankle fucking kills, and I've missed you too much. It's pathetic." You cry, reaching a hand out towards the blonde. She doesn't waste a second, taking your hand in hers and pressing a few kisses into the back of it.

"It is not pathetic, amor. You need me, that is okay. You can yell tomorrow."

"I needed you all week," you say quietly, and her grip on your hand tightens.

"I know, amor, and I should have known that, and been there for you. I am here now, though, and I am not going anywhere. Not until you are better."

You looked at her through long, wet, lashes. "Promise?" you asked, voice cracking on the word.

"I promise, mi amor, I promise." Alexia assured you. You pulled on her hand, and she shifted onto the couch, bringing you into her lap, minding your ankle. You collapsed into her, face finding it's favorite spot nestled against her neck. You were getting her skin wet with tears, but she didn't seem to care. In fact, she seemed content to sit there with you until you felt better, no matter how long that took. You pulled away before you really felt much better, though.

"Where are you going?" Alexia asked with a slight pout.

"My ankle hurts," You admit, watching as her expression falls into one of immense guilt. She eases you off of her, back onto the couch, instructing you to stretch your legs out.

"Can I?" She asks quietly, hands hovering over the straps on the boot. It was a test, you knew, to see how angry with her you were, deep down. If you trusted her to take care of your injury or not.

"Be gentle." You ask quietly, and she sighs in relief, nodding. Alexia begins to unstrap the boot, lifting the front piece off before sliding it down and off your foot. You winced, the slight movement sending waves of pain up your leg that made you feel sick. Alexia dropped the boot onto the ground, watching carefully as you shut your eyes, willing the pain away. When you opened them, you noticed that Alexia was trying to discreetly wipe a tear away.

"Hey, what is it?" You ask, concerned, grabbing her hand before she could leave the room.

Alexia scoffs, but sits back down. "I broke your ankle. You are in pain because of me."

"Alexia, it was a clean tackle. I'm not mad that about it. It could have been anyone. I'm mad that you were playing like you wanted to get a red card, putting yourself and my teammates in danger." You explain.

"You are not mad about the tackle?" She asked incredulously.

"No, that would be stupid, that was practically your one clean tackle of the game. I'd like to talk about why you were playing like that, though." Alexia wasn't one to play super rough, and you knew that it was likely a result of some issue she was having. It was hard for you to get her to tell you what was going on in her head.

Alexia is quiet for a minute, working out her rather complex feelings of guilt at the moment. If you weren't angry about that, should she feel so furious with herself? The way she'd played was a whole other issue.

"Can we talk about it tomorrow? I want... I want to just be with you tonight. Take care of my girl." Alexia asked. You softened at her request, opening your arms, and gesturing for her to move closer. She leaned forward holding tight to you, inhaling your comforting scent. You were with her, and you were okay. That was all that mattered to her.

"Of course, baby." You murmured, kissing her temple lightly.

And take care of you, she did. She brought you dinner once it was delivered, and carried you into the shower, holding you up the entire time whilst you bathed and washed your hair, even though she'd already showered. She helped you into your pajamas, before getting your ankle propped up on a pillow, wrapped in an ice pack while you reclined on the bed. She stood anxiously next to your side of the bed, looking around as if searching for something else to do.

"Love, come get in bed." You told her, and Alexia focused on you.

"You do not need anything else?" She checked.

"Just you, pretty girl." You said sweetly. Alexia felt her cheeks heat up at that, and moved around to the other side to the bed. Before really getting to know Alexia, you would not have thought her to be a shy person. She was, though, shying away from any attention you tried to give her at first. Eventually, she got used to it, but she still felt her face flush with pleasure when you called her things like that.

Alexia climbed into bed, curling up into your side easily. She looked tired up close, almost as tired as you felt, and you leaned down, pressing your lips to hers. She sighed into the kiss, finally relaxing. When you pulled away, you couldn't help but notice the way her lips tugged down slightly, as if she was fighting a sad frown.

"What is it Ale?" You asked, running your thumb across her cheek.

"I am just tired. And sorry for hurting you, and ignoring you all week. And stressed about my return and my performance. My brain will not turn off. I am so tired, amor." Alexia said, eyes fluttering closed when your hand cupped her cheek.

"That is a lot of things to be worried about, Ale. I've forgiven you. I'm pretty sure I won't even yell at you tomorrow," Alexia smiles slightly at this. "Push all that out of your head. You're here with me, and everything is going to feel better in the morning. Sleep now, my love."

"Thank you. Te amo." She whispers in response, snuggling in closer to your side.

"I love you." You tell her, letting the feeling of her chest rising and falling against you lull you to sleep.

-----

You're rather unfortunately awoken a few hours later by a gasp, and Alexia stumbling out of bed and into the bathroom. You sit bolt upright, confused, watching from the bed as she grips the counter in her hands, breath ragged.

"Alexia?" you call out. You'd get up, but your ankle protests when you try to shift it off the pillow, so you stop moving, waiting for her to answer you. She doesn't acknowledge that you've spoken. She's speaking quietly to herself, eyes squeezed shut, and you strain your ears to hear her.

"Estás bien, estás bien," she repeats, white knuckled grip on the counter looking painful.

"Alexia," you say again, louder this time.

"Okay, amor, I... I am okay," she gasps out. She's having a panic attack, you realize. In all your time with her, you'd never known her to experience this before, and this realization is enough for you to grit your teeth, and try to get to her. You've swung your leg off the bed, biting your lip to keep from crying out, and grabbed for your crutches when she speaks again.

"St-stay there. No te levantes" Alexia says, switching rapidly between english and spanish.

"Come here then, please baby. Before I drag my ankle over there." You plead.

"No puedo," she whimpers, hand coming up to tug at the neck of her shirt, as if it's restricting her breathing. She's not moving anytime soon, and she looks like she's about to pass out if she doesn't get her breathing under control soon.

You curse under your breath, standing up and wobbly moving towards the bathroom. You make it to her, the blood rushing into your ankle once you stand, but you don't really feel it. The adrenaline has taken over, and your only though is helping your girlfriend.

"No-no puedo respirar," she gasps, eyes opening to find you in front of her. "No se que pasa, ayúdame," she pleads, gripping your shirt in her hand.

"Oh, baby," you coo, taking her hand in yours, and pressing it to your chest. "With me, love, you're okay."

She shakes her head frantically, gasping for air at this point.

"No puedo," she says again, before she pulls her hand away from yours, and begins tugging at her shirt again. "Lo necesito apagado, por favor," she cries.

Frustrated with your lack of mobility, and your shaky balance, you discard your crutches, and pull yourself up to sit on the counter. It's not much more comfortable, but you don't have to balance on one foot, and you can't help Alexia with your hands preoccupied with holding your crutches.

