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randombush3 · 2 months

Text

dies irae

alexia putellas x reader

part one, part two, part three

words: 12425 (sorry not sorry)

summary: part four, the part that made me realise another part was necessary

warnings: drugs, alcohol, cheating, (a lot of???) vomiting, general angst tbh

notes: in all honesty, i started this with the intention of finishing the series, but it hit 12k and i thought maybe not x

weird little comment, but the last section was originally written in spanish (hear me out: i was on the plane and i didn’t want the people beside me to read it over my shoulder) and i’m still feeling a little iffy about my translation of my og version but oh well!

i hope you enjoy this and are content w waiting another five years for me to churn out the new FINAL part

The sand is warm beneath your feet, each grain rubbing against your bare soles as you sprint. The ground under such surfaces often hardens, proven by the sweat trickling past the thin string of fabric that holds your bikini together. If the beach were not so private, you would be worried about wandering camera lenses.

However, there is no one else here but your favourite people. Well, maybe Nico has dropped to the bottom of the list now that your energy has been worn down while his does not seem to waver.

“I give up,” you pant as he continues to tumble down the shoreline, changing his tactics and swerving into the water, comfortable in his sea. The same sea he looks at each morning from your bedroom window. The one he learnt to swim in. (That and a variety of hotel pools.) “You win, you win!”

The small figure, around twenty metres away, comes to an abrupt halt, wobbling on little legs for a moment. Then he begins to run again, but this time towards the towels and constructed shade you had set up earlier. Unwillingly, you race him back to base camp.

“He ganado,” he declares as he taps Alexia’s shining back as though she is the signpost signifying the finish line. Your hand caresses the divots of muscle soon after, brushing sand across smooth, tanned skin. Nico peers at you strangely, but understands, thanks to Tia Alba, that the beach outfits are special to his mothers.

“Mi ganador,” comes a tired murmur of praise.

“Did you see, Mami? I was so far ahead.” She nods, craning her neck upwards to talk to him. You gladly sprawl out on the vacant towel, passing on the baton to your wife, fortunate that Elena has been asleep in her buggy for the past twenty minutes. “Can I play with Lela now? Is nap time over?”

“No, sweetheart, naptime has just begun.” He looks up at you with pleading, bored eyes. The one unfortunate consequence of going to a private beach is that, unless you bring along your babysitter, there is no one else for Nico to play with. Alexia and you are both exhausted, and today is supposed to be about relaxation. Three-year-olds don’t understand that concept. “If you don’t want to sleep, how about burying Mami?”

“In the sand?”

“Sí, in the sand.”

He leans close to your ear. “Mami says I’m not allowed to do that,” he whispers, though he has not quite mastered the volume of such a tone yet. Alexia pretends not to be listening, but you can feel her foot prodding your shin in protest.

“Rules are sometimes made to be broken,” you tell him. “And if you do bury her, the only way to make her happy again is to get ice-cream. Which means you can also get ice-cream.”

“You are so annoying,” grumbles Alexia.

“This morning, I believe the word you used was ‘sexy’,” you retort. With the Euros on the horizon, it seems that the two of you are using up what little time you have to spend together. Though Alexia sometimes feels like there are hands wrapped around her neck after she failed to win the Champions League once more, she is more than happy to take advantage of the time off before she tries to make amends internationally.

“Mm. You are magically both.”

You tug your sunglasses – Prada, brand-new from a modelling campaign – down slightly, so that they sit lower on your nose. The sun is warm and doing its best to wear Nico down as he finds his discarded spade and begins to dig, and Elena is still fast asleep.

A mischievous grin forms on your lips, one that Alexia knows well. Topless, she flips over onto her back, excusing herself with a muttered comment about an ‘even tan’, and that is invitation enough for you to cup her cheek, your touch as fiery as the surface of the sun that blankets the beach. The gentle breeze ruffles your hair as you lower yourself down to her level.

“The phrase is ‘annoyingly sexy’ in English, darling,” you murmur, your eyes locked onto hers. Even now, after six years, the proximity ignites desire over every inch of your skin, and you cannot wait to kiss. Alexia’s initial grumble turns into a soft chuckle, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of amusement and something more. Impatiently, you kiss her, aware that the moment will soon be ruined by a spray of sand as Nico pursues his mission.

She is just as eager to kiss you back, craving the way you seem to hold the solution to every problem. Part of Alexia’s mind has not yet been able to comprehend the way in which you love her. It is hidden by the other, much larger compartment: the one that reminds her every day that she should never, ever tell you, because it would break your heart. To you, Alexia is making up for lost time. To her, she is secretly begging for forgiveness that you don’t even know she is due.

She knows the minute your phone rings that everything is about to go wrong. No one is supposed to call you today; you have been emphatic about it. You blindly reach for the ringing device, ready to lob it into the ocean, but Alexia grabs your wrist. “It must be something important,” she says, and it feels like she is telling you she understands; you are busy, and she understands.

“I’ll be quick, I promise.” With a quick jog up the steps and onto the concrete of the promenade, you perch on the stone wall separating the beach from the carpark, bare feet swinging over the edge. The rough surface of the wall presses uncomfortably into the exposed flesh of your bum, but you remind yourself that you will soon be lying back down on the beach towels. “Hi? I thought we agreed that pretty much everything could wait until tomorrow. I don’t care about any photos taken of me, and you know that my automatic position is simply to ensure that the children’s faces are blurred out before they get spread around.”

“Y/n!” Your publicist sounds nervous. It’s a stressful job, you guess. Between organising interviews and brand deals and the like, she has to stamp down on unwanted rumours and be on the look-out for any perceived cracks in your very public person. Naturally, you are not perfect.

“Yeah, I’m here. Hi.”

“I’m afraid that it’s not a picture of you this time.” Alexia is now famous in her own right, as she always should have been. With a Ballon d’Or under her belt, you have been promoted to a ‘celebrity couple’.

“She has her own team, you know.”

“I’m sure she will be firing them soon.” The joke fails to land, instead crashing and burning and… You freeze.

“Why?”

“I am sure that you are aware we have feelers out for anything that could potentially harm your reputation.” You nod foolishly, caught up in the undisclosed severity of the phone call, forgetting that she cannot see you. “An hour ago, we were contacted by a photographer; one of the usual ones we get in when you’re in need of a bit of a press-boost. He’s based in Barcelona, has lots of friends in the area and such. I have the terrible job of telling you.”

Your heart quickens as the confession hangs in the air, leaving a heavy silence on the other end of the line. The anticipation builds, and you can almost feel the impending storm swirling just off the coast, waves beginning to thrash against rocks, nature beginning to tear the world down.

“He claims to have some photos, ones that could potentially damage your image,” she says, tone measured and professional. “I haven’t seen them yet, but he described them as… intimate, to say the least.”

“Of Alexia?” you question carefully, forcing the words onto your tongue. “Intimate? What do you mean?”

“Well, they are of her and someone else. Someone who isn’t you.”

“Who?” Dread sets in, and the wall is suddenly not the most uncomfortable thing about your position. You feel too exposed, unsafe in what you are wearing. Taken advantage of, perhaps.

Cheated.

“I have not seen the photos yet, babe. I don’t know what else to tell you.” He would have attached them in his email. Paparazzos don’t have time to harass you digitally as well as in real-life. She must have avoided opening them. Or. Or she is lying.

“I need to see those pictures,” you assert, your need for clarity driving the sentence forwards.

“Are you sure?” You nod again, unable to speak past the lump in your throat, knowing that she cannot see you but feeling helpless to do anything else. She takes your silence as confirmation. There is a brief click of a mouse, and the animated swoosh of an email. “They should come through in a moment.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you… alright?”

She quickly takes the hint from the lack of response and hangs up.

You rest your phone on your thigh as your arms grip onto the ledge of the wall, pulling yourself backwards so that you do not fling yourself off it. You shake as you reach safety, and your fingers feel numb as they tap the screen, accessing your emails robotically until a pinwheel is all that separates you from the photos.

Intimate, huh.

They are practically snogging.

There are eleven images, and each one delivers a blow more painful than the last.

The beach feels confined, like an elaborate cage that you cannot escape. The shoreline creeps towards you, and you seem to be pressed against the hot metal of the car in the carpark. You struggle to recognise the scenes captured as ones where you were present, and the unfortunate date in the bottom right-hand corner evidences the photos as a time when you were not in Barcelona at all: 2021.

The realisation hits hard and you find that everything you have ever believed to be true has simply been a cruel joke that you were excluded from.

What you have been sent is more than just proof; it is a betrayal etched in pixels, an undeniable record of a moment that shatters the foundation of your relationship. Your heart races as your scroll through the images, cruelly reminded of a reality you desperately wish were not true. One you had no idea existed. One that had been kept secret from you.

The lump in your throat grows, and your eyes blur with unshed tears. You are overwhelmed by sharp pain coursing through your veins, and it is as if you have been injected with a poison that burns through your cell tissue, disintegrating every block of your body. It scorches the things you know to be true.

Love goes up in flames before your eyes.

And then a voice that you really do not want to hear speaks, and, just like that, the ashes of what has disappeared are suddenly ablaze once more.

“Nico y yo vamos a tomar helado. ¿Quieres algo?” Sandals, sunglasses, a loose linen shirt. Nico holds her hand, proud of himself. You cannot bear to look at either of them, so you stare at the towels a few metres beneath you.

“Where is Lena?”

“Dormida, aún.”

Shaking, you stand up, enjoying the sharp rocks that pierce into your skin, reminding you that you are yet to die. “Take Nico. I’ll go back down and sit with her.”

“Vale. Te quiero.”

You don’t reply. You wouldn’t have known what to say anyway.

Every step feels as though the world is cracking open and you are going to fall to your death, yet, in the midst of the impending doom, you feel as calm as can be. Numb, perhaps.

Elena stirs as you adjust the parasol providing her the necessary shade. A hand reaches out, prepared to grab onto you, searching for your body like you are her lifeline. You are her lifeline; you are her mother. And so is Alexia.

A tear rolls down your cheek as you let her pull your fingers to her mouth, nails brushing her lips as she whines with the headache of waking up from a nap. “What are we going to do?”

…

The car journey home is silent on your part. You stew in your nothingness, unwilling to engage in the light conversation Alexia creates to keep Nico awake before his sleep schedule is ruined. Barcelona flashes past you, and the city that you once admired feels like the scene of a crime. Looking out the window is almost as sickening as if your eyes were to land on the woman beside you. Almost.

You withhold your grief for the evening, going through the motions of nightly chores; putting the kids to bed, finishing the remainder of your packing, drying the dishes without throwing them at the blonde hair that sails past as she sorts her own suitcases out. A few texts are exchanged between you and your publicist, in which you graciously decide that those pictures will not come from you. Though if her team fails to catch them before they reach Twitter, that is not your problem.

Under the soft glow of the bedside lamp and the comforting blanket of darkness, you clear your throat.

It has been six hours since you found out.

Every second that has passed has done so with excruciating pain, yet you cannot determine whether it has sunk in at all yet. You wonder if, given the chance, you would crumple into yourself and weep as though she has died.

When you look at Alexia, readying herself for bed, you decide that the whole situation is laughable.

You are so stupid. You thought she loved you more than that, and you were embarrassingly incorrect.

“I want you to leave now,” you say firmly, only the bed between you. Alexia pauses, pyjama shorts halfway up her muscular legs as she peers at you curiously. Her confusion is infuriating. “I want you to… go to your mother’s or something. You’re not sleeping here.”

“Why? What have I done?”

She speaks as though this is a normal argument, or as though you are hormonal and unreasonable. You clench your fists and remind yourself not to wake the children up. “I am surprised you didn’t follow her to Mexico.”

It is then that Alexia Putellas realises three things. The first: she hasn’t spoken about Jenni since she left for Pachuca, and she barely pays attention when Nico persuades her to find the stream for the striker’s matches. The second: it has been six months since Jenni called whatever they were doing quits. And the third… the third is how well and truly fucked she is.

She should have confessed her crime the minute she first slept with her; the night after they were knocked out of the World Cup. Elena wasn’t even a concept, then. You took her back though you were unaware you had ever lost her.

Last year, when it was Alexia all alone, she should have confessed her second betrayal. A longer, more hurtful betrayal. Something fuelled by meaningfulness, not passion and heightened adrenaline. If she were in your position, the physicality would not be what obliterated her heart; the emotion behind the entire affair would.

She wipes her eyes, aware that she has started to cry. It is all the confirmation you need. “I’m so sorry,” is the only thing she can think to say, but ‘sorry’ does not amount to the pain she knows she has caused. ‘Sorry’ won’t heal a wound that has cut deep, cut through years of love and happiness and supposed loyalty. ‘Sorry’ does not change the fact that Alexia lent herself to Jenni, let Jenni take her in any capacity she wished, and then returned to you as though it had never even happened.

In all honesty, part of Alexia is very curious about how you have found her out. Mapi would not risk being caught up in such a storm, and Jenni would gain only suffering from telling you because she knows that Alexia would never choose her. Though she has spent night after night with her finger hovering over her sister’s contact, she resolved never to tell Alba either, for fear that her sister would see her for the monster she is and side with you. Selfishly, Alexia does not want anyone to side with you, but even she finds it easy to hate herself.

“Is that all you can offer me?” you croak, and it is clear to Alexia that you are this calm because you are putting your children before yourself. They do not need to hear their parents’ marriage implode; not tonight, not ever. She cannot bear to meet your eyes as you pierce through her bowed head. “Alexia.” She pulls her shorts up fully, forehead parallel to the floor. “Alexia!” you snap.

“I’m sorry,” she repeats.

Alexia Putellas is regarded by most as intimidating, yet, here, she is anything but. She is meek. Pathetic.

She is a woman who continued to make a stupid mistake although she was given so many opportunities to fix it.

And, when Alexia finally grows the balls to look into your piercing eyes, she sees, reflected in your hardened, dark pupils, weakness and idiocy, rimmed with the most stinging of betrayals. It kills her to see you fight your own tears, and it is worse when you have to break eye contact because you are afraid you will vomit if it goes on any longer.

“You are packed, so you can leave tonight. Sort yourself out while I get the children up.”

Everything is ruined because of her.

It is the last night Alexia lives under the same roof as you. It is a horrible way to end a golden age, and the worst possible confirmation of the fleetingness of all things that exist. You hate the world, you hate Jennifer Hermoso, and you hate that you can’t bring yourself to hate your wife.

Alexia says goodbye to a sleepy Nico and a clingy Elena. Your daughter refuses to let her mother go the minute she is passed to her, and all four of you try your best not to cry, whether it be from confusion, regret, or heartbreak.

Nico, inquisitive as one is at his age, does not let the door open without questions. ‘Why now?’ is what causes Alexia to freeze, searching on your face for permission to have one more second with him. You cup the back of Elena’s head, fingers splaying out against her soft hair, soothing her back to sleep. And you nod.

She crouches to his level, dwarfed by her suitcases. In her pocket, her phone buzzes; her taxi has arrived. “¿Te acuerdas cuando te hablé sobre la responsabilidad? Soy la capitana, cariño, y tengo que cuidar a mi equipo, así que ‘ahora’ es lo mejor para ellas.” You are grateful for the lie.

“¿Ahora yo mando? ¿Como me dijiste?”

“Sí. Tienes que cuidar a Mama y Lela, y protegerlas como yo os protejo a vosotros. Y nos veremos prontito, petit. Te lo prometo.”

He is fighting his tears, stiff like a toy soldier marching off to an imaginary battle. You half expect Nico to salute with his chubby, unpractised fingers, but he simply stands there, between Alexia and you. Though Elena is safe in your arms, Nico is caught in the crossfire, two feet innocently leading him into no man’s land.

You take a deep breath as Alexia closes the door behind her. She has been driven out – her own doing – and she knows, because she knows you, that there will be no space in your life for her until your gaping wound dulls in pain. The journey to her mother’s house is the second time she ever considers killing herself, with the first being the night her father died.

But this is how it goes.

You fly to England the next day, holding it together until Elena and Nico are safely in the hands of Anya, but you do not give her a reason for her much-needed babysitting abilities.

It is a small secret. You keep it because on top of being in agony, you are so fucking embarrassed. You. You got cheated on. You weren’t enough for her. (And Jenni was?) It’s really easy to pretend you’re stressed for Alexia, knowing she is heading into a tournament that Spain could win but won’t.

The first official step you take – the very first – is with a nanny. You meet her the day after landing at London Stansted, and she seems to be the perfect choice for the interim period of your life that you have unexpectedly entered; she speaks Spanish, she is discreet, and she reassures you that she is there to enhance family life, not destroy it. And possibly another alluring factor: she is quick to sign an NDA and promise that no photos of your children will make it into any dogshit magazine.

Her first interaction with your children is two hours before your lunch with your publicist, manager, producer, and lawyer. They have agreed to congregate – they have seen the pictures (an exclusive peek, as the deliciously world-destroying surprise photoshoot has not yet been picked up by anyone with ganas to publish it). Each one has a purpose, each one wants to profit off your heartbreak, and, though they’d never admit it for fear of breaking their hard exteriors, each invitee would also like to see if you’re okay.

“Do you… like her?” you sheepishly ask your son while Isabela, the nanny, supervises Elena’s lunch. You’re not entirely sure your daughter understands that the hummus is supposed to go into her mouth, not redecorate the highchair table from white to beige, but Isabela does her best to instruct her, the familiar tinkle of Alexia’s language making your daughter’s eyes light up.

He looks a little puzzled. “Is she a babysitter?”

“Sort of.” You sigh, “it’s just that I have a lot to do, and Mami is playing football now. Isabela is going to help us, but I want to make sure that you want that.”

Nico shrugs. “Don’t care.”

“And she’s going to speak in Spanish, just like Mami does.” In anticipation of a worse reaction, you wince at the slight insinuation that you’re replacing Alexia. He doesn’t pick up on it.

“She sounds funny.”

“That’s because she’s from Colombia,” you answer him, and he nods, storing that information for later. Probably for when Alexia calls to speak to him (a moment you are dreading).

“Is Colombia near Mexico?” He perks up; you know what’s coming next. “Does Isabela know Jenni?”

You have to remind yourself that Nico has not done anything wrong. The fault of the mother is not the son’s, and, briefly, you pray he has inherited your fidelity for the sake of his future partners.

You pretend that the name that just fell from his lips does not fill you with the overwhelming urge to strangle someone. And, calmly, you reply, “probably not, but you can always ask her.”

…

Alexia does not know what to do.

She wishes, she really does, that someone would pass her a clock… and she knows she has trained and worked hard enough to wrestle the hands of time back a year and change her decisions in every situation. Alas, that is impossible.

She tells Mapi, as the team touches down in England, what has happened. The defender is unimpressed – angry, even, at her best friend – but nothing warrants what is to come.

The morning feels eerily normal. Breakfast is difficult, especially when all Alexia can think while she eats is that every morsel in her mouth fuels the monster she has become. Every bite, every sip of coffee, leads her to live another day. She is not particularly certain that she deserves that.

Mapi does not look at her, swerves her request to be partners when training begins. Head down, eyes slowly filling with tears, Alexia takes the punishment. She says nothing when Pina pinches her side, “Patri’s being annoying”, and drags her into the drill.

She runs, she passes the ball, Pina turns and shoots it into the mini-net.

Pina runs, she passes the ball, Alexia turns.

Something goes wrong.

Maybe it is that the pitch is uneven, cut up from whoever had trained before. Maybe it’s the pass, slightly off-target. Maybe she is at that point in her menstrual cycle where the risk of injury is higher – that’s being looked into, isn’t it?

Maybe it’s that her body can no longer stay so robust when everything else in her life is hurtling towards the ground in the most epic downhill slope possible.

Maybe.

The pop is unmistakable, and the pain searing. She can’t help the scream she lets out, barely registering whoever has rushed to her side while she presses her face into the dirt, tears watering the grass.

“I’ve done my ACL,” Alexia gasps, lifting her head up slightly. She catches sight of the blue sky, the green grass. The bright sun shining down on her, hot against her neck but nothing in comparison to the agony in her knee.

She blinks, thinking her eyes are blurring from her tears.

A second later, she is unconscious.

When Alexia wakes up, she is glad to have passed out. She has no memory of being hauled off the pitch or brought into the medical room. Her head aches and her knee throbs, but she knows that there is someone beside her so she does her best to hold in the immediate wave of sobs that seem to take over her.

A calloused hand reaches for hers, unclenching her fist, urging her to squeeze the pain away, pass off some of it to her companion. They have given her pain medication. She can tell because the white walls dance around her and the only word she can manage to get out is your name.

She whispers it over and over again.

“I know,” comes a soothing voice, poorly concealing the worry that cracks the tone. “Shh, I know, I know. You’re okay, Ale. She’s… she’s on her way.”

…

The call is unexpected.

Mapi never has much reason to talk to you on your own, unless you share a concern for your wife’s wellbeing. You suppose that’s a bit of a redundant commonality now. Your lawyers have drawn up a custody agreement and, upon meek request, divorce papers: a gift for after the Euros.

“Dime, Mapi. Estoy trabajando,” you say curtly, signalling from inside the booth that the phone call is nothing to worry about and you can resume the recording session in a moment.

