#and/or will never be intimately familiar with

[smokysr]

I LIKE U - S. R

pairing: fubu!spencer reid x afab!reader

content warning: +18. mdni. 3.3k words. oral (reader receiving). soft dom spencer. angry sex. raw. cowgirl. praise.

synopsis: in which you find yourself falling for your fuck buddy.

author's note: first smut </3 posting this in honor of undressed reaching 100 reads on wattpad!! woohoo

You never believed in love—not the kind that lasts, anyway. You’ve seen the way it destroyed people. Your parents. Your friends. Even your own failed attempts. Love has brought you nothing but pain. So you convinced yourself that it wasn't worth the trouble—that you were better off alone. It was safer that way. And for a while, you’ve never been happier.

Until Spencer Reid came along.

It was just harmless fun—or so you thought. You were bored, and this guy who wouldn't stop rambling off fun facts was really cute. The way his lips parted when he talked, the glasses that rested on the tip of his nose, and not to mention his eyes—the kind you could drown in without even realizing.

Just a taste. That’s all you needed from him.

Then another. And another. And another—until it became a routine.

Spencer knocking on your door, tangling himself in your sheets at least twice a week. Always leaving something that belonged to him—may it be his watch, his book, his hoodie, sometimes, even his glasses. And it was infuriating, the way he could just sweep you off your feet with a single look, mark you like a promise, and then disappear before you even woke up.

You don't even know when it started—the way your heart raced when you were together, or how you’d wait for a message from him, only to feel that familiar pang of disappointment when the notification wasn't from him.

And then it hit you.

You were falling for him. Hard.

It wasn't supposed to happen—it shouldn't have happened—but there you were, wanting more than what you bargained for.

Fuck.

Fuck.

But just like you, Spencer had his own walls. The reason this whole thing kept going was because neither of you believed in love. That was the unspoken rule. But the sex was good—too good, even. Raw. Hungry. Intimate. But always fleeting. As if he kept one foot out the door, ready to run the second things get too real.

Your eyes fluttered open when the sunlight peeked through the curtains. You reached for him, only to be greeted by the empty space on his side of the bed. Spencer was gone—only the imprint of where he slept remained, and the faint scent of his cologne lingered.

This was your set up. You should be used to it by now, but you couldn't deny the heavy feeling that settled on your chest every time you woke up to an empty bed.

You got out of bed and made your way down to the kitchen—where your eyes landed on a book on the counter.

Spencer’s, you thought. No one else in this apartment liked to read, unless your cat somehow learned how to.

As if fate were playing tricks on you, your phone buzzed.

A notification from Spencer.

Work called, I had to leave early. I left my book there when I was in a rush. I’ll pick it up later.

Your brows furrowed as you read his message, not even bothering to type out a reply. What were you going to say, anyway? He had your address memorized—he’d show up when he could.

─────────────────────────────

The sun started to set.

Spencer stood outside of your apartment, knocking on your door. Once. Twice. When it finally swung open, his eyes met yours. You stood there, unmoved. A moment of silence hung between you two.

“Hey,” his voice was softer than usual.

You held his gaze, “hey.”

Another pause.

“Can I come in?” He gestured inside as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Oh right—sorry,” you moved aside, waiting for him to step in.

Spencer didn't say anything else. He just looked around as if he hadn't already memorized every detail of your place.

“You got my text?” Spencer asked, trying to sound casual. “Mhm. Your book’s on the counter,” you hummed.

Your eyes met his—just for a second—before you looked away. “Thanks,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

The air was thick with unspoken tension.

Spencer walked over to the counter and picked up the book. He stared at it for a moment before slipping it into his bag.

“That’s all you came here for, right?” you said, not meaning for it to come out so bitter—but it did.

His gaze snapped to you. “What's that supposed to mean?”

You scoffed, turning away. “Nothing, forget about it.”

“No,” he said, voice firmer now. “Say it.”

You turned back to him. “I just think it's funny. Every time you show up, you leave something behind, send a one-line text, and suddenly that's enough.”

Spencer’s brows furrowed. “I didn't realize I needed to give you a full explanation every time I leave.”

“You don’t!” you snapped. “That’s the thing. You don’t. And yet—I still fucking wait for it.”