You help her pull her shirt over her head, leaving her in just a sports bra. She seems even more frustrated when that doesn't seem to help, and the tears are falling down her face fast, as her mouth flops open and closed as she tries to breath.

"Alexia," you say sternly, grabbing her face in between your hands. Her wild eyes meet yours, and you guide her closer, until she is standing in between your legs. "You're having a panic attack. You need to let yourself breath. Do it with me, okay?" Alexia's eyes are wide and glistening as she allows you to take her hand again, and press it back over your heart. Her breaths are choppy as she tries to match them with yours.

"There you go, Ale, you're doing good," you encourage, as her inhales begin to match yours more. You keep a tight hold on her hand until her breathing is almost normal. But as her hyperventilating ends, more tears replace it. "Alexia," you sigh, pulling her in. You hate seeing her so upset. You'd do anything to take it away, even if just for a minute. Her chin rests on your shoulder as she sniffles occasionally. You rub her back softly, giving her the time she needs to calm down. She jumps back suddenly, though, looking panicked again.

"Your ankle," she says, looking frantically between the swollen limb and your eyes.

"Shh, I'm okay, come back," you tell her, and she moves back into your arms, despite her protests.

"But amor, this is not-" Alexia's voice is weak and choked.

"Don't worry about it Alexia, seriously." You kiss her forehead, then her temple, before guiding her head back onto your shoulder. She relents, body falling almost limp against you. You're both quiet, the only sounds audible being both of your breathing. You bring a hand up to the nape of Alexia's neck, threading your hand through the hair there, and and holding her tightly against you.

You don't know how long the two of you sit there. Long enough for you to feel the pain in your ankle again, dangling off the counter. It was throbbing, hot and painful, under you. You don't want to let Alexia go before she's ready, so you try to bring you leg up, and rest in on the counter. At your movement, though, Alexia pulls away, pursing her lips as she looks at your ankle.

"Ale, it's fine," you try, but she ignores you. She's still unsteady, hands shaking as she grabs your crutches off the ground where she'd dropped them, and handing them to you.

"Bed?" she asks quietly, and you nod. She follows you back to the bed, a slow process, waiting until your sitting down before leaving the room without another word. You call after her, but she doesn't respond. You're just about to get up, and go after her, again, when she returns, ice pack in her still shaking hand. Regardless, she wraps it around your ankle, before climbing back into bed next to you. Her head finds it's place against your chest.

"What happened, love?" you ask. You feel Alexia's shoulder shrug. "No, come on. Talk to me, please."

"I was anxious when I fell asleep, and when I woke up, I could not breath. I think I had a dream, I did my other knee, and they told me I would not play again." The blonde's voice shakes as she speaks.

"That's awful, love." You murmur into her hair.

"I am sorry I woke you, and that you had to help me," she says weakly.

"Don't be. I'm glad I could help," you promise. "Have you ever had a panic attack before?" you ask, already knowing the answer.

"No."

"Alexia, I think you should talk to someone." You suggest, also pretty sure you know what her response will be.

"Maybe," she says noncommittally.

You sigh. "You at least need to talk to me more, Alexia. You can't just shut down when you're having a hard time, you need to let me help."

"I need to talk to you more?" she asks, turning her head to look up at you, voice a little stronger now. "You need to talk to me too then. You were upset all week and I did not know about it." She says it like she's got you. You surprise her, then, when you nod.

"You're right. We both need to talk to each other more. I know it's not easy, but I'm here, whatever you need, whenever you need me. Okay?"

"Te prometo que." Alexia says after a minute, gazing up at you. You can tell she means it. "You promise too?"

"I promise, Alexia."

Neither of you are perfect, or would ever claim to be. You are, however, perfect for each other. Exactly what the other needs. You know you'll get through anything with Ale with you, at your side.

-----

i love angst. that is all. goodnight.

[gravehags]

hold me now

Pairing: Cardinal Copia x f!Reader (Curator!Reader)

Rating: Teen

Tags: couple fight, well less a fight than copia fucking up supremely, hurt/comfort, self esteem issues, anxiety, secondo once again being a real one

Words: 2,587

Summary: You've never heard that tone from Copia before period let alone directed at you.