Mapi’s news makes you even more resentful than you were already feeling, because you can’t help but sprint to your car the minute the address is given.

…

Pain becomes part of everyday life.

Crutches, too.

Alba and Eli already existed as frequent visitors, but the former increases her appearances so that she has moved in the day before Alexia’s surgery.

It spills out, the night of the surgery, that Alexia and you are no longer together. That you left her, with good reason. It’s a surprise, considering you had stayed by her side during the twelve hours in England between the medical room, the hospital, and the airport.

When Alexia reluctantly tells Alba why, Alba decides that you are a saint and her sister, a sinner. She holds her hands behind her back to keep herself from slapping Alexia across the face, but little does she know, Alexia longs for the anger, wishing she wasn’t being pitied for her injury. She wishes there was no injury to be pitied for, but, then again, she tells herself that she deserves it and accepts the agony as one would hold a blade to their wrists and slit them.

This behaviour, this quiet ideology that she has been punished for her mistake, is what leads Alba to ensure the keys to the balcony are hidden and the kitchen knives are tucked away in a cupboard, out of sight. Or perhaps it is what she hears her sister telling herself in the mirror. Worthless. Degenerate. Evil, cruel, horrible. Selfish!

She has two children with you, for God’s sake!

“I have ruined my own life.” Her words burn, the intensity of her anger enough to make Alba flinch, hands gripping the steering wheel harder, forcing her way forwards. The hospital comes into view and Alexia cries out in anguish. “I have ruined it, Alba! I have ruined everything!”

Alexia, The Ruiner.

She bears the new name with something more than disappointment. She lets the nurses examine her knee, compliment Alba for her care-taking, and reassure her about the surgery. She lets them talk her through possible complications, secretly hoping one will occur and she will wither away; no longer a footballer, no longer a mother, no longer your wife. Just Alexia, The Ruiner.

Alba and her argue, Alexia lying back in the cot, hospital gown patterned against clinically white sheets, light fabric against her paling skin. “You wanting to die is not you wanting to kill yourself. It’s your regret, and it’s your cowardice at not being able to face the consequences of your actions.” Alexia had been hot-headed enough to voice how she did not want to make it through the surgery. She is in excruciating pain, and is convinced they need to investigate it. “It’s your knee, not your heart. Your heart hurts because you cheated on her and she rightfully left you! Don’t you ever say something so fucking stupid again.”

“Alba!” Eli’s entrance is neither good nor bad. “Alba, leave her.” Alexia’s tears run down the sides of her face, hitting the sheets like little bullets. The soft caress of her mother’s hand across her cheek is no comfort, and Alexia only sobs harder. “You are going to be fine, mi cielo. The surgery is going to go well and you will come back even stronger.”

Alexia knows that, once you have torn your ACL, you are more likely to tear it again, so she mentally disputes her mother’s claim. She has no energy to voice the thought, however.

“Mamá, she’s convinced she’s going to have a heart attack.” Alba points to her sister’s chest, as if to disagree by showing their mother that nothing seems to be out of the ordinary. They begin to argue, and Alexia watches her family implode, deeming herself once more, Alexia, The Ruiner.

It’s not a heart attack, it turns out. She falls victim to a severe panic attack just as they begin to wheel her away. They increase her dosage of anaesthetic.

Unfortunately, the next morning Alexia comes to after a successful surgery and remembers nothing. That is until she looks to her bedside and finds only her mother there (Alba having gone to the big, empty apartment to adjust it to her sister’s newly-disabled lifestyle).

She relives the kisses Jenni used to press to her neck, the marks sucked into her skin though Jenni knew she was not hers to brand. She relives your expression when you told her you knew, the grimace you had worn, the way your eyes flicked to the ensuite as though you were going to throw up at any point.

She hears her knee pop again, sees the trophy slip from her grasp, sees it float into the realm of possibility along with the Champions League cup.

“You’re awake,” Eli says with surprise, offering a warm but sympathetic smile. She reaches out to touch Alexia, but Alexia jerks her body backwards, instantly regretting it when her knee begins to ache unbearably. “They said you’ll be in a lot of pain at first, but it will subside and, soon, you can start recovery. Your physiotherapist is going to visit in an hour or so, and I cannot count how many well-wishes you have received.” Weirdly, Eli thinks to herself, Jenni has said nothing.

Alexia shakes her head, trying to dispel the fog in her mind. “Do the… Do the children know I am hurt?”

“I believe so,” Eli replies with a nod. “Y/n broke the news to them, but we haven’t heard from her since you went into the operating theatre. I have no idea whether she’s going to come here. I assume she will.”

“She won’t,” mutters Alexia, refusing to look at her mother.

“Oh, don’t be so gloomy. She’s your wife, of course she is going to come.” A dark storm brews in the cagey hospital room, but Eli remains an oblivious ray of sunshine. “I know you don’t want Nico and Lela to see you like this, but they miss you. They must have been so excited for the Euros!”

All of it is the wrong thing to say. If Eli had known, she would have approached the uncertainty differently.

If Alexia were not so angry at herself, so guilty, so destructive, she would have calmly explained that your absence is both warranted and understandable.

Instead.

Well, instead, this comes out of her: “She is not going to come because I had a fucking affair and she has left me and taken the children to fucking England where they are probably never going to be allowed to see me ever, and I will live out the rest of my days as a fucking coach because I am useless and I am never going to play football again!”

Eli sits back in her chair, shocked.

“What have you done?”

Neither knows if it is a question or a damnation, but Alexia chooses to answer her mother regardless; “I have ruined everything, and now I am paying the price for it.”

…

Your friends gloat a little bit, calling it Karma. Anya and Gio are first in disbelief, but they soon progress onto the stage of hatred – something you have not yet been able to access.

For now, life feels as though it is on auto-pilot. Your children are happy and safe, your country is going to do well in the Euros, and time does not stop ticking no matter how hard you wish it would.

Alexia’s surgery is successful. You see the update on Twitter, not wanting to contact Alba or Eli in case Alexia thinks you have forgiven her. You haven’t. Perhaps you never will.

“There are two ways you can go about this,” Gio says with a smirk, holding out a thong to you as you stand in your bedroom in just a towel. “You’re hot and rich and famous… and now single, too.” You are not completely sure of that, but you nod, following along. You slip into the lace and then point to the England shirt folded on top of your pillow. It gets thrown at your face. “You can wallow in it and weep like a damsel in distress, giving her the satisfaction of breaking your heart…”

“I don’t think she wanted to–”

“She cheated on you,” Gio cuts you off bluntly. After a moment, your shoulders drop and you resign to hearing her plan. “As said earlier, hot, rich, famous… Babe, just get with someone else. Get with everyone else! Your babies are looked after 24/7 and this is London, my dear. The pond is really an ocean and you are a catch. As your bestest friend, I know what’s best for you. You’ve got an album coming out in September, a tour to hop on in November, and about three thousand dildos you can hop on after that!”

You cringe. “Don’t be crass.”

“Don’t be a prude.” She gestures to herself. “Look at me; Mia’s fine and healthy, doesn’t legally have to see her arsehole of a father, and I get a good shag every fortnight.”

“No, I’ve drawn up the custody agreement already. I’ll go back to Barcelona when the school year starts, and we can swap every two weekends. But I’m keeping our home – she can find somewhere else to live, seeing as all of this is her fault.”

“And the tour?” Gio asks as you pull on your England jersey and a pair of shorts. Good weather has blessed the start of the tournament, and you have been invited to the first match at Old Trafford by Manchester United themselves. Gio and Anya are coming, and you think they have put you in with a few of their players and executives. Your father has his own ticket, planning to meet you there and convince you to pay your grandmother a visit (she doesn’t like that you are lesbian and therefore you don’t like her).

“I don’t know,” you sigh, “because I’m not sure if it’s a good idea to make the children’s lives even more unstable. Maybe it’s best to give them a few months to adjust to the idea of us not being together.”

Gio hums in agreement, knowing she had it easy with her own co-parenting adjustment because her daughter was a baby with no recollection of her parents being a couple, much less in-love. “You’re a good mum.” She kisses your cheek and wraps you in a very needed hug. “You’ll get through this because you are stronger than a pathetic affair.”

You swear.

“What time’s our train leaving?!”

The match is a good one, and the atmosphere is enough to make you feel the slightest bit alive. Spain plays in two days, and though you have good reason to believe Alexia is going to be there, you are booking a family trip to Legoland to delay the first hand-off of many.

England win with one goal to nil, courtesy of Beth Mead’s chip. You are on your feet, cheering the entire match. One of the United executives tells you that he loves your passion and asks you if you’d take his ticket to the post-match drinks as he wants to head home for a nap. You laugh, the old Mancunian reminding you of your father, and accept. It’s just the one ticket, so you bid Gio and Anya goodbye, book a hotel for the night (comfortable with the idea that Isabela has safe hands to care for your children), and give your father a valid reason to pass up on the visit to Didsbury.

The only person at this event that you really know is Alessia Russo, after exchanging a few DMs last Christmas to wrangle a signed Manchester United jersey for Nico’s Christmas present (a gift Alexia had refused to say was from her as well).

“No kids today?” she asks with a grin, pulling you into a friendly hug.

“Didn’t manage to get them tickets,” you reply. “But now I get to drink, and you get to watch me and wish you weren’t on a nutrition plan.”

She shakes her head. “We’ve actually been instructed to celebrate the wins. Sarina Wiegman says it’s a key part of tournament success.” You look around the room, noticing every Lioness here, hair still wet from the showers and donning team-issued tracksuits, has a can of beer in their hands. Jorge Vilda could never. “Glad to see you haven’t yet become a Spain and Barcelona fan. Feeling patriotic enough to be introduced to our captain?”

Leah Williamson bears the same concentrated eyes gifted to Alexia; determination, victory, leadership.

You’re unsure if you have ever formally met her, perhaps at the Brits once. “I go with Alex? Alex Scott,” she says, as though she is trying to impress you. She takes the briefest of looks down to your hands that hang near your waist with no glass to hold (the bar has cut you off for half an hour).

You wear one ring. It is not the one with which Alexia promised you her total devotion, but it is from her all the same. An old gift – maybe from your first anniversary?

Leah doesn’t ask whether you are still married.

“I heard your son loves football?” He is obsessed with his mother, he wishes to follow her in every single thing she does. “You should bring him to our next match. I’ll get him one of those passes, and– Hey, you know what? I bet there’s a way I can get him a place as a mascot for one of the matches! Both our next ones are down south.”

You smile. “Really?”

“Yeah, course. He might be a bit young but I’m always glad to help out our little fans, and it might throw Spain off their game.” She winks, offering no further explanation, and is suddenly called away before you can request more information.

You have to admit, the idea of Nico walking (toddling) out with England makes you feel both proud and satisfied. It will be a tiny jab towards Alexia, which, honestly, is a privilege considering how she has stabbed you in the back repeatedly with a machete.

When your son’s first time on a proper football pitch is with Alessia Russo, holding her hand with wide eyes and a wider smile, you are sure Alexia has smashed the screen of whatever TV she has been studying her opponents with.

…

Spain playing England in the quarter-final feels intensely political within your family.

Alexia is in Brighton for the first time in her life, and she hates more than anything that she is not preparing herself for a match. She won’t be going through her pre-game rituals for another seven months, at least.

You tell Isabela to take the children to Alexia’s hotel, unable to put yourself in front of the wheel. Your hands have not stopped shaking since your manager texted you a screenshot of their conversation (seeing as you refuse to talk to her, not for pettiness but for fear of breaking yourself in two), and Isabela poured you a glass of wine before she left to calm your nerves.

You feel sick, and the toilet water turns red as your body rejects the rioja. Once you have wiped your mouth, you laugh at the notion that even Spanish wine is unwelcome inside of you.

“Who are you?” Alexia demands as the revolving doors of the lobby reveal her two babies with a stranger. She is quick to remove Elena from the arms of this new woman, although she is disgruntled by how comfortable her daughter seems. One of her crutches falls to the ground, Alexia not having been able to master childcare and post-surgery impairments because she has not seen the children she is supposed to care for, but she does not find it in herself to care.

“Hola, Sra. Putellas. Encantada.” Isabela holds out her hand but Alexia does not shake it, jaw clenched at the way you have gotten a Spanish-speaking nanny as though to completely erase her babies’ Catalan accents and memory of their other mother! “Me contrataron para ayudar a Y/n con los niños. Me dijeron que usted se encargaría de ellos hoy.”

“Sí, lo estoy haciendo, porque son MIS hijos.” She looks at Nico, who has been hiding shyly behind his nanny’s leg, afraid of his mother’s fierceness. Alexia softens, hoping to welcome him into her embrace, but her stupid knee won’t bend and she can’t get onto his level. Isabela reaches out to help her, or to at least steady her so that she doesn’t drop the squirming toddler she is holding, but the help is unwanted and, quite frankly, embarrassing.

Alexia’s frustration brings tears to her eyes.

She quickly blinks them back.

“¿Le gustaría que la ayudara, Sra. Putellas? Me han pagado por trabajar hoy, así que no es un proble–”

“¡No!” Alexia snaps. Silently, she curses how condescending and petty you have become. Paying the nanny in advance to taunt her for her injuries! “No. Estaré bien. Soy su madre.”

“Por supuesto, pero también está herida.” Isabela looks around the lobby for a moment. “¿Está sola?”

Alexia knows that Mapi’s parents are going to be arriving any minute now, kindly offering to help out with Nico and Elena. “Oh, we do not mind! We’d love for María to have children of her own,” they had said.

“Soy perfectamente capaz de manejarlo–”

“Isabela,” Isabela supplies.

“Isabela,” Alexia repeats. “Ahora, si ha terminado, vaya a disfrutar su día libre.”

She waits on the sofa just left of the door for Mapi’s parents, silently begging them to arrive as soon as possible. Nico is bored and would like to run around, upset that Alexia denies him his fun whenever he whines to play. Elena is tired, grumpily napping in Alexia’s lap, but that means she can’t position her knee the way the surgeons had asked her to. Isabela hadn’t meant to, but she had dumped two rucksacks of toys, snacks, and clothes onto Alexia, who still hasn’t been able to retrieve her crutch from the floor.

Close to tears and very overwhelmed, the arrival of the couple comes as a great relief. “Oh, you poor thing,” coos Mapi’s mother, a caring woman from whom her friend inherited the same quality. She kisses Alexia’s forehead and instantly takes the weight from her lap, hushing the soft whimpers Elena lets out. “Let us look after the babies. You make sure you have the tickets sorted. Have you taken your pain medication? Oh, let me take care of it for you.”

The fuss is something she has had to get used to, but she is thankful for the assistance. They wrestle Nico into his red Spain jersey, something he was not delivered in, and they ensure all three of their wards are comfortable before the stadium appears in the windshield of the taxi.

Alexia begins to get nervous.

Spain has more talent than England – always has – but they don’t have the same funding nor support. Their manager is a dickhead and the federation corrupt, and Alexia’s teammates suffer daily in a way no Lioness would be able to comprehend. She fears for their reputation, for their progression.

Her nerves increase when she sees you in the stands, in your own box of course. It seems that you see her too, but your only acknowledgement of her presence is the wave you give to your children. Alexia has to remind them sharply in Catalan that they are Spanish.

Afterwards, when Spain lost and Alexia is blaming herself for the defeat, you walk through the tunnel, following Leah’s directions that she had sent over text. You’d added her to your contacts yesterday, growing tired of Instagram DMs.

The odd thing about this area is that to your left, nothing is heard and the air hangs its head in shame, but to your right, a nation celebrates its victory. Sadly, you know you have to fetch your children from the Spain changing room before you say goodbye to the English heroines.

You knock on the door, politely. You have never been more glad that a player has not been selected for a squad. Jenni has missed the Euros due to injury, much like her partner-in-crime.

A solemn Ona Batlle, a Manchester United player who serves as a bridge between worlds in your household, opens the door, making no attempt to force a smile when she sees that it is you. You are (were) their captain’s wife; you are like family.

“Hi,” you breathe, not wanting to be the one to pierce through the silence.

Ona stands to one side and you pass.

Most of the girls are tearful, sniffling into their jerseys, heads in their hands, but no one is as distraught as Mapi. Her sobs take the fun out of winning, her devastation crushing and contagious and impossibly hard to ignore. She buries her face into Alexia’s shoulder, but it does nothing to muffle her cries.

You gulp, catching hazel eyes, understanding the plea to not make this feel worse.

You are heartbroken, and so is Mapi. For different reasons, yes, but both organs are shattered in the same way.

Alexia mutters something very quietly, secretly wishing Mapi does not let her go because this is the first time the defender has actually spoken to her since Alexia did what she did, but the blonde hair stops itching her face soon enough.

Rooted to the spot, you search the room for two smaller Spaniards, finding them both taking after Alexia, comforting the players.

“Nico, Lela, come on,” you croak, finding tears in your own eyes. “Say bye-bye to Mami.”

Their hugs and kisses are missed the moment Alexia leaves the country, and the absence of them makes Alexia crumble completely when she finds the letter from your lawyer that Alba has been hiding from her.

…

September rolls around with school, the start of your custody agreement, and the release of your new album.

Judgement Day.

For many, it confirms the split from your wife. Those pictures were never picked up by a magazine, so you have had them deleted with a baseless threat to sue for defamation.

Alexia no longer has to communicate with you through one of your employees, but any texts exchanged are few and far between. She tells you that she is renting a flat near the training centre. It has three bedrooms, but Nico and Elena share one because her mother is living with her while she recovers from her ACL. She also partially tore her meniscus, though she had hesitated to pass that news on, but everything seems to be in order and she is ahead of schedule.

You reluctantly text her whenever you leave the country, whether that is because you are flying to London for work (and to visit Leah, who you are now good friends with) or because a club opening has called and you have answered. It’s not as messy as the media makes it seem, but you agree with the articles that say you seem to drink as though it is what keeps you alive. The word ‘addict’ gets thrown around, but you are sitting in an armchair in front of your therapist before that escalates, if not for yourself then for the sake of your children.

They themselves do not understand. Nico frequently asks when Alexia will come home, though he has usually just visited her when this question pops out, and Elena throws big tantrums during the swaps. Those are done at a neutral location: the park near you. You hope the playground takes the edge off the palpable tension between you and Alexia as you sit on opposite sides of the same bench, exchanging brief updates about your shared duty until whoever is a mother for the next two weekends makes up an excuse to go.

Just before Christmas, once you have calculated that it’s technically Alexia’s turn with their children until January, you go on your biggest night-out since the days when all you were was a 2010s pop star in a girl-group. With no one to go home to and an empty house in Highgate awaiting your return, you get the closest to sleeping with someone else since before meeting Alexia. Her lips trail down your neck, the white powder on her nose rubbing onto your skin as she presses herself into you. You grope her body desperately, painfully dissatisfied by the bones and creamy skin your hands find. You are used to muscle, to strength, to power.

Not some anorexic model who calls you a MILF and hasn’t had a sober day in years.

In the end, you don’t end up sleeping with her, but it makes the headlines nonetheless. Your publicist lets them. “The world needs to see you move on, even if you aren’t,” she says. Your slight disagreement is not voiced, and social media explodes with further confirmation that you are single. A group of football fans are quick to attack you, calling you cruel for leaving Alexia when she is injured, but the thousand-person army doesn’t particularly bother you. You are doing your ex a favour by not opening up about the reason for the split, and you are both aware of that.

You spend Christmas with your parents, who are not pleased to have you moping about their house. Your father tells you that success is the best revenge. You tell him that your album has topped the charts in December, winning its battle against Christmas music.

“But that hasn’t mended a broken heart,” he is unkind enough to point out. “And neither will models, drugs, or alcohol.”

At this point in the day, you have made it through a bottle and a half of wine and a pack of Marlboro Golds. Voice hoarse from smoking and sobbing the entirety of Christmas Eve, you tell him to “fuck off” and call a taxi for yourself.

You don’t remember the destination you had typed in, but you end up at Leah Williamson’s house.

Leah is home, having returned from Milton Keynes half an hour ago, and is not really surprised by the state you are in. She supposes that she has gotten to know you well enough to realise that you are far from stable. This is the first time the English captain has seen you heartbroken, but she is unsure whether it will be the last.

…

Your tour commences the following month, with January being a fresh start to a new year. You tell Leah, who invites you out with her on NYE, that this year you won't be cheated on. It is not the comment that makes her laugh, but rather the way it slurs out of your mouth.

Barcelona feels suffocating when you arrive at the park to say goodbye to Nico and Elena. You’ll be in the States for the entire month and maybe some of February. Alexia is sure it will be fine, especially since the team has taken it upon themselves to look after the two children and help where they can. Additionally, Alexia is growing closer to one of her friends, Olga, who loves children and wanted to be a teacher before she decided on something much cooler.

Alexia has the courtesy to send Mapi and Ingrid in her place, knowing that you do not want to talk to her. You haven’t yet heard her explanation, but that does not matter. Nothing excuses what she did, and nothing will. (And with Jenni, who is no longer the godmother to Elena, the title being revoked instantly.)

“Will you miss us?” Nico asks as you kiss his soft hair, hugging him tightly. “Mami said that we have to swap every three findes so why no now?”