“This was supposed to be simple,” he hissed back.

“Then stop doing things to make it not simple, Spencer!” your voice broke, sharp. “Stop leaving your stuff here, stop calling me in the middle of the night, stop looking at me like—”

“Like what?”

A pause. Too long.

“Like I mean something to you!”

“I never asked for any of that,” you continued, voice not louder than a whisper. “I didn't ask to feel like this. You did that. You made me feel something and then acted like it meant nothing.”

Spencer stepped closer, something flickering in his eyes—anger, pain, and something that's been buried for too long.

“And what about you?” he shot back. “You think I don't notice? The way you push and pull like it’s a game and I’m supposed to—”

“Because I didn't know what else to do!”

Your chests were heaving now, breathing uneven and heavy.

“I don't know how to deal with this,” you whispered. “With you, with the way I—”

“Feel?” he said, almost mocking. “Say it.”

You shot him a glare. “You first.”

His fists clenched at his sides.

“Fuck it,” he cursed.

Then suddenly—his hand closed around your wrist, and he pulled you into him. His lips crashed onto yours—hot, angry, desperate. You gasped but he swallowed the sound.

The kiss wasn't soft. It was messy, intense, hungry. Like he’d spent months biting his tongue, and now the dam had broken. His free hand tangled in your hair, fingers curling tight as he pulled you closer. You could feel the tension under his skin—like he was afraid to let go.

He kissed you like he was drowning—and you were the only thing keeping him alive.

“I love you,” he murmured in between kisses—still rough, still sloppy, like he didn't know how to stop—not like he wanted to. “I fucking love you—”

His hands gripped your waist, lifting you and setting you on the counter like he needed you closer.

“And you have no idea.” He panted, forehead resting against yours, eyes burning into you—his voice low and ragged.

You didn't respond—not with words. You grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back onto you, lips colliding with his, aggressive and unrelenting. Spencer deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours, tasting you like he’d been starving. The air was thick with desperation, the pretense falling away with every graze, every breathless moan between kisses.

His hands roamed—your thighs, your hips, your waist—as if he was trying to memorize every inch of you through his fingertips. And your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging softly, then harder when he bit your bottom lip.

His hands slipped under your shirt, trailing fire with every touch. He dragged the fabric up slowly, then pulled back just long enough to yank it over your head. His eyes roamed your body like he couldn't believe you were real.

“You drive me insane,” he whispered against your throat. His lips brushed your skin before he sucked hard enough to make you gasp, then scraped his teeth gently, making your breath hitch. “You always have.”

You tugged at his belt, fingers fumbling with urgency. “Then shut up and do something about it.”

A low growl rumbled from his chest—deep, primal—and he kissed you again, harder this time. His hands slid up your bare back, holding you like he didn't know how to let go.

He didn't bother taking off his shirt. He was too far gone. You were too much.

His hips ground into yours, and you felt him—hard, hot, and aching—through the soft fabric, the friction dizzying.

“I need you,” he rasped against your lips, each word laced with desperation. “Right now. Tell me I can.”

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. “Yes,” you whispered. “God—yes.”

Spencer crashed his lips back onto yours, chasing the taste of you like a man undone. His hands gripped your hips tighter, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go—even for a second.

Your fingers toyed with the hem of his shirt before slipping underneath, sliding the fabric over his head. You tossed it somewhere behind you, not caring where it landed.

Your touch trailed down his chest—slow, deliberate—until your hand cupped him through his slacks.

He grunted, brows furrowing, hips twitching at the contact.

You pressed your palm just enough to make him throb beneath the fabric, moving your hand in slow, torturous strokes.

“Don’t—” he gasped, voice breaking into a whimper. “Don’t tease.”

His hips bucked into your hand, seeking more.

Spencer reached down and wrapped his hand around your wrist—not rough, but firm. His eyes were dark and blown wide with need.

“Please,” he whimpered, breath ragged. “Don't make me wait anymore, baby.”

He guided your hand away, replacing it with his own touch between your thighs, fingers brushing you through your underwear. You gasped, hips bucking, and he groaned—like the sound had been punched from his chest. “God, you’re already wet,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “You’ve been holding back too, haven’t you?”

You nodded, dizzy, but he shook his head gently.

