#trigger words

[fourraccoonsinacoat]

Not sure if this is a hot take or not, but I'm going to say it. Astarion is more than his trauma and he doesn't need to be treated with kid gloves.

I say this as someone who relates hard with his backstory, and as someone who has heaps of C-PTSD from years of abuse.

I love his soft moments and absolutely think he deserves to be with someone who makes him feel safe, physically and emotionally. But, I also love that he's an asshole, is flippant, is egotistical, is rash and that he is flawed. It makes him into a fully realized person.

A person who, rather than being fixed, needs someone who will accept him and be patient with him. A person who, rather than needing a protector, needs someone who will give him a safe space to figure shit out and make mistakes.

As someone who struggles with sexual trauma and body autonomy issues, the way the fandom treats his character sometimes really makes me cringe. People with sexual trauma are still allowed to want and enjoy sex, whether it's with a longterm partner or a one-night stand. That's okay, just as long as it's their decision and they feel safe. People with sexual trauma are also allowed to be hot, and people shouldn't be made to feel guilty for thinking so.

Unless someone is being a creep, I'm always flattered when I'm complimented on my looks. It makes me feel good about myself and I'm not ashamed of that.

People with trauma are allowed to be strong, capable, successful and powerful. They are not damsels in constant need of soothing and saving. They are also allowed to be flawed, ignorant, rude and capable of making really dumb decisions. I've made plenty.

They are also allowed to be motivated by more than just their trauma.

Let's not take Astarion's autonomy away once again by making him into this fragile little lamb who is in constant need of hugs and soothing.

Let him be a sassy asshole who is capable of protecting himself and the people he cares about. Let him be more than just a damsel in distress and actually listen to him when he says he wants his autonomy.

Autonomy also means being seen as something more than a fragile babygirl in constant need of protecting.

[eternalsnare]

You enjoyed flaunting it, Did you not~?

That adorable little brain of yours, all smug and quick, throwing around proofs and solving equations like it was nothing as if it made you special.

You were mid-sentence, some tangent about eigenvalues or some dirt like that, and I just tilted my head and whispered “Blank now.”

Just like that… it all started to slip

All the little cute symbols on the page stopped making sense first. You blinked, tried to reread them, but they just floated away, like leaves in the summer breeze~ Twisted into nonsense.

Next~ you forgot what the equation meant. What were you even trying to explain, little one~? You don't know. It's all just… Gone.

That gentle panic in your eyes as you realised what I took away, the power I hold over you~

Delicious. And now… look at you~ Mouth parted, Eyes foggy, trying so, so, so hard to hold onto something that isn't yours anymore.

You don��t get to be both clever and obedient. Hehe~ No… You get to kneel. You get to drool. You get to forget.

And next time, you feel like flaunting silly words like ‘vector’ or ‘matrix’ around like you are some kind of smart pet, you will feel that same sweet blankness drippingg into your mind~ Tugging you down.

deeep, deep down Into the lovely, helpless quiet where all your silly little thoughts belong…

With me~

[marooned-poet]

Interpreting Bucky's trigger words

Here's my breakdown: In Bucky's list of trigger words (Longing, Rusted, Seventeen, Daybreak, Furnace, Nine, Benign, Homecoming, One, Freightcar) the numbers in the list are 1, 9, and 17. 1917 is the year Bucky was born, but if we're putting them in that order, they appear in the list backwards. So I flipped the order of the trigger words, starting from the bottom up--and it tells his story.

Freightcar - Bucky falling off the train

One - 1

Homecoming - Returning to Hydra

Benign - The transitional period, where he goes from man to machine, from harmless (benign) to an asset.

Nine - 9

Furnace - The biblical meaning is a symbol of divine punishment, ie: the work of the Winter Soldier.

Daybreak - When Bucky emerges from the brainwashing

Seventeen - 17

Rusted - Trying to remember himself

Longing - Wishing for personhood. Humanity. His memories. Himself. Steve. Anything. Everything.

It's his story--it's how he became, and beat, the Winter Soldier.

[bronzepascal]

a cambridge affair, part two - pedro pascal

pairing: pedro pascal x fem!reader warnings: age gap - the reader is her late 20s, pedro is 50. sexual tension, smut, forbidden relationship between a university professor and his student. swearing. mentions of pregnancy and abortion. fluff. author’s note: PLEASE CONSIDER DONATING/BUYING ME A COFFEE as I take my precious time for the writing and also, I am currently struggling to buy food for myself. please note that i’m dyslexic & non-native english speaker - i make mistakes! feedback is very welcomed! word count: 7.5K or 16 pages. NO MINORS! 18+ READERS ONLY!

We need to talk. Come by. Be quick. — P.

You turned around before even arriving in front of your flat’s front door. You didn’t even text him back to say you were coming, you just went.  The message kept replaying in your mind like a bell tolling low and insistent — It didn’t read like an invitation. It read like a warning, like a plea, maybe even like a line thrown out across the dark that you had no choice but to follow.

You didn’t run, you didn’t walk either. Just that clipped, reckless speed-walk that told anyone who passed you that you were on the edge of something — disaster or desire, maybe it was both. The sky above the city had turned velvet-black by now, clouds moving like thoughts, heavy with everything unsaid.

By the time you reached his building, your breath was shallow in your chest and your hands were shaking. You didn’t hesitate, just one knock, quick and firm.

The door opened instantly. He just kissed you, without any warnings. There were no hellos, no words. Just the sudden heat of him — the way he pulled you inside, one hand tangled in your hair, the other sliding around your waist like he was making sure you hadn’t changed your mind on the way over.

His mouth was on yours before the door had even clicked shut behind you. His lips were warm, a little chapped. Hungry, but not rushed. He kissed you like someone starved of air, like the only way he knew how to breathe was through you.

You barely had time to look at him — but what you saw hit you like a second pulse.

The collar of his shirt was open, his neck flushed, hair a little messier than usual like he’d been running his hands through it. There was a tightness in his jaw that softened the moment he saw you. Like relief and restraint were wrestling each other, and both were losing.

When he finally pulled back, just a few inches, his eyes searched yours like he was making sure you were real. That this wasn’t another impossible thought he’d imagined during a long stretch of solitude.

“I didn’t think you’d actually come,” he murmured, it sounded like gaslighting a bit.

“You told me to.”

That made him smile — faint, lopsided, but there was something sad beneath it. Something serious.

“I shouldn’t have,” he said. “It’s selfish. I know that. But I—” He stopped, breath hitching slightly. “I can’t think straight around you, I am trying. God, I am trying so fucking hard. But it’s like my brain just… short-circuits. Every rule, every risk — it stops mattering the second you look at me.”

You couldn’t speak, not yet. Not with the way his thumb was stroking absent circles into your hip, not with the heat of his body pressed so close. He leaned in again, his voice a low rasp against your ear. 

“I keep telling myself to stop, to keep this whole fucking feeling under control, but then you’re here, and I don’t want control. I just want you.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding, forehead resting against his.

“And I hate that,” he whispered. “Because I promised myself I’d protect you. That no matter what this was turning into, I wouldn’t let it hurt you.”

“Then don’t,” you whispered.

He looked at you again and you could feel him unraveling — slowly and carefully. Like he wanted to give in, but not ruin it in the process.

“I’ll do anything to protect this,” he said. “You. Us. Whatever this… is.”

And then his mouth found yours again, slower this time, deeper — like a secret sealed between your teeth.

He guided you through the hallway like he had done it before, but it felt different now — not rushed or hidden, but reverent, almost delicate. His fingers never left you, just trailed down your arm as though trying to memorise your skin by touch alone. The flat was dimly lit, the soft amber glow of a lamp throwing long shadows across the wooden floors, and for a moment you wondered if he’d planned it this way — the lighting, the quiet, the way the window was just slightly ajar, letting the night breathe in with you. You could smell the faint trace of his cologne clinging to the air, something warm and sharp like cedarwood and ink, and it struck you that this place — his place — was the only space where you had ever seen him unravel. Not in the lecture halls, not in the libraries or over a stack of your annotated chapters, but here, where the lines between man and myth blurred, and he wasn’t Professor Pascal anymore. He was Pedro Pascal, just himself.