“Why not now?” you gently correct him. “Because I have to work. I’m going to sing in front of lots and lots of people and, maybe, write some new songs!” Your attempt to excite him crashes and burns, but you are not going to give up. “This is a secret so you can’t tell anyone, but some really, really special people want to make songs with me.”

“Who?” he pouts.

“Well, one of Mami’s favourites, Karol G. She is very nice, and she told me she has an idea for a collaboration.” Petty, yes, but also a career move. Nico’s innocence and lack of understanding about the meaning of separation means that he sees your plans as a very nice gift for Alexia. “And, let me think. Ooh, Bad Bunny – you know him, don’t you? I’m sure Pina or Patri or–”

He pulls away from your embrace, taking a step back. “Sí,” he says, sounding exactly like Alexia, “but to Mami, she no like because he says rude things.”

“Adults are allowed to say rude things,” you reply with a cheeky smile, winking at him. “Your mami says rude things all the time, but not in front of you.”

“Really?”

“Yep, but you’ll have to ask her about that.”

Alexia has hobbled through the nighttime routines, aided by Olga, who has halved the job by picking Elena and Nico up from nursery and school and watching them until Alexia’s day at the training ground had ended. Her and Olga haven’t kissed yet, but Alba has advised her sister to be quick about it if she ever intends to. Alexia is not sure she does want that, because your absence has only made how much she loves you (and how much she fucked up) even more obvious.

Their beds are on opposite sides of the room, which is technically the master bedroom – only fair, Alexia thinks, because they are having to share here but not when staying with you – and Elena is fast asleep by the time Nico is tired of the bedtime stories he has relentlessly requested. She brushes off the slight sting of his dismissal of her acting and helps him settle underneath the covers.

As usual, she presses a kiss to both cheeks and the tip of his nose, and tells him to have nice dreams and a good rest. The weekend starts tomorrow, which means he gets to join Alexia at the training centre and sit in on the sessions. Alexia is slightly jealous because she is still stuck in the gym, but as long as he is entertained, she will get over it.

“Mami, how long is a month?” asks Nico, voice small and groggy and… is that a hint of an accent? Maybe the two and a half months of Isabela’s Spanish has affected him. She will look into it.

He tugs on her jumper when she spaces out. “Sorry,” Alexia whispers. “A month is thirty days. Maybe you need to pay attention at school.” She pokes his cheek playfully, and he giggles.

“I do pay attention, I do. Thirty days is long.”

Alexia dreams of the football pitch, of the grass she has been promised she will play on before April. “It can be very long,” comes her agreement, picturing where in her recovery she will be come February. “It can also be very short.”

“I miss Mama.”

His statement, unbeknownst to him, is uncomfortably relatable.

“Thirty days will be very short. You’ll see her again soon, and, you know what? She made me promise to give you goodnight kisses from her every night! She is going to send them to me from America, and I’ll pass them onto you.”

“Really?”

“Sí,” says Alexia with pursed lips, raising her eyebrows to invite him to doubt her. He looks up at her with adoration, as if her word is law. She can only be thankful that you are merciful enough to have not turned her own children against her. You have expressed your wish to keep them from being collateral damage, and Alexia respects you for that.

“Mama said that she makes songs in LA with Karol G!”

Then again, there are other ways to be petty.

…

Touring has always exhausted you. Eat, sleep, travel, sing, in varying orders; the schedule grows repetitive and tight after the first week.

After the first show in LA, you bring a blurry face to your hotel room. You kiss her, you can’t bear to do anything more, and you let her sleep off her drugs in your bed while you take the sofa in your suite.

High on adrenaline half the time and utterly knocked-out when not, you zombie your way through the travelling, grouchily rehearsing new songs on the road, signing merchandise for your screaming fans. You get asked about your private life in a few interviews initially, but the journalists soon learn that the topic is to be avoided if they wish for you to talk to them at all.

The headlines continue to tear apart images captured of you at clubs, and magazines never seem to find the pictures of you with your children when you visit them while you make your way around Europe.

There comes a point where you look at a woman and she becomes, in the eyes of the media, your latest plaything.

Alexia is seething by the time your two-night show in Barcelona rolls around.

One day, when Nico and Elena understand the concepts of affairs and heartbreak, they will see the articles written about their mothers; the hate Alexia gets, the times she has been called a whore by fans of the same sport she devotes her life to, the stark inequality between her and her male counterparts. With these horrors of the world, they’ll see the pictures of you, pupils blown out, eyes red. Women clinging onto you that perhaps faintly resemble Alexia.

Because Alexia knows you, because she loves you, she can see that what has been labelled your ‘slay’ era is really fuelled by devastation. A disaster that she caused. It riddles her with guilt, but she doesn't know how to expel that emotion from her head without reverting to the early days of her loneliness where she ate nothing and made her sister seriously worry whether she was going to find her bleeding out in the bathtub one day. And so, with a lack of command over such a strong feeling, she decides to rage. She is furious with your irresponsibility.

“Where should we eat?” your guitarist asks with a grin as you touchdown in Barcelona. The soft murmur of Spanish and Catalan is unexpectedly comforting, the familiarity grounding. Maybe Barcelona has become your home. Maybe it never stopped being that, because home is where the heart is and, frustratingly, yours still belongs to the woman who tore it out of your chest and didn’t even have the guts to tell you about it.

“I can’t,” you reply quickly, wiping the sweat from travel off your brow with the sleeve of your turtleneck. “I promised my son I’d tuck him in while I’m in the country, and my daughter has been drawing at nursery so I’d like to collect some of the pictures and see if I can get them blown up onto canvases.”

Laughing, your crew make their way off the jet. “You know, most celebrities would pay thousands for abstract art but you get yours from a toddler.”

“She’s talented.” Mapi draws with her, you’ve been told. Elena is what makes Ingrid yearn for a ring to appear in their relationship sooner rather than later. “And take the piss all you want, but if you had had to put my kids through what I have, you’d feel the same.”

The sofa in the Putellas household (the apartment no longer inhabited by Eli, who was very glad to escape the intense atmosphere as soon as Alexia was cleared to live by herself) houses three unsettled humans of varying sizes. The biggest, Alexia, shifts on the soft, new cushions, awaiting your arrival with gulps of brewing tears and the latest set of paparazzi photos of you fresh in her mind. The boy, Nico, practically vibrates with excitement, promising himself that he will drag out this bedtime as long as possible to make up for all the others you have missed. The smallest is upset because she hasn’t fallen asleep yet, kept awake by her older brother who shakes her whenever she starts to drift off, hastily scolding her with a ‘no, Lela! Mama is coming home’.

With no key to this flat, you are forced to be buzzed up.

The anticipation builds. Nico and Alexia try to remember what you smell like, testing themselves to see if they can recall it scent for scent. Have you changed your shampoo? Alexia wonders, Do you still use the same moisturiser?

“Hi, my darlings!” you squeal as the door flies open and Nico comes hurtling into your crouched form, closely followed by his unsteady little sister. “Oh, how I’ve missed you!” You squeeze them as though you are never going to let go, and only release them from the hug when Elena begins to whine, adrenaline rush dying and tiredness overcoming her once more.

“Mama, home,” Nico says with an inaccurate finality. You spare Alexia a glance as he pulls you through the bare walls and grey decor until you reach a door with stickers up and down the white-washed wood. “Mami made me change, but you can read! Lela wants this one.” He rumages through the box of books near the children’s whiteboard (on it, the odd x’s and o’s of football tactics), pulling out a few to stack into his own pile before thrusting something you recognise very well.

“Mami reads to us in English sometimes,” he says matter-of-factly, though Alexia silently curses him from where she is standing in the doorway. “Important to know.”

You chuckle. “Mm, very important. How else would you talk to me?” Elena quietly crawls into your lap, happy to take over Nico’s bed, where you are sitting. You stroke her hair, holding her close. “Mami reads you ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’?”

He is too young to know what scepticism looks like.

“Es que hay ‘La Pequeña Oruga Glotona’.”

You refuse to look at the voice which speaks, but you nod.

“Alright, why don’t you get into bed, and then I’ll start to make my way through the mountain of books. I am absolutely all yours for tonight, my loves.”

…

Alexia’s hands slam down on the dining table, slapping against the wood with a loud bang. “Enough!” she exclaims, her voice slicing through the tense air like a knife. Her eyes blaze in fury and you shrivel, not quite sure what you have done to her. You grant her the silence she needs to continue, though her shout echoes through the shattered tranquillity like a bomb that continues to explode. “It is enough.”

“What, Alexia?”

You sound kind of… bored once you have regained your composure. Your shock is now replaced with a blank expression, and you run your eyes over your nails, examining your cuticles so that you don’t risk making eye contact with her.

“You think you can just waltz in here as if you haven’t offered yourself to the entire world and expect everything to be okay?” Her voice trembles with indignation, venom dripping from each word she spits out. “You can’t go from common slut to mother in one day!”

Nails forgotten, you square your shoulders and set your jaw. “I hadn’t realised you were the jealous type, Ale.” The nickname slips out like a poisonous dart, taunting her, wounding her. It rattles her, and you intend to shake her more. “It’s none of your business, not anymore. Deal with it – or don’t, I don’t care.”

“What kind of example are you setting for our children?” she continues, lips curling into a scornful sneer. “Kissing anything with a mouth! Like some, some hormonal teenager. And to have it all over the papers? It’s trashy! It’s embarrassing for me, because my wife has her hands down the pants of every woman she meets, pumped full of alcohol and drugs and… You, you go to these events, paid to get yourself on the front pages so that they can be mentioned in the location of the incident, and… and that’s like prostitution! Making money from your body, from sex!”

Her fists clench and she storms towards you, footsteps harsher than her bad knee can probably take, but you make no move to back down. You lift your chin up; “I don’t have to resort to prostitution for money. I have more than enough.”

“Then you do it for attention,” Alexia reasons with herself, albeit very loudly. “That is what you are, aren’t you? A slut for the cameras and the glitz and glamour of it all. So quick to jet off on tour, leaving me with our children–”

“I may be a ‘slut’ for attention, but at least I am not a whore for a woman who is not my fucking wife!” You press your hand to her chest roughly, pushing her away from you. “I’m not the one who had an affair, I’m not the one who ruined everything!”

Alexia recoils at your words, freeing herself from your searing touch before she melts. She forces her fury to its boiling point. “How dare you,” she seethes, voice cracking at the ferocity in which she forces the sentence out. “You think you can just throw my mistakes in my face?” You hold your ground. She will not intimidate you. “You think you’re so righteous, but you’re not as innocent as you pretend to be.”

It is a baseless accusation. You both know it.

“The only fact we have here is that you fucked Jenni. Our daughter’s godmother. Your ‘best friend’, my friend too! I trusted her, and I trusted you, and you took that trust and obliterated it by sleeping with her!”

Alexia wants to cut you deep, wants to give you the gory details of it all, but she hears the croak of your voice and knows you will not make it to your hotel if she tells you.

“I slept with Jenni, sure, but you have passed yourself around enough to make us even.”

“Nothing will make us ‘even’, Alexia,” you cry, meaning to sound scarier than you do. You can’t help the tears from streaming down your face, nor the hoarseness of your throat. “And I would never ever do to you what you did to me!”

You have to go on vocal rest the next day, otherwise the concert would be called off.

Alexia refuses to attend, even though most of her teammates will, instead pawning Nico and Elena off to your backstage staff and dangerously driving herself to Alba’s place.

It is one of those nights where Alba cannot leave her side for fear Alexia will choke herself to death on her tears. When the elder of the two can longer hold it all in, Alba ties her hair back with an old hair bobble so that the blonde strands don’t get in the way of her sister’s vomit.

("I don't want to live like this," Alexia says, her eyes wide and alert. Her little sister looks at her with empathy, searching, with a broken heart, for a version of a woman from the past she's not sure she knows. This Alexia is not the same.

"Of course you don’t." It's obvious. Obvious by the way she forces her existence without happiness, without company, without a smile. It's like there is no sun in Alexia's world, nor a blue sky, nor an end.

It never ends.

So, she says, "I don't want to live like this, without her, without the family I dream of every night, every waking moment. I don’t want to live, Alba. I didn’t want to live in August, and I haven’t since, and I… I do it because people rely on me." She takes in a deep, acidic breath, grimacing at the taste of bile on her tongue. “If it were just me, just Alexia”--The Ruiner, she silently adds–“I wouldn’t be here. Alba, Alba, I don’t want to live like this.”

She carries on repeating it because Alba has to understand. There can't be a possibility that Alba thinks her sister is insincere. What a lie that would be! To Alexia, she prefers death over continuing like this, with her head in the toilet and vomiting, vomiting, vomiting.

"If I had the chance, I would go back to August 2021 and never sleep with Jenni. I’d not let her kiss me, not give into it. I'm exhausted from it; from my loneliness, from the kids' questions, asking when their mother will come back home. Do you know that Nico asked me if we still loved him? If she still loves him? And why his friends have two parents and he seems to have a shell of a woman for one, and a vacant space in the king-sized bed for the other?"

"She might not want you again, however, and your imagined future may be false – it is the opposite of reality, no? If I were her, I wouldn't. You cheated on her when she only gave you love and patience and… Well, Alexia, I swear I really want to see you happy, but I just don't think she'll forgive you."

"And why not?"

Alba sighs. She places her hand on Alexia's back, moving it in circles to calm her sister down. When they were little, it was always Alexia who helped Alba. With school, with her problems, with new lovers or ones from the past. It was her responsibility to take care of her little sister, and when their father died and there were only three of them, Alexia felt that responsibility even more.

Here, roles reversed, Alba can only apply that which she has learnt from the heaving lump of flesh slumped on the chequered tiles.

"Alba," repeats Alexia, lowering her voice, relenting. "She loves me."

The younger of the two can’t help the tears that brim in her eyes, distressed in her own right. "She loves you despite your other girlfriend because she's a saint. She's a saint but, if you want her to be happy, you cannot take advantage of her," Alba warns gravely, sincerely, and correctly. Alexia lifts her head and looks at the clock on the bathroom wall. Alba's apartment is clean and trendy, just like the woman, and she has dirtied it with her presence. She remains, for the foreseeable future, Alexia, The Ruiner.

"Smartass."

"It's just the truth."

"Well, if that's the truth, I'd rather you be a liar."

Alba sighs again, more heavily, and asks Alexia to get up from the floor. If Alexia's knee hurts, she says nothing and jumps up and down. "Ay, your knee," Alba grumbles but Alexia keeps going. She keeps going and going until she can't breathe and her lungs hurt. She keeps going because she believes it will rid her of her sadness, or at least hopes so. She hasn't stopped when Alba asks her to. A loud voice breaks the silence. "What are you doing?"

"Destroying everything. If I can't be with her, I don't want to play football. I don't want to walk, or see, or talk. I just don't want to live."

To Alba, this tells her two things. One is that her sister has gone batshit crazy. The other? Well, that is the solution. It's simple, really; one sentence, and Alexia will know what she has to do.

"You need to fix this.")

Heartbreak is ugly, but Alexia’s guilt is uglier.

#woso x reader #woso #woso fanfics #barca femeni #woso imagines #fc barcelona #mapi leon #ona batlle #alexia #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas #alexia putellas imagine #randombush3

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fangirl-dot-com · 4 months

Text

Chapter 15 - Oh no! Oh wait, sorry, ahem - AUR NAUR

It's race number 3! Since I have a master list and didn't want the chapters to get so mundane and have the same story line, I have decided to skip a couple of the races. And each chapter won't be the whole race either. I might just decided to focus on one aspect of the race and add in the results after!

TAG LIST IS CLOSED

So anyway - it's LIGHTS OUT AND AWAY WE GO AT THE 2024 AUSTRALIA GRAND PRIX

Jeddah Results

Max Verstappen + 25

Charles Leclerc +18

Fernando Alonso +15

Lando Norris +12

Lewis Hamilton +11

Y/n L/n +8

George Russell +6

Oscar Piastri +4

Daniel Ricciardo +2

Carlos Sainz +1

Alex Albon +0

Lance Stroll +0

Logan Sargeant +0

Pierre Gasly +0

Yuki Tsunoda +0

Esteban Ocon +0

Zhou Guanyu +0

Kevin Magnussen +0

Nico Hulkenberg +0

Valtteri Bottas +0

Standings after Jeddah

Max Verstappen – 50 points

Charles Leclerc – 36 points

Lando Norris – 23 points

Lewis Hamilton – 23 points

Y/n L/n – 23 points

Fernando Alonso – 16 points

George Russell – 12 points

Carlos Sainz – 9 points

Oscar Piastri – 8 points

Daniel Ricciardo – 2 points

Alex Albon – 2 points

Lance Stroll – 0 points

Logan Sargeant – 0 points

Pierre Gasly – 0 points

Yuki Tsunoda – 0 points

Esteban Ocon – 0 points

Zhou Guanyu – 0 points

Kevin Magnussen – 0 points

Nico Hulkenberg – 0 points

Valtteri Bottas – 0 points

Constructors Standings after Jeddah

Red Bull – 73 points

Ferrari – 45 points

Mercedes – 35 points

McLaren – 32 points

Williams – 2 points

Aston Martin – 3 points

Racing Bulls – 15 points

Alpha Romeo – 0 points

Haas – 0 points

Alpine – 0 points

RACE TIME

Your helmet was already on as you waited for the final round of qualifying to start. The first five out were Zhou, Pierre, Kevin, Nico, and Valtteri. Then Yuki, Lance, Logan, Alex, and surprisingly Carlos followed them out in the second round. You were glad that you had been on the upper level for all of the free practices and the first rounds of quali. You were finally given the signal to get back into the car.

Your legs squeezed into the form fitting area that was there to keep you in. With eyes glancing at the screen in front of you, the data seemed good for today. You knew that you didn’t want to jinx a podium. You were lucky enough to get third place the first race and then in your opinion, a lousy P6 in Jeddah. Everyone around you had told you that it was a great placing for a rookie. But you were hungry.

And only the top step could satiate that hunger.

With a wave of a mechanic’s hand, you were given the signal to go ahead. You had completely your first lap, which set you up in the lower level at position 6. You wouldn’t be doing your second flying lap until Oscar completed his. At this point, you had been bumped up to position 4 with Oscar in position 5. And you knew he wanted to get around you, hence the second flying lap.

Your car was sailing smoothly as you warmed your tires to have one more try to get higher on the leaderboard. Yet ahead, Esteban Ocon was doing something weird, but it didn’t raise any flags. You kept your distance as he suddenly slowed down a lot on one corner. It was going well, until Mitch suddenly came on the radio.

“Kid you have to get out of the way. Piastri approaching on his flying lap.”

You were going too fast behind Ocon.

You pressed the button. “Where the hell am I supposed to go? Ocon is not moving or speeding up.”

In a final try to not hit him, you swerved to go around. But, that was the moment that Oscar came flying around the corner. You were just around the Alpine car when something hit the back of your car.

“Shit!”

David Croft’s voice could be heard for the viewers.

“There goes the Red Bull of Y/n L/n and the McLaren of Oscar Piastri! They were close together around the corner as Piastri was on his flying lap and they made contact! Looking back it seems as though the Alpine of Esteban Ocon had suddenly slowed down and L/n had nowhere to go. The stewards will definitely be looking at that. Those two will not be happy. And there is the red flag, ending the session early.

“We have Max Verstappen with a pole position followed by Leclerc, and then Daniel Ricciardo, which is his best position in years and it’s on home turf. He will be followed by L/n, unless she received a penalty, and then Piastri in P5 with his teammate Lando Norris in P6. The two Mercedes take P7 and P8 with Russell then Hamilton. Then last but not least Fernando Alonso followed by Esteban Ocon, unless he also receives a penalty for possibly causing a collision.”

Now, your car didn’t go flying, but you did end up off the track. And to your right was the bright orange (papaya) livery of one Oscar Piastri.

“What the actual fuck? What was he thinking?” You moaned out as you began to unstrap your seatbelt.

“Are you ok kid?” Christian’s concerned voice came over the radio. Back at the garage, Mitch, Christian, and Max were all watching. Max had a comfortable pole position.

You pressed the button again. “Yeah, I’m ok. How’s Oscar? Christian I’m so sorry.”

A sigh of relief left the older Brit’s mouth. “It’s not your fault kid. We’ve brought it up with the stewards.”

Max’s voice sounded through the radio again. “That was Ocon’s fault. I don’t know what the fuck he was thinking.”

With Oscar, it was a similar story. The Aussie pressed his radio.

“What the hell was that?” Normally, Oscar wouldn’t rage over his radio, but this was different.

Tom Stallard answered the younger driver. “What we’re seeing is Ocon slowed way down and L/n had nowhere to go.”

Oscar huffed. “What position did I end up with?”

“Uh, P5 mate. Sorry, I knew you wanted higher.”

With a grunt, Oscar grasped the halo and pulled himself up. His helmet-clad head turned in your direction, and he was surprised to see that you hadn’t gotten out yet. He was immediately swarmed by marshals as he stepped onto the grass.

“Is she ok?” he questioned, body still turned to you. However, the marshal that held his arm just gently tugged him toward the car.

You sighed as you just sat for a moment. Bruises would definitely appear later on your front. “Is Oscar ok?”