“Words, sweetheart.”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Fuck—yes.”

His mouth was back on yours, slower now but just as hungry. His hands moved with purpose—tugging your underwear down, lips trailing heat down your neck as he pushed your legs apart.

“I’ve thought about this,” he confessed against your skin, voice breaking. “Every night. Every time I left.”

He looked up at you like he was on the edge of something. And then—

“Let me take care of you.”

He dropped to his knees in front of you without a word.

His hands rested on your thighs—warm, shaking slightly, but firm. He looked up at you, eyes dark and hungry, hair falling into his face.

“You okay?” he asked softly, even as he tugged your underwear down your legs. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

You shook your head, breath already catching. “Please don’t.”

He smiled—just barely—before leaning forward and kissing the inside of your thigh. Slow. Reverent. Like worship. His hands spread your legs wider, his breath ghosting over where you needed him most.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’ve missed you.”

And then—his mouth was on you.

Hot. Wet. Unrelenting.

His tongue licked a slow stripe up your folds before circling your clit, light at first, teasing. You gasped, one hand flying to grip the edge of the counter, the other threading into his hair.

Spencer groaned the moment you pulled on it.

“You’re so sensitive,” he whispered, voice muffled between your thighs. “So fucking sweet.”

He sucked on your clit gently, then flicked it with his tongue, fingers digging into your hips to hold you still as your body jerked in response.

“You sound so pretty like this,” he breathed, pausing just long enough to kiss you again, slower now, savoring you. “Don’t hold back. I want to hear you.”

You moaned—louder this time—and he took it as permission to go deeper. He licked into you, slow and precise, like he was trying to learn everything that made you fall apart. His nose brushed your clit with every stroke of his tongue, and the pressure built fast—your thighs shaking, your breaths ragged, the coil in your stomach winding tighter and tighter.

“Spence—fuck—I’m gonna—”

He hummed against you, sending vibrations through your core.

“Go on, baby,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

You were close—so close—the tension rising like a tidal wave, seconds away from crashing. Your hand threaded into his curls, pushing his head down, pulling him closer to your core. Your hips bucked against his mouth as the pleasure overtook you—back arching, head tilting back, breath catching in your throat.

Spencer’s name tumbled from your lips like a prayer as you fell apart on his tongue.

“Cum for me, baby,” he whispered, lifting his eyes to meet yours. “Come on. You can do it.”

You came on his tongue, and he didn’t let up—groaning like he’d been starving for it.

“Sh—shit Spence—”

You pulsed around nothing, legs trembling uncontrollably as he held you through it. Still, he kept going—lazily lapping at your clit while your body trembled from the aftershocks.

Then he slowed. Softened. Kissed the inside of your thigh with lips that lingered.

“There you go,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked. “Atta girl.”

“Fucking hell, Spence.” You gasped, chest heaving, reaching down to fist your hand in his hair and tug him up to face you.

And fuck—he was beautiful.

His curls were a mess, ears flushed pink, lips parted and glistening with your wetness. His eyes—dark, blown wide, starving—held nothing back. Just need. Raw and unfiltered.

You were still gasping when Spencer pulled you into another kiss—desperate like he hadn't just made your legs shake on the counter. His slender hands found their way around your waist, easily lifting you off the cold marble as legs instinctively wrapped around his waist.

“Couch,” he grunted in your mouth. “I need—fuck—I need more.”

“Spence—” you started, but he was already moving.

You kissed him again to steady both of you, arms around his neck as he stumbled blindly toward the couch—shoulder bumping the wall, breath catching in your ear when he almost lost balance.

“I’ve got you,” he panted. “Promise.”

And he did—because the moment his knees hit the cushions, he dropped down with you in his lap, your bodies still tangled, your mouth still on his. You were already grinding against him, feeling him hard beneath you, and he cursed under his breath like the sound had been clawed out of his chest.

His hand found your ass, squeezing roughly as he guided your hips. Your hand tugged on the waistband of his boxers, dragging them down—just enough to free his cock, throbbing and flushed, precum already dripping at the tip.

You’d be lying if you said you weren't salivating at the sight of him all worked up. And it's all for you.

“Shit, Spence,” you breathed, running your thumb over the head, spreading the wetness just to watch him twitch.