a/n: copia baby your anxiety and freeze response...

~~~

He can feel the headache coming on, throbbing right behind his eyes and the base of his skull from staring too long at spreadsheets and numbers and stupid fucking emails from his fellow clergy members. 

Sister Imperator on his ass, like always. Nihil on his ass, like always. You’re pacing back and forth in front of his desk, chattering animatedly about…he’s not even sure, all he can focus on is the static in his brain and the blood rushing in his ears and the noise of your voice and–

He barks your name once. That’s all it takes to have you stopped in your tracks, slowly turning to face him. When the next words out of his mouth come sharp like a whip crack, he sees you physically recoil.

Enough. Quiet.

Immediately he’s filled with regret as he watches you back away towards the door, fidgeting with your fingers. He knows what he needs to do - what he needs to say - but he’s paralyzed with fear and exhaustion. His mouth opens but no sound comes out.

“S-sorry,” you say, your voice uncharacteristically small and high, the way it gets when you’re holding back tears, “sorry I’ll just–”

By the time he reaches out to you, still unable to speak, you’ve already got your back turned to him and he watches you leave and shut his door with a gentle snap. In an instant he forgets about his headache, about the stressors, about everything that isn’t the horror that settles in his belly like lead. He wants to get up, go after you, apologize on bended knee but he just…sits. 

Sathanas, what have I done?

—

You’re proud of yourself, you don’t cry until after you return to your office. As soon as the door shuts though, an ugly sob is wrenched from your throat and you collapse into the empty chair opposite your desk. You can’t form a coherent thought, all you can do is bawl into your hands and shake.

He’s done with you, that familiar, horrid little voice says. He’s finally had enough of your verbal diarrhea, of the silly inconsequential things that come out of you. He realized your mouth is only good for one thing and nattering isn’t it.

You know the wail that comes out of you is pathetic as snot and tears pour down your face and you slide out of the chair and onto the floor. Pressing your back against the desk, you draw your legs up as tight as you can, rocking gently back and forth. The look on his face - the anger, the annoyance - is burned into your memory. It’s wholly unlike your love but the fact that he hasn’t come after you…well. Clearly he meant what he said. You heave a shaky sigh and lean forward to fumble behind you for the box of tissues on your desk. It was a good run, you suppose. You always thought you were unlovable and here’s the proof. To think that he would tolerate you and your annoying habits for the rest of your lives was simply naive. 

You’re just a naive, stupid, annoying little girl.

Your tears slowly cease and you diligently wipe up the streaks of mascara on your cheeks.

You won’t bother him anymore.

—

Two days. Almost three. That’s how long has passed since his horrific outburst in his office and he still hasn’t apologized to you. The guilt gnaws at him, tearing him up, but in all truth he’s not sure how to make the situation right. And he’s embarrassed, Sathanas, looking and sounding like an irritable old man. It’s the longest he’s gone without seeing you in ages and fuck, he misses you desperately. Misses your smile, your laugh, how excitable you get when you’re talking about something you care about. Misses the very thing he chastised you and hurt your feelings for, fotutto idiota. He doesn’t blame you for not coming to his quarters or visiting him during work hours. He certainly wouldn’t blame you for being done with him, with this relationship. The lump in his throat gets worse and worse as he hustles down the corridor, tears blurring his vision. He’s nowhere near his office when he slams into something solid.

“Watch where you’re–oh, Cardinal.”

“Mi scusi,” he chokes out, dodging Secondo’s gaze and trying to hurry past him before his brother can see the streaks of black running down his cheeks but judging from the way one large hand wraps around his bicep, it’s too late.

“Copia, what is wrong?” Secondo’s voice is low and concerned as he steers him into an empty seminar room, shutting the door behind them. As soon as the latch clicks Copia lets out a whimper and then a sob.

“I hurt her!” he cries and Secondo starts.

“What do you mean you hurt her? Copia, I know you did not physically harm her because brother or not, if you laid a hand on her you know I’d–”

“No!” Copia gasps, astonished and sickened at the implication. “I would sooner cut off my own hand than raise it to her, you know this. No I-I…I hurt her feelings.”

Secondo seems relieved, but only slightly.

“What did you do?”

His lip trembles as he recalls the events of the other day to his brother. When he’s finished, Secondo crosses his arms.

“And you did not go after her? Che cazzo, stronzo?” he growls, shoving Copia into a chair. “What must she think now that her beloved was cruel to her and did not offer an apology? Copia you’ve always been self-sabotaging but this is a new low.”

Ouch.

“I…I don’t know what came over me after she left my office. My heart told me to chase after her, to make it right but I just…couldn’t move. It was like…like my brain was telling me that I didn’t deserve her in the first place so I shouldn’t push my luck. That she deserves someone…better.”

“What utter bullshit,” Secondo scoffs, and Copia can feel his face go red in shame, “You don’t deserve her? Well maybe you don’t after this but Copia she chose to be with you. To love you and care for you. And you insult her and her choice by trying to make the choice for her with your wretched behavior? Vergognatevi, Copia Emeritus.”

Copia knows Secondo is right but it doesn’t make the dull ache in his chest any better.

“How do I fix this?” he asks quietly.

“Go to her, firstly, you fucking idiot. Bring her something nice, that will make her smile. But wait until she’s back in her rooms tonight, I’m sure she’s had enough of crying in her office. And tell her how you truly feel and how sorry you are. And if she forgives you then don’t be this stupid again. If she doesn’t forgive you, well…perhaps I’ll treat her better.”

Copia’s head jerks up and Secondo looks down at him with a smirk.

“So you better work hard to make her forgive you, huh? Otherwise she’s getting a ride on the Italian Stallion, capisci?”

“Ugh disgusting,” Copia grunts, standing up, “I don’t know why I was always worried about Terzo stealing her when you’re even worse. Stay away from my amore.”

“Then you better work damn hard to make sure she remains your amore.”

“Any eh, tips?”

“I don’t know, flagellate yourself in front of her,” Secondo says, turning to leave, “She looks like she’s into that.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Copia grumbles as they exit the classroom. A passing elderly sister looks at him and jumps with her hand over her heart.

“Clean yourself up first, huh?” Secondo says, straightening Copia’s cassock, “You look like the nun from The Nun.”

“Grazie mille, shithead. I think I know exactly what to do.”

“Bene. Now get to work.” With a clap on his shoulder and a wink, Secondo strides away. 

Right, Copia thinks, first the bathroom, then Primo’s greenhouse.

He only hopes it’s not too late.

—

Two days. Two fucking days and he hasn’t said shit to you. Hasn’t even attempted to say shit to you. Your pain and embarrassment morphs into anger on the dawn of the second day when you check your phone and see no texts, no missed calls. The hurt is still there, that ache in your chest that doesn’t really go away, but you’re truly floored that he could be so casually cruel to you then act like you simply don’t exist. Maybe it’s over (and the notion makes tears well in your eyes and makes you choke on each breath) but don’t you deserve to hear it from his lips? That’s all it takes to have you sobbing again as you attempt to brush your teeth, dejectedly spitting out toothpaste into the sink. It’s early, ridiculously early to be in your nightgown getting ready for bed but every night without Copia has been agony and all you want is to no longer be conscious. You pad over to your nightstand and are about to check your phone simply out of habit when there’s a loud knock at the door and you freeze. Part of you - the petty, horrible part - considers ignoring it the way he’s ignored you. Letting him stew. But your heart is ultimately what pulls you towards the door and has you opening it. Your lip wobbles when you see him before you - in his clean red cassock, no biretta  - but you pride yourself on remaining tearless. He looks incredibly nervous and nauseated as he beholds you.