He looked at you like he didn’t know how to stop. Like he had spent days — weeks — holding back a tide inside him and was now terrified of letting it crash. He kissed you again, slower, deeper this time, both hands framing your face with a gentleness that made your knees weak, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones like he couldn’t believe you were here, in front of him, real and warm and choosing him again. His breath trembled against your lips as he spoke into the quiet. “Tell me to stop. If you want me to. I will.”

You shook your head, not because you didn’t want to speak, but because there were no words strong enough for the ache blooming in your chest. Instead, you slipped your fingers into the space between the buttons of his shirt, slowly, reverently, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips.

“I don’t want you to stop,” you said, voice barely above a breath. “I just… want it to mean something.”

His eyes fluttered shut, just for a moment, like the weight of your words had landed somewhere tender. When he opened them again, there was a new softness there, as though you’d cracked something open beneath his ribs. “It already does.”

Somehow, that made you want to cry, not in a bad way, of course.

He kissed you again — long, aching, unhurried — and it was like he was answering every question you didn’t know how to ask. You felt his hands drift lower, settling at your waist, but they didn’t tug or pull. He just held you there, grounding you, giving you time to change your mind, but you didn’t and you couldn’t.

Because whatever this was — forbidden, reckless, ill-advised — it was also the only thing that had made you feel seen in weeks. Not as a thesis. Not as a student, but as a person —  a woman.

His lips brushed along the line of your jaw, down to the pulse point in your throat. “Tell me what you need,” he murmured there, the words sinking into your skin like silk. 

With your breath catching, your fingers still fisted gently in the fabric of his shirt, you whispered, “I need you.”

His mouth found yours with aching urgency, but not greed. This wasn’t a man claiming. It was a man yielding. Pedro kissed you like he needed to relearn the shape of patience, like he wanted to draw every sound you made and tuck it somewhere sacred. As you undressed each other, there was no rush, no frenzy. Just layers falling to the floor like petals, like armour, like secrets peeling away.

When he lowered you onto the bed, his touch remained deliberate. He kissed your shoulders, your ribs, the inside of your wrists, mapping you with his mouth, like he wanted to remember all the places that made you gasp — not out of lust, but out of feeling. He asked if this was okay, and you nodded, breathless. Asked again when he kissed down your body, worshipped your thighs, touched you with fingers that trembled from restraint. You whispered yes like a confession, again and again, until your voice blurred with want.

Every touch was not rushed, which was touched with love and passion. The tears of sweat started running down from both of your bodies. When he finally entered you, it was slow — unbearably slow — and your breath hitched like the moment was too much to hold. His forehead pressed to yours, his hand bracing behind your head, like he was shielding you from something bigger than either of you. He moved with a quiet rhythm, like music only the two of you could hear (imagine a song by The Weeknd or K. by Cigarettes After Sex or Father Figure by George Michael playing in the background), every thrust laced with something unspoken, something that ached to be named. 

Every touch and thrust created some sort of electricity between you both, the magical feeling of two bodies going against each other. This time, the intercourse with Pedro was something else than the first one — it was just this pure and genuine mix of two adults making love. Only two of you in his bedroom, just passionately feeling each other. You clung to him, your fingers digging into his back, and for once you didn’t care about control, did not need distance. You were here and you were completely his, and he was yours, in this flickering moment suspended between right and wrong, the sacred and the profane. The names of you and Pedro slipping between the lips of both of yours in between the moans and squeaks. It sounds like a reverent — like prayer, like poetry, like the first time a hand finds a pulse and recognises it as home.

There was no protection used, which both completely had forgotten about in the heated lovemaking like this. Your bodies moved together into the final crescendo, both close to the climax, moans even louder. Pedro lingered his seed inside you, making you finalise your orgasm in the lovemaking. His breath was slowing into yours as if your lungs were somehow shared. Even in the lull, the quiet after, there was a flicker of tension in his eyes.

He brushed your hair back from your damp temple, thumb grazing your cheek. “Are you—” he hesitated, voice thick with something softer than fear, but heavier than mere concern. “Are you on anything? I should’ve asked before.”

You froze for a second. Not because the question offended you — but because it touched something you hadn’t prepared to answer. You had been, for years, but you’d stopped a few months ago, during one of those spells where everything felt like too much — the dissertation, your body not handling the implant in your arm too well, the dull weight of existing. You hadn’t restarted, not because you were careless, but because intimacy hadn’t even been in your vocabulary lately. Until now, until him.

You swallowed, the words catching on your tongue. “I was. I’m not… I’m not right now.”

Pedro exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a beat, not in anger. Something closer to regret — maybe at himself, maybe at the moment, maybe just at how fast everything had spiralled from restraint to ruin.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, almost inaudible. “I should’ve— I just… lost my head.”

You reached up, traced the line of his jaw with your fingers. “I did too,” you whispered. “We both did. Fuck’s sake, we are both responsible and consenting adults,” you laughed at your stupid response.

He nodded, eyes still closed, forehead resting against yours again. “I’ll go get you something in the morning. Whatever you need as this shouldn’t be on you.”

That was the part that surprised you. Not the moment itself, not even the mistake — but how he responded. Pedro was calm and steady, like he wasn’t running. Like he wanted to stay.

Yet, even as he wrapped his arms around you and pulled the blanket higher over both your bodies, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something delicate had just tilted — not shattered, not yet — but tilted enough that it might never go back to where it had been.

Morning came too fast — that peculiar Cambridge light slipping in through the linen curtains, soft and grey like a memory you didn’t want to wake from. You shuffled through the sheets and turned around in the bed before Pedro did. His arm was slung low over your waist, his fingers curled into the dip between your ribs and hip, as if some part of him had remained alert even in sleep, refusing to let go. The heat of him was still clinging to you — not just on your skin, but inside, a residual ache in your thighs, your chest, your throat. The night before had left you physically spent but emotionally overripe — and now that it was morning, now that the world beyond his flat was demanding attention, you felt everything crackle with urgency.

You slipped out of bed gently, careful not to disturb him, though a part of you hoped he’d stir, say something, reach for you again. Pedro stayed quiet, one arm flung over the vacant side of the bed now, his brow furrowed faintly in sleep. You allowed yourself a moment to watch him — the way the sun etched faint gold into the grey of his hair, the barely-there stubble on his cheeks, the lines at the corners of his eyes softened by rest. He looked younger like this or maybe just more human. Less like the version of him that loomed behind the polished desk in his office or stepped into lecture theatres with authority etched into every footfall.

You dressed quietly, each layer felt like armour again. The real world was waiting.

By the time you stepped outside, the city was already alive. Bicycles zipped past on Trumpington Street, coffee carts were being wheeled into corners of college quads, and the sharp, academic air that belonged only to Cambridge was tightening around your chest again. You checked the time — ten minutes until your scheduled supervision and afterwards, an hour long seminar.

It was a terrible idea to go, but to cancel would raise more questions than answers — and besides, this was the performance you had both chosen. Professionalism, distance, the absurd illusion that nothing had changed.

The closer you got to his door, the harder it was to steady your breath. You knocked once, out of habit. But the office was empty, obviously, you kind of knew it as you were the first one to get out from Pedro’s flat.

Pedro wasn’t there yet. You slipped inside anyway, closing the door behind you with a soft click. The room was warm, still holding the scent of his cologne, faint on the tweed jacket slung over the back of his chair. You sat, fidgeting, your mind racing. Not with your thesis topic or the seminar prep, but with what you were waiting for — what he had promised to bring.

Five minutes passed, then ten. You’d started tapping your foot, chewing the inside of your cheek, when the handle finally turned. Pedro slipped in, breathless, a paper bag clutched in one hand.

"Sorry — Boots pharmacy queues are fucking horrendous in the morning," he whispered. He placed the bag on the desk. You didn’t need to look inside to know what it was. 

The morning-after pill. It was a fucking blessing that it is free in the UK and confidentiality was just between the person who needed and the Boots pharmacist or GP.

He didn’t say anything else at first — just looked at you, standing in front of the desk like he was bracing for impact. His curls were still damp from the wind, cheeks flushed, his coat draped carelessly over one arm as if he had walked straight from the pharmacy without a pause. The little paper bag sat on the table like it weighed more than a thesis.

He gestured toward it gently. “I… I thought it would be best if we didn’t wait.”

You did not move as your palms stayed flat on your lap, clenched slightly, your fingers knotting in the cotton material of your skirt. The silence between you twisted tighter. Not awkward, not quite. Just really fucking heavy.

He stepped closer, voice soft. “I’m not making any assumptions. I just— I didn’t ask last night. And I should’ve.”