He groaned—head thrown back, jaw clenched, hands twitching on your hips like he was holding on for dear life.

“You ready?” you whispered, already positioning yourself above him. Teasing the tip against your entrance.

He looked up at you like he was watching a goddess descend from the heavens.

“Please.”

Without saying another word, you sank down on him slowly—inch by inch—your nails digging into his shoulder as you clung to him for support.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he huffed, jaw clenched. “Keep going. You're doing so good for me.”

And god, as much as it hurt, you couldn't stop—not when he was whispering sweet praise into your skin like he meant every word.

“Sh-shit—” you gasped, breath stuttering. His eyes were locked into yours, dark and hazy with lust—watching you take all of him.

How you fit perfectly around his cock—like your sweet cunt was made just for him.

Spencer laced his fingers with yours, brought your hand to his lips, and kissed your knuckles softly.

“You okay?” he murmured—gentle, breathless.

You nodded, breathless. “I’m okay,” you whispered. “Just—don't look away.”

He didn't. He couldn't.

You started to move—slow, tentative at first. Testing the stretch. The burn. The way he filled you—thick, twitching, reaching parts of you that left your thighs trembling. Spencer’s hand slid down to your ass, squeezing gently, guiding your hips as he let you set the pace.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “You’re doing so good for me, angel.”

You moved your hips again—this time deeper, slower. The sounds of skin meeting skin echoed through the room, sticky and wet. His name left your lips in broken gasps every time your clit grazed against the base of him.

You found your rhythm—rolling your hips in tight circles that made his head fall back with a guttering groan. His hands gripped harder, jaw clenched, thighs tensing beneath you.

“F-fuck—just like that,” he panted.

You clenched around him.

He lost it.

Your nails raked up his chest, hands clutching his shoulders for balance as you bounced on his cock, chasing that sweet friction. That high he started the second he touched you on the counter.

Spencer’s lips met your throat, kisses growing messy—open-mouthed, greedy, uncoordinated. Then he sucked, hard, right beneath your jaw. You whimpered, head tilting back as the heat in your core swelled.

“Mine,” he whispered, dragging his tongue over the mark he made.

Spencer doesn’t believe in God. But he knows one thing—this must be what heaven feels like. No—this is heaven.

His eyes filled with lust, devouring you from beneath. The way your brows knit when you hit that one spot. The bounce of your tits. The broken, breathless moans spilling from your mouth like a prayer just for him.

“You drive me fucking crazy,” he muttered, voice hot against your neck. “Watching you ride me like that—fuck.”

Then he started thrusting up into you—harder. Deeper. His hips snapping up in time with yours, no longer letting you set the pace.

“Spence—” you gasped, nails digging into his back.

He fucked up into you again, and again—your body jolting with every thrust. You tried to keep up, but his thrusts had you cockdrunk—blissed out and trembling under every snap of his hips.

“Go on, baby,” he groaned, forehead against yours. “Take it—fuck, take all of it.”

Your moans were incoherent now, every drag of his cock inside you pulling another cry from you. His name left your lips like a prayer.

“Feels so good ‘round me,” he grunted. “So tight—so fucking wet. And it's all for me.”

You were so close—you could feel your whole body tightening, clenching around him, thighs shaking. He felt it.

“Gonna cum for me, angel?” he panted, voice hoarse.

“Spence—I—”

“Come on, baby. I’ve got you,” he whispered in your ear, one final thrust hitting just right.

You shattered—moaning his name, thighs shaking, body jerking in his arms as your orgasm hit hard and fast. The way you clenched around him pushed him right over the edge.

“Shit—fuck—fuck, I’m—”

He came with a deep groan, hips grinding up into yours as he filled you, arms locked around your waist like you’d vanish if he let go.

Neither of you moved—forehead touching, breathing heavy, still wrapped around each other. The smell of sex and something more filled the room.

“I meant it,” Spencer held your face, eyes boring into yours. “I love you.”

His mouth crashed into yours with a gentle kiss, a contrast from his earlier roughness.

“You haven't even asked me out properly yet,” you pulled away.

Spencer let out a laugh, voice hoarse. Finding your little comment endearing.

“Then,” his voice trailed. “May I take you out on a date?”