Mitch had finally gotten her radio back. “He’s out. Just be gentle. He and you don’t need to go to the hospital. Now, undo your steering wheel and go to the car please.”

You listened to Mitch and quickly undid your wheel. However, your blood was boiling. Quoting Mad Max, you hoped you wouldn’t see the French driver back at the pits, for his sake. Gentle your ass, it was going to be on sight.

A grunt left your lips as you lifted yourself you using the halo. Your front burned as you did it, you needed to check on, well, your friend.

Multiple marshals tried to check on you, but you batted their arms away. Your steps quickened as you stalked toward the papaya driver. You knew cameras were following you, and you scolded yourself for not reigning in your angry expression.

“Oh no. Looks like L/n is mad. Does Red Bull have a thing for drivers with anger issues?” Crofty joked in the announcer’s box as he watched you take strides across the grass.

Oscar, who was still pulling against the woman, finally saw you storming toward him, almost knocking people over. He stiffened as you were now close, ready for anything. Technically, you were in the wrong, but no one had ever seen you angry yet.

He was surprised when arms tightly wrapped around him and squeezed him. A sniffle left your nose as Oscar wrapped his arms back around you. Shoulders shaking on your end, he started to rub your back in comfort.

“I’m so sorry,” you all but sobbed to him, still muffled by your helmet that was currently pressing up against his chest. You hadn’t planned to cry, but you felt terrible.

“I’m ok,” he whispered back. He knew he needed to get you away from the cameras so he gently guided you over to the car. Once the two of you were hidden behind the black SUV that came to pick you up, the two of you took your helmets off.

“There was nowhere for me to go! Ocon suddenly stopped. It was either just ram into his car or try to get around him in time. I guess the second option wasn’t a good option either.” You told him as they two of you rode back to the pits.

The moment the two of you were out, you were swarmed with both Red Bull and McLaren personelle. Max, Lando, and Charles were also there. You had calmed down on the ride there, but now your blood was boiling once again.

Your head swerved back and forth as you tried to find the French driver. Max must have caught on to your expression, because he put both hands on your shoulders and tried to direct you back to the home garage.

You tried to shrug his hands off. “Max, I need to find him.”

“Kid, no. It won’t do anything.”

By now, Charles had also stepped in front of you, trying to dissolve your want to find Ocon.

But the world was against the two drivers today as your eyes spotted him. And, you guess he didn’t think you’d be angry as he almost pranced over with a smirk on his face. You suddenly shoved your body against Max’s as you tried to push toward Esteban.

Your finger pointed over Max’s shoulder. “You fucking prick!”

That smirk faded on Esteban’s face as he saw your fuming expression. By now, you had attained a small crowd around you as you tried to keep pushing your way through. Daniel, and now Arthur, was also standing behind Max, trying to keep you contained.

“What did you think would happen? Huh? You fucking slow down to the left with me going toward you on someone’s flying lap?” You were surprisingly inching forward. “You could have seriously hurt someone!”

A hand suddenly was placed on your shoulder. Your eyes followed the arm and you came face to face with your team principal. One look from him had you stop in your tracks, yet you weren’t done yelling.

“You better watch out Ocon. Also, I know that you took my fucking juice box from the fridge. That was mine!”

Once you were finished, you harshly shrugged off Christian’s hand and stalked back toward your driver’s room.

Every driver that was watching was frozen as they watched your figure leaving.

“Uh, what the heck just happened?” Max questioned, looking around.

Daniel laughed. “What are you teaching her Max? This is Brazil 2018 all over again.”

Max could only chuckle as he also remembered that specific grand prix. But, he had been able to actually get close to the French driver. You, not so much.

Arthur huffed. “I’ll go find her. She hasn’t done something like this since 2021.” Arthur shuddered at his mention of the year. He disappeared in your direction.

Oscar turned toward Charles. “What happened in 2021.”

Charles only had a smirk on his face. “Let’s just say that someone ate her first for lunch and dinner.”

The group of men laughed as they each went back to their respective garages.

Turns out, there was nothing wrong with Ocon’s engine. He just didn’t know that you were right behind him. When you found out, you had more colorful words to follow.

Arthur had been able to calm you down by promising that you’d be able to hold a koala when the two of you went to the Australian Zoo the Monday following the race. You grumbled for the next hour as the two of you sat in your driver’s room, drinking juice box’s that Max dropped off.

News came out later that night that the stewards didn’t find any fault with you or Oscar. A giant sigh of relief fell out of everyone’s lips when the news was posted. Esteban, on the other hand, was handed a giant 10-place penalty. He would be starting P20 for the race. A content smile had graced your face for the remainder of Saturday night.

Sunday was thankfully a much happier story.

Starting Grid:

Max Verstappen

Charles Leclerc

Daniel Ricciardo

Y/n L/n

Oscar Piastri

Lando Norris

George Russel

Lewis Hamilton

Fernando Alonso

Carlos Sainz

Alex Albon

Logan Sargeant

Lance Stroll

Yuki Tsunoda

Valtteri Bottas

Nico Hulkenberg

Pierre Gasly

Zhou Guanyu

Kevin Magnussen

Esteban Ocon – 10-penalty

You were almost dancing in the car as you were placed on the P4 place.

Mitch came over the radio for the check. “Kid what has you so happy?”

Your smile widened under your helmet. “Arthur said I can hold a koala tomorrow. And Vito should be currently hunched over my computer, trying to navigate Ticket Master so I can go to Eras Tour Part 2.” You were practically squealing.

Mitch, back at the garage, turned around to find your manager. And sure enough, there he was hunched over your computer with a stressed look on his face. She only chuckled before she went back to look at your strategy. She knew your tyre reservation was much better than Bahrain or Jeddah. Both those races had you ending in a lower position than you or the team wanted.

And speaking of the team, you had actually bought everyone as many coffees as they wanted after working on your car all night to get it ready for today.

When the lights went out, the RB20 truly felt like a rocket ship. Around the second half of the race, you were able to overtake both Daniel (who went a bit wide) and then on the second to last lap Charles (who locked up, allowing both you and Daniel to overtake him). You knew the Monegasque would be sad, but according to your calculations, he should still be second in the constructors championship since he and his teammate finished before both Mercedes.

But that was for a later time.

Once again, you were on the podium. But this time, it was second place. You could only smile as you saw Daniel in the cooldown room, talking with Max.

You immediately went and sat on your chair and watched the Dutchman and the Aussie have a good conversation before Daniel turned to you.

“I thought I had it and then you came out of nowhere!”

You giggled in response. “Well, we have to thank Charles since he opened the door for us to slip through. I thought I wouldn’t be able to catch up and I was all like oh no! Oh wait, sorry, ahem, aur naurrrr.”

Daniel only rolled his eyes at your attempt at the accent.

The three of you had fun on the podium. Almost as it was ending, Daniel suddenly leaned over to you and Max.

“Hey! You wanna do a shoey with me?”

Max looked disgusted but you looked elated.

“Hell yeah!” you yelled back. You quickly sat on the podium and undid your shoe along with Daniel. The crowds seemed to get louder as the two of you started filling the shoes. The shoes met together in a mock toast before you brought yours to your lips.

You grimaced as the smelly shoe got close to your mouth and the lukewarm champagne poured down your throat. But the cheers and Daniel’s smile was honestly worth it.

The sticky liquid frothed down your chin as you finally pulled the shoe away and were led off the podium. Daniel and your smiles wouldn’t go away.

“I cannot believe you two just did that,” Max grumbled as the three of you walked toward the teams.

“Want a kiss Maxie?” Daniel puckered his lips and put his face near Max’s. The rebuttal was a hand on his face and a shove in the other direction.

As Daniel said goodbye, he picked up his black backpack.

You waved goodbye. “Are we still up for the zoo tomorrow?”

“Yep kid. I’ll see you there!”

You left with Max and jumped toward the team! They welcomed the two of you with open arms! Life really was great.

Race Results

Max Verstappen + 25

Y/n L/n +18

Daniel Ricciardo +15

Charles Leclerc +12

Oscar Piastri +11

Carlos Sainz +8

Fernando Alonso +6

Lando Norris +4

George Russell +2

Lewis Hamilton +1

Logan Sargeant +0

Alex Albon +0

Yuki Tsunoda +0

Pierre Gasly +0

Zhou Guanyu +0

Valtteri Bottas +0

Lance Stroll +0

Kevin Magnussen +0

Nico Hulkenberg +0

Esteban Ocon – DNF

Standings after Australia

Max Verstappen – 75 points

Charles Leclerc – 48 points

Y/n L/n – 41 points

Lando Norris – 27 points

Lewis Hamilton – 24 points

Fernando Alonso – 22 points

Oscar Piastri – 19 points

Carlos Sainz – 17 points

Daniel Ricciardo – 17 points

George Russell – 14 points

Alex Albon – 2 points

Lance Stroll – 0 points

Logan Sargeant – 0 points

Pierre Gasly – 0 points

Yuki Tsunoda – 0 points

Esteban Ocon – 0 points

Zhou Guanyu – 0 points

Kevin Magnussen – 0 points

Nico Hulkenberg – 0 points

Valtteri Bottas – 0 points

Constructors Standings after Australia

Red Bull – 189 points

Ferrari – 110 points

McLaren – 78 points

Mercedes – 73 points

Aston Martin – 25 points

Racing Bulls – 32 points

Williams - 0 points

Alpha Romeo – 0 points

Haas – 0 points

Alpine – 0 points

y/n.89 has posted

y/n.89 little bump on Saturday, first team 1-2 with shoeys on Sunday, and Arthur and I were surrounded by Aussies on Monday! Couldn't have asked for a better weekend!

liked by landonorris, oscarpiastri, estebanocon, and 69,289 others

champagne-without_the_cham not Esteban in her likes

landonorris uuhhhh were was my invite??

logansargeant and mine? maxverstappen1 and mine? y/n.89 you two get Oscar all the time and Max, Daniel is your second wife, you all can chill

arthur_leclerc it was fun, but I definitely got way too close to the gators

y/n.nation the second picture was everything

change_ur_f-car I KNOW that someone used *crikey* at least once

y/n.89 yeah, it was George on FaceTime

redbullracing love to see our driver spending some koala-ty time in Australia! See you in Japan soon

danielricciardo had lots of fun darl, we'll do it again sometime!

redbullracing has posted *I know Danny's hat says 1st but just pretend it's not there*

redbullracing It was a 1-2 and shoey type of weekend! see you all at Suzuka soon

liked by y/n.89, danielricciardo, f1_fanatic, y/n_updates, and 98,294 others

dannyricc03 YEAH DANNY ON THE PODIUM

danny&max ikr and the fact that it was with Max and Y/n - my heart y/nsfav and she did the shoey with him!!!

y/n.89 contrary to everyone's beliefs, the shoey was not that bad

landonorris lies lewishamilton lies aussiegrit lies zbrownceo lies nicorosberg lies y/n.89 ALL RIGHT I LIED danielricciardo wait...

maxiel4ever sad Max didn't do the shoey, but we got good maxiel content

kidandmaxie man, y/n's already had 3 races and two of them had been podium! I'm guessing a p1 in suzuka! she's on a streak!

author aha it'd be a shame to mess. it. up. *this comment has been deleted*

y/n.fanclub JAPAN P1 WHOO! I FEEL IT

If you want a small continuation after Sunday's race - read this chapter of Besties For The Resties!

TAG LIST: @fionaschicken @glitterquadricorn @laura-naruto-fan1998 @treehouse-mouse @sam-is-lost @kagatinkita @fangirl125reader @megatrilss1885 @myxticmoon @angsthology @cmleitora @agent-curt-mega @graciewrote @ashy-kit @slutofmultifandom @aexitizen @sugarvibez @vellicora @thatgirlthatreadswattpad @cashtons-wife @aeh2 @hoetel-manager @xcharlottemikaelsonx @jayda12 @cassie0sstuff @ilove-tswizzle @justme2042 @itsjustkhaos @nikfigueiredo @stopeatread @cha-hot @sadg3 @iloveyou3000morgan @s4turnsl0ver @alessioayla @torchbearerkyle @leptitlu @awekbachira @shreks-sugar-daddy @v1naco @stan-josie @mellowarcadefun @badassturtle13 @beskardroids @callisposts

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pinkhoodi · 8 months

Text

sweet love, sweet mornings

✎ᝰ — mornings with dick grayson <3

♡⃕ — dick grayson x reader

♡⃕ — genre + warnings: fluff + no warnings !

♡⃕ — a/n: literally whipped this up after thinking about how handsome dick would look in the morning and ooooooo he’s so 😮‍💨

Ꮺ mornings with dick, when he is present, are very much dreamlike. his heavy snores fill up the room as he catches up on sleep but also the way his back muscles tighten with each snore in and relaxes with each snore out

Ꮺ dick is usually a light sleeper, many things can wake him up and have him on high alert. but oddly enough, when you brush your fingers against his body, his rigid figure softens and his snores become lighter. it’s like his body is trained to differentiate your soft, angelic touch from the touch of family or the touch of villains

Ꮺ but also, the beautiful, quiet moment of witnessing dick sleep makes your stomach twist and your lips give a cheeky smile, seemingly similar to a high school crush. his posture of laying on his stomach but also his back slightly turned to you made you infatuated and flustered by his physique. it also doesn’t help that his body is barely covered in clothing, only boxers, but who is to complain ?

Ꮺ secretly, dick goes to bed in barely any clothing cause of two reasons. one, he adores the tenderness of your skin brushing against his as you both sleep soundly, and two, he notices how flustered you become from waking up to your boyfriend’s rugged body on display

Ꮺ usually when dick wakes up, he gives you a good morning kiss on your forehead and a “i love you kiss” on the corner of your lip. sometimes he’ll try to be slick and get a full-on kiss on the lips but you swerve your head just to mess with him. he either pouts or rolls his eyes at your playful antics

Ꮺ majority of the time, he’ll have his arm wrapped around your torso and pull you closer to him. he’ll tell you good morning followed by many complaints, starting at how beautiful you look to how grateful he is to have you. he’ll drag his hand across the bed until it meets yours and intertwine his sturdy fingers with yours. he brings the laced hands up to kiss your knuckle and give a light squeeze

Ꮺ it does take a while for the two of you to get out of bed. you’re too in love with dick’s warm look from the morning sun and he’s too obsessed with your beauty to even notice the time passing by. not to mention, you both go on tangent about the busy workload you have, catching up on the bat family, and even dick telling his stories from last night’s patrol

Ꮺ the usual routine for the both of you, after getting out of bed, is the both of you going into the bathroom together to brush your teeth and wash your face. one of you offers to cook breakfast while the other is in the shower. usually, dick offers to cook since he loves loves loves cooking breakfast for the two of you

Ꮺ I truly believe dick is a master chef at making the best soufflé, fluffy pancakes that are thick, bacon perfectly crisp. he loves cooking them all

Ꮺ dick would have that corny apron that says “kiss the chef” while cooking breakfast. he would also have fifties music playing in the background or some lighthearted jazz playing. sometimes he’ll be too into the music and have a concert instead of paying attention to the stove

Ꮺ after dick is done cooking, he would usually swap places with you and head into the shower while you’re drying yourself. as he passes by you, he would press his fingers into your hips and give a light squeeze. he would look into the mirror and softly smile at how you two complement each other so effortlessly. he loves how beautiful y’all look as a couple, he loves it so much that he has you guys framed almost everywhere in the house

Ꮺ once both of you done with bathroom, he would set the plates up while you poured juice for the both of you and set the dining table for y’all favorite show to watch together <3

Ꮺ for the rest of the morning, the living room is filled with commentary from the both of you about the show, small chews of the food. dick constantly asks if you like the food just so he can be cocky with it, a stupid grin while you roll your eyes and pretend to gag just to playfully hurt his pride a bit

♡⃕ okay but like mornings with dick ???? I don’t think I would want the morning to end 😩

𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐏 💗: psalm 9:10

#( 🧸 ) — mia is writing !#dick grayson x black reader #dceu x black reader #dick grayson x black!reader #nightwing x black reader #nightwing x black!reader #dick grayson headcanons #dick grayson fluff #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson x y/n #dick grayson x you #nightwing x reader #nightwing headcanon #nightwing x you #nightwing x y/n

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sonder-paradise · 2 years

Text

𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐈𝐈 — 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐭

◊ characters. kaeya, zhongli, diluc, childe, gn!reader

◊ genre. angst to fluff, author being held at gunpoint to write a happy ending

◊ part i. when you come home

after months fade into the eternity of years, he's unsure whether or not to continue on with the regularity of his life. you appear to him in his dreams and whisper the sweetness of the dawn to come. yet, how could he dare try and forget the delicate memories he once shared with you?

your disappearance during your commission will forever haunt him until you come home once again.

𝐊𝐚𝐞𝐲𝐚 has lost sleep dreaming of the days leading up to your departure. he stares at the faded, dead petals of the lilies in that pathetic vase. time has hardened the hurt but he remains true to the promise he made to himself. he finds himself awakening from his sleep, blinking back his slumber and squinting at a familiar figure, stroking back his hair.

he recognizes this dream. he's had it before. tears flood his vision as he sobs at your gentle touch. "please, don't do this to me," he whispers into the darkness, "please, why can't you be real for once?" that's when you speak and he notices the tears dripping on his skin. they're warm and he can't believe it until he hears your voice. "i'm sorry, kaeya. i'm so sorry i took so long." oh, you're real. you're here. you're finally home. before even he knows it, kaeya lunges into your physical arms; and for the first time in a year takes a much-needed breath.

𝐙𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐢 does not feel the passage of time as strongly as the others. he thinks about the memories he cultivated with you and the little things he loves about you. in a way, he’s tired of watching the journey of time carry away his loved ones. there are nights he simply play stares out at the cascading mountaintops and imagines his life if you had just never left. he could never resent you for chasing after your dreams. but he can’t walk the paths of liyue the same.

you come to him during one of those very walks. a crowd of people swerving through the streets, vendors ringing out to them, and the scent of glaze lilies waft into the harbor-scented air. his gaze is straightforward until he spots a familiar figure. "zhongli!" you stumble towards him after you spot him shortly after. zhongli can’t seem to find the words as the two of you shatter the crowd’s fluidity. your name desperately falls from his mouth and you’re in his arms within seconds.

𝐃𝐢𝐥𝐮𝐜 finds the lights on in the parlor to be a regular sight. despite no one else being down there or even sitting on the porch, he hopes that the lights will somehow reach wherever you are in this world. it's late. much later than he realizes. he rubs the back of his neck as he leans back in his office chair. the parchment falls lackadaisically off his desk and the scent of ink stains his fingers. diluc sighs, wish, praying, hoping that the nightmares waiting for him tonight would be a little easier on him.

"master diluc, there's someone calling for you downstairs," adelinde says through the closed door. diluc scoffs, standing to go and dismiss them himself. and yet, who would be calling for him so late at night? his mind is lost as he stands and walks to the edge of the railing on the second floor. his eyes locate the figure and his heart sinks. you stare up at him with kind eyes and a heart-wrenching smile. "i'm back. did i make you wait long?" your name is a fleeting call as he stumbles down the steps and nearly suffocates you into a gratifying and much-needed embrace.

𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐞 senses the loss and the anxiety come crumbling down onto him when he spots you for the first time in years. all this time, pretending and never acknowledging the fact you had disappeared into the realm of time. he can't breathe when he comes home. childe staggers at the doorway, inhaling the familiar scent of a person he tried to believe wasn't dead. coming home to you was something he never thought he would get to experience again.

and suddenly the world spins in slow motion as you turn and greet him with outstretched arms. oh, how much pain he feels in that moment. despite every time he didn't face the facts, this time is the final time he'll suppress the fear of never seeing you. he cries like never before. in the whirlwind of relief, stress, and comfort, you whisper his name. his true name. "i'm home." through gentle sobs, he holds you tight as if you'll fade if he doesn't. "welcome home."

taglist: @xo-cuteplosion-xo @ik8 @nonsense-corner @ireallylikehamsters @eccedentesiast-sapphic @rebeccka

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see-arcane · 10 months

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“You know,” Dracula hums by the fireplace, the flames a shade dimmer than his own eyes. “I do believe I am becoming paranoid in my old age. Yet I keep my things in such precarious order, all things where they must be.” A log pops. His eyes flash. “Where they should be. And so I have noticed that my own bedroom was disturbed during the day.”

“Oh?” Voice level, Jonathan. Voice steady, Jonathan. Surprise. Concern. “How so? I was under the impression the door was locked.”

“So it was. And yet, I can tell something was...” His nails drum on the mantel, the click of claws, “...different. Meddled with somehow.”

Something between foolishness, sleeplessness, and a smoldering kernel of ire sparks in Jonathan’s chest. Its embers travel up to his tongue.

“Nothing was stolen, I hope. I admit I had a mild scare some time ago, when I realized I couldn’t find certain things in my luggage. Only it occurred to me that your servants must have already taken them away to clean and hold aside for my departure.” A smile so easy it borders on suicidal curls on his face. It feels like a rictus. Maybe it will see him dead right then. “The people here are the most discreet I’ve ever encountered.”

Dracula raises a snowy brow.

“That they are. As discreet as spiders minding their web.” Then, a sudden swerve out of the growing cloud. He oozes mirth. “Have you seen any here, my friend? Spiders?”