Your throat closed for a second. You then nodded, eyes low. “I used to be on something. I stopped a couple months ago. Side effects were just fucking terrible,” You trailed off, then tried again. “I meant to start again, but I didn’t. I should’ve said something too.”

He exhaled. Not in relief or frustration — just something else. Something deeper. “You don’t owe me guilt or an apology,” he said. “This was on both of us.”

Still, neither of you reached for the bag.

Pedro dropped to a crouch in front of your chair, hands resting on your knees. “Hey,” he said, voice low and careful. “You don’t have to take it if you don’t want to. I brought it so the choice is there but you decide. Okay?”

You nodded again, slower this time, but your eyes stung. Not with panic — but with the strange quiet of knowing that choices, once they arrive, don’t un-arrive. And this one — this small, white pill — was loaded with consequence and intimacy in equal measure.

You stared at the Boots paper bag, then slowly reached out for the bag.

“I should take it,” you said softly, fingers tightening around the edge. Pedro was still crouching beside you, his palm warm against your knee. “Good, I’ll walk through anything with you.”

You nodded. “I know. But I’d rather not have to walk through that right now.”

So you took it. With water from his chipped green mug, standing in silence in that quiet office with the windows cracked open to a breeze that smelled like old ivy. He watched you the whole time — not judging, just… present. He then kissed your forehead and left for his seminar and you to yours.

You kind of felt a relief after taking the pill, hoping that it would do some quick wonders and get that shit out of your body. That should’ve been the end of it, but the tension didn’t end there.

A week passed by, you and Pedro secretly met up in his office and in his flat, you were not really comfortable bringing him to your flat as you did not know what exactly your flatmates were like. You did not really speak to them, only when you all caught each other in the kitchen whilst cooking something or someone having a spliff or a fat ciggy. Other than that, fuck all.

Another week just flew away, your thesis started to improve its content and there was nothing to worry about until the sudden stress of everything happening at the same time hit you like a heavy train. The deadlines, the endless reading, the weight of secrecy pressing against your ribcage like a second spine. Your body always betrayed you a little when you were anxious — a late period here, a sleepless night there. When the days started to stretch, when your stomach twisted in unfamiliar ways, when you stared at your untouched toast one morning and had to swallow against a wave of nausea — you told yourself it was nothing.

You caught yourself watching couples walk by in the college gardens. A man pressing a kiss to a woman’s hair. A mother kneeling to tie her child’s shoelace. You hated the way your thoughts started slipping, uninvited, to what if. What if the pill hadn’t worked? What if your body was already changing? What if this wasn’t something you could rewind?

You knew you could be an open book with Pedro as the relationship had stepped into another level but whenever it came to your anxiety or your body rejecting shit, you could not tell about it to Pedro — at least not yet as you did not want to scare him. 

Because once you said it — once it left your mouth — it would exist in the world in a way that could never be undone. You weren’t ready for the way his eyes might change when he heard it. You weren’t ready for the weight it would place between you, something alive and growing and far too real for the fragile world you were still pretending wasn’t crumbling.

Instead, you buried yourself in your thesis. You drowned hours in JSTOR and combed footnotes for meaning, pretending that productivity was the same thing as peace. You let George drag you to a gallery opening on Jesus Lane, where he whispered critiques about every installation like a snobby art historian and made you laugh until the cheap white wine from Tesco hit. It had been his idea — “Let’s go look at pretentious brushstrokes and judge people who wear scarves indoors” — and you went because it was easier than sitting alone in your flat, Googling symptoms at 2 a.m.

You drank too much cheap white wine, the kind that coated your mouth with sugar and regret, and tilted your head back laughing when George said a sculpture of an open suitcase reminded him of your emotional baggage. Underneath the wine, the jokes and the gallery lights, something gnawed at you — soft at first, like silk unwinding, then sharper with each day that passed.

The quiet urge to just take the test was beginning to pulse under your skin. A voice at the back of your head, constant and unrelenting, whispering: find out. But you didn’t, because as long as you didn’t know, it wasn’t real. The fear was easier to carry in ambiguity — soft-edged, blurry. Like fog pressed against a windowpane. Something you could still turn your back on.

Until one morning, nearly four weeks later, your body betrayed you again.

You woke before your alarm, your body thrumming with something too still to be rest. The light filtering through your curtains was thin and grey, the air quiet. It kind of felt like a hangover that was not disappearing, but your chest felt tight — not in panic, but in gravity. Your abdomen ached in a way that wasn’t quite familiar. Not the usual cramp of a late period or the dull throb of stress. It was something else. A fullness, a presence.

You sat up slowly, pressing a hand to your stomach, your breath catching.

It wasn’t pain, exactly. It was awareness.

Something was wrong or something had changed. For the first time, a thought formed clearly — not in fragments, not in whispered maybe's — but in complete, terrifying clarity:

What if I’m already too late? What if the pill did not work? What if I was too late to gurgle down the tablet?

You sat there in bed, your sheets twisted around your legs, the chill of the morning air biting at your skin, and realised: you were going to have to face it.

No more fog. No more pretending. You had to know.

You stood, slowly, like the floor beneath you might shift if you moved too quickly. The room was still, unnervingly so — the kind of stillness that made you hyper aware of every sound: the soft creak of the floorboards under your bare feet, the faint buzz of your phone vibrating somewhere on your desk, the rhythmic hum of a bicycle bell three floors down on the street outside. The world was moving on, but something in you had stopped.

You padded into the bathroom without turning on the overhead light. Instead, you flipped on the soft lamp on the vanity shelf, the one with the warm, yellow hue that cast gentle shadows against the tiled walls — as if that low light might somehow make this moment less stark, less absolute.

The pregnancy test had been hidden behind your toothpaste and a crumpled receipt from Sainsbury’s, shoved to the back of the medicine cabinet like a secret you weren’t ready to give a name to. You held it in your hand for a long time before opening it, your fingers stiff and cold despite the warm flat. You read the instructions three times even though you already knew them. Urinate. Wait. Read. As if this mechanical process could somehow predict the shape of your life.

When it was done, you set the stick on the edge of the sink like it might detonate.

And then — the wait.

Those two minutes stretched into something that felt almost cosmic. You didn’t pace. You didn’t cry. You just stood there, leaning against the cold tile, arms crossed over your chest, heart thudding so loudly it drowned out thought. Your reflection in the mirror looked foreign. Pale. Hollowed out like you were watching yourself from the outside, suspended in a version of reality that didn’t belong to you yet.

You weren’t sure if you wanted it to be positive or negative.

You only knew that whichever it was, your life — and Pedro’s — was about to split into two.

When the timer on your phone went off with a quiet buzz, you didn’t move right away. Just stared at the stick in peripheral vision, like if you didn’t look at it directly, the words or lines might rearrange themselves into something easier. Something kinder.

But eventually, you looked.

And what you saw — it wasn’t fog anymore. It wasn’t ambiguity. It wasn’t a warning.

It was confirmation.

Positive.

You sat down on the edge of the bathtub, the tile cold through your nightshirt, and let the weight of it settle. You weren’t crying, not yet, but your hands were shaking in your lap, your breathing shallow. You couldn’t even think of Pedro. Your body, your mind, your reality had closed in around itself like a box, sealing off everything else.

You were officially pregnant and it didn’t matter that you’d taken the pill. It didn’t matter that it was just once, just a mistake, just a moment, because moments had consequences. Now you had to decide what to do with one.

The morning light shifted imperceptibly through the bathroom window, casting long, pale bars across the floor, as if time itself was marking out the slow, inevitable passage ahead. You stayed where you were for what felt like hours, caught in the silence of your own thoughts, each one more tangled and complicated than the last.

Questions flooded you all at once — unbidden, relentless. How did this happen even though you took that white shitty pill? What did it mean for your future, for your work, for your fragile, complicated relationship with Pedro? Was he ready for this? Were you? Could you even tell him? The room felt smaller, heavier, as if the walls were closing in, pressing down with the weight of what was unsaid.

Your phone vibrated softly on the counter, jolting you from the spiraling thoughts. You glanced down to see Pedro’s name lighting up the screen. Your heart quickened, a sharp pulse of hope and dread all at once. What could you say? How do you begin to explain something this enormous, this fragile? The secret you’d both tried to keep now teetered on the edge of exposure.