“Eh…may I come in?”

You say nothing but stand aside and gesture for him to enter. It’s not until he’s fully inside your apartment you see the healthy bouquet of lily of the valley behind his back and your icy demeanor melts a little. He hands them to you, eyes dodging yours like a fifth grader with a crush. It’s charming, you can’t lie. You take the flowers from him and he watches you carefully as you fill up a vase and place them in it.

“Kinda…kinda gives you déjà vu, no?” he laughs nervously, “Except–”

“Except you brought me orange roses the first time.”

His cheeks go red.

“Right, right,” another half a minute passes of you resting your weight on your hip with your arms crossed and him fidgeting with his cuffs. You’re about to ask him to get it over with if he’s breaking up with you when–

“Amore, I do not have sufficient words to describe how incredibly sorry I am for my behavior the other day. And then for abandoning you in the days since…not only have I insulted you but I have insulted this relationship. Our relationship. Something horrid came over me that day and you did not deserve to bear the brunt of my foul mood. I know it must mean little now but as soon as I said it I-I felt sick to my stomach.”

“You didn’t come after me,” you say, sniffling and staring ahead at the bejeweled grucifix on his chest, “I knew I really fucked up when you didn’t come after me–”

“Amore you…you think what I did was a reflection on you? That you…don’t tell me you believe you deserved this?”

Your vision is going blurry and you swear internally.

“I thought you were, y’know, done with me. Done with my chatter a-and annoying habits and–”

Copia crosses the floor and takes your hands in his.

“How could I be ‘done’ with everything that makes you…you? Dolcezza, I love all of your facets, even the ones you believe to be ‘annoying’. How could I deny anything that is a part of you?”

“Then why did you tell me to be quiet? Why didn’t you come after me? Why did you just let me sit all these days assuming the worst?”

Silence rings out in the small apartment after your last loud statement and Copia looks as if he wants nothing more than to tear his heart out of his chest and present it to you, still beating in his palm.

“Oh cara,” he whispers, “I was having such a-a difficult day. Everything had gone wrong and I could feel a migraine starting and…none of it matters. I should never have lashed out at you and I curse my brain and body for not allowing me to chase after you. There’s no excuse for what I did…for how I abandoned you these past few days and…I understand if you would like to end our relationship.”

Your heart plummets.

“Is that what you want?” you ask softly, voice cracking pathetically, “I just…I assumed the worst after you didn’t try to see me–”

A noise halfway between a sob and a sigh is wrenched from Copia as he falls to his knees before you.

“Amata mia, all I want in this world is you. Your love. Nothing else matters. Only death can rid you of me, I swear to Sathanas. Do…do you feel the same?”

Tears are freely pouring down your cheeks as you look upon the man you love and the way his eyes are upturned to you seeking repentance.

“You know I love you more than anything,” you whisper, “God, we really fucked this one up, huh?”

“Not you, amore mio, me. From start to finish this was my fault and for that I am so, so sorry. I hope you will somehow forgive me–”

You scoff wetly, looking down at him with a smile.

“Is this just what two people with anxiety in love are like?”

He lets out a small laugh.

“Heh…maybe. Surely we’re not the first. Or the last.”

“We should start a support group,” you say, letting go of his hands and gripping his shoulders, “and as pretty as you look in your vestments on your knees, you can get up, my love.”

“I would stay here forever should you command it.”

Hmm. That sounds nice.

“Come to bed with me, Cardinal,” you say softly and obediently he rises to his feet. “I’ve slept like shit without you.”

“And I you,” Copia says, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to your lips. Abruptly, you wrap your arms around him and hold him tight.

“I love you,” you murmur into the red wool covering his chest.

“Love you too, anima mia,” he whispers, kissing the top of your head, “and I am sorry for everything.”

The two of you embrace one another in the quiet for a moment before you speak.

“Hmm did we just have our first fight?”

“Eh, I don’t know if it was as much a fight as it was me being a fucking idiot and you having the infinite grace to forgive me.”

“Oh, okay. I guess that rules out make-up sex, then?”

You hide your grin in his pellegrina as he makes a noise of outrage.

“Amore, anything can be make-up sex if you try hard enough. Shall I eh, call you some filthy names and get the ball rolling?”

You giggle as you tug him towards the bedroom.

“Oh, I insist, Your Eminence.”

He growls, trying his best to undo the buttons of his cassock with one hand after you lift your nightgown over your head and let it fall to the floor.

“Think I’m getting eh, a Pavlovian reaction to you using my title, dolcezza.”

You look down at the bulge in the red fabric and smile.

“I’ll be sure to remember that on really inconvenient occasions.”

He sighs.

“I know you will.”

[leighsartworks216]

Antiseptic and Latex

Zayne x gn!Reader

Kinda related to Protocore Syndrome in that it could possibly be that same MC, but that's the only connection to it really

Warnings: hospitals, established relationship

Word Count: 593

Main Masterlist

Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

Zayne feels the exhaustion seep deep into his bones. His fingers ache and his back is stiff, yet sleep continues to elude him. He knows why, of course. After all, most surgeons would collapse after a 10-hour surgery, even with the rotation of personnel that had to be done to avoid mistakes being made. Most surgeons, however, aren’t also dating another surgeon.

He blearily checks the time on his phone. He couldn’t read his watch if he tried, eyes strained from looking at fine details and precision techniques for hours on end. Your operation should be finishing soon, if all was going well. You’d been at the hospital all day, from 6 o’clock in the morning, prepping so you could start the operation in time to be done by 8. It’s unlikely you’ve eaten anything more than granola bars today. He’s not doing much better.

The little room - provided by the hospital for situations exactly like this - is bare, packed only with the essentials: a bed, a mini fridge, and an entire pantry of snacks. The mattress is firm, the pillows are flat, and Zayne can only imagine how amazing his worn out body would feel in his own bed.

Time passing is lost on him as he drifts in and out of consciousness. Minutes feel like hours, distorted in the haze of partial-dreams. The only thing he’s really aware of is the gentle, barely-there knock on the door before it opens. The familiar, equally as exhausted sigh, and the person crawling into the bed with him.

His arms automatically wrap around you, drawing you into him just as you collapse into his chest. His heart beats steadily in your ear through his rumpled dress shirt. His tie is who-knows-where. His lab coat hangs on the back of the door next to yours.

You practically melt into him. Neither of you are exceptionally touchy people, save for moments like these when it’s all you seem to crave. When his fingers scratch sleepily at your scalp, and his hand trails mindlessly under your shirt to find bare skin. When you go through the momentous effort of dragging yourself further up until you can press your face into his warm neck, and tangle your legs so one of his is hooked over your thigh and woven between your calves.