“None.” He hadn’t. Dust, motheaten holes, but no spiders.

“That is because of my people as well. More, it is the work of local aid.” His grin has too many teeth. “The bats quite love them. Whenever I or my servants come across a spider indoors, we save it for them. All those that would dare to come crawling along the outer walls?” He snaps his fingers. “They are eaten before they can spin their first thread. It is a most lucrative exchange.”

Jonathan fights not to swallow, not to acknowledge the cold twisting in his stomach.

“I’m certain.”

“A hypothetical question for you. Which would you rather be, my friend? Of the two, I mean.” Dracula’s hand is on him again, itself a titanic white spider. Cold and immovable from his shoulder. It squeezes just short of bruising. “A spider or a bat?”

“I wouldn’t know, Count. Neither is the best choice."

“No?”

The hand is tighter.

“No.” Under the table, Jonathan crosses his fingers. “The best choice is a cat.”

The grip lightens and amusement sketches a change in the Count’s expression.

“Why a cat?”

“They can get away with much more,” Jonathan’s traitor tongue flies. He bites it. “If only for the fact of their comparative harmlessness as they serve their masters as they entertain and accompany. This, while it provides a more handy service in hunting pests of all sorts, be it spider and bat or beetle and rat. In exchange for doing the dual work of tending to the home and being pleasant and defenseless, the more powerful keeper ensures they’re housed and,” he gulps down glass, hot coals, acid, “and loved. A cat can only do so much, but it does just enough.”

Dracula shakes his head.

“Enough to get themselves in trouble, perhaps. No, my friend, if we must leave the smaller creatures behind, I must say a wolf is the better choice. He eats all in his path and has no master at all.” The cold hand gives another squeeze, the nails dimpling cloth and skin...then relaxes. Strokes. “But cats have their place as well. If kept in their proper place...”

The night goes on in this way for endless hours. And still Jonathan’s fingers are crossed out of sight. He has a fondness for cats. Even for spiders. He appreciates all creatures who take it upon themselves to hunt and cull those things that infest or take lives by little bites. But more than either, he has always had a fondness and fealty to dogs.

As the moon drags itself slowly across the sky, he imagines he hears their barking and baying meeting the wild cry of the wolves, and shepherd teeth sinking deep into bloodthirsty throats.

#in which there are animal motifs #jonathan harker #dracula #re: dracula #dracula daily #my writing

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writers-hes · 1 year

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“get out.” (s. harrington x reader) - new version

Steve tells you to get out of the car because of a disagreement over things you both could never control. (asshole!steve, best friend!eddie, a bit of stancy, lots of angst)

old version can be found here. helpful links: navigation | master lists | rules and guidelines | tag list | fic recs

“It’s the same fucking thing all the time with you,” you complained. You didn’t know how you landed yourself in this again. When you agreed to date Steve for the first time many months ago, he promised that you had nothing to worry about; that he was loyal to you and that you will both work on communication. It was something that you both agreed on, seeing as you both came out of traumatic relationships that you both knew would shape your future in the long run. It’s always the same conversations; him and Nancy, you not getting that he can’t just let go of Nancy, him being jealous of your friendships with basically everyone else. It was tiring, an unending cycle of not understanding each other; never willing to do anything to manageable problems.

“And it’s the same shit with you. You’re always fucking—complaining about things that I can’t control,” he replied, frustration in his voice. He was mad and he was seeing red. Why couldn’t you understand that letting go wasn’t that easy? Him and Nancy shared a bond from the trauma that hit their lives in their younger years. He was speeding in a residential area, swerving away from the trash bin that he almost hit. “Fuck!”

“Steve!” you screeched, a hand on your chest. “Please, keep your eyes on the road,” You’ve never seen him so mad before. Tears welled up in your eyes but you looked away, wiping them and telling yourself to stop because this wasn't your fault. None of it was your fault so why do you feel guilty?

It was just some party, some stupid party that you both agreed to go to. Well, Steve wanted to go because his friends will be there. Robin, Eddie, and Nancy. She didn’t do anything. She was still all smiles when she saw you, excited to spend time with her friends. God knows she needed one. Jonathan had been so dodgy since he left for California and Steve was there. Steve was always there for her. Even in Phil Newton’s bedroom.

You were sitting on the couch of Phil’s house, a lukewarm punch on the coffee table. When you arrived at the party you didn’t even want to go to, Steve was with you for a while. His arm hung lazily around your shoulders, taking a swig of some cola he found in the fridge. You were talking with his friends when Eddie arrived. You dragged Steve with you there, to where Eddie was, his arm snaking your waist to tug you in closer while you laughed at some scam Eddie had done.

“I sold her a gram and she paid for two,” he snickered. “Drunkards are where it’s at, believe me,”

Soon, Nancy and Robin arrived, a visible rain cloud on Nancy’s head. You excused yourself to ask if she was alright and she told you about Jonathan never calling her back. You comforted her for a while before slipping away to get some punch. When you came back, Steve and Nancy were gone.

You didn’t mind at first, looking for Eddie until you saw him in the middle of dealing. Robin was talking to a girl named Vickie. You walked aimlessly inside the party, skipping your step due to the slight intoxication until you settled yourself on the curb right outside Phil’s house. Everybody seemed to be having fun; everybody but you. Robin joins you afterwards with a small smile.

“Hey,”

“Hi, Robin,” you greeted, showing her your cup of punch before taking a swig. “This punch is shit,” you scrunch your nose and Robin smiled wider, taking the punch from you to drink all of it.

“Red wine, soda, and vodka,” she replied. “Why are you here by yourself? Where’s Eddie?”

“Where’s Steve?” you spit. “I didn’t want to come here, you know. Steve dragged me because you guys would be here.”

Robin looks at you with a guilty expression.

“Just want to go home,” you yawned. “and sleep.”

Robin sighs.

“He’s upstairs with Nancy. In Phil’s bedroom.”

“Who?”

“Steve.” she replied and your throat constricts, that ache making you swallow thickly. “Sorry. Please, don’t tell him I told you.”

God, it filled you with dread. Worst case scenario—Nancy and Steve were fucking after professing that they still have feelings for each other. But still, Steve promised. Right? He said that you would never get in between him and Nancy because there was nothing there anymore. He kissed you in your car after that. It was the thread you were holding onto. You left Robin with a quick “thanks” before going up the stairs. You hated how crowded the house had been. You didn’t even know which of these rooms were Phil’s until some drunk guy said he saw Steve with a girl in that room. You knocked, bracing yourself for the worst. What if he was naked in bed with Nancy Wheeler? What would you do if he opens the door with swollen lips and Nancy’s lipstick smeared all over?

Steve opens the door and looks at you with guilt. You looked so dishevelled but Steve couldn’t leave her yet. He suddenly felt irritated at Robin who just couldn’t keep her mouth shut. He needed to talk to her about it. She needed to keep you for a few more minutes because Jonathan isn’t coming back to Hawkins for the break.

“What?” he asked, his voice tight. Your face falls while Steve maintains a defensive stance. You were taken aback by his snarkiness. His hands were on his hips and he’s not even opening the door for more than an inch. Bad thoughts filled your head. Here we go again.

“I, is everything okay?”

“Yeah. Do you need anything?”

“Can we go home?” you asked. You hated tonight. You didn’t want to go here at all. You just wanted to stay at home, cook dinner, and have a peaceful night with Steve for once.

“Sure. Here, take the keys. Go start the car and I’ll be down in ten minutes,” he replied, giving you the key before closing the door again.

You stood there, dumbfounded before stomping your way to his car. You would’ve left but you didn’t know where you were. Phil lived in the outskirts of Hawkins and Steve was supposed to be your ride. You slammed the door of Steve’s BMW when Eddie came by.

“I can hear you stomping from the pool,” Eddie teased, leaning on the passenger window. “What’s wrong?”

“Steve is wrong,” you frowned. “He dragged me all the way here and ditched me as soon as he found Nancy. They’re upstairs,”

“Damn,” Eddie replied. Even he couldn’t provide comforting words. “Well, you’re with me. Super cool, super nice me,”

“Didn’t you sell me double the price when we first met? The same thing you did to that girl you were talking about earlier,” you asked. True but it was an old gag that you shared with him. It didn’t matter anymore. “I still haven’t received my rebates,”

“I give you enough free stuff, sweets. I should be the one getting rebates. I’m thinking of milkshakes,” he said, eyes widening. “I could just taste it! Oh, chocolate milkshake and because you’re so nice, burgers. I’ll pick you up tomorrow,”

“Eddie! I didn’t agree—“

“Yeah, yeah but you owe me.” he replied. “Also, did you know? I went to Lover's Lake the other day, right? Guess who I saw fucking in the woods. That cheerleader with blonde hair and that kid from English? The one that reads loudly to himself,”

“No way,”

“Yes, way. I saw them! With my own eyes!” he exclaimed, making you chuckle loudly. “Seriously, I had to douse my eyes with bleach and baking soda. It was that bad,”

Steve was frowning from behind Eddie. How come he always sees you at your happiest with him? You looked so miserable when you talked to him earlier and now that you’re with Eddie you’re fucking laughing? Steve watched your smile fade away as he neared, his frown deepening. Eddie looked back, and whistled. “Hey, Steve,”

“Munson,” Steve replied. “Girlfriend and I are leaving,”

“Oh, yeah. See you around,” Eddie replied, nodding. He looks at you and mouths “scary”, making you laugh and Eddie leaves, jogging back to the pool for business.

What happened tonight was how you found yourself in this situation, eyes and knees away from Steve, watching the dark trees blur at the speed of his car.

“Can’t control? I told you that your relationship with Nancy is bothering me and I find you alone in a room together?” you asked. “What does that make me? What should that make me feel?”

“It’s not like I can just say ‘Sorry, Nance. My girlfriend is so jealous of you, she doesn’t want us spending time together. Or should I?” Steve asked, venom dripping in his voice. “It’s the same shit with you and Eddie,”

“No, it isn’t. Eddie and I are friends. You weren’t there when everyone knows you were with Nancy in Phil’s fucking bedroom. Everyone except for me!” you replied, your voice raising in volume. “Same fucking shit, Steve. Same shit and I’m so tired of fighting.”

“You shouldn’t have come to the party, then,” he mutters and you pause, counting to ten to calm yourself down. Your heart was beating wildly and you could feel your frustration at the tipping point.

“It was you who wanted me there, remember? I didn’t want to attend that party but you dragged me. You ditched me the moment Nancy arrived. Do you remember? I don’t…I’m not even sure if I want to be in the same space with you right now.” you heaved, tears springing up your eyes. You wanted to get your point across but to Steve, he could only hear how you didn’t want to be with him. Slowing down some street, you looked at him in confusion. You just really wanted to go home.

“Get the fuck out,” he mutters, looking at anything but you.

“Wh-what?”

“Get the fuck out,” he repeated. “You don’t want to be with me right? So get out.”

You stilled, looking at your surroundings. There was nothing but harrowing trees and a lone light. You nodded, rushing out of the door and watching as Steve sped away from you. When he was far enough, you let your shoulders deflate and sobbed. Where did it all go wrong? Steve was never like this with anyone. Why did he…dislike you so much? You walked back to the party, trying to remember the way.

It was so dark and Steve knew how much you hated walking in it. You didn’t know where you were and Steve knew how much you hated being lost. There were no sounds but the creek and the hooting of the owls and Steve knew how much you hated the silence.

Wrapping your arms to protect you from the darkness and the unknown, you walked fast. You were rushing back because you didn’t know where you were and you were scared; so fucking scared of the night. You’ve been walking for how many minutes now and you could’ve called but there were no payphones anywhere. It was just the occasional street lamp and nothing else. Would you even risk hitching a ride if a car passes by?

“Fuck!” you cried, sobbing uncontrollably when your arm hung itself on some stray wire by the abandoned bus stop. The sting rips through your whole body and you were so sure that your arm was bleeding badly but you forged on, limping until the trees looked somewhat familiar.

Soon, you followed the loud bass of the speakers. Kids your age spilled out of the house and you followed from where they came from. The party. You were back from where you started. You shuddered, hoping to God that Eddie was there. Or maybe Robin. Fuck, Nancy, if she was the last resort. You just really wanted to go home.

It was Robin and Eddie who found you by the door. Apparently, there was some chick with a bleeding arm sitting by the pool who was crying to herself. Descriptions matched what you wore that night and how you looked; there was no other choice than to rush to you. Sure enough, when they ran to the pool, you were there sitting by the edge. Black tears ran down your face, a scowl settled on your lips as you shielded yourself away from the world. Robin noticed the red on your arm, rushing towards your hunched figure.

Eddie was hot on her tails, hiding you under his arms to quiet you down. He drapes his sweater over your shivering figure. Without a word, they led you to Eddie’s van; what should be said anyway? Isn’t it enough? Your friends looked at each other while your body shook with sadness and frustration.

“S-sorry,” you managed, and you felt Eddie’s grip on your shoulder tighten.

“It’s okay,” Robin replied, opening the door for you. You curled into her when they were settled, Eddie starting his van to drive you back home.

“What happened?” Robin asked. Eddie’s eyes snapped towards you and she was about to say sorry when you replied.

“Steve told me to get out of his car in the middle of nowhere and left me,” you managed between sobs. Their hearts broke, a frown etching his features. You looked so small and forlorn; so defeated and empty. “I just wanted to go home. I don’t even want to anymore because he might be there.”

“It’s okay. We can go back to the trailer. You can share the bed with Robin and I’ll sleep on the couch.” Eddie assured before driving to the trailer park with a crying girl in the passenger seat.

AN: Thank you so much for your love on my get out fic! I’d love for you to reblog and comment on what you think about the newest version! Can we maaaaaaybe add 100+ notes? Part two is done and is coming very, very soon. I promise.

steve harrington taglist: @thatfantagirl @cherris-n-peaches @Miyababbby @munsonsuccubus @moistmocca @munsonology @aol19 @undeadgirlsworld @eddiethesexy @weaslyslut01 @captainweirdo42 get out new version taglist: @sgrantsgf @angstlover222 @madiisixx @omgvirtualcupcakecollection-blog @tiny-bird-of-sunshine @logibearhockey1 @echoautumn @shelbycillian @jadewatling22 @stargir66 @marmalaidee-blog @joworldsstuff @whisperingwillowxox @pariahsparadise @optimisticallygarbage @mosiwil @oddussy420 @heyyimmissunderstood @sierrahhh @cupcake-jj @loveisonlyforthebrave @thatfantagirl @loveisforonlythebrave

#steve harrington angst #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #steve harrington fanfic #angst #fanfic #fan fic #stranger things

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junipers-archive · 11 months

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Jelly Donut

Word Count: 510; Penelope is onto your crush on Spencer, and a jelly donut is what just might make her the matchmaker of the year

"I have no idea what you're talking about!" Your voice is stubborn, filled with the unease, the unease that Penelope actually does know what she's talking about. Because if she does, if she really does know you have a massive crush on your best friend, then you are screwed.

"I just think that if you saw the way you both act around one another, than you would get it too!" She's persistent, more than you have the brain function to defend yourself against at eight in the morning persistent.

To buy yourself some time you start walking toward you office chair, taking a bite of the jelly donut in your hand. However the universe, or whoever controls it anyways, has other plans.

Because Spencer Reid is your office chair. "Oh hey Y/n!" He got a haircut. Maybe only a few inches. But you notice. It looks nice. Really nice. Too nice. Now you've got the hots while eating a jelly donut. Great.

"You're such a clutz, you know that?" You don't realize he's gotten up until you feel his thumb graze the corner of your lips, successfully wiping away what you assume had been the remains of donut powder clinging to the edges of your mouth.

"Well-Y-You're an idiot!" Because he's too close. Too damn close. For you to think. Of a better retort that is. Or at all.

He lifts his eyebrows, seemingly just as unimpressed as you and takes a step back, as you collect yourself you realize you're still in the company of a Ms. Penelope Garcia.

Her head is tilted, eyes squinted, mouth agape, then closed, then back open, like a fish, a very judgmental and very perseverent fish.

"If you just saw- what I-you would-he just-and then you!"

You pace over to her quickly, turning her around and whispering to her as quietly as possible, "That we're best friends? Penelope he only wants to be friends. That's all that we are! And-and I'm okay with that." You were so not okay with that.

But you really did believe it, the thought of rejection far too great of an obstacle for you to even consider.

But Penelope Garcia is master at obstacles.

So at that she swerves around, pointing her hot pink, manicured nail directly at the boy genius you'd fallen for. "You!"

"Me." he replies, only assuming it was another one of her jokes.

Scrunching her eyebrows and resilient as ever she then points to you. "Her!" He, nods in response.

"Date! Now!" You both flush at her words, smiling awkwardly nervously glancing around the room.

"I said. Now!" She then grabs your hand, interlocking yours and Spencers after some groveling. She's got one strong left arm.

You both voice your 'what ifs' at the same time and she rolls her eyes.

And before anyone can get another word out she's leaving quicker than you'e ever seen, only yelling back to address the situation she's left you in. "I got you half way to first base, don't mess it up! Best friends my ass." All this, just because of some stupid jelly donut.

#spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid blurb #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds #junipers archive

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archie-sunshine · 2 months

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Good old fashioned ask to tempt The Artistic Master of Smut. (Yes , this is your new title by the way. At least in my mind. ) Anyway... Let me dangle this sumptuous morsel before you in hopes that you might take a chomp at it...

What if you were to throw as the sexiest, snatched waisted, curvaceous speedsters in one berth... I know you know exactly to whom I am referring. I can guarantee you smirked when you read that last sentence because your brain probably immediately thought of Rodimus... and Drift... but I'll do you one better and humbly nominate one more mech for these shenanigans.

Blurr... Spotlight Blurr. You know the one... Built like an Olympian? Sex appeal for days? Yes? Now... Just imagine these 3 trying to outdo one another in berth... Ex Wreckers to the power of ³... how would they each shine? Who is best at what? Blurr has got the speed, Drift the flexibility, Roddy's 🎶 "got the touch..." He's "got the power... YEAH! "🎶

All I know is that nomech is getting up the next morning. 😆 🤣 😂

Alright. I'm done being silly on anonymous... but honestly , in all seriousness, I love your blog. and i want you to know that I think you're a great person and say that your art always makes my worst days so much better. Thanks for being a ray of sunshine... Cheers Archie, you prolific wonderful dynamo of a human being, you. ❤

Sincerely,

Anonymous speedster enthusiast.

I love the idea of me being some kind of professor or expert on valveplug that people have to posit their theses to. WILD.

BUT YES! I've not read much of idw blurr (i havent read his spotlight and ive only heard echoes of him via poor poor swerve) but i do love a 3 racecar pileup hehehe.

I feel like all of them are kinda switches, yknow? but at the same time all of them are too competitive to not make a whole thing of choosing who bottoms.

they do rock paper scissors. Rodimus almost always loses.

#archie answers #my art #transformers #my requests #mtmte #valveplug #/nsft #/nsfw #rodimus #blurr #drift #driftrod #blurrod #driftblurr #lemon

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glow-worms-are-believers · 1 year

Text

In the name of love (and gossip) dc x dp

The day had been going normally. Tim had been having breakfast with Cass when Bruce walked in bleary-eyed with a grunt in greeting as he went for the coffee machine. He and Damian has stayed out later than usual yesterday night, as a concession for the fact they couldn't patrol due to tonight's charity gala. Damian was currently staying with Jon, and would be sleeping at the Kent's for a sleepover night.

"Mr. Fenton will be in attendance for tonight's gala," Alfred said as he walked into the kitchen.

Bruce look up so quick, Tim swore he heard his neck crack. "Danny's coming?"

"Indeed, Master Bruce."

"Cat Grant is still on the guest list?"

"Yes, sir," Alfred answered dutifully.

"Perfect," Bruce said as he let a smile stretch across his face before he stood up. "I have some errands to run, I'll see you tonight," he said as he swept outside of the room.

Tim frowned at the strange behaviour before he turned towards Cass who just shrugged and went back to her breakfast.

"Who's Danny?" Tim asked Alfred as he stood up to get himself another cup of coffee.

"Mr. Fenton and Master Bruce were quite close when they were younger. The media went so far as to call them childhood sweethearts," Alfred started as he swapped out the espresso pod Tim had gotten out of the pantry for a decaf one, which had the teen pouting. "When Master Bruce disappeared for his 'backpacking trip through Europe', Mr. Fenton became distressed and made quite a fuss, going so far as offering a reward for information. Eventually, Mr. Fenton acquired a daughter and mostly retired from the public eye." Alfred paused before letting the corner of his lip curl up ever so slightly. "Still, when Master Bruce returned, there was apparently a very explosive and very public confrontation between the two of them. I am told it involved a good amount of tears and shouting."

"Tears?" Tim asked incredulously. Were they talking about the same emotionally-repressed man?

"Just so," Alfred answered with a nod. "They met up a few times since, but it has been a long time since Mr. Fenton was in town. I imagine tonight's gala will be very interesting."