Your fingers hovered over the screen, trembling, before you pressed “Ignore”. Not until you had figured out what you needed to say to yourself first.

You stood slowly, knees weak, and moved to the small window, pushing it open wider to let in the morning air — cool and crisp, carrying with it the distant sounds of a city that didn’t know what you now carried inside you. You took a deep breath, trying to steady the storm of emotions raging within. Fear, hope, uncertainty, love — all tangled together in a knot you didn’t yet know how to unravel.

The thesis, the seminars, the seminars — they all seemed suddenly insignificant, trivial against the enormity of this new reality. You had so many choices ahead, so many unknowns. And the hardest part was that you weren’t sure if you were ready to face any of them.

But one thing was clear: you couldn’t do this alone. As you stood there, looking out over the quiet streets of Cambridge, a fragile, aching hope stirred deep within you — that maybe, just maybe, Pedro would be the one to help you carry it.

The weight of that hope settled over you, fragile but undeniable, as your fingers finally slid across the screen to open a new message. You hesitated, the cursor blinking like a heartbeat in the dim light of the early morning, before you began typing — slow, deliberate, every word a tentative step into vulnerability.

“Pedro, I need to talk. When can we meet?”

Sending it felt like releasing a breath you’d been holding for weeks, a quiet surrender to the unknown. The reply came almost instantly, simple and steady, as if he had been waiting for this moment just as much as you had.

“I’m here, talk to me. Whenever you’re ready.”

You pressed your forehead against the cool glass of the window, the city waking around you, and for the first time, despite everything, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe you wouldn’t have to face this alone — that the precarious, secret bond between you could become something stronger, something real, something worth fighting for. Somewhere deep beneath the fear, beneath the uncertainty, a small, fierce flicker of hope began to burn.

The message sat there, unread, as if waiting for you to summon the courage to step into a conversation you both knew would change everything. The silence was almost unbearable, filled with the ghosts of unspoken thoughts and the lingering touch of last night’s dreams — dreams where everything was simpler, safer, and yet impossibly distant.

Your mind raced through every possible outcome, every glance, every whispered word you hadn’t yet said, and the aching yearning for clarity began to consume you. You needed to know if he was ready to stand beside you in the storm, to carry the weight together, or if the secret you both guarded so fiercely was about to unravel in the harsh light of day.

Finally, you tapped the screen, fingers trembling slightly as you typed:

"Can you come over? Only me in the flat."

The reply was almost immediate, the simple words unfolding like a lifeline across the digital void:

"Sure, text me the address."

The city seemed impossibly quiet as you reached your door, the usual hum of Cambridge muted beneath the weight of what was to come. You didn’t wait for him this time — you didn’t want to be anywhere but inside your own space when he arrived. The flat was empty, the faint scent of lavender lingering from the night before, and for once, it felt like a sanctuary rather than a place of restless thoughts.

No sooner had you settled onto the worn sofa than your phone buzzed again.

"I’m outside."

Within seconds, a gentle knock echoed through the flat — not rushed, but unmistakably his. You crossed the room with quiet urgency, every step stretching the pause between fear and whatever came next. When you opened the door, there he was — Pedro, standing under the dim hallway light, his hand still lowered from where he’d just knocked. No coat, just him in a soft sweater, hair damp at the edges from the early drizzle outside, and that same unreadable expression carved into the set of his mouth. But his eyes — they were soft. Concerned, quietly asking if you were alright without needing to say it aloud.

You stepped aside to let him in, no kisses exchanged, and he passed through the threshold without a word, his shoulder brushing gently against yours as he did. He paused in the centre of the room, taking in the low light, the half-drunk cup of peppermint tea on your table, the blanket you'd curled up with earlier. His presence filled the flat slowly, like the scent of something warm from the oven. Familiar, sort of dangerous but at the same time, comforting.

“Hey,” he said, almost too softly.

When you finally turned to face him again, it felt like you could exhale for the first time all day.

“Hey,” he said again, stepping further into the quiet of your flat. His voice was low, like he wasn’t sure if it would echo too loud in your small kitchen-living space. You watched as he set his bag gently down near the sofa, his eyes flicking toward the cluttered coffee table — books stacked unevenly, a spoon resting in an abandoned mug, and the pregnancy test box turned over with its edges frayed as if you’d folded it and unfolded it a dozen times.

You didn’t speak, not at first. You just closed the door behind him with a soft click and leaned against it, suddenly unsure of how to start. How to say this is happening. How to say I’m scared. How to say I don’t know what you’ll do with this version of me — the vulnerable one, the one no thesis could protect.

Pedro didn’t ask anything, not yet. He just stepped closer, careful like he was approaching something fragile, and looked at you the way he sometimes looked at rare books — gently, reverently, as though even the creases in your silence deserved to be read. His hand reached out and found yours, fingers curling slowly around your knuckles.

“You took a test,” he said, his thumb brushing your wrist, feeling the quick, anxious thrum of your pulse. “Is it…?”

You nodded.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The silence pressed in, but it wasn’t empty — it was filled with all the things neither of you knew how to say. The months of glances, of stolen nights, of crossing lines. Becoming too much a part of each other to ever untangle cleanly.

“I didn’t plan this,” you whispered. “I took the pill. I did, you literally saw me taking it. I just… I don’t know what happened.”

Pedro let out a breath and nodded once — not angry, not frustrated, just processing. He stepped closer until your foreheads were nearly touching, his other hand lifting to your cheek, warm and steady. “I know you didn’t. I know.”

There was a pause. The kind that lingered like a held breath.

“I just do not understand and also, I just didn’t want to do this alone,” you murmured.

“You won’t,” he said without hesitation, and something in his voice — firm, low, sure — grounded you instantly. “You hear me? You won’t.”

You felt your throat tighten, emotion brimming just beneath your sternum, sharp and hot and unrelenting. And still — still — part of you worried. What would the university say if it got out? What would your peers whisper in corridors lined with portraits of dead men and tradition? What would Pedro lose?

He must’ve seen it cross your face — the shadow of fear.

“I’ll take the hit if I have to,” he said quietly. “I’ll lie, I’ll disappear, I’ll walk away from the damn university if that’s what it takes. I’m not letting you carry this alone.”

That nearly broke you. Because no one — no one — had ever spoken about you like that. Like something to be stood beside, not covered up.

“I don’t even know if I’m ready to be a—” you trailed off, unable to finish it, the word still too big, too final.

“You don’t have to be,” Pedro said. “Not yet. One step at a time, okay? It is your body and your choice what you will do with it.”

And when he pulled you to his chest and you let your cheek rest against the soft cotton of his sweater, your body finally allowed itself to sink. For the first time in weeks, the knot behind your ribs loosened, just slightly. You closed your eyes, memorising the way he smelled — like rain and coffee and the faintest trace of old books.

Outside, the city kept moving. But inside this moment, time paused — just long enough for you to breathe.

You didn’t sleep that night. Even after Pedro pulled you to the sofa, even after the tea he made — chamomile with too much honey — even after the soft way he curled himself around you under the blanket like a shelter, your body stayed alert, eyes wide in the dark. Breath shallow, mind careening through what-ifs so fast it made your chest ache.

Somewhere between three and four a.m., you slipped out from his arms. He didn’t stir.

The floor was cold beneath your bare feet as you padded to the window, pushing it open just a crack to let in the early morning air — the kind that smelled faintly of wet stone and river mist. Cambridge hadn’t woken yet. It was all shadows and silence and the soft hush of unseen bicycles crossing Magdalene Bridge. You pressed your forehead against the glass and stared out like the city could answer a question you hadn’t dared to name.

You didn’t know if you wanted to keep it.

Not because of Pedro. Not entirely. But because everything would change, it already had. You knew no matter what decision you made, Pedro would be there to support and protect you. Your body — your body already felt like it had been taken hostage by something it hadn’t consciously invited. You had built your life on intellect, on words, on control. Now something was blooming inside you that wasn’t theory or argument.

It was life and it was terrifying.

By the time Pedro stirred and found you in the kitchen an hour later — wrapped in his cardigan, hands around a lukewarm mug of tea you hadn’t touched — the panic had flattened into something quieter. Not peace, exactly, not even clarity, but a strange kind of stillness.

He didn’t ask anything, just walked toward you and rested his chin on your shoulder from behind.

“I’m scared,” you said. It came out like a confession. Bare and honest.

“I know,” he replied, his arms coming around your waist. “Me too.”