“Only if you say please.”

He looked at you with doe eyes, “please?”

You leaned in, giving him a quick peck. “I love you,” you whispered—like it was a secret only he deserved to know.

Spencer looked stunned, “I—you—”

“You didn't give me the chance to say it earlier,” you said, melting into his arms, resting your forehead against his. “But I do. I really do.”

His lips curled into a smile. And for the first time in a long time—everything just felt right.

Like maybe, just maybe, love was worth the risk after all.

[arabella-syntax]

Update: Last part

Paso a paso

They don’t move fast.

They move toward each other.

Paso a paso.

~ ~ ~ ~

Pairing: Alexia Putellas x Reader (Y/N)

Summary: A footballer still learning how to breathe after glory. A ballerina who knows her time is running out. A one-night stand in Ibiza that was never meant to last — and yet somehow, it keeps finding them both. Alexia Putellas meets a woman who moves like silence and secrets. But Y/N carries a truth she hasn’t spoken.

Word count: > 40k, one shot

Tone: 💔 queer love 💃 ballet x football 🧠 terminal illness 🕯️ no promises, just presence ⏳ slow-burn · soft angst · quiet intimacy

Rating: Some intimate scenes

A/N: Finally, here’s the last part. To read the previous parts, simply refer to the list below:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Whilst I’m a trilingual, unfortunately, Spanish is not one of the languages I’m fluent in. So do allow some margin of error with the translation.

————————————————————————

Alexia

They arrived at the suite just past midnight.

Her hand in Y/N’s. Warm. Firm. Grounding.

The door clicked shut behind them.

It was quiet — just the sound of the sea from the distant cove, the faint hum of city far below the cliffs, and the sharp, slow beat of Alexia’s heart.

She didn’t know what to say.

She didn’t need to.

Y/N turned to face her. A whisper of moonlight painted her collarbones, the hollow of her throat, the line where her dress had kissed her shoulder.

She looked at Alexia with something like awe.

“Hola,” Alexia said, quietly.

Y/N smiled. “Hi, wife.”

It hit her like a tide. The word. The weight. The wonder.

Wife.

She stepped closer, lifted her hand slowly to touch the corner of Y/N’s jaw. Traced it down, down — to her neck, her shoulder, the swell of her hip.

“Te ves como arte,” she murmured.

Y/N leaned forward, brushed their noses, their lips, their breath.

“Then take your time.”

Alexia unzipped the dress with trembling hands.

Y/N stood still as fabric fell — silent, slow, a whisper of white sliding to the floor.

She was bare beneath it.

No lace. No distraction.

Just skin and history.

Alexia kissed her shoulder first. Then her collarbone. Then lower — slow, reverent, her hands settling on Y/N’s waist like a dancer learning the rhythm of a partner.

They moved to the bed wordlessly.

When Alexia kissed down her stomach, Y/N tangled a hand in her hair, gently, guiding.

“Slower,” she whispered. “Like we have all night.”

They did.

They moved with aching softness.

Lips finding pulse points.

Fingers mapping familiar terrain with new intention.

Alexia paused between Y/N’s thighs, breathing her in like prayer. Her hands splayed at the hips, thumbs pressing lightly into the crease of skin and heat.

She kissed. She licked. She listened — to the soft catch of breath, the whisper of “Sí… sigue… just like that…”

Y/N arched with quiet urgency. One leg over Alexia’s shoulder. Her spine lifting from the sheets.

When she came, it was not loud — it was a slow collapse, like a bow pulled taut finally being released.

Alexia didn’t stop kissing her.

Didn’t stop whispering, “Preciosa… mi vida… mi esposa.”

Later, they switched.

Y/N, with a hunger Alexia hadn’t seen before — not just physical, but emotional.

She kissed her thighs. Her ribs. Her heart.

Her mouth was exquisite — purposeful, poetic, cruel in the most beautiful way.

Alexia came with a cry buried into Y/N’s shoulder, her body trembling against the rhythm of Y/N’s hands and tongue and voice:

“More. Let me. Let me love you like this.”

They didn’t rush.

They moved and stopped and laughed and touched and started again.

They rested forehead to forehead, limbs tangled, sweat-slicked and impossibly whole.