This was disappointingly boring, Tim thought to himself as he sat by the drinks table. Everything had gone as usual, with schmoozing left and right while Bruce charmed the pants off the Gotham elite. Tim sighed. He didn't even have Dick to joke with, since he was on a mission off-planet. Just as he was considering calling Steph to allay his mounting boredom, a hush fell onto the ballroom. All heads turned towards the entrance, where Tim could see a man looking to be in his early-to-mid-thirties walking in with a young woman who bore him a striking resemblance. Both of them were quite attractive and looking very dapper in their obviously high-quality clothes but that didn't justify the crowd's reaction.

In the ensuing silence their arrival had caused, Bruce's greeting of "Danny," seemed very loud. The answering, "Bruce," was just as loud and the two exchanged a charged look and a nod before they both turned away from one another in concert.

Sound gradually came back to its previous level, but now Tim was intrigued. He grabbed a few hors-d'oeuvres and shoved them on a plate as he swerved between guests until he could get up to the balconies, for a better vantage point.

This was the batkids' favourite hideouts during galas, as it was great for making fun of some particularly snobbish guests. Tonight, it would serve for spying on the mysterious Danny.

As the night progressed, Tim noticed both Danny and Bruce giving each other longing looks when the other wasn't looking. On one occasion, Bruce even left a sentence unfinished as he caught sight of Danny, before he shook himself out of it and apologized. His conversation partners just looked at each other with gazes charged with meaning as they brushed off the apology.

At some point, Tim noticed Danny excusing himself from the conversation before he walked out of the ballroom. A moment later, Bruce did the same and followed him out. Tim polished off the last of the appetizer before getting himself back down.

He walked out cautiously, looking around for the two men when he heard voices coming from one of the smaller adjacent hallways. As he crept closer, he chanced a look around the corner to see Bruce and Danny talking to each other. He walked in closer to get a better view, only to quickly duck out of view when Bruce looked in his direction.

As Tim walked back further into the hidden nook, he had to stop himself from shrieking when he came into contact with a body.

"Yo," whispered who Tim now recognized as Ellie, Danny's daughter holding a cup of the punch and looking very relaxed.

"Hi?" Tim whispered back still trying to calm down his beating heart. "What are you doing her-"

"Shhh," she interrupted him, as she looked towards the two men. "They're getting to the good part."

Tim followed her lead and turned his attention back towards the two men.

"... I just wonder sometimes, what could've been," Danny looked into the distance wistfully, before he turned back towards Bruce, longing in his eyes.

"It's not too late," Bruce said passionately as he took the other man's hands. "We can still try again."

"No, Bruce." Danny took his hands away reluctantly, as if the very action was painful. "We're no longer the people we used to be." Then, he smiled, aching and fragile before continuing. "We have different lives now, there's no use clinging to the past."

"Danny please," said Bruce as he raised his hand to cup the other man's cheek tenderly. With a wretched sigh, Danny's resistance seemed to break as he let himself nuzzle into the larger man's palm, looking as if he couldn't help himself from seeking its warmth.

"Well, I'm up," Ellie breathed out before downing her cup. "Wish me luck!" she said as she walked off before Tim could get a chance to hold her back.

"Dad!" she called out loudly, as if completely oblivious to the atmosphere.

Danny tore himself away from Bruce's grasp guiltily as he turned towards his rapidly approaching daughter.

"Ellie," Danny said as he visibly collected himself. "What are you doing here?"

"The party was boring so I went to find you." She pouted. Then, as if just noticing the man, she exclaimed, "Mr. Wayne! We didn't have the chance to talk earlier, it's been so long!"

"Hello, Ellie," Bruce answered back warmly, despite looking still a little raw around the edges. "You've grown a lot since I last saw you."

"Well, I sure hope so," Ellie said jokingly. "It's been what, five years?"

"Yes, it has," Bruce answered, but he was looking at Danny who was doing his best to avoid Bruce's pleading gaze.

"If you're tired of the party already, why don't we go home early?" Danny suggested studiously avoiding the other man's eye.

"Really? We can go?" Ellie asked hopefully.

"Yes, sweetie," Danny said as he ruffled his daughter's head playfully.

"Dad! My hair!" she whined, as she patted it back in place. "Alright, give me a minute to get my bag, then we can go."

With that she started turning away before she stopped herself and turned back towards Bruce. "You should come visit us sometime, Mr. Wayne! Dad wouldn't say it but he misses you." With that, she turned with a twirl of fabric and started walking towards the ballroom. Danny ran a hand through his hair as he sighed.

"You missed me?" Bruce asked, one part teasing and one part hopeful.

"You know I have," Danny looked up at the taller man, sounding defeated yet fond.

"I missed you too," Bruce breathed out as he brought his face closer and closer, until their lips were almost brushing-

"Mr. Wayne!" A voice came from the ballroom.

The spell broke and once again, the two men separated.

"I have to go," Danny mumbled as he took the chance to extirpate himself and start back in the same direction his daughter had gone.

"Danny, wait!" Bruce got out. "Could I really come visit you?" he stuttered out breathlessly.

Danny stopped, but didn't turn around as he answered in a voice clearly rough with emotions. "You'll always be welcome, Bruce. You know that." And then, he walked away.

Bruce kept his eyes glued onto Danny's departing back, until the other man's figure was swallowed in the crowd and disappeared. The sigh he let out was full of melancholy, but when he looked up again, his gaze was determinate. A beat later, he followed Danny into the ballroom.

Tim stayed where he was for a moment, just contemplating everything, before he started to move, but before he could come out of hiding, there was a movement in front of him. Freezing in place, he looked on as Cat Grant came out of what seemed to be her very own hiding spot. She looked around for any witness before she too snuck back towards the ballroom. Tim let his head hit the wall behind him.

What the hell had just happened.

#same Tim same #AU where Vlad got a redemption arc and made Danny the heir of DALVco and Danny and Bruce hit it off at some high-society event as teens #this is supposed to be crack of the two conning the media #but the star-crossed thing is also doing something for me #so I guess take it as you want?#dp x dc #dc x dp #danny phantom #batman #bruce wayne #tim drake #danielle phantom #dani phantom #cat grant #bruce wayne x danny fenton #seriously what the hell did I just write #roxpox #roxpoxwrote

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surielstea · 9 days

Text

Caught Red-Handed

Based on this request.

Pairing: Azriel x Fem!Reader

Summary: In which Azriel returns home from a mission and reader is a little too excited to see him, forgetting to keep her noise down.

2.1k words

"I want Dadda to sing to me," My daughter whines as she snuggles deeper into her pillows, the large bed swallowing her small frame whole. I smile at the words, remembering how my mate sang our child into a slumber every night with his melodic tunes, shadows swishing around him as he did so, lulling her to sleep.

"I know my sweet," I sigh, running my hand through her long, pitch-black hair. "When is he gonna be back?" She looks up at me with a growing pout, the toddler seemed to master the art of guilt tripping perfectly.

"Tonight, you'll see him in the morning," I promise and her grin widens. "But how will I ever sleep!" She throws her arms up and I chuckle, leaning down and pressing a kiss to her forehead. "You need your rest or you'll be too tired to play with him in the morning," I advise and she huffs, curling into a ball and cradling her favorite bat stuffed animal to her chest.

"I'll tell you what, if you go to bed now I'll make you pancakes in the morning," I promise, and she shoots up, staring at me with eyes wide as saucers. "Pancakes!" She says excitedly and I nod. "But you've got to go to sleep now," I rule and she flops back down onto her pillows dramatically, clenching her eyes shut in an attempt to feign sleeping.

I smile at her theatrics and lean down, placing a kiss on her temple. "Goodnight Melaina," I whisper against her hair. "Night night, Mama," She murmurs back and I stand from her bed, approach the door, and give her one last look before exiting.

Azriel's been gone for a week. A long, stressful week. I hadn't realized how much he did for me until he was gone. Raising a toddler was much, much harder without him. Rhys had sent him to The Continent to make sure no wars were brewing and that everyone was somewhat at peace with Hybern off of his throne.

I still don't know why my mate was chosen, if Rhys needed to know so bad why didn't he just go? Of course, I knew the High Lord was busy, but still, the touch starve was making me grow bitter.

I was pacing the halls in anticipation for him to return I was so excited. I had been stress-cleaning all day, just to prove to him that everything went fine when he was away, I didn't want him to feel bad for doing his job. Even if some selfish part of me never wanted him to leave my side again.

Melaina hasn't stopped ranting about how excited she was for him to come home and I couldn't help but agree with her, matching the four-year-olds energy when she spoke about her father.

It felt like I stared at the balcony for hours, it was only until I was half asleep that the glass doors slid open. I sprang up like a child on the morning of their birthday, Azriel closed the doors quietly behind him and he barely got the chance to look ahead of him before I tackled the Shadow Singer, clinging to him like a tree as I wrapped my arms and legs around his neck and torso, squeezing his chest to mine. He chuckled and I couldn't believe that I had forgotten the sound of his laugh. I hold him tighter.

"Miss me?" He presumes and I pull away before peppering his face in kisses, his neck, his forehead, the tip of his nose, and just as I was about to place a kiss on his cheek he swerves and plants his lips over mine.

I melt into the familiar feeling of my mate's mouth over mine, I cup his jaw with delicate fingers as they buzz with electricity. "A week is too long," I murmur, loving the way his smile feels against my lips. "I know, Princess," He mutters, head dipping into my shoulder as I cling to him tighter as if I was afraid he might be sent away again.

"How's Laina?" He asks into my shoulder and I grin. "Hopefully asleep," I mutter as he walks us over to the couch, plopping down onto the cushions and leaving me straddling his hips. "She missed you so much," I frown, shifting so I was balanced on one of his thighs. "I missed the both of you," His strong arms wrapped around me, pulling me close. "I'm telling Rhys he's not allowed to send you away for that long again," I rule and he chuckles. "I don't think that's up to you, love," He hums and I roll my eyes. "Stupid High Lord and his stupid assignments,” I grumble beneath my breath, cursing out my own friend.

“You seemed to have managed just fine without me, everything looks the same,” He glanced around the house and I deflated, head dipping into his shoulder. “But everything didn’t feel the same,” I huff dramatically. “I’m so glad you’re back,” I peck up his jaw as a gentle smile blessed his features. “A week is too long, I could barely sleep,” I confess, lifting up and hovering in front of his face, the tip of my nose brushing against his.

“And I’m ovulating,” I hit his chest like it’s his fault. “So that’s why you’re so clingy, hm?” He tilts his head and I flush hot. “Shut up, you were gone, I had to resort to my own hands,” I grumble, burying my head into his shoulder again as he chuckled. “Not funny, I felt like I was single again,” I huff. “It was the worst.”

“You wanna show me how you did it?” He purrs and my cheeks flare red. I sit up on his lap, looking down at him with furrowed brows but he only gives me a reassuring look with encouraging eyes, like he was waiting for me to get myself off on him.

I swallow thickly. “Right now?” I say and he shrugs. “Didn’t you miss me?” He arched a brow and gods, he knew me too well. Knew that I’d been touch starved for an entire week and usually I wasn’t so hyper-sexual but without the usual waist touches or pecks on the cheeks I was manic, and he knew it. Knew he could tell me his dirtiest, darkest fantasy and I’d comply without any hesitation because I needed him.

“C’mon, Princess, I know it’s been a while but you can do it,” He urges and my hands come to his chest as I slowly begin rutting my hips over his, grinding onto his clothed thigh, gaining friction at the place I needed him most.

“Gods I missed you,” He confessed, a slow smile coming to his face as I rolled down onto him. I continue my movements, switching them from hesitant to fluid and languid, grinding down onto him and gasping as he flexes his thigh every now and then.

“Fuck, Az,” I tilt my head back, up to the ceiling, nails digging into his shoulders at the intense feeling, his thigh already getting me farther than my hands ever were able to. “Good,” He says, lips ghosting against the column of my throat. “So good for me, getting off on my thigh,” He hums, fingers digging into my hips as I continue my movements. “Please Az,” I clench my eyes shut. “Please, need all of you,” I beg and he smiles against my neck. “I don’t think you do, I think you can get off without me even touching you,” He croons and I whimper, looking at him with pleading eyes and furrowed brows. He only returned it with a smirk.

I pouted, making a point and pressing myself into his semi-hardened cock. He grunted lowly from the base of his throat and a knot formed in my abdomen at the sound. Moans and pleas filled the room as I begged him for more, for something. We both knew he wasn’t going to give me anything else until I found release and we also both knew I didn’t need anything else.

“Fuck m’close,” I murmur. “Already?” He tilts his head with a demeaning tone and the degradation only pushes me closer to that edge. I nod pitifully. “So needy, aren’t you?” He taunts and I dip my head again, beyond words as I pant heavily, toes curling and nails scratching down his back as I soak my panties in my arousal.

An unearthly sound escapes from the base of my throat as I find release, and it’s his name on my lips when I meet my climax, hand pulling at his hair as I slowly ride out my high, my swaying tapering off.

Then, below the pants and soft whines, I hear a familiar voice that makes the both of us freeze in our tracks.

“Mama?” My daughter calls and I flip off of Azriel in a panic, falling onto the floor with a groan as shadows swish around me, making sure I’m okay.

Our child walks out of the hallway clutching her bat-stuffed animal in her navy nightgown that brushed the floor. “Dadda!” She squealed, running right past me as I struggled to stand back up, and straight to her dad, jumping into his arms with a wide grin.

“Oh, I missed you so much Starlight,” Azriel exclaims, hugging his daughter tight to him, looking down at me with wide eyes as I collect myself.

“I missed you times one hundred!” The toddler argues and Azriel shakes his head. “I missed you times infinity,” Azriel scoffs and she pouts, her wide eyes the color of mine, always making him give in. “Okay fine, we missed each other equally,” He sighs. “But I have a feeling you were supposed to be asleep, isn’t that right?” He narrows her eyes on her as if it was an interrogation and she rolls her eyes.

“Well I was asleep, but then I heard Mama yelling your name and knew you were home!” She excused. “Why were you yelling, Mom?” She turns to me with those curious eyes. “Uh,” I look to Azriel for help but he just stared at me with the same gaze, as if he had no idea. “Cause I was just so excited to see him,” I shrug. “Then why were you on the floor?” She gestures to the ground. “Dad pushed me,” I say, pinning the blame on him. Melaina gasps and whips around to him, her hands cupping over her mouth. Azriel’s hands shoot up like he’s been caught red-handed.

“I didn’t! Mom has cooties, I had to get her away from me,” He whispered loud enough for me to hear and she gasped again, taking a wide step away from me.

I rolled my eyes at her theatrics, hands resting on my hips as I looked down at the girl. “Why don’t you go back to bed, dad will come in soon to sing to you okay?” I bend down to her height and she whines. “Hey, do you want pancakes or not?” I tilt my head and she immediately seals her lips shut. I smile. “Good, now run along,” I shoo her and she nods happily before scurrying back to her bedroom.

I sigh in relief once she’s gone, then look at Azriel with a glare. “What?” He says innocently. “Cooties? She’s going to avoid me for days,” I quietly shout at him and he mischievously grins. “It’s not my fault she woke up,” He shrugs. I grab a pillow from the couch and begin to hit him with it. “You knew she was coming didn’t you?” I continue to whack him and he puts his hands out in defense.

“It was funny!” He claims and I throw the pillow entirely at him, then plop down onto the couch in defeat. “I’ll be back,” He sings, leaning down and pressing a kiss to my forehead. I cross my arms and continue to glare at him. Still upset he let me get caught.

Without another word, he walks off down the hall to our daughter’s room.

I continue to simmer in my own exasperation, but my annoyance only lasts so long before I hear my daughters bubbling laughter from the other side of the wall. Some part of me wanted to tell my mate she was supposed to be going to sleep but, I missed the way he made her laugh, so I didn’t kill their fun, and I even let myself enjoy listening to the muffled voices of my two favorite people in the world. Our little family was finally restored.

General Taglist: @fxckmiup @olive-main @iluvyewman-blog @gaymistakeboi @glitterypirateduck @amara-moonlight @impossibelle @fauxdette @going-through-shit @glam-targaryen @cauldronboilme27 @sarawritestories @tele86 @rogerbarnesxx @azriels-shadowsinger @stinkinstuffie @sandramalikstyles-blog @sassyangel16 @lilah-asteria @starsinyourseyes @inloveallthetime @melsunshine @nighttimemoonlover @ireallywannasleep127 @cumuluscranium

Azriel Taglist: @coolepowersthings @lovely-giggles @quiettuba @ilovewarner45 @judig92 @tothestarsandwhateverend @je-suis-prest-rachel @call-me-a-fool @brieflyclassymortal @cherryjain17 @stqrgirlies-blog @chelsiemp @nyxbranwenn @dnfhascorruptedme @summerandsalt @annamariereads16 @thisiskaylin @itsbonniebabe

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meowmeowmeowmeow4x · 21 days

Text

Dark Blue Moon and the Suffering Sun part 6

Pain throbbed from every part of his body. Teal blood leaked from where his scales had been ripped off, and fins torn in two, but the adrenaline was in full swing. Danny forced his eyes open in spiteful glaring. This was a new low even for Skulker.

Danny shifted his body. Thank Jane Austen that Damian hadn’t taken much of the impact, and curse her too for him being right about the dolphins. Danny shoved the kid behind him, even as he clutched his torn up side.

“Phantom, you’re injur-“

“Get behind me.” Danny snapped, putting an inhuman growl into his words. Dami went uncharacteristically quiet at the command.

Skulker loomed overhead, smug bastard. Guy gloats about skinning a fourteen-year-old for sport, fails, then comes back for a ten-year-old instead.

“It is I, Skulker, the greatest hunter in the ocean, and these are hunting dogs.” The dolphins circled around him, even bumping noses with his suit and accepting pats Ugh. As if he couldn’t get any grosser. “And you, Damian Wayne, have a lovely fish tank back at my cabin reserved just for you.”

Danny let magic build up in his arms. All his willpower went into not flinching from the searing pain as stressed muscles took on even more strain. “C-can it Skulker. I thought you were creepy enough with the pelt thing, now you’re outdoing even Vlad, and that’s a fucking achievement. Maybe you should get a cat?”

Skulker slammed his foot on the floor, if there had been a floor. “THE OCEAN’S GREATEST HUNTER DOES NOT NEED A CAT! PERISH!”

Skulker’s suit opened up at the back to reveal blinking torpedo tubes. Danny unleashed his cold magic along the net. The rope flash froze. Pain surged through his tail, but Danny pushed through and launched out with Damian in tow, shattering the ice.

The dolphins squealed again, but with Danny surging out of range, it barely did any damage.

“Damian, take this!” Danny yelled. He unhooked the wrist ray from his utility belt and shoved it into Damian’s hands. “It goes on your wrist. Press the button to arm it. Clench your fist to fire!”

Danny clicked and whistled. The landscape reflected his calls back at him.

His lateral line spiked with energy. Danny swerved to the side just as a torpedo sailed past him. Damian leaned to the side and aimed the wrist way behind them. Watery explosions erupted and sent shockwaves catapulting them further. Holy shit, where did this kid learn to shoot a wrist gun?! Danny’s line alerted him to two bodies overhead. The dolphins were gaining on them quick.

“I’m gonna flip. Hold on tight!” Belly up, Danny fired three quick beams. Two of them missed and hit the surface. One snagged a dolphin right in the tail. It tumbled out of control and crashed into its partner with a distressed click. In his arms, Damian gasped auidibly.

Danny clicked in a high pitch, almost inaudible to humans. He sped along the seafloor south. He kept clicking, and clicking, making sure he was right. A volley of energy beams cascaded down and Danny zigzagged between them. A shot hit its mark. His sail burned as it tore a hole in it. They needed some space fast.

A spear formed in his hand. Danny went belly up again. He took a moment to aim his shot. Skulker fired another torpedo. With an overhead throw, the spear took off and hit the torpedo straight on. A second spear went at blinding speed and puncture Skulker in one of his boosters. A third one impaled him straight on in the leg. Skulker cried out.

Just ahead of them, Danny spotted their salvation. The trench he detected earlier!

With one last look at the hunter, Danny dived into the trench. As much as the guy prided himself a master of the hunt, even the ocean’s pressure would squeeze him like a grape. As the adrenaline faded from his body, and the colour faded from his vision, Danny made for the first cave he saw. With the last of his strength, he entered the cave, before crashing to the floor.

“Damian, need food, to heal..”

“Phantom? Phantom?!” Damian cried out. The older boy’s gills still moved. He could still feel Phantom’s pulse under his wrist.

Damian didn’t even catch himself warbling in terror. Damian tore through Phantom’s pockets. He tossed supplies and tools out until he located the bandages. The bandages went around whatever wounds he could reach, but Phantom was so large he couldn’t even push him to a more even position. It took all Damian’s strength just to lift the older boy enough to bring the bandages around his body.

Damian heaved shallow breaths as he worked. “Phantom, are you awake? Please, listen to me.” But Phantom did not stir.

Damian’s vision went blurry, and his eyes felt slimy and wet and clogged. He wiped the pearlescent tear away, but paused at the teal blue stain on his green-scaled hand. Phantom’s blood. He stared at Phantom’s sail, its spine snapped in two in some places, and torn up like a tattered blanket in others. His breath itched in his throat. Phantom’s gills looked raw, and it was clear they were struggling. Damian’s felt like they were cramping. He didn’t dare touch the sail, or the gills, nor any of his other fins, for he didn’t have the faintest clue what to do with them. His ignorance would only damage them further.