“How’d yours go?” you mumble almost incoherently against him.

He hums, drawing in the strength to speak while his thoughts are so sluggish. “There was a minor hiccup, but it was inconsequential… They’ll live.” He presses his nose into your hair. It smells like antiseptic and latex, with a faint hint of your shampoo. “Yours?”

You breathe him in deeply. Antiseptic and latex, with the minor essence of his body wash. “Same…” You yawn. “What’re we gonna do for breakfast?”

It’s still only 8:12 at night. There are several hours between now and the morning, hours that hopefully include going home to your real bed and taking a long shower. But you both know by now that it is extremely unlikely you’ll stir anytime before 9am.

He sighs softly against your hair. His fingers slow their ministrations against your scalp. He’s on the precipice. You’re quickly trailing after. “Hmmm… There’s the diner, nearby…”

You hum, words slurring together. “Sounds good… G’night…”

He doesn’t get the words out before he finally succumbs to the sweet temptress of slumber. You pull an arm from around him to rest your hand over his heart. The soothing rhythm is like a lullaby, lulling you slowly but surely into rest. 

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @huen1ngk41 @armycaratlover @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021

[debussy42]

The Morning’s Embrace

just a small piece that stirs me enough to get out of bed in the mornings:’)

The air in the barracks was crisp with the promise of a new day. The sun had risen early, its soft light spilling through the frost-patterned windows, illuminating the faint wisps of breath that escaped from beneath the blankets. The fire in the hearth had long since burned out, leaving the room cool but not unkind, like the lingering touch of a winter breeze.

You woke slowly, the sunlight brushing across your face like a gentle hand. The quiet murmur of the world outside—distant bird calls and the faint shuffle of feet in the corridors—tugged you gently from sleep. You blinked, taking in the familiar shapes of the room: the wooden beams above, the neatly folded jacket at the foot of your bed, the soft rise and fall of someone’s breath across the room.

For a moment, you stayed there, suspended between sleep and wakefulness, savoring the rare quiet. But the cold wooden floor beckoned, and with a reluctant sigh, you swung your legs over the side of the bed, your toes curling against the chill.

In the common room, the remnants of yesterday’s fire still carried the faint scent of ash and wood. Sasha was already there, crouched by the hearth with a loaf of bread balanced precariously on the edge of a long stick. Her face was illuminated by the glow of the rekindled flames, her expression one of utter concentration.

You stifled a laugh as you walked in. “Is that breakfast?”

She turned to you, her eyes bright and unapologetic. “It’s survival,” she said, her voice muffled by the corner of the bread she was already nibbling. “The bread’s from last night—Jean said it was too hard to eat, but I call that a challenge.”

“Or a hazard,” you replied, sitting down across from her.

“Hazard, challenge, same thing,” she said with a grin, pulling the bread back just before it could catch fire.

The room smelled warm and inviting now, a blend of toasting bread and faint embers. You couldn’t help but feel a sense of comfort in the simplicity of it—Sasha’s focus, the quiet hum of the fire, the slow way the morning unfolded.

The door creaked open, and Jean trudged in, his hair a mess and his face wearing an expression of someone who’d woken up on the wrong side of the bed. “Why does the sun hate me?” he muttered, collapsing onto the nearest chair.

“Morning to you too,” you said, smirking.

“Morning?” he said, gesturing dramatically toward the window. “More like blinding.”

Connie appeared behind him, grinning ear to ear. “Aw, Jean’s grumpy again. Guess the world didn’t revolve around him while he was sleeping.”

“Shut up, Connie,” Jean shot back, though his heart clearly wasn’t in it.

You watched the exchange with amused detachment as they bickered over something inconsequential—whether Connie had stolen Jean’s blanket last night, or maybe whether Jean had stolen Connie’s first.

Sasha, now armed with her perfectly toasted bread, chimed in with her own teasing commentary. “If you two spent half as much energy training as you do arguing, you’d be unstoppable.”

Connie gasped in mock betrayal. “Sasha?”

Mikasa entered next, her movements as fluid and composed as ever. She glanced around the room, taking stock of the small chaos unfolding before her, and then wordlessly set a kettle on the fire. Her presence immediately shifted the tone—calmer, quieter.

“Good morning,” she said, her voice soft but firm, as if it were an invitation to start fresh.

Armin followed not long after, his hair slightly mussed and his expression pleasantly neutral. He greeted everyone with a polite nod before settling onto the floor with a small book tucked under his arm. “It’s a good day for reading,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.

“You always say that,” Connie pointed out, earning a small laugh from Armin.

“Because it’s always true,” Armin replied, opening his book.

It wasn’t until later, when the room had settled into a gentle hum of activity, that Levi appeared. His entrance was quiet, as always, his presence unassuming but commanding. He paused in the doorway, his sharp eyes scanning the room.

“Slacking off already?” he said, his tone dry but not unkind.

The room stilled briefly before everyone resumed their morning routines, muttering half-hearted excuses about needing a moment to wake up. But Levi’s gaze found you, and he gestured with a tilt of his head for you to follow him.

Outside, the air was sharp and bracing, the kind that woke you up in an instant. Levi stood by the edge of the training grounds, his hands tucked into his pockets, his posture relaxed but alert.

“You’re quieter than usual this morning,” he said without turning around.

You hesitated, unsure how to respond. “Just… taking it all in, I guess.

Levi nodded, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “It’s not a bad habit. Most people don’t stop to look at what’s in front of them.”

There was a pause, the kind that felt deliberate. Levi wasn’t one to waste words, but his silences often spoke louder than anything he said.

“Do you ever think about what mornings like this mean?” you asked suddenly, surprising even yourself.

He turned to you, his expression unreadable but his eyes thoughtful. “They mean we’re still here,” he said simply. “That’s enough.”

The weight of his words settled over you, grounding and reassuring in a way you hadn’t expected. He looked at you for a moment longer, as if trying to read something in your face, before nodding slightly and heading back toward the barracks.

The morning carried on, slow and unhurried, with the group gradually coming to life. Jean and Connie eventually made their peace, Sasha shared the last of her bread, and Mikasa and Armin fell into an easy rhythm of conversation.

And as you sat by the hearth, your mug warm in your hands and Levi’s words lingering in your mind, you couldn’t help but feel a quiet sense of gratitude—for the sunlight, for the stillness, and for the people around you who made mornings like this possible.

You glance back at Levi, wondering if he will ever come to join the group. Ruminating over his words, you feel a soft smile grace your lips as you soak in this moment around you.

“Mikasa, are you making tea?” You ask as you walk past her towards Armin, interest piqued by the book he’s reading.

Mikasa glances over her shoulder, her hands steady as she pours steaming water into a small teapot. “I am,” she replies softly. “Green tea. Do you want some?”

“I’d love some,” you say, the warmth in her offer adding to the coziness of the room. Mikasa nods once, her movements fluid and deliberate, as though every action is imbued with purpose.

You settle beside Armin, who barely looks up from his book as you approach, so absorbed is he in the pages. His lips are faintly parted, his brow furrowed in thought. You tilt your head to catch the title on the spine—“Essays on the Natural World.”