Outside, the moon dipped behind clouds.

Inside, Alexia lay with Y/N’s head on her chest, their fingers interlaced.

She traced idle circles on her back.

“Estoy enamorada de ti,” she whispered. I am in love with you.

Y/N didn’t answer.

She just kissed the side of her neck.

And held her tighter.

Y/N

The light filtered through linen curtains, soft and yellow like butter on toast. Y/N blinked her eyes open to a room that smelled like sex, vanilla shampoo, and something vaguely citrusy — probably Alexia’s body wash.

She was sprawled diagonally across the bed, one leg tangled in the sheet, the other draped over her wife’s thigh.

Her wife.

That still didn’t feel real.

Alexia stirred beside her. Mumbled something into the pillow.

Y/N rolled toward her, nudged her nose into Alexia’s cheek.

“Buenos días,” she whispered, voice rough from too little sleep and too much moaning.

Alexia groaned. “I am dead. Married and dead.”

Y/N laughed. “Well, ghost-wife, we need coffee. You or me?”

“Tú. You move better.”

“Lies. You just want me to do the legwork.”

“Exactamente.”

They drank their coffee on the balcony in oversized shirts — Y/N in Alexia’s Barça camp hoodie, Alexia in a white tank and yesterday’s curls twisted up in a lazy bun.

Below them, the ocean curled at the coast.

Y/N took a sip of her coffee, then glanced sideways.

“So. Married.”

Alexia squinted at her. “Sí. A ti. I’m brave.”

“Or stupid.”

Alexia grinned sleepily. “Same, no?”

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, until Y/N set her mug down.

“So… how do we do this now?”

Alexia looked over, expression serious beneath the softness.

“You still work in Madrid.”

“I do.”

“And I live in Barcelona.”

“You do.”

They watched a seagull dive, then rise again.

Y/N leaned into Alexia’s shoulder. “We alternate weekends?”

Alexia nodded. “One weekend, you come. Next, I go. Equal.”

“It’s not ideal.”

“No. But we try.”

Y/N smiled. “We do.” Y/N looked up at her. “I’m not scared of the effort. Just… time.”

Alexia tilted her head. “I give you all my time. All I have left. It’s not forever. But it’s ours.”

Y/N reached for her hand. Squeezed.

They didn’t need perfection.

They just needed this.

Later, as they packed their bags and folded their suits and dresses and inside jokes, Y/N paused in front of the mirror.

Her reflection caught her off guard. Soft eyes. Messy bob. Her mouth — curved just slightly, almost private.

She didn’t look like a woman who had spent a decade running from love.

She looked like someone who finally said yes.

Alexia

Alexia arrived in Madrid late Friday evening, suitcase wheels thumping awkwardly across the old tiled walkway outside Y/N’s apartment.

Her backpack was too full. She’d packed three jackets despite it being 25 degrees.

Y/N buzzed her in before she even reached the doorbell.

By the time Alexia stepped inside, Y/N was waiting barefoot at the top of the stairs, wearing her teaching leggings and a sweatshirt that read Per my last email. She looked annoyingly beautiful.

Alexia dropped her bag and walked into her arms.

“Hola, esposa.”

Y/N kissed her cheek. “Missed you.”

“Me too. Mucho.”

Saturday passed in the kind of easy domesticity they’d never had space for.

Alexia watched Y/N stretch in the living room, toes pointed, legs extended in shapes that made Alexia forget how sentences worked.

Y/N watched Alexia reorganise her fridge. “You’re really committing to the yogurt shelf, huh?”

“It needs system.”

By late afternoon, they were getting ready for dinner at the home of one of Y/N’s fellow instructors at the ballet school.

Alexia was already nervous.

She’d met teammates, journalists, club owners, actual royalty.

But ballet teachers? Terrifying.

The dinner was hosted in a cozy third-floor apartment filled with books, wine bottles, and framed posters of old ballets — Swan Lake, Don Quixote, Giselle.

The hosts, a married couple named Inez and Claudia, were charming in the way that made Alexia instantly aware of every word she said.

Inez offered her a glass of wine. “We’ve heard a lot about you.”

Alexia blinked. “Todo bueno, espero.” (All good, I hope)

Claudia smiled. “She said you reorganise her spice rack when you visit.”