Just as his ignorance had caused this disaster in the first place…

Suddenly, he felt very, very small. Damian’s head flicked between the mouth of the cave, deep enough that it appeared like twilight even though it was mid-afternoon, and to Phantom. Phantom needed stitches, and more bandages, and disinfectant, none of which they had access to. Phantom had packed up almost everything in his home base except the thermos, and somehow he barely had any medical supplies. Frustration welled up in Damian until he wanted to scream.

Damian shot off, but stopped himself inches before the exit. What would he even do? This trench was a wasteland as far as the eye could see. How could one call a hospital in the middle of the Pacific? And even if there was help out there, a primal fear crawled out from the back of Damian’s brain. The thought of leaving the safety of this cave became unnaturally terrifying. Against his wishes, fears of predators lurking in every direction consumed his mindscape, of human fishermen casting nets from above. The darkness of the cave beckoned to him with promises of warm and comfort far away from the dangers of the ocean.

Damian backed away from the mouth. His mouth hung open in horror. Hot tears continued to pour out, despite his attempts to bat them away. His body was weak, his only companion out of commission with no way to save him, and even his very mind was faltering.

And this time he couldn’t even blame it on anyone but himself. He was weak. He let his guard down twice and now he couldn’t even be rational about it. All he could feel was pulsing dread and the tears that just intensified the more he tried to push them back.

Damian laid his head upon Phantom’s tail. He stared blankly through his flesh and counted his bones as he simply let go. Damian cried for the second time in five years, openly and in total remorse. Father would be disappointed. Mother would be disappointed. Pennyworth and Richard would be disappointed.

Damian lost count of how long he spent like this. It could’ve been hours. The tears hardened into shiny beads that piled up on the floor. The pile grew to four inches of height.

The world-ending anguish faded away into a dull ache, a numb sorrow. The faintest motion caught his eye. Damian startled. Blinking the residual tears away, Damian scanned his surroundings, only to find no soul but them.

Another movement. It was Phantom’s hip fins. His translucent skin had showed clearly the fracture bone of the right fin underneath, but Damian could’ve sworn there was one fewer crack than before.

The fin jerked upward. Damian watched in real time as another crack in the bone mended itself before his very eyes. It was mesmerizing.

All around Phantom’s body, the worst of the worst injuries were beginning to heal. By observing from a different angle, Damian could even see wounds sealing underneath the bandages.

However, only a minute passed before the healing slowed down. And then it stalled.

Damian had a solid idea why. Phantom needed energy. They had paused for a brief snack in the morning, and had nothing else the eat up until now. Phantom was starving and accelerated healing was worthless without nutrients to sustain it.

Suddenly, Damian found himself with a new mission. He wiped the last of his tears, sniffed the last of his sniffles, and armed himself. The Anti-Creep Stick and Wrist Ray slotted neatly into his makeshift utility belt, along with a flashlight, and Phantom’s knife. The older siren had vehemently denied Damian a chance at wielding it, deeming the Anti-Creep Stick to be more age-appropriate. Damian would show him now…

However, his new bravado met its match as he paused at the threshold. The closer he got to the outside world, the stronger and stronger that primal fear roared in the deepest part of his brain. Each inch was like sinking through pitch. What would he do if Skulker returned? What would he do if some ancient ocean predator decided to snack on his flesh? Maybe he should just-

No! He could not!

Priming his muscles, Damian shot out of the cave as fast as he could muster, fast enough that he had no time to second-guess his decision. The fear peeked at fever pitch, instinctual warnings build up from eons of siren evolution blaring like the Watchtower in an alien invasion, now ignored. Once he found himself outside the cave, he steeled his resolve, and swam forth into the unknown.

He had to make this up to Phantom, somehow.

#dpxdc #danny fenton #damian wayne #merman #dcxdp #merboy #angst #mermaid au #transformation angst #smol sirens instinctively seek out dark and closed spaces to stay safe #mer damian #mer danny #skulker #canon typical violence #danny kinda goes savage in this one #he's 50% more violent partially because siren instincts #partially because hero instincts #i wrote this at 2 am

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wannaeatramyeon · 1 year

Note

The Yakuza daughter! S/o x Gun basically made me fangirl as I imagine them being a power couple lol. I now wonder if you got part 2 in that like Goo just discover Gun ring on his hand and a photo of his fiancée/wife in his photo (I just imagine that he took a photo of s/o in a lingerie lol)

Ughhhh Sam, this idea is too fun. Here's a much much quicker follow up with a lot less Yakuza-ness (sorry 🙇🏻‍♀️).

Gun Park x Reader: After I do (feat Goo)

Goo finds out. Follow up to 'I do' fic here

"How was Japan?"

Goo watches Gun washing the blood from his hands. Something about Gun has changed. He seems... different. Goo couldn't quite put his finger on it. Maybe it was Japan. Maybe it's the guy just being a freakshow as per usual.

Gun side-eyes him. The response is clipped, short, singular.

"Fine."

"Not like you to take an extended leave."

"..."

The lack of answer doesn't deter Goo, all too used to his partner's silence. "Business or personal?"

"..."

"Anything I should worry about?"

"..."

"Are you planning anything?"

"..."

"Did you pick up my Sanrio-"

Gun thrusts his hands in the dryer, the blasts of air drowning out Goo's incessant questioning. Unfortunately, this doesn't last long enough. Nothing ever does once the blonde's curiousity is piqued.

As soon as the whirring stops, Goo opens his mouth once again and Gun finally responds. "No, no and no. Shut up."

Hmph. Looks like Goo won't get anything else from this asshole. With a glint in his eye, he asks his final question, "You owe me for covering your duties. Was Crystal always this annoying?"

Gun reluctantly smiles. "Yes."

"What does our big bad boss want?"

Gun scans his phone. The message from just moments ago wasn't anything of significance to their mission. Although. The selfie of you in a seductive pose and risque underwear might be a distraction.

He appreciates it for a beat longer then locks the device. "It's not our boss."

That's the end of that conversation. Or so he thought.

"Huh?" Goo's eyes dart over to him with increasing frequency and the car starts to swerve.

Gun will not die by his hand because this fucking maniac can't keep his eyes on the road. Begrudgingly, he elaborates, "It's personal."

The blonde's eyes bulge out at this admission, "During work hours? Who wants to text a mean bastard like you?"

For fuck's sake. Can't this fucking idiot ever mind his own business.

Goo continues, "Who the hell would even want to be friends with you? I hope you're not plotting anything against me..." A malicious snicker, "Or are you dating? You should introduce me to them, they must be a firecracker!"

Gun tunes out his partner, a skill he has long mastered.

But when his phone buzzes for the third time in as many minutes, with you no doubt sending yet another racy image, Gun has to physically restrain himself from looking (and internally curses you for your poor timing).

Goo tries to swipe at the phone. "Hey, let me text back!"

Gun moves it effortlessly out of arm's reach. "If you're not going to keep those eyes on the road, then I can just pluck them from your head."

"You're no fun." Goo pouts, narrowly missing driving into a ravine.

"Oppa~ do you want a bite of this sushi?"

"No."

"Are you sure? It's really delicious!"

"..."

"Just a little taste!"

"Come near me again, I'll jam the sushi and the chopsticks down your throat."

"Ahhh~! Goo, your friend is so mean!"

What the fuck? Gun seems to be in an even more sour mood than usual. The last time the both of them were at this Gangnam bar, Gun had no issues with the women. Someone to warm his bed for the night, he had figured.

This evening though? He didn't even bat an eyelid in their direction.

"Gun! You can at least be nice to these sweethearts!" Goo snaps.

"No." Gun replies simply, getting up to leave.

What a fucking weirdo, Goo thinks. Oh well, more sushi for me.

"Since when did you wear jewellery?"

Goo snatches Gun's left hand, pulling it up to his face and holding it so close he is cross-eyed behind his glasses.

He absolutely has not seen this before, his brows furrow at this very odd addition. A plain, silver-coloured ring wrapped around the fourth finger.

Yanking his hand back, Gun responds. "Since I want to."

"A plain ring? On that finger?" Goo trails after him as he strides off, "You know what that means right? Wait..."

Goo completely stops in his tracks, "A couple band? Engagement? Are you...?"

Gun completely ignores him, increasing the distance between them.

No fucking way, right? The simple band on his hand is definitely something, but-

There's just-

No. fucking. way.

Who the fuck would be able to put up with Gun Park?

"Who's that?" Goo peers at the picture of the smokeshow on Gun's phone, catching a glimpse just before he tucks it into his pocket.

Having that image is certainly... a choice. Who is she though? A new k-pop idol? Gun doesn't seem like the type that would have an image of an idol or a celebrity as their background.

"My wife."

"WHAT THE FUCK?"

"Focus." Gun commands, as a gang of men come at them with knives and baseball bats.

"WHAT THE FUCK?" Goo repeats, ducking to avoid a slash.

"I said, focus." Gun easily tanks a couple hits before returning some of his own.

"WHAT THE-" Goo's words are cut short as some thug takes advantage of his diverted attention and knocks his glasses off.

"FUCK- Fine." Goo elbows the guy in the solar plexus then easily plucks the baseball bat from his now slack grip. "Let me just borrow this~"

"You must be Goo Kim!"

Turning on the hostess charm, you note how Goo has to almost literally pick his jaw off the floor with your entrance.

Gun leans against the doorframe, observing with quiet smugness at the reaction. You had dropped in at the HNH offices to join Gun for lunch. Usually he would pick a better time and place but the level of questioning from Goo had already surpassed absurd levels ever since he found out Gun was married.

The last few weeks had been hell.

"When did you get married?! You didn't invite me to the wedding? I wasn't your best man? Tell me, who was it! I'll beat them up! When can I meet your bride? Or are you scared I'll charm her away?"

And Gun had promised you a partnership of equals. With your short time in South Korea, you had more than enough proved your usefulness and loyalty. It's about time he cuts you in on the Crew business.

He surmises this is a way to kill two birds with one stone.

You're Gun's wife? This absolute knockout? With him? That fucking boring asshole?

Goo would have thought this is Gun's twisted idea of a prank if he hadn't found out that the guy barely had a sense of humour a long time ago. That time had almost ended in stitches for Goo.

"Mrs. Park!" He gives you a theatrical bow, "I've been so looking forward to working with you!"

"Just call me Y/N," you giggle.

Goo takes your hand, pressing a loud smooch to the top of it. Gun's entire body tenses at the contact. This does not go unnoticed by you.

You retract your hand back, subtly wiping the kiss away, "I can't wait to get stuck into all the details."

"Of course, Y/N!"

"There won't be any trouble from you, right, Goo?"

"Princess, don't you trust me?"

You look Goo dead in the eye, seeing through the fake hurt on his face and dropping your own act.

"No. And," you grab onto his crotch, digging in your nails as Goo yelps, "If there is even a whiff of anything amiss then I'm coming after your balls." Your grip tightens as he tries without success to push you off, "Got it?"

"ACK!! Fuck! Got it, got it!"

You release him, relishing at his squeal.

"If you've broken anything," Goo scowls, struggling to stand and cradling himself tenderly. "Ugh, you two are fucking made for each other. Psychos."

Gun arrives at your side with a smirk, he guides you by the small of your back, leading you out.

"Not bad," he murmurs into your ear, "You were wasted in Japan."

#sorry goo my poor baby #lookism #lookism x reader #lookism headcanons #lookism hc #lookism fic #lookism webtoon #lookism manhwa #gun park #gun park x reader #park jonggun x reader #park jonggun #goo kim #kim joongoo #wannaeatramyeon

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caltropspress · 2 months

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Earl Sweatshirt: A Geography of Grief and Growth

I made myself the poet of the world. The white man had found a poetry in which there was nothing poetic….I had soon to change my tune.

—Frantz Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks (1952)

I suggest that we do not necessarily need to hear and know what is stated in its entirety, that we do not need to “master” or conquer the narrative as a whole, that we may know in fragments.

—bell hooks, “Teaching New Worlds/New Words” (1994)

Breakin’ ’em down to micro-fragments.

—Saafir, “Battle Drill” (1994)

What is asked of me is not to ascend but to descend.

—Robert Bly (1990)

Earl Sweatshirt’s arc, swerving and dervishy, isn’t difficult to see, as we’ve witnessed it with him—we’re either interlocutors or interlopers, both with questionable motives. So when Earl looks back on school daze, as he does on “OD,” we look back with him (though ours is often an imperial gaze [HOW COULD IT NOT BE?]). We tee-hee and titter as we hear that “somebody tooted in the student commons,” tooted being the most puerile word for gas he could have chosen. An array of scatological options were ignored. It’s a deliberate gesture toward juvenilia. He doesn’t want his expression to be too mature, ha. He wants to welcome you to the romper room, ha. Remaining a kid until the moment he expires, apparently. So he sets the adolescent scene: the student commons. “The bell rang,” and the accused student was spared the prolonged opprobrium. In about four seconds, the student will begin to post. He “went home and argued in the comments,” channeling his embarrassment elsewhere, talking shit (shit) on the internet behind the safety and quasi-anonymity of a screen—an odd facade. He can walk right up to your avi and diss you. That’s his philosophy. The public humiliation replaced with a private self-possession. The discomfort of the crowd exchanged for the solace of solitude.

2. DID AN ANGEL SPEAK?

The sonics of “tooted” and “student” are twee, giggle-inducing. We laugh along with the concatenation of m and n phonemes [somebody | student | commons | rang | went | home | then | in | comments]. The near-homophonous commons and comments scan hysterical. With “OD,” it’s easy to confuse adolescence with adulthood. That “somebody” committed this social transgression seems defensive. Maybe it was him—the subject, Earl, Thebe—seeing as how the rest of the song is delivered in the first-person. Embrace the Age of Immaturity. Channel the Fat Boys: Darren Robinson’s flatulent beatbox. Place it beside the disorderly lyrics that Bobbito spits: “I write my own shit from finish to start, / Diminish the heart, / I eat a knish and then I fart.” Like the Cenobites, Earl kicks a dope verse, and only that. “I keep my sentences short,” he says on “EAST.” Beauty is brevity, brevity beauty. A “brevity pack,” as Earl has referred to the Feet of Clay songs. He strives to be live ’cause he got no choice. He runs his own business like James Joyce. In A Portrait of the Artists as a Young Man, a similar flatus incident unravels. At Clongowes Wood College (Stephen Dedalus’s Coral Reef Academy), a “stout student who stood below…on the steps” by the name of Goggins “farted briefly.” Sonically, the sentence shares much with Earl’s opening line. Dixon asks, in a “soft voice,” “Did an angel speak?” But the others react with bellicosity and name-calling (stinkpot; flamingest dirty devil). Goggins doesn’t retreat home; he simply asks, “It did no one any harm, did it?” You still bet that you can harm me, but you don’t alarm me, Goggins might say another way, reprising Del the Funky Homosapien, echoplexing Masta Ace.

Earl “watched the doppler move,” the wavelength shift—the siren song of the “toot,” something insidious—or maybe it’s just the tremors we’re feeling. Woop, woop: that’s the sound of the beast, KRS would say. The frequency shivers. The shift, the movéd doppler, means Earl is immediately older, he’s the child who “get[s] introduced to violence,” even if he acknowledges the line was inspired by his nephew on a playground in South Africa, experiencing apartheid reincarnate as a whiteboy cuts him in line for the slide. Cranly, bullying Goggins, “shove[s] him violently down the steps.” The doppler moves. It slides into violence—like the violence visited upon the MOVE compound located at 6221 Osage Avenue in Philly in 1985. Gradations of black/white. ELUCID mentions the “gray on [his] face showing age” on his Osage (2016) project. Isn’t it strange—how the youngins can turn cold, hoarfrosty, in an instant? The grayscale cover to ELUCID’s tape is graced by a photograph of Birdie Africa, the sole child survivor of the siege. The bone fragments of the MOVE children have since been used in anthropology courses at UPenn and Princeton—case studies. It’s a good trope. Fascinating stuff.

4. TRYIN’ TO TRANSFORM YOU BOYS TO MEN LIKE DAYCARE

When JuJu of the Beatnuts asked, You want pain?, he wasn’t referencing the dramatical-traumatical pain Earl negotiates—JuJu’s question posed a ruffneck and ruffian pain on “Watch Out Now.” Somewhere closer to Marcy, where Jay-Z’s streets was watching. Earl clocks minutes, anaphoric with what he watches (I watched the doppler… / I watched a child…), much like Dylan’s portentous hard rain in which he saw endless racialized visions: “I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it”; “I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin’”; “I saw a white ladder all covered with water.” For Earl, the ladder is a slide. The saw is watched. Witnesses all.

In “Theory as Liberatory Practice,” bell hooks writes that she “came to theory because [she] was hurting”: “I wanted to make the hurt go away. I saw in theory then a location for healing.” hooks says that she “came to theory young, when [she] was still a child,” citing Terry Eagleton who argues that “[c]hildren make the best theorists.” Children, Eagleton insists, possess “a wondering estrangement.” No wonder, then, that “since a jit” Earl has found no use in “giving up.” He rather make it make sense.

I beat you to the point. Having gained experience, there’s nothing you can tell Earl that he doesn’t already know, that he hasn’t already seen. He’s seen enough, had enough. He doesn’t await the mob’s pursuit; he places the noose on himself, he RE: DEFines it within his own lexicon. His noose, therefore, “is golden.” He’s a young youth, rockin’ the gold [noose], DEATHWORLD goose. He speaks with criminal slang, with a split tongue like ELUCID. Where ELUCID was “true and living, actual—no dull axes, owner of all heads,” Earl is “true and living, lonesome,” with no skulls to keep him company. He has to square up with the “pugilistic moments” on his own.

7. I AM OLDER THAN I ONCE WAS AND YOUNGER THAN I’LL BE

I’m thinking of “The Pugilist at Rest” (1991) by Thom Jones, whose epileptic protag describes a “grainy black-and-white photograph” of the bronze statue called The Pugilist at Rest. The pugilist, with a pocketful of mumbles, has “slanted, drooping brows that bespeak torn nerves” and a forehead “piled with scar tissue.” Torn nerves and scar tissue—sounds like the physical manifestations of grief. And, yes, Earl has grieved, and he continues to grieve—as listeners, we’re accustomed to his grief pedigree, as per Ka. In the past, Earl was “panicking a lot”—he just “want[ed] [his] time and [his] mind intact.” That’s a cold fact.

The narrator of “The Pugilist at Rest” readies himself for a cingulotomy—a psychosurgical procedure that will “cauterize a small spot in a nerve bundle in [his] brain.” In other words, he wants to keep his mind intact. The neurosurgeon promises the operation will lift “the heaviness of a heart blackened by sin,” which is what convinces the narrator to agree to it. Good grief, he thinks, he’s been reaping what he sowed. He “can’t go on like this,” barely living “with a deadening sense of languor,” a phrase which calls to mind Earl’s lethargic, slugabed flow. Feeling insane in the membrane, like he’s a Soul Assassinated, exploring the depths beneath his whooligan behaviors. 376 was a brothel. “Good and evil are only illusions,” Jones writes. In anticipation of the surgery, the protag considers the worst-case [so what, so what] scenario: “If they fuck up the operation, I hope I get to keep my dogs somehow.”

8. MOURNING & MEDICINE FOR MELANCHOLIA

Grief carries its own antidote along with it.

—Charles Brockden Brown, Wieland (1798)

“Grief is the door to feeling,” Robert Bly says. But Earl, on “Grief,” told us he “ain’t been outside in a minute”—and that minute, whether we’re speaking with criminal slang like Nas on “It Ain’t Hard To Tell” or not, is an eternity. Earl hadn’t crossed that threshold, hadn’t kicked in that door. MIKE would realize it much later on “No Curse Lifted (rivers of love),” how you “had to walk through the grief,” even if it “was the worst feeling.” In 2015, though, Earl found these passageways distorted. Like the undulating photograph on the cover of his first mixtape. Like the blur-obscured selfie on the cover of Some Rap Songs. Like the static-scrambled cover of I Don’t Like Shit, I Don’t Go Outside. Earl’s dealt in fragmentary confuzzled noise for a full career. He’s been standing on the corner, red burnt, moving down alien lanes paved by GBV, greenthinking to himself. It ain’t hard to tell that Earl “don’t act hard” and yet is a “hard act to follow.” The density or opacity of his exterior notwithstanding, grief don’t come easy. “As men,” Bly says, “we’re taught not to feel pain and grief as children.” So Earl spits somnolent, numb-tongued and slack-jawed. Like he said on “Cold Summers”: muffle my pain and muzzle my brain up.

“I’ve been alone in my shit for the longest,” he spit on “Grief,” and in work as recent as “Vin Skully,” he’s still figuring out “how to stay afloat in a bottomless pit.” Bly says that “we receive something from our father by standing close to him—something moves over that can’t be described in material terms.” Bly speaks of being in a “conspiracy with his mother” from early on. Earl finds himself “thinking ’bout [his] grandmama” while he wallows and lies in a bottle. “Grief” catalogs all the things his mama taught him. Earl’s work, of late, is autodestructive. He peels away and pastes back haphazardly. He vibes with this Bly shit: “If you can deny something so fundamental as grief in the whole family, you can deny anything. And then how can you write poetry if you’re involved in that much denial?”

Bly goes on to quote Alice Miller, the psychoanalyst who gave us The Drama of the Gifted Child (1979): “When you were young, you needed something you did not receive, and you will never receive it. And the proper attitude is mourning.” Mourning is the proper attitude, not blame—mourning. Mourning makes its way through moaning and mumbling—Earl’s current intonation. On “Grief,” he “cut the grass off the surface [and] pray[s] the lawnmower blade catch the back of a serpent.” Philip Larkin’s poem “The Mower” (1979) leans more literal: “The mower stalled, twice; I found / A hedgehog jammed up against the blades, / Killed. It had been in the long grass.” Larkin’s speaker genuflects before the innocent critter, recalling how he “fed it, once.” Now, he mourns how he has “mauled its unobtrusive world, / Unmendably. Burial was no help.” Earl, of course, is less forgiving of the serpents in the grass. They’re threats, not friends. Still, a void opens up when the mower—(and let’s not forget the lawnmower is a modernized scythe)—does its mowing. Grief is the door to feeling, and on the other side:

Next morning I got up and it did not. The first day after a death, the new absence Is always the same; we should be careful Of each other, we should be kind While there is still time.

9. NOBODY KNOW WHO MADE THIS WELL, FOR IT WAS HERE WHEN I WAS BORN

“Come get to know me at my innermost…”

Riveting, Earl raps. Earl raps are riveting. We fix to the flow—riverrun, past Eve and Adam’s. We’re invited to know Earl, to become familiar, and his “innermost” is a constant vacillation between optimism and [afro]pessimism. The sudden switches—these switches on bitches like fixed with hydraulics—establish what Danny Schwartz, writing for Rolling Stone, called an “uneven terrain.”

Earl’s “family business [is] anguished,” and that’s recognizable. We’ve known Earl (on “Chum”) with the “pendulum swinging slow” and low. He holed up, hostage-like, in his “heart’s bottomless pit.” Poe’s “The Pit and the Pendulum” (1842) brand of captivity. “I was sick,” that narrator says, “—sick unto death with that long agony.” Something tells me there should be an exclamation point there (SICK!). Earl Sweatshirt was down, down, down. “I was in the fucking pits for like 10 months post my pops dying,” he said in an interview. The Spanish Inquisition ain’t shit.

But for these countless downs, “OD” tracks the ups like naloxone in the nasal membrane. “Now I need atonement,” Earl notes—he makes a case for reparations. He “sets the goal[s]” like some motivational speaker. If “half [his] wings is broken,” he can “spread the other for [his] brodie OD.” Somewhat circumspect as he’s “tiptoeing,” yet the approach is laden with “too much love.” Even when his “sister showed in a rut,” he’s joining arms with her and “getting over, sending up.” That rut she walks—like Eudora Welty’s worn path (1941)—is a path through the pinewoods, and she’s suddenly Phoenix Jackson. “She was very old and small,” Welty writes, and she moves “with the balanced heaviness and lightness of a pendulum in a grandfather clock.” Even with her pentium processing and pendulum low, she swings back up—the rise of her namesake. She screams phoenix, her feathers and flames are one skin. “Living in the moment,” Earl raps, and his craft is bars. “You been corrupt”—and, sure, who hasn’t?—but you recover with “some ginabot.” Welty’s Old Phoenix surveys a spring “silently flowing through a hollow log.” She bends and drinks and says, “Sweet gum makes the water sweet.” It’s the equivalent to Earl putting “shilajit in his sippy cup,” which is “healing cuts revealingly.” And, yes, from a “sippy cup,” so we’re back to toddling around again (“Since a jit,” he says). “I can’t give enough,” Earl raps, his last winding-sheet made of nard and myrrh.

10.

We crouch and teeter, caterwauling along the ledges, for we’ve got these clumsy feet of clay. This is the intended effect[/defect]; this is the rubble of what Earl calls the “crumbling empire.” This is us feeling the violent vibes of the “death throes” he speaks of. Why would we expect anything to resemble traditional song or rhyme structure when the earth quakes, civilization trembles, and Earl’s dungeon shakes? His chains have fallen off. The tenor is tremors. He’s living the trife life—hell on earth—but still living. Earl’s done trying to not look down—he embraces an outer appearance which scans dour; he deliberately gazes into the pit, inviting the vertigo, for it “haunts the whole of existence,” as Fanon says. But Frank B. Wilderson III promises a “vengeance of vertigo.”

11.

Gallons of rubbing alcohol flow through the strip, and Earl’s lips. He’s “refilling the pump”—his heart, yeah—but with a sawed-off shotgun, hand-on-the-pump posture. There’s “no concealing it,” not even with a concealed carry permit. He brandishes right back at “the enemy up in arms bearing snubs.” The mood swings; been down so long it looks like up to him. The turns require tourniquets. This is some Battle of Dak To torture—somewhere between Retaliation and the Heavenly Divine. Emotional turmoil seems violent by design, and Earl’s “memory [is] really leaking blood.” Fear not, the blood is “congealing, stuck.” Like Havoc says, “The Mobb rollin’ thicker.” Prodigy cites it, too: “This ain’t rap—it’s bloodsport.” But Earl has known that all along—he’s been “mobbin’ deep as ’96 Havoc and Prodigy did” since 2013.

12.

HipHopDX’s Kevin Cortez referred to listeners having to “sift through the muddle” in order to appreciate the bars, but where muddle suggests a disorderly conduct, a kaos network, Earl’s style, more appropriately, models. The woozy, wavy, and inner-conflict-war-torn vocals model an abstraction that anticipates the listener’s loyalty. This is what I’ve got, brief and cryptic as the gesture may be, the model says. Writing for NME, Dhruva Balram described Earl’s lyrics as “slurred,” but slurry is the form.

13.

If the empire can deploy Orwellian technologies of repression, its outcasts have the gods of chaos on their side…

—Mike Davis, Planet of Slums (2005)

So if we’re giving ourselves over to the woozes and waves, we’ll just as well find ourselves lost. Let’s go—like those tourist books run by students—and let’s wander eastward. Follow our napkin-scrawled directions and disorientations to a somewhere elsewhere. Let’s go east for a second, for a spell, on a lark, in the dark (word to AKAI SOLO). Earl’s bloodwork contains “pieces of slums”—or more aptly, [sLUms]. He’s hand-to-hand with that Jungle Boy MIKE, but also the god Mike Davis. “[T]he cities of the future,” Davis wrote, would be “constructed out of crude brick, straw, recycled plastic, cement blocks, and scrap wood.” Just the same as an Earl Sweatshirt verse is built—under the tutelage and overstanding-sharing, symbiotically, with MIKE. Davis says our cities aren’t “cities of light soaring toward heaven,” but a world that “squats in squalor, surrounded by pollution, excrement, and decay.” Smells like somebody tooted in the student commons. Smells like a slum village, something we’ve smelled before—possibly coming straight from the slums of Shaolin.

14. ACID EASTERNS

Earl trekked to the East and squinted into “one beacon in the dust weaving”—like Clint Eastwood arriving out of the hazy horizon ether of High Plains Drifter (1973). But Earl is heading to the East, blackwards. And though Brother J claimed you can’t define what’s direct from the East, Jeru told us on The Sun Rises in the East that you can’t stop the prophet either. So on “EAST,” Earl traverses a tricky terrain—it’s tricky, tricky, tricky because it’s an acid western landscape: an acid eastern.

The path isn’t direct or linear—it zigs and zags like rolling papers, and stimulates the same. “Double back when you got it made,” Earl says at the start of his journey “EAST.” The objective is to talk sense condensed into the form of a poem like Special Ed once did on “I Got It Made.” Instead, Earl’s poems—his L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poems—skew [non]sense, go form[less], and vaporize rather than condense. Lyn Hejinian in cinnamon Timbs: “constant change figures / the time we sense.” The narrative is hallucinogenic (note: “how the story careen against the bars”). Earl’s bindle contains “thirty racks and weed [with] no fat in the collard greens.” That’s how he gets funky on the mic like an old batch. That’s how he gets sincerity on the mic: “Off top it’s me—no cap, / I don’t bottle things.” That buck that bought a bottle could’ve struck the lotto, maybe. But Earl’s “canteen was full of the poison [he] need[s].” He gets where he’s going like El Topo, bereft. The “trip was long and steep”—that being an acid trip—so let me see you try to ride a horse into the chasms of the canyon.

“EAST” is a death meditation, a grand duel between Dantean and Donneian lyric voices [he damn-near well should’ve double-tracked the vocals]. In a 2015 interview with SPIN, Earl is asked about the worst thing he did that year, to which he replies: “Umm…acid?” He elaborates: “I took it at a time when I really didn’t need to be taking acid. I had like a fucking existential crisis at, like, four in the morning. But it was tight. We reeled it back.” Jodorowsky called El Topo (1970) an “eastern” in that it “incorporat[ed] ancient eastern wisdom in the materiality of American cowboys.” For Earl, it’s more a rhinestone cowboy—he holds the cold one like he holds an old gun (as evidenced in the “EAST” music video). DOOM was no stranger to grief, of course, and the rumors persist regarding the bad acid that precipitated Subroc’s early demise (“Bad Acid” also being the original title for “December 24”).

Estranged Earl, alienated—a high plains drifter (not Clint Eastwood, though) who rechristens a town “Hell” through a baptism of blood. Like the Beastie Boys’ version, Earl pulls out a pair of pliers and pulls a bullet out of his chest. He pulls through, true and living. “I’m long distance from my girl,” Mike D raps, so he’s “talking on the cellular,” but Earl is more alienated than that—beyond racking up roaming charges, immersed in dead zones. He “lost [his] phone and consequently all the feelings [he] caught for [his] GF.” Relationships can’t be sustained in these bleak and barren locations. All the blood has been drained from the ruddy faces—sanguine scenery. In his essay “On the Acid Western,” Jonathan Rosenbaum discusses how the subgenre “refuses to respect or valorize bloodshed.” Memory really leaking blood. Congealing. Stuck. To paraphrase Rosenbaum, Earl’s acid eastern “formulat[es] a chilling, savage frontier poetry to justify [his] hallucinated agenda—a view at once clear-eyed and visionary, exalted and laconic, moral and unsentimental, witty and beautiful, frightening and placid.” Earl’s “innocence was lost in the East,” and obsessives speculate whether this refers to Samoa or New York City—how far east we going? Countless spirit-questers pit-stopping at ashrams, searching for that Gifted Unlimited Rhymes Universal guide.

“I wait a beat,” Earl says. His canteen stays filled, auto-replenishes. His “cognitive dissonance shattered” and the “necessary venom restored.” Jodorowsky reportedly once taped snakes to his chest for an experimental theater performance. As if it matters if you think it matters anymore. Or, as ELUCID says, “Words mean things but don’t have to.” Acids and bases. Occident and Orient. Western and Eastern. Up is down.

15. NOTHING LIKE US EVER WAS

Earl’s “EAST” accordion beat—or whatever Orkes Gambus Al Fata instrumentation is at work—is more madcap than madvillainous. In my head is Erick Sermon, though, speaking about how “the flow slow…like a jazz player, or someone on the accordion” on “Knick Knack Patty Wack.” But I’m less concerned with the flow of air through bellows—compressing and expanding—than I am with Earl’s rendering of wind. (Somebody tooted.)

“Let the dead be dead,” Carl Sandburg says at stanza’s end in “Four Preludes on the Playthings of the Wind” (1920). Later, he reports, “The only singers now are crows crying.” And so Earl, a lonesome crow, reminds us—and himself—that “the wind get the ashes in the end” on “December 24.” The whining, wheezing consonance of /-nd/ in “wind” and “end” manages to evoke both the wind itself and the circularity of life. The bar whooshes and whips until we’re at our end, the terminus. That circularity, that full circle: ashes to ashes. “We are the greatest city,” Sandburg repeats, “the greatest nation: / nothing like us ever was.”

Global winds be blowin’—[Of the Soul]—and so billy woods cites that same line on “Haarlem”: “Thebe said the wind get the ashes in the end, bruv.” Check the configuration of the rhime:

The wind | gets | the ashes | in | the end {birth} {life} {death}

Even that get does work—whether it’s the violence of Death Grips’ “get got”; Too $hort threatening you to “get in where you fit in”; or the satirical sadism of Keenen Ivory Wayans’ I’m Gonna Git You Sucka. The wind wins out—it gets what it wants. On “EAST,” the wind—infinitely personified—“whispered to [Earl], ‘Ain’t it hard?’” It ain’t hard to tell that it is. How about some hardcore? Yeah, we like it raw like M.O.P. But those burns yield ashes. In Adrienne Rich’s poem “The Burning of Paper Instead of Children” (1989), she struggles with the words she uses, knowing “[t]his is the oppressor’s language / yet [she] needs to talk to you.” I know it hurts to burn, she writes, but writing is no less ardent. “The typewriter is overheated, my mouth is burning.”

Let me bring it back to Robert Bly. “In the ancient times,” Bly says, “the movement for the men was downward—a descent into grief. It’s referred to in the fairytale as ‘the time of ashes.’” Ashes, he explains, is the “code word for the ‘out of it’ time.”

We know what it is like to take ashes in our hands. How light they are! The fingertips experience them as a kind of powder… Ashes, we note, find their way into the whorls of our fingertips, cling there, make the whorls more noticeable, more visible, more clear to us. We can take our own fingerprints with ashes.

Ashes, then, aren’t simply for the wind’s taking—ashes are for us, are necessary for us to transcend the grief the boys, the men, and the man-child experience. Bly points to the various cultures that have used ashes in initiation rites: “Ashes Time is a time set aside for the death of that ego-bound boy.” Ready to give up, so you seek the Old Earth. The elders cover your face—even your whole body—with ashes “to make [you] the color of dead people and to remind [you] of the inner death about to come.” Consider Earl’s ashen white face produced in the negative imagery of the “Grief” music video.” “The word ashes contains in it a dark feeling for death,” Bly says. “Ashes when put on the face whiten as death does.”

Earl Sweatshirt is a far cry from knocking blunt ashes into caskets.

16.

Feet of clay, hands of light…

—Moor Mother and billy woods, “Furies” (2020)

For Cheryl I. Harris, Earl’s mother, the feet of clay refer to a vulnerability we all possess no matter how formidable we may appear to become. Earl invokes the King of Babylon’s dream, a dream of an idol “meant to represent all the empires of the world,” echoing Sandburg’s imperious “greatest nation.” Earl believes “we at the feet of clay right now…We posted up live from burning Rome.” Imagine the ash pile. So Earl is here, ostensibly, to turn the disco into something dismal—how Mtume becomes “MTOMB” with its entombed sonics, as if he’s rapping from within a wall, the victim of some Poe immurement.

17.

“I remember woods,” Earl raps on “OD.” “I remember Endom when he wasn’t remembering much, / I remember love healing the ruptures.” I remember is also the refrain and title of Joe Brainard’s poem-memoir, a term which aptly describes much of Earl’s recent output. Brainard’s memories bum-rush into the present:

I remember a dream I used to have a lot of a beautiful red and yellow and black snake in bright green grass. I remember painting “I HATE TED BERRIGAN” in big black letters all over my white wall. I remember liver.

If Earl recalls love “healing the ruptures,” then he also likely recalls Fanon: It is essential to convey to the black man that an attitude of rupture has never saved anyone. But Fanon also speaks of young Black men “maintain[ing] their alterity. Alterity of rupture, of conflict, of battle.” Earl, “feeling rushed, grew up quick.” He echoes Biggie, who “grew up a fucking screw-up,” and Raekwon, who “grew up on the crime side” (though Earl’s mama taught him, as we know from “Grief,” how to avoid the pigs, persecution, and prosecution). Eyes on the clock, Earl acknowledges this “trip around the sun” is his “25th,” so “give it up”—his survival alone deserving of a standing [on the corner] ovation. He celebrates life with “gin and rum.” Again, notably not gin and juice—murder was never the case. The only death is the inner death, the death of the ego-bound boy, that Bly describes. Earl’s gin is the drink of be[gin]ning, of genesis (“Light them Phillies up then…”), of Super Nintendo, Sega Genesis, when I was dead-broke, man… “We wasn’t supposed to be alive,” Earl says, yet here he stands.

18. RUMINANT

Stare at the Feet of Clay album cover—an evocation of folkloric imagery: a Grimm forest with gnarled tree branches—and the enchanted, diabolic goat lying in wait. Earl’s parasocial following speculate G.O.A.T., of course, but I’m more inclined to mythopoeic possibilities. The Feet of Clay goat glares like Baphomet but frolics like a faun over fractured beats. “OD,” Earl has stated, “brought [him] up out of [his] little wreck”—a wreck of wracked nerves. Adrienne Rich encourages “diving into the wreck” (1973).

I am blacking out and yet my mask is powerful it pumps my blood with power.

Earl’s right there with her, submerged and blacking out, but still surviving: Really leaking blood, but refilling the pump.

In her essay “Teaching New Worlds/New Words,” bell hooks invokes Rich’s struggle to navigate the “oppressor’s language.” For hooks, as a Black writer, managing that is even more difficult and historical. “I think now of the grief of displaced ‘homeless’ Africans, forced to inhabit a world where they saw folks like themselves, inhabiting the same skin, the same condition, but who had no shared language to talk with one another, who needed ‘the oppressor’s language.’” hooks explains how Black folks have “remade that language so that it would speak beyond the boundaries of conquest and domination.”

Earl Sweatshirt, especially in his later work, has “altered [and] transformed” English, just as “enslaved Black people took broken bits of English and made of them a counter-language.” The emotional wreckage is also a linguistic heap of fragments—micro-fragments, if we’ve learned anything from Saafir. Earl, in the tradition of his ancestors, “put[s] together [his] words in such a way that the colonizer ha[s] to rethink the meaning of the English language.” “The grammatical construction of sentences in these songs” by Earl, just as by the spirituals of hundreds of years prior, “reflect[s] the broken, ruptured world of the slave.” That crumbling empire Earl mentions was faulted by feet of clay.

At the Museum of Contemporary Art in Los Angeles in 2019, sharing a dais with his mother, Cherly I. Harris, Earl spoke to this lineage directly: “Rap music is slave music—the modern-day iteration of it. Slave communication had to be encrypted. You got a code.” He shifted: “If I know what I’m saying…I can teach it to you.” On Feet of Clay, Earl is teaching to transgress. “I’m cracking my own code,” he says to an audience member during the Q&A, “how it comes out garbled…,” and then he trails off, as if making a deliberate effort to keep his answer cryptic.

hooks always saw language as “a site of resistance.” This included the incorrect usage and placement of words—she called such practices a “rebellion.” Weaponizing syntax. hooks recognized rap music as a continuation of this fight—the latest [sound]clash, hip-hop artists as rebels without a pause—while still acknowledging the collateral damage it might cause.

Rap music has become one of the spaces where black vernacular speech is used in a manner that invites dominant mainstream culture to listen—to hear—and, to some extent, be transformed. However, one of the risks of this attempt at cultural translation is that it will trivialize black vernacular speech. When young white kids imitate this speech in ways that suggest it is the speech of those who are stupid or who are only interested in entertaining or being funny, then the subversive power of this speech is undermined.

Or, as Earl once said on “Chum,” “Too Black for the white kids and too white for the Blacks,” an axiom he’s come to loathe. Perhaps Fanon had the better bar on this subject: “The white man had the anguished feeling that I was escaping from him and that I was taking something with me. He went through my pockets. He thrust probes into the least circumvolution of my brain. Everywhere he found only the obvious. So it was obvious that I had a secret.”

Despite the pitfalls (and, yeah, the pit is bottomless), Earl’s words play [wordplay] a part in retraining minds, all while exorcizing his own demons through a steady diet of ashes and fractures. hooks promises us that “in the patient act of listening to another tongue we may subvert that culture of capitalist frenzy and consumption that demands all desire must be satisfied immediately.” Through his embrace of a language that indulges in passion and cerebral coding, Earl “heal[s] the splitting of mind and body” so common within Western metaphysical thought. Earl Sweatshirt speaks “words that do more than simply mirror or address the dominant reality”; he builds blips into a reality that is worth the rewind.

Images: Dead Man, dir. Jim Jarmusch, 1995 (screenshot) | Teen at 1990s computer photograph, Unknown (c. 1996) | James Joyce, Age 2, Unknown | ELUCID, Osage album cover (2016), photo by Michael Mally, Philadelphia Inquirer | The Boxer at Rest, bronze statue, Palazzo Massimo alle Terme, Rome, Italy (330-50 BC) | Alphonse Legros, The Pit and the Pendulum, second Plate (1861) | High Plains Drifter, dir. Clint Eastwood, 1973 (screenshot) | Subroc on an Apple IIc, Unknown (c. 1987) | Earl Sweatshirt, “Grief” music video, 2015 (screenshot) | Arthur Rackham, The Water of Life, Grimms Fairy Tales (1916) | Dead Man, dir. Jim Jarmusch, 1995 (screenshot)

#earl sweatshirt #underground hip hop #rap #backwoodz studioz #elucid #billy woods #moor mother

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