“Anything good in there?” you ask lightly, breaking the silence.

Armin startles, glancing up with wide blue eyes before relaxing into a soft smile. “Oh, good morning. It’s actually fascinating,” he says, lifting the book slightly. “This chapter is about migratory patterns. Did you know some birds navigate using the stars?”

Your interest is piqued, and you lean closer. “I didn’t. How do they do that?”

“It’s incredible,” he says, his excitement bubbling through. “Their instincts are so precise, but what’s even more interesting is how they adapt when conditions change. It’s this combination of innate guidance and learned behavior.”

The warmth of his enthusiasm is infectious, and you find yourself pulled into his quiet awe of the natural world. Sasha ambles over, nibbling on the last corner of her toasted bread.

“Birds and stars, huh?” she says, squatting down next to you both. “I mean, I guess that’s cool, but honestly, I just want to know how they find their way back to food.”

Armin chuckles softly. “That’s part of it too. Resource-driven navigation is a whole field of study.”

“I feel like Sasha would study it just to steal their tricks,” you tease, shooting her a grin.

Sasha grins back, unashamed. “Hey, survival is survival. If I could fly my way to a bakery, I wouldn’t even need you all anymore.”

“You’re not flying anywhere with that bread habit,” Jean says as he strides closer, his hair slightly neater than before but his perpetual exasperation intact.

“I’d outfly you, horseface,” Sasha retorts, her tone playful.

“Will you two ever stop?” Mikasa says, her voice cutting through the chatter with calm precision. She sets the teapot down on the table, steam curling like whispers of warmth in the air.

You take a cup gratefully, the ceramic warm against your hands. The taste is earthy and comforting, a quiet moment shared among friends.

As the room fills with soft conversation, you glance back toward the door, wondering if Levi might return. His absence lingers like a shadow, but not a heavy one. His words still echo faintly in your mind—“They mean we’re still here. That’s enough.”

The thought brings a soft smile to your lips. He’s not one for gatherings like this, you think, but his presence is always felt in quieter ways: a brief glance, a curt nod, a word that holds more weight than it seems.

“Mikasa, how do you always get this tea perfect?” you ask, turning back to her.

Mikasa shrugs modestly. “It’s just practice.”

Armin chimes in. “No, it’s more than that. Mikasa has a way of making even small things matter. Tea’s no exception.”

Her cheeks tint faintly pink, but she doesn’t respond, her usual stoic grace masking any embarrassment.

The group settles into a natural rhythm, with Connie trying—and failing—to best Jean in a game of cards, Sasha intermittently chiming in with advice that’s as questionable as it is entertaining. Armin reads aloud snippets from his book, drawing curious glances from Mikasa and occasional sarcastic commentary from Jean.

And through it all, the sunlight grows stronger, spilling over the table and onto the faces of the people around you. There’s a warmth here that doesn’t come from the tea or the fire—it’s the kind of comfort that only comes from being with people who make the weight of the world a little easier to bear.

As you sip your tea and watch them all, you can’t help but feel grateful for this moment, for this morning, for this group of misfits who have somehow become a family.

You look at Mikasa, smiling softly in an attempt to display your gratitude.

“Thank you, the tea is so warm and filling.” Wrapping your fingers around the tea cup, you use it as a feeble attempt to stave away the coldness creeping up to my fingers. You huddle further into your blanket in hopes of finding last moments of warmth before the day beckons you out. Humming thoughtfully, you look at Mikasa once again.

“Mikasa, do you mind if I pour an extra cup? I can think of a certain… Captain who would love the tea.” You chuckle lightly, already envisioning the Captain with his cup of tea that seems to be his sole means of company, if not for the occasional Erwin and Hange there to fill the silence.

Mikasa tilts her head slightly, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. “Of course. I’m sure Captain Levi wouldn’t turn it down,” she says quietly, her voice steady but with a hint of amusement.

You nod, grateful for her understanding, and carefully pour an extra cup, letting the rich aroma waft upward. It’s funny, you think, how Levi—always so composed, so controlled—seems to soften with small things like this. Tea isn’t just fuel for him; it’s grounding, a brief moment to pause and be alone with his thoughts. You imagine him sitting there, back against the cool wall of the barracks, fingers curled around the warm ceramic, his eyes narrowing slightly as he sips, lost in thought.

You chuckle softly to yourself, already seeing it in your mind’s eye—the quiet, deliberate way he takes his tea, savoring the flavor and the warmth, more content in solitude than most. It’s strange, how something as simple as a cup of tea could feel so personal for someone like Levi.

“It might help him,” you murmur, mostly to yourself, though Mikasa picks up on it easily.

She nods slowly, her expression thoughtful. “Captain doesn’t like to rely on others… but sometimes, even he needs reminders.”

You look down at your own cup, your fingers gently circling the rim. The warmth is soothing, grounding. You can’t help but wonder what it might be like to offer something so simple and yet so meaningful—to bring a small moment of comfort to someone who rarely asks for it.

“Thank you,” you say again, your gratitude genuine as you glance at Mikasa, your smile softening. “For everything—this, and everything else.”

Mikasa regards you quietly, her dark eyes calm but perceptive. “You’ve been through a lot,” she says simply. “You deserve moments like this.”

And with that, you huddle deeper into your blanket, warmth spreading from your fingers to your chest, the lingering scent of tea filling the air. You hum softly, letting the moment stretch a little longer, a tiny oasis before the demands of the day pull you back into motion.

As you sit there, cup in hand, you can’t shake the thought of Levi, alone but not truly alone—holding that same fragile warmth you now feel in your own hands. Maybe, just maybe, something as simple as tea could bridge that quiet gap between solitude and connection.

You pause for a brief moment, your fingers tightening slightly around the two steaming cups. The warmth feels both comforting and slightly foreign against the chill creeping up your spine. The ache in your bones protests against standing, but the thought of Levi—alone up there, just as you expected—makes you take one deliberate step forward. You wrestle with the decision for a heartbeat longer. Would it really be such a disruption to his quiet, solitary space?

A small smile tugs at the corner of your mouth despite yourself. He’ll never let you live it down. You can already imagine the snide remarks, the sharp edge to his words when he’s forced to pull away from his thoughts, only to face you standing there with a cup in hand.

You shake your head slightly, stifling the quiet laugh bubbling at your throat, and gently step away from the warmth of the blanket cocoon. The cold air brushes against your skin, a stark contrast to the comfort you’ve just left behind. With each deliberate step forward, your eyes flick down the hall toward the top floor balcony—Levi’s usual spot. You know it well by now, a place where he often finds a small pocket of peace away from the chaos that usually surrounds everyone else.

Softening your steps, you tread lightly down the hallway, the clink of porcelain cups echoing slightly with each movement. The steam curls lazily from the two cups you carry, tendrils of warmth weaving upward and dissipating into the dim glow of morning. You pause for a moment, your fingers lingering slightly on the ceramic, the warmth grounding you before you continue.