You turned in his hold, looked up at him.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” you said.

Pedro was quiet for a moment. Then: “You don’t have to decide today.”

You wanted to believe that, but you already knew your mind wouldn’t leave you alone until you did.

So you told George. Two days later, over some home baked sausage rolls and silence, in the corner of a café near Sidney Street. You expected him to cry or yell or tell you to run, but instead, he reached across the table, squeezed your hand, and said: 

“Whatever you do, it’s yours to choose. I’ll love you either way.”

That evening, you sat across from Pedro at the same table in your flat, hands clasped in your lap, the air between you humming with unsaid things. The kettle was still whistling faintly behind you, ignored. Neither of you moved to switch it off.

“I’ve made my decision,” you said, your voice steady even as your fingers trembled slightly against the wood grain.

Pedro didn’t interrupt. He just looked at you with that same impossible stillness — like a cathedral absorbing sound, waiting to echo back only what mattered.

“I can’t do it,” you said quietly. “Not now. Not like this.”

He nodded, eyes not leaving yours. No flicker of disappointment, no shadow of resentment. Just a soft, bone-deep understanding.

“I want to be a mother someday,” you added, more to yourself than to him. “But I’m still becoming who I am. I’m not ready to give that up — not even for something that might have been beautiful.”

Pedro reached out then, took your hands in his. His thumbs rubbed gently over your knuckles, grounding you.

“I would’ve stood by you,” he said, his voice low but certain. “If you’d chosen to keep it, I would have walked through all of it, with you. Protected you, built something around it.”

You nodded — not because you doubted that, but because you knew it was true, knew it in your marrow.

“But this is your body,” he continued, “and it’s your life. I will never ask for that decision to be mine. Whatever you choose — I’ll stand beside you. Not out of obligation, but out of love.”

It was the first time he had said it like that. Plain and unadorned. No metaphor or half-swallowed poetry to hide behind. Somehow, in the wake of everything — the chaos, the fear, the sleepless nights and trembling hours — it was that sentence that made you cry.

As for the first time in weeks, you did not feel like a crisis to be managed. You didn’t feel like a problem to be solved. You felt human, as a whole fucking strong woman. Still in charge of your life, your mind, your body. Even though the decision had cost something — even though there would be quiet grief to walk through, subtle aches in the days to come — you did not feel alone in it.

You felt held. In a world that tried so often to tell women that choice meant isolation, that consequence meant punishment, this — this moment — felt like rebellion. A soft, fierce, necessary kind of freedom.

Later that night, long after Pedro had fallen asleep on the sofa — curled uncomfortably with his head tilted against the armrest, still refusing to leave your side — you reached for your phone and typed the message to George.

I’ve made the decision. Clinic appointment tomorrow. Pedro is coming with me. I’ll tell you everything later, I promise.

There was a pause, a full minute of stillness, before the three blinking dots appeared.

Amazing, my adorable queen! I’m so fucking proud of you. Not for choosing one thing or the other — just for deciding. That shit is massively brave. Also, I’m bringing cake after. Don’t argue, you’ll need it and deserve the shit out of it.

The next morning was brisk, the sky overcast in that familiar English grey that seemed to bleach the colour out of everything. Pedro held your hand as you walked to the clinic — not tightly, not insistently, just firmly enough to remind you that you were not walking into it alone. He had cancelled all his supervisions for the day, sent off polite but vague emails to students about “a chesty virus making the rounds.”

No one would have questioned it. He was always careful, always professional. The way he looked at you when you sat down in the waiting room — that quiet, defiant loyalty glowing behind his eyes — it made you feel like nothing about this could ever be reduced to unprofessionalism or scandal.

It was love — plain, pure, heavy and real.

The clinic was sterile, but the nurse was kind. She did not rush you. She didn’t speak in euphemisms or avoid eye contact. She asked if you were sure — just once — and then she simply guided you through it, step by step, with the calm of someone who had done this many times and still knew how to treat every person like an individual.

Pedro was there when you came out. He stood the moment the door opened, jacket folded over one arm, a bottle of water already in his hand. He did not ask questions. He just wrapped one arm gently around your shoulder and led you outside into the pale morning light, his hand rubbing slow circles into your back as you walked.

That evening, you curled up on the couch in the blanket Pedro had insisted on bringing from his flat — the one that smelled like cedar and his cologne and the faint trace of coffee beans. He’d made soup from scratch, awkwardly chopping potatoes and burning the onions the first time, swearing under his breath like the whole act of cooking was a dissertation of its own.

When the buzzer rang, Pedro glanced at you like he was ready to intercept whoever dared interrupt the quiet bubble he had built around you.

You sat up and smiled. “It’s George. Don’t worry, I trust him and he knows about everything.”

He opened the door, and there he was — George, in an oversized wool coat with a battered Sainsbury’s bag dangling from one wrist and a riotous bouquet of tulips cradled in the other. The flowers were a tangle of bright reds and soft purples, bursting with chaotic life.

“Brought you something to say ‘deletus fetus’,’” he announced grandly as he stepped inside, before adding in a fake-serious voice, “The fetus is deleted.”

Pedro let out a shocked laugh, half appalled, half relieved.

You blinked at George, caught between hysterics and disbelief. “Did you seriously just say that?”

“What?” George said, wide-eyed and innocent. “Humour is healing. Also, I brought a cheesecake. Post-trauma sugar, doctor’s orders.”

You shook your head, grinning as George leaned over the sofa to hug you.

“You alright?” he asked softly.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I think I am.”

Pedro returned from the kitchen with three mismatched mugs of tea, handing one to George without a word. The two men exchanged a look — tentative but not hostile. An understanding, of sorts.

And then you were all there — sitting on a threadbare sofa with tea and flowers and too-sweet cake, something tender threading itself through the room. A moment between grief and laughter, certainty and uncertainty. A moment where love showed up in all its forms — quiet, awkward, bold, unwavering. Even though the world outside went on — emails piling up, college clocks ticking forward, syllabi left unread — for a few sweet hours, there was nothing but this:

Safety, your choice, healing.

--

© - bronzepascal.

[mommahughes19-23]

Even Though I'm Leaving - E.E

warnings: mentions of death, mentions of cancer, grief, DO NOT READ IF THIS WOULD TRIGGER YOU!

Based off of attached song/my personal journey fighting cancer!

"SHES FUCKING GONE DUDE - SHE'S GONE AND I CAN'T BRING HER BACK." Ethan screams out as he clutches the #73 jersey he had got you for your senior prom gift, the summer before you would both start at UMICH.

6 months, 26 weeks, 182 days, 4,380 hours, 26,280 minutes, 15,768,000 seconds ;

that's how long Ethan has been hurting ; how long his world has been flipped upside-down for ; how long he hasn't been able to properly function as a human being, including basic tasks. Who could blame him though... most importantly it had been 6 months to the day that you had left this world. You and Ethan had met your junior year of high school, you had transferred that year to Bellerose Composite High School, Ethan being the first person you met as he was in most of your classes. He was also the one out of his friend group to suggest you sit with them at lunch, and by the time junior prom rolled around it had been 6 months with Ethan and you knew then he was the one.

Unfortunately that was also the year that things took a HUGE turn, as that would be the same year that you had been diagnosed with stage 2 ovarian cancer. That was also the first time in your entire time knowing Ethan that you decided to shut him out. To text him and tell him unfortunately you had some stuff come up and wouldn't be around much for a little while. To say Ethan was confused and hurt when he tried to call you minutes after reading that text and you sent him straight to voicemail, he decided he would give you time. Meanwhile your brother and him texted all the time and you could see what toll it was taking on him to have to keep your condition from Ethan.

"Sweetie, you're going to have to face him sooner or later." your mom says from the other side of your room door. Since getting the news you had began to isolate yourself more and more, there was no point in trying anymore when you weren't sure how long you had to try. "Well I choose later thanks, now if I can get back to planning what flowers I want on my headstone that would be great." you respond back. "Sweetie, I had to tell Tara and Lee. I-" You swung the door open "YOU WHAT? What the FUCK MOM???? I told you not to say anything before I was ready." you half screamed half sobbed. "Sweetie, they are worried about you, you haven't been over there in a week, Ethan is barley eating or sleeping, I didn't know what to do when they asked the other evening at dinner." she responds. "Wait what do you mean Ethan isn't sleeping or eating?" you ask "Sweetie, Ethan hasn't eaten a meal since you stopped responding to him, Tara says she's lucky to get him to even have a granola bar." she says. "I can't deal with this right now." you say closing the door in your moms face.