Alexia looked at Y/N, betrayed.

Y/N shrugged, smirking. “They asked.”

The rest of the guests included a tiny, sarcastic rehearsal pianist, a stage manager named Lola, and a lighting tech with a handlebar moustache.

They all adored Y/N.

Which meant Alexia was now the person who had married their beloved star.

Pressure? Just a little.

But it was also… endearing.

Watching Y/N laugh, tucked into her own world — eyes bright, cheeks pink — was a gift.

At one point, someone asked, “So, how do you two manage it? Marriage, different cities, impossible schedules?”

Y/N answered without hesitation.

“We figure it out. One weekend at a time.”

Alexia nodded, squeezing her hand under the table.

“Ella manda. I follow.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but didn’t contradict her.

Back at the apartment, later that night, they lay curled up in bed — tired, a little tipsy, full of strange cheeses and unsolicited opinions about The Nutcracker.

Alexia rested her hand on Y/N’s waist.

“Tus amigos… son intensos.”

“They’re ballet people. Comes with the plié.”

Alexia snorted.

“You belong there. It’s obvious.”

Y/N kissed her temple. “And you belong here.”

Alexia smiled. “Even if I mess up your kitchen every time?”

“Especially then.”

—————————————————————

Leila

Leila hadn’t planned on staying late.

The dinner was simple enough — just Alexia, Y/N and her usual circle. Former teammates, old war stories, wine. Some of them were now practically aunties to each other’s dogs, and Irene’s circumstance - her son, Matteo.

She slid into the long bench beside Jana, who promptly elbowed her.

“Siempre llegas tarde, tia.” (You're always late, sister.)

“Llego cuando empiezo a brillar,”(I arrive when I begin to shine) Leila replied with a grin, throwing a wink across the table.

Alexia was at the far end, hand woven tightly in Y/N’s, both of them glowing in that slightly smug, newlywed way that made Leila’s chest oddly warm.

Irene and Marta sat near the middle, already in mid-debate about wedding buffets versus plated dinners. Marta had clearly lost round one, judging by the tightness in her jaw.

“Caroline?” Leila asked, nudging Marta’s shoulder.

“In Bergen,” Marta said, half-pout, half-smile. “Visiting her parents. Says hi, by the way. Told me to behave.”

“Entonces seguro no lo harás,” (Then you certainly won't do it) Patri added, smirking over her wine.

Laughter rippled down the table.

Later, as the night wore on and the laughter grew looser, someone suggested heading to a bar nearby.

“Una copa más,” (One more glass) Jana said, raising her brows in a challenge.

Leila was already up, jacket in hand. “Una y media.”

The bar was warm and dim, music crackling softly from speakers that had seen better decades. The kind of place that still believed in cheap vermouth and walls painted in dark reds.

Irene and Marta tucked themselves into the corner, already deep in conversation. Patri and Jana were talking about their significant others - Aggie in the case of Jana, and a singer-songwriter from Mallorca for Patri. Alexia and Y/N leaned into each other, Y/N quietly stealing Alexia’s drink while Alexia pretended not to notice.

Leila wandered toward the bar.

And that’s when she saw her.

A brunette. Alone. Blue eyes that almost glowed under the lights. Sharp jaw, striking profile. Effortlessly styled hair passed the shoulders. Elegance, but a kind that didn’t try too hard. The kind that knew its power.

Leila didn’t even realise she was walking over until she was beside her.

The woman turned, caught her gaze.

“Do you always stare at strangers like that?”

Leila blinked. “Only the dangerous ones.” Accent unmistakably English. The kind Leila hears from BBC’s news presenters.

The woman didn’t smile, but something in her eyes glittered. “How lucky for me, then.”

Leila ordered a beer, knowing full well she wouldn’t drink it.

The stranger sipped something clear and neat, gaze not quite leaving Leila.

“So,” she said, after a moment. “You’ve got that footballer swagger. Ex or active?”

“Retired,” Leila said. “And flattered.”

“You’re terrible at this,” the woman murmured.

“Ya lo sé. But maybe you’re worse. Still here.”

The stranger looked away briefly, smirking.

No name was exchanged.

Not yet.