But just as you reach the corner leading toward the balcony, you hear it—the familiar voices. Commander Erwin and Hange—their voices carried softly through the hall, mingling with the hum of conversation as they discuss something in low tones.

Your steps falter for just a heartbeat. You hadn’t anticipated running into them, and now the thought of barging into Levi’s space feels like it might be unnecessarily intrusive. You glance back toward the cozy scene you’ve just left—Mikasa, Armin, Sasha, Jean—those you’ve come to know so well. The warmth and laughter lingering in that room seem miles away from where you stand now.

But curiosity pulls at you. Is Levi really here this early in the morning? You bite your lip gently, unsure if you should continue. Still, you take a careful breath, then adjust your grip on the cups, moving slightly closer to the corner. Soft murmurs drift down the hallway, too low to make out clearly, though you can hear Hange’s usual infectious enthusiasm bubbling just beyond your reach.

With a quiet sigh, you gather your resolve and step forward again, light but steady, your gaze fixed ahead. You weave carefully past the corner, your attention momentarily drawn toward the sound—but soon, your eyes settle on something else entirely.

Levi.

He stands there, as expected, at the railing of the top floor balcony. His posture is straight, composed, but something about him—about this moment—feels different. The way he leans slightly against the stone, the subtle tension in his shoulders that betrays the usual air of calm. His fingers curl slightly around the railing, his gaze distant, lost in something only he sees.

You pause again for a heartbeat, two cups still clutched in your hands, warmth spilling into the space between you. It’s not the intrusion you had anticipated—he doesn’t seem annoyed, not yet at least. His dark eyes shift slightly, though he doesn’t move. You get the sense he feels your presence, even before you speak.

“Levi,” you say softly, your voice breaking the silence between you, hesitant but steady.

His head turns slightly at the sound, his gaze sharpening, though there’s no real irritation in his expression—just quiet acknowledgment. He studies you briefly, those dark eyes of his flicking from your face to the cups you hold out. The tension in his stance loosens slightly, though only barely.

“I brought you some tea,” you offer carefully, your tone soft, almost tentative, unsure if he’ll accept or brush it aside. The two cups in your hands are still warm, the steam curling in gentle spirals.

Levi’s lips press together for a moment, as though considering whether to dismiss your gesture outright, but eventually, his eyes soften slightly—just enough. Without a word, he takes the cup from you, his fingers grazing yours for the briefest moment. The gesture feels quiet, deliberate, though not uncomfortable.

“You think I need tea this early?” he mutters, his voice low but with a faint undertone of amusement—just enough to keep it from being entirely sarcastic.

You smile faintly, watching as he brings the cup to his lips, the warmth seeping into his fingers. “I thought you might appreciate it,” you reply gently, voice light but sincere. “Even you deserve a little quiet sometimes.”

He grunts softly in response, a subtle shift in his posture, though his gaze lingers on you for a beat longer—silent, contemplative. His expression is guarded, but something in his stance speaks to quiet gratitude. Not the kind he often shows outwardly, but enough to make you feel you’ve done something right.

You lean slightly against the stone railing next to him, letting the silence settle between you—an understanding, unspoken connection built on quiet moments like this. The sun filters through the soft morning light, casting a warm glow across the horizon, and you allow yourself to enjoy the moment—watching Levi in this rare, still moment.

He sips at the tea once more, his eyes drifting upward toward the distant sky. For once, there’s no edge to his expression—just a fleeting softness, something you rarely get to see.

It’s a reminder, you think to yourself, that even someone like Levi, who thrives on solitude, can find a quiet comfort in simple gestures—like tea, like shared silence—if only someone gives him the space to accept it. And maybe, just maybe, you’ve done enough to earn that space today.

[sexyslut033]

Employee Relations

I'd been at the company of my dreams for 18 months before everything fell apart.

I'd grown up with a strongly misogynistic father who wouldn't let my mother work, and tried to stop me from going to college. That's why when I found the feminist magazine, my life changed. I was able to find strong role models for a striving, intellectual life. Once I got to college I majored in women's studies, and managed to secure a dream job at the magazine that changed my life after graduation.

They had a small staff, so I was brought on as the executive assistant for the company's trailblazing founder, Cate Farmer. It wasn't writing yet, but it gave me firsthand involvement in a project which I valued more than anything else, and she quickly became mentor and friend. I felt more than ever that I had finally escaped the oppressive ideology of my father. Then the collapse.

I walked into work on the worst day of my life ready for a new day of striving to make the world better, though the presence of more cars in the parking lot than ever before did confuse me. When I entered, the office was in chaos. I found one of the copy editors, Natasha, and only subconsciously noticed the normally-icy girl was wearing a bit of makeup before she gave me the news. Cate had been ousted by the board of directors after having been found to have embezzled a fortune from our investors.

I barely had time to process the betrayal and mourn the loss of my mentor before Natasha lowered her voice conspiratorially.

"The board have put in one of their own. I only saw him for a second, but he was ~really cute~."

The comment was completely out of left field. I'd been fairly certain Natasha was a lesbian, if not out of natural attraction then out of sheer refusal to engage with the masculine sex. Yet here she was, gossiping about our new boss' looks, and giggling like a schoolgirl about it? Before I could interrogate the strange behavior, however, a handsome young man in a pressed suit put his hand on my arm. "You're Sammy, right?"

I flinched at his touch, and said poisonously, "I'm Sam, yeah, why?"

The young man merely smiled bemusedly, frustratingly handsome. "Well, you are the assistant to the CEO, aren't you?"

I looked at him, bewildered. "Yeah, obviously."

"Well then I think you're about 20 minutes late, so you should probably cut it with the indignation and go make an appearance. Rick is waiting for you in his office."

Everything about the interaction was off putting. Under Cate, we'd never been worried about petty details like the time the workday started. The way that the man spoke so possessively, though, about our space and our time, in this holy temple of feminist self-actualization, nearly made me sick. He snapped me out of my shock and back into fury, if at least more functional fury, by tapping his watch condescendingly. Even as I stalked away angrily, though, I thought about how annoyingly handsome he was. -Its always been maddening, my weakness for alpha corporate types.-

This thought once more stopped me in my tracks. I didn't have a weakness for corporate alpha types. The only boyfriend I'd ever had was a shy poet. I found men like that revolting. And yet I couldn't deny it. My heart (and something) else was fluttering, I noted in indignation, as I thought about his easy confidence, his natural condescension for my weak female mind. Before I could interrogate this even more concerning thought, however, I found myself stepping into 'Rick's' office.

"Uh, Rick?" I said, awkwardly. His chair was turned away from the door, though I could smell his cologne already. Inconsequentially I noted the room had already been redesigned. A commanding, earthen, overwhelmingly masculine voice issued "Mr. Harding to you. You are 23 minutes late." The voice crashed over me in waves, reducing me nearly to a puddle immediately. Every smart comment I had thought up to cut down his male arrogance melted, and I said, nearly in tears, "I'm so sorry Mr. Harding, it wont happen again."