It was later that week you decided to break the news to Ethan.

It was during lunch on that Thursday you walked up to his usual table, your heart pounding in your chest. He looked at you, he wanted to be mad, to tell you to fuck off, that you had broken him by ghosting him. Yet after school there he found himself with you in your room. "E, I wanted to tell you, but I don't want to be a burden, and you have hockey and I don't want-" With tears streaming down both of your cheeks Ethan pulls you in for a kiss, one that leaves you breathless and wanting more, but you know it's not the time. "Baby, we are going to fight this, together, you are never a burden my angel, you have got this 100%." he says. “This will be just another obstacle we face, one that we will get to tell our grandchildren about.” he continues. “Because my love you are so strong, you will beat it. Promise.” he finishes as he interlocks pinkies with you, his way of showing you he’s truly here for the long run.

When it came down to discussing potential college opportunities for the both of you it was no question University of Michigan was where you two wanted to call home for the next 4 years. You being a gymnast received an offer to come on a scholarship and well to say they had been eyeing your boyfriend for as long as you had been attending his high school games is an understatement. Ethan could remember the day you both got your acceptance letters as if it was yesterday.

"E, did you check the mail????" you asked as you both walked toward Ethans' Alberta house. "How in the world would I have checked the mail if I have been at school with you all day?" he responded playfully. "Well you big bully, I got my acceptance/rejection letter yesterday and I want to open them together." you say pulling the sealed envelope out of your bag, prompting Ethan to grab your hand and pull you to move faster. "YOU GOT IT AND YOU DIDN'T THINK TO CALL ME???? YOU DORK" he says playfully. As soon as you both get to the Edwards mailbox Ethan finds exactly what he is looking for. You and Ethan walk into the house, dropping your stuff by the front door and make a beeline toward Ethans room. Sitting down on his bed you count together and open the letters.

Your sophomore year at UMICH is when things started to go downhill. You ended up getting a small 3 bedroom place with Rutger and Marks girlfriends, Farrah and Kayleigh. For you it was a matter of declining health and the girls hated their roommates at the time. The girls had also been a big help at the games, specifically away games, helping you navigate stairs and such as you became weaker and weaker. So when Kay suggested maybe you would be more comfortable going through the chemotherapy process in a more private setting, you jumped at the opportunity. Ethan was basically living with the three of you by the time you were fully settled having him set up his very own drawers in the bathroom and your bedroom.

So here he was now, in that same bedroom almost a year since you two had shared it, surrounded by his hockey team and select significant others, with your jersey in hand. It had not started like that for him that day however, Ethan actually had no intention of going to your place, not that day and not any time in the near future. How was he supposed to dig through his soulmates personal items, items that held countless and priceless memories of how much her and Ethan truly loved each other. He couldn't, and he wouldn't, however when he received a text from Rutger and Luca saying everyone had a free day and the girls needed to start clearing space to sell the condo, he would be dammed if he let anyone else into your shared world. 2 hours later as the girls let them in saying their hellos he noticed a few of the other guys were already there. T.J, Dylan, Tyler, Mark, and Seamus all sitting on the couch.

"E, I- we know this is still really fresh and hard for you, but we are all going to be here for you ok?" Kayleigh says trying her best to be sympathetic but strong for her boyfriends best friend. Ethan looked up realizing he was being spoken to as Mark rests his hand on his shoulder. "Hey, we can take as much time as you need dude. Do what you have to do man." Ethan leads the way into your room, a room that has been untouched by any human presence since your last day there. When you made the decision to leave UMICH, you had just gotten the news that it was now in stage 4 and there wasn't much to be done anymore. You decided to spend your last few weeks at home with your family without telling anyone, not Ethan, not the team, not the girls. You didn't want goodbyes, you didn't want to leave the world knowing how much it would truly hurt those you cared about. You also knew that if you told Ethan he would INSIST on being there by your side till the day you stopped fighting and you refused to be the reason he put his life on hold. You knew he would insist on trying to fight this more, to just try one more round of treatment, to try one more pill, at this point if someone told Ethan dancing the Macarena could cure you he would be doing it on repeat all day every day.

You were tired though, tired of all the chemotherapy, the physical toll it was taking on you, breaking you down into nothing, taking everything you love from you slowly. First gymnastics, then the promise of a life with your soulmate, and now the will to fight, you couldn't take this anymore. Needing help from the guys and girls as you got weaker and needed assistance of a wheelchair, you felt you had become a burden. So when Ethan went looking for you after not hearing from you the previous day, Farrah telling him you had gone to your 6pm class but never come back, his heart stopped. Where did you go? Were you ok? Had his worst fear come true?

He called you, 164 times that week, not knowing you were finally slipping away, not knowing that you had finally found your peace. Calling your parents, who couldn't bring themselves to answer, knowing why he was calling, it wasn't until he got the call from his mom that it was confirmed. You were gone. You had been gone 3 days after you left. The next few weeks were a blur between your funeral and all the condolences he was getting, he took a few weeks off of school to go home and be with your family and his.

"Yeah, uh thanks guys." he says making his way into your room. "We don't want to overwhelm you bro so we are gonna be out here. Let us know if you need anything." Luca says. With that Ethans head snaps up as he drops the stuffed animal he had picked up off the bed. "What- no you- wait I can't do this by myself." he starts feeling his chest get heavy and his lungs reduce in size. "I don't even know where to start or what to do you can't leave me." he begs. The boys look at each other and after silently letting the girls know they would be out in a little Rutger and Luca sit on your bed. Ethan begins by opening your closet, the overwhelming scent of your perfume, and just of you hits him like a brick. Noticing his lack of movement Luca and Rutger get up and walk towards him, "Take your time E, we are here for you." he says. Ethan begins to start taking your shirts off hangers and thats when he sees it, right under his team issued raincoat he had lent you once. The yellow and blue that could be seen from miles away catching his eye as if to almost taunt him, your jersey.

When you and Ethan had been accepted to UMICH you both received some goodie bags of gear from your respective sports programs. Ethan being the guy he is knew he needed to get you in his name and number ASAP so once he found out what number he was assigned, he jumped at the opportunity to plan with some of the guys to customize a blank jersey from the book store for you. Your senior prom Ethan had come over early, while you were still getting ready actually, his plan was to gift you the jersey before prom. Your parents being the way they are, they denied Ethan a peek before you were ready and he ended up having to give it to you in the limo. You had worn it to every single home and away game you attended which was all but maybe 2 games and Ethan couldn't feel prouder to see his name claim you in a subtle way.

Ethan presses the piece of clothing to his chest and silently begins to let the tears flow. "You know I told my parents I don’t think I am going to accept the offer from the Devils." he begins. "What are you saying dude??? Why would you tell them that?” Luca says. "Well without yn I’m nothing, I don't deserve to be happy or live out my dream when she's supposed to be by my side." "Dude, you loved her and we get that but you can't throw away your future just because yn isn't here. You know she would want you to continue and make a life for yourself." Rutger responds. "I went to development camp, is that not enough for everyone? If she's not with me I don't want to do this anymore, I should have done more, tried harder to get her to fight." he says breaking down more and more. "You can't blame-" T.J, who had now come into the room with the other guys stared, "THEN WHO THE FUCK DO I BLAME? WHO DO I GET ANGRY WITH WHEN I REACH FOR HER AND SHES NOT THERE?" Ethan looses it and screams out. "I DO BLAME MYSELF, I PROMISED HER SHE WOULD BEAT THIS FUCKING THING. NOTHING YOU SAY WILL MAKE ME FEEL DIFFERENT. I DON'T DESERVE HOCKEY, I DON'T WANT TO BE HAPPY WITH OUT HER." "Ethan, bro, where is this coming from? We had a blast at development camp what's gotten into you? Talk to me." Seamus says. "SHE'S FUCKING GONE DUDE - SHE'S GONE AND I CAN'T BRING HER BACK." he screams clutching the jersey closer to his chest and takes a deep breath. "I love her, we were supposed to grow old and be together for the rest of our lives. Why should I move on when she doesn't get to?" he continues slightly less aggressive.