But when Leila glanced back at the table, at Alexia now laughing into Y/N’s shoulder, at Marta rolling her eyes while Irene gestured wildly, Jana and Patri laughing along— she felt something unexpected settle in her chest.

Maybe this night, like so many before it, would simply be a funny story.

But maybe — just maybe — it was the beginning of another.

————————————————————-

The end for Paso a paso! Hope you’ve enjoyed reading it. I welcome feedbacks.

As you could have guessed, there will be a new arc with Leila Ouahabi as the main protagonist, and her Y/N.

So stay tuned!

[itoshiierae]

⋆ ˚｡ 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 . ݁₊ ✶ ˖

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

ᡣ𐭩 ft: suna rintarou x f!reader

ᡣ𐭩 summary: you’ve been tangled up in a situationship with suna rintarou for the past six months — late-night texts, secret dorm visits, and sex that feels a little too intimate for something that’s “not serious.” he never calls you his, but he touches you like he owns you.

ᡣ𐭩 cw: minors dni, situationship!suna, cliché trope ngl, college-setting, explicit sex, oral (f! & m! receiving), toxic!suna, fingering, overstimulation, dirty talk, slight lingerie kink, creampie, nipple play, aftercare, emotional tension, slight angst (wc: 2.6k words)

ᡣ𐭩 notes: my very first hq post on this blog and of course it had to be suna <33 writing this lowkey felt like time-traveling back to 2020/2021 — back when i’d stay up way too late reading suna fics on ao3 😩 anywayyy this one’s extremely filthy 🥵😵‍💫 (not proofread bc i’m just lazy like that)

it always starts with a late-night text from him, and then you’re off sneaking out of your dorm room. your roommate doesn’t even bother stopping you anymore. she knows exactly what you’ve been up to, but at this point??? she’s too tired to keep repeating advice you’ll never take, especially when it comes to him.

you’ve been “seeing” suna rintarou for the past six months now — or more accurately, tangled up in a situationship with him. how it started? kind of unexpected. but somehow, it unraveled into secret rendezvous and quiet nights in his bed. he was one of those effortlessly popular boys on campus; reserved but well-known. he’s not as loud or “chaotic” as compared to his friends, but he still stood out without even trying. you, on the other hand, were more lowkey — kept to yourself, quiet, and definitely not the kind of girl anyone would expect to get tangled up with someone like him.

but despite that, girls like you are exactly his type: the soft-spoken ones, the ones who seem innocent until they’re not. it’s the contrast that gets him every single time. you’re quiet, reserved even, but the second he gets you alone??? now that’s a whole different story.

so tonight when you walked in wearing that little red set: a sheer crimson slip with lace teasing over your skin, and a matching robe slipping off one shoulder with delicate bows untied just enough to make him twitch beneath his boxers??? yeah… safe to say he was gone the moment he saw you. he’s barely said a word since, too busy drinking you in the way the fabric clings to your body and the way you look.

“…shittt, baby you look good..”

he doesn’t give you time to respond. the words barely leave his lips before his hands are on your waist, mouth hot against your neck, dragging you into his room like he’s starved. your robe slips off with ease and then it’s just his touch all over you.

the way he’s touching you right now; it almost feels like he owns you. but not once has he ever officially called you his.

your back hits the mattress with a quiet thud. the sheets are cool, but his body is burning. he kisses you like he’s trying to memorize your taste; slow at first, then rougher when you kiss him back harder. his hands roam without hesitation, slipping beneath the fabric of your lace top, fingertips skating across your familiar skin like he’s claiming it all over again.

he pulls back just long enough to strip off his boxers, cock already straining and flushed — the second he hooks his fingers under the band of your lace panties, he yanks them aside with zero patience and then he’s inside you in one deep, ruthless thrust.

“fuckkk— you’re so warm… it’s only been a week, did you miss me that badly baby??”

he doesn’t let you answer — just buries himself deeper, hips rolling with slow, punishing thrusts that make your whole body arch.

“you wear that slutty little robe,” he breathes, voice low and ragged, “lookin’ all innocent… and then act surprised when i lose it??”

then his hand smacks your thigh, the sound echoes through the room. your moan’s barely muffled by the sheets and the way he’s grinding into you like he’s trying to ruin you