"Sir."

This made my knees buckle from its force, and I whimpered "I'm so sorry Mr. Harding sir, I wont disappoint you again." The sheer authority in his voice seemed to work its way not only into the control center of my brain but to drift south, pulling aside my plain panties and tickling my cunt. -I've never called it a cunt before- I thought, blankly.

"Sit." Mr. Harding turned around and I was captivated. He was the pinnacle of pure masculinity. Strong lines defined his face, his eyes betrayed immediate contempt for me and everything I believed in. "So you are my absent secretary," he said, dismissively.

"Personal assistant," I choked out against the force of his disdain.

"You are my office girl. You answer my phones and complete my commands. You are a secretary. Personal assistants, like Jared who you met earlier, require decisive independence, competence. I wouldn't trust an air headed girl like you to do that job." Something deep inside me tried in vain to rebel against his assessment. However, his voice and looks seemed to clear the virgin land of my brain, throwing up new buildings and roads with ease, generating new pathways and ideas in an instant. I was an airhead. I knew it. That's why I worked as a secretary. Real jobs were for organized, ambitious types. -Men- I thought, quietly. The force of realization left me dazed on the chair, head back, legs open for him to see my -boring- panties.

"Lucky for you, being my secretary is a very important position." I stirred at the comment, trying and failing to meet those jet black eyes. "You help keep morale up by looking sexy and being helpful. You may be a vapid party girl who can't handle serious office work, but you're great at filling coffee, prancing around the office in those skyscraper heels and miniskirts. Everyone loves it when you lean over their desks, revealing that hot cunt you wouldn't dare to cover up. You know your pussy and your body are your value. But as long as you look hot, we're happy to keep you around."

At that point, the identity shattering force of the speech made me black out. When I came to, I was in a fashionable bar somewhere. Mr. Harding sat across from me, eyes roving hungrily over the low-cut dress I discovered I was wearing. Everywhere his eyes fell tingled pleasurably. I smiled vapidly, and he nodded to the goblet of champagne before me. "Drink up slut, that's worth more than you are." I giggled thoughtlessly.

These days going to work is always a blast. I love it when Mr. Harding fucks me over the desk first thing in the morning. The office always has cute boys around to give me attention throughout the day, even if I have to complete with the rest of my slut squad. That's ok though, any girl who gets fucked over a desk is doing their part to keep the office running. These days the office mostly creates tiktok content promoting right wing politics. We model in the videos, and get to show off our hot bodies for men all over the world. I also keep up my personal tiktok page when we're not recording for the company, which totally blew up a couple months ago, though these days I'm focusing more on my onlyfans. I have a special deal on there for any young girls who wants to learn how to be better sluts. I know my dad has my mom on that plan. She's looking super hot and fuckable these days!

I love my life.

[kiyomitakada]

At last the warehouse is silent except for Light Yagami's wheezing breaths.

Teru stands. His nice shoes are stained with viscera. He has just killed seven people.

He has never particularly cared about victory.

"Mikami," Light gasps out. "Mikami. You did it."

There is the blood of an eighteen-year-old boy splashed on Teru's dress shoes. He's never fired a gun before. He's handled plenty as a prosecutor, of course, typically while cursing the murderers whose fingerprints littered the handles.

"You're not God," Teru says.

"What are—you talking about?" Light manages a smile. It twitches oddly on his face, like a dying butterfly. "We won."

Teru just looks at him. Looks and looks and looks.

He used to wonder what God looked like. It was an idle thought, one only entertained in the depths of night when the sleep medication hadn't quite kicked in yet. He told himself it didn't matter; God was an entity that surpassed shallow things like appearance, and Teru's job was to follow him no matter what. Teru was not like the rest of Demegawa's little cult, who followed God only for the sake of personal safety and money. Teru was righteous. But he had wondered, regardless.

He had never settled on an answer. But Light Yagami, bleeding from the shoulder, brown eyes and manic grin—

Pathetic, Teru thinks. You're pathetic.

"Listen, Mikami," and Light tries to sit up, but hisses through his teeth and props himself awkwardly with one elbow instead. "You've done well. I'll reward you. Anything you want."

"Your watch," Teru says.

"My—what?"

"Your watch."

The boy, before he had been gunned down by Teru's own hand, had thrown a match. Teru has never been the type for schemes, but he knows for certain that whether real or fake, all of the notebooks are now ash.

"No," Light says, clamping his free hand around his wrist instantly. "You can't—it's from my father."

Teru could almost laugh. How nice having a father must have been. How inconsequential.

"I don't care," he says.

It's a fitting choice for a sacred compartment. Something paternal, something time-keeping, something small. It must fit right over Light's pulse point.

"It's not enough," Light tries. "It's—it's a tiny scrap of paper. It could fit ten names at most."

Teru feels his face fall. He can write very, very small, but the idea of the paper running out is terrifying.

Still. It's better than nothing. Perhaps he'll never even write in it. Perhaps he'll keep it on a necklace or frame it on his desk. Teru can do good work without the Death Note, but he cannot go on without God.

"I don't care," he repeats, and strides towards him.

Light flinches. He tries to get up again; his arm fails him, and he starts dragging himself backwards instead. Like a worm, Teru thinks. That's all he is. A worm and a murderer.

"Don't get closer, Mikami," he says, voice cracking with the beginnings of nervous laughter. "I still have—"

Teru punches him in the nose.

Light collapses. Teru very easily slips the watch off his wrist.

The shinigami is cackling.

"You don't know how to unlock it!" Light reaches for him. Teru yanks the watch away from his grasp. The idea of being touched right now is more repulsive than the blood. "I never told anyone!"

"I saw you do it," Teru points out. Just before he'd broken out of his restraints he'd seen Light twisting at the crown of the watch to kill Nate River. Four times. A holy number? Or just habit?

"Ryuk!" Light shrieks. "Stop him!"

Oh, there it is. The appeal to a higher power. But Teru's God loves him, and Light Yagami's false idol does not.

It's almost sympathetic. Teru is not a heartless man. He knows how it feels to be screaming for help that never comes.

"I'm not going to kill you," Teru says, folding the watch carefully and slipping it into his breast pocket. Light stares at him, eyes wild. "You're just misguided."

"How dare you—"

If Teru was more inclined to humor, he might have said One day you'll see the light. As it is, he closes his eyes. A sense of beautiful, serene inner peace descends on him. It was foolish of him to put so much faith in a human voice over the phone, to be honest. Teru knows better now.

This time, he'll get it right. This time he will please the real God.

In the meantime, he might as well spread His word.

Teru rolls his sleeve down. He grabs Light's bare wrist through the fabric and, before Light can pull back: kisses his palm.

A day ago, this would have been reverence. Now it reveals itself as pity.

Light sucks in a breath, sharp, pained. Teru lets go.

"Good luck," he says, and means it.

"Mikami! Where are you g—Mikami!"

Teru does not look back. The shinigami's cackles fade into the distance.

(Teru Mikami dies of unclear multiple system failure ten days later.)

[ @deathnotetober day 18: worship ]