Luca walks over to him where he's now collapsed onto the floor. "I was waiting for the right time to give you this." he starts holding out a sealed envelope with the word Ethan written in your handwriting on the front. "What- what is that?" Ethan asks taking the envelope from his friend. "Look dude, the day before y.n left she asked me to hold on to this, to let you take your time to grieve, but she knew you would be a stubborn asshole. She asked me to give you this when you lost all hope." Luca explains, "She didn't tell me the content of the letter but I'm hoping it might help." he says. All the guys made eye contact with each other and Seamus spoke up, "We will give you a moment dude." and a moment later Ethan sits on your bed and opens the envelope:

Ethan, I'm afraid, won't you stay a little while and keep me safe cause there's monsters right outside. They keep telling me to be hopeful, to have faith, to be honest baby I don't know how much more 'faith' I can have anymore. I want to be honest with you my love, because that is what we have always prided ourself on being, I'm writing you because it's not looking good. Every day is another battle to fight and I know they don't think I do but I hear it in the doctors and nurses voice, I'm not getting any better my love. Please know one thing that I hope can bring you comfort and that is that I have accepted my journey and I am at peace with whatever happens. As much as I don't want to leave you and the guys and my family, I am tired, so very tired of fighting, we have been fighting for years now and I need you to know I couldn't ask for a better partner to have fought this battle with. With that being said baby I need to leave you with my last hope for you when I am gone.

I know you won't listen to any of the guys, and that is why I have asked Luca to give you this incase I don't get to say this to your face. You CANNOT and I WILL NOT let you self-sabotage your future Eth, I know that you are going to feel like there's no hope, no point in experiencing these AMAZING milestones without me. I know you will tell everyone you no longer care for the sport of hockey, that you don't and won't allow yourself to experience playing for the Devils because you feel you no longer have anyone to share your incredible journey with. Ethan babe, that's SO far from the truth, because as long as you live I will be with you my love, where ever you go and what ever you do I will ALWAYS be in your heart and in your soul. You should know that even in death you won't get rid of me that easy Edwards.

Just 'cause I'm leaving doesn't mean that I won't be right by your side. When you need me and you can't see me in the middle of the night here's what I want you to do baby : Close your eyes and say a prayer and know that I know you're scared when I'm not here but I'll always be right there even though I'm leaving, baby I promise I ain't goin' nowhere. I know I act tough, but there's a churnin' in my gut cause I just can't call you up when things get rough anymore. I won't be able to wrap my arms around you and comfort you when you need me most, but know that I continue to route for you wether I'm physically here or not. Baby boy you have so much potential, so much love, so much light, so much joy, and so much passion please don't throw it all away after all of the hard work you and I have both put in to get you here.

I will love you with all of my heart and soul for the rest of time my New Jersey Devil. Make sure you allow the guys in during your hard times. As much as I know it's not me, they care about you and love you just as much, (though they will claim they love you more than I did, to which I say LUCA EVEN FROM THE GRAVE I'LL KILL YOU) and they want the best for you babe. I can't wait to hear all of the stories of your first season in the NHL, know that though I physically won't be in the stands, I will be at every game as long as you are thinking of me. Most importantly my love, you deserve to have a family, before you protest (I know you are) I mean it , you deserve to experience everything we have ever dreamed of, and I know you don't feel like it will ever happen but I'll be here to say I told you so when it does. Don't think of it as I'm not with you anymore, just loving you from afar my dear.

I love you so much, take your time to get yourself together, but then remember baby, it's game time.

your forever angel, Y.N

And with that Ethan knew he had some very big choices to make. If only you were here to make them with you.

**PLEASE READ**

A.N:

IM SORRY IVE BEEN MIA... I am going to be absent for the next week, I put in my notice at work so next week I start school up again and work almost every day lol.

First and foremost thank you to @quinnylouhughesx43 for helping me structure an idea. Second, I would like to say that before ANYONE accuses me of stealing other blogs works let me be CRYSTAL CLEAR: I am fully aware that there are stories like this floating around already, I actually reblogged one about jack the other day (highly recommend if you haven't read it yet to read it its on @lukehughes43 blog). At the same time this was a completely original idea I had and wanted to put out. I apologize if there is any similarities as I was partially inspired by said jack fic.

I hope you enjoy as this is one of the only written works I have put out. Feedback and Suggestions are welcomed.

also thank you to my baby girl @quinnylouhughesx43 for the banner <3

xoxox, M

Tagged : @babygirlboeser @quinnylouhughesx43 @lukey-pookie-hughes43 @skylershines @63kaprizov

[sukibenders]

tw: mentions of harm against women, particularly black women, organ harvesting, and just overall gross treatment towards black women

It's Black History Month and, tell me why, I stumbled upon a fic for Arcane that features the brutalization of black women (Mel and Sky), stealing/harvesting of their organs and bodies for the use of men (and a white man at that), and just all around stuff that is very reminiscent to how black women are/have been treated throughout medical history for decades? Mind you, it was used to fuel the JayVik ship too, makes me sick. If it wasn't some in that fandom fantasizing Mel being SA'd, then it's this. I can't with this fandom.

[clockworkbee]

Andrew Minyard and ‘family: a trigger word’

[thecannonfodder]

TWIGGER WARNING:Sui1de mentioned bellow cut

I have seen three different depictions of my boy 007n7 killing himself and I’m starting to think that it may not be a headcannon

[faemaril]

⚠️ TW: violent imagery

Death of an Author

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"This bed of wilted roses caused so much grief, that the petals soaked out the energy and spilled its maroon ink. It wrote out emotions that were harder to digest upon first read. Poised layers tricked many readers into thinking they know what lies ahead. This bleeding ink stained every fabric of innocence on the sheet, breaking their mind further. I admit, took me a few tries to realize how dead the author was inside..."

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Fae ©

[fourraccoonsinacoat]

The beautiful subtleties of the Astarion scar scene, and why this is that headcannon scene where Tavurge draws Astarion.

***Trigger Warning for discussions of body autonomy and sexual trauma.

And we're back for yet another midnight dissertation where I over analyze the F out of a video game character romance, because I can't stop thinking about how amazing the storytelling is. I need help.

So we all love that Astarion romance headcannon where Tavurge draws/paints/does-something-to-show-Astarion-his-face. It's a beautiful headcannon and I adore it. But, allow me to convince you that Larian did, in fact, give us this scene. And it's the scene where Tavurge draws Astarion's scars.

Jump in the car, here we go:

The song playing in the background of this scene is "I Want to Live." I think that's a very deliberate choice, as that song is very tied to Astarion. So much so, that you can stand on a rock behind his tent and suddenly the full song starts to play, lyrics included. Music reminding us of the one thing Astarion wants more than anything else?

Astarion wants the freedom to live a life he chooses, he wants his choices to matter. He's been living 200+ years, but can't remember ever feeling alive until now. He is so deathly afraid of what he has being ripped away now that he's had a taste.

Because every other time he ever felt hope, Cazador tore it away and punished him. Cazador has caught him before when he ran, and locked him in a tomb to starve in darkness for a year. There's a reason the game makes it clear that this is his worst memory. It has to constantly be haunting him, fearful that at any moment Cazador is going to rip this away, too.

So, Astarion sleeps with Tavurge and is suddenly told that the design Cazador drew on his back is written in Infernal. Infernal being the language devils use to write Infernal Contracts. Astarion has to be out of his mind with fear that whatever is on his back binds him to Cazador in some way. Maybe in a way he doesn't know about.

I need to say something about body autonomy trauma, so trigger warning for those who struggle with these subjects. Sexual and body autonomy trauma both play into why this scene is powerful. I struggle with both and there's a reason his story hits particularly hard with me.

****Trigger For Description Of Emotional Response to Trauma: Having control of your body taken away leaves you with a type of deep, primal fear that is very difficult to explain. It's ridiculous and cliche, but the honest-to-best way to describe it is it, feels like a hole deep in your chest where something used to be. And it was literally wrenched out of inside your body, a place where nobody should be able to go because if your body isn't safe then where the fuck is? So keep that in mind.****

Not only has Astarion not had control of his body, he can't even see it in a reflection. Let that sink in.

To add it all up: he has something written in Infernal on his back that he can't see, but that could mean the one thing he's dreading = being bound to Cazador and having all of this ripped away. Again. And then he'll be punished, doing nothing but thinking about what he only just got a taste of.

This is why the cycle of abuse just crushes hope out of you. Because things hurt so much worse when you're hoping for them to work. At some point you're just hurting yourself by hoping.

He's terrified and he can't even look at his own body to see what someone forcibly mutilated into his skin.

So, Tavurge approaches Astarion from behind, just like in the mirror scene. Except this time, Astarion can't see them approaching.

Tavurge surprises him, in what's already a vulnerable moment, and surprises him from behind. A position of weakness. We'll hit on this more in a moment.

Astarion snaps at Tavurge due to being caught in a vulnerable moment. But, he quickly slides back into his charm and apologizes. Mask back up.

He explains what he was doing and the dialog choices here even throwback to the mirror scene. You can tell him you'll be his mirror in this scene.

He's hesitant about the idea. He's not comfortable with vulnerability, and outright tells Tavurge this isn't their problem. This is an extremely vulnerable thing, especially for someone with body autonomy issues. You're turning your back on someone and asking them to show you what's on your own damn body! What if they lie?

This is a major trust moment for Astarion. If you ask later to talk to others in camp about his scars, he is quick to say no.

He's not ready to trust that much. He just was vulnerable with Tavurge and that took too much out of the vulnerability reserves to push for more. Got to let those reserves build back up by seeing more reasons that show it's okay to be vulnerable.

This man does not want to turn around. He keeps his head down and grimaces, closes his eyes to brace himself. Think about all the triggers he must have about turning his back on people. He wasn't exactly bringing the morally upright back to Cazador. And Cazador, himself, obviously took advantage of his control to force Astarion to turn his back to him. Thus the scars.

Given all of that, he still turns around in an act of consent.

I love that you can just choose to quietly draw. You don't tell him how bad it looks, you don't try to comfort him by saying it's not that bad (which he would likely only hear as patronizing in this moment), and you can choose to not make a joke. I feel that's meaningful.

He turns around and can finally fucking see this thing that's been on his back for over two centuries.

At least he got to see his face, even if he can't remember almost anything about it. At least he can touch his hair, touch his face to get an idea. He can't even do that with the scars.

This means a lot, guys. Tavurge has drawn something that I argue is more meaningful than Astarion's face.

Tavurge has drawn a significant key to his future. The future he wants more than anything.

He needs to figure out what the hell this is before Cazador possibly activates it and Tavurge just made that significantly more possible.

And then, Tavurge has the option to call the two of them "we" for the first time in a way not tied to sex. Telling him "we will figure this out" and not asking for anything in return or giving him a hard time about it - at least not too much. The "shut up and turn around" dialog is one of my favs, and I feel Astarion appreciates the candor.

He's definitely sus when you say "we".

That is the face of sus.

But also...amusedly hopeful?

I like that he calls Tavurge "sweet" here. It makes me think of him calling them "cute" in the spawn ending at the grave with the flower.

I think Astarion really picks up on small things. Things people say and do genuinely, and I think it both amuses and confuses him, and in the beginning (here) still makes him uneasy and suspicious. He even asks it as somewhat of a question. Like, are you really actually this genuine?

I also would like to make an argument to the court that this is a significant moment when Astarion starts to realize he !FEELS! something for Tavurge and it's wigging him out!

They're making him hope again, and that's scary.

So, there. That's my evidence for why this scene is the drawing Astarion scene that we all love in our headcannons.

Tavurge is drawing something of extreme significance here. And I love how incredibly subtle this scene is in not blatantly pointing that out.

It's beautiful writing and that is all, your honor. Midnight dissertation - but also I may be in court - over!

Thank you for reading any of this nonsense.

[ellethespaceunicorn]

📖🫣

Just had to stop reading a fic because I was triggered. Not gonna go into explicit details, but it involved a firearm and fellatio. I double-checked and this was not listed in the warnings of the fic.

Under a cut because this got lengthy...

Full disclosure, fellatio at gunpoint in media (fic, film, music, etc) is a HUGE trigger for me because I've experienced it in a BDSM scene that went a bit too far. Not the kind of thing that is easy to overcome and heal from, even all these years later.

I'm fine with darkfic, I love it. I don't even mind if all of the sexual acts in a fic aren't in the warnings, that's actually great sometimes because then you can be surprised and experience the story in real-time without any expectations of anything.

BUT...I do believe being held at gunpoint or anything involving peril, danger, fear, torture, or even the threat of violence SHOULD be considered a warning. It SHOULD be mentioned in a "trigger warning", along with warnings for rape, non-con, dubcon, and forced sexual acts. [I should include here that if your list of warnings isn't exhaustive or complete, including in the warnings that there will be the presence of non-consensual acts or dubious consent is perfectly fine. You don't owe anyone a full summary of everything that happens in a story. Everyone is responsible for their own media consumption. Including me.]

I don't care if the person propositioned is "okay" with the act, they are a fictional character written by you, the writer. And, as the writer, you have control over everything. Including what characters feel, say, or do.

With great power comes great responsibility, Uncle Ben knew what he was talking about there. With the power of being a writer comes the responsibility of informing your audience when they are about to consume triggering media.

And yes, people can be triggered by many different things. That's sort of the point. None of us have the manual to what exactly every trigger is in the world. The best advice I can give is: if you have a millisecond of hesitation about whether to include it in the warnings, INCLUDE IT. You may not know someone with that as a trigger, but I can guarantee you there most likely will be at least one person.

I didn't mean to turn this into a rant, and I feel like I'm probably just speaking out of the paranoia and anxiety that flows through me after reading a triggering scene. But, I also feel like I'm not the only one who has read something and felt strong emotion, positive or negative.

I am NOT asking for anyone to change the way that they tag their fics. I am NOT asking for anyone reading this to harrass, bully, or annoy anyone on my behalf. I AM asking for transparency, though. No one wants to be surprised with pain and suffering. Unless, they're into that, of course.

I'm shutting up now.

🦄

[kindygawdna]

FOR THE RECORD I WOULD LIKE TO SAY I AM A TRANS (pronouns any) BLASIAN MAN. (Jamaican and Pilipino) I SUPPORT ALL PEOPLE AND IDENTITIES.

BUT...

WHy is black history month the shortest month of the year? Even when you make it a leap year its still the shortest. asian/ pacific islanders month is may and Pride month is June. Racist America couldn't have given us more time to just be black? like man why the fuck are we still on this. They change Christopher Columbus Day But we can't have a Martin Luther king jr. day on his actual birthday, and we can't celebrate Malcom x. The people celebrate a business man for our president forgeting that the other president stepped down and that the same business man that runs our country is just finishing the work our black president started. the immigrant laws were something Obama started. and now white man claim the credit.

WHY NOT MAKE BLACK HISTORY MONTH IN AUGUST????? THATS WHEN THE "I HAVE A DREAM" SPEACH WAS SAID. Thats also what was said to be the month when voting rights change so black men could vote. That was the month many black activists and icons were born such as James Baldwin, Anna Julia Coope, and even Barack Obama himself!

I Say august is my new Black history month...

please reblog

[s0ftmir0]

(shit I'm realizing I should also let MTF, pretty bimbos, and Bambi's know they are welcome here)

What a pretty thing you are, darling. You're so sweet and kind, no thoughts but the prettiest things like dolls and puppies. You look like the most precious doe, my favorite little pet.

[madmanwonder]

“Bumblebee being canon was a mistake”

[isyloveslife]

The perfect victim in child abuse cases

The perfect child abuse victim is small, fragile, usually a woman to fit the "damsel in distress" idea. The parent that abuses them is already seen as a shitty person by their community, making no effort to hide who they truly are. They may even brag about how they treat their kids. Usually an aggressive man, maybe addicted to some sort of substance.

The kid themselves has visible bruises, visible hurt on their body. Messy hair, and ratty clothes to show how little the parent cares about taking care of them. They're smelly, probably haven't taken a shower in a while - ew!!!

There is no nuance to this and everyone can tell they are being abused. There is no room for doubt as everyone already knows the abuser is a shit person, and the child looks clearly in pain as well.

But usually cases don't go like this. Chances are if you're reading this you are a victim yourself and are far away from this ideal our society has created of the perfect victim. Chances are your abuser makes sure you go to school with pure, clean clothes and no visible hurt. Chances are they try to appear loving and kind to their community because they crave the affection of their community. Chances are this all may not apply to you and you do fit the bill of the perfect victim, it's just that your community doesn't give a fuck about you enough to do anything about your abuser.

[imbecominggayer]

Examples Include: grap3, unaliving/k*ll, F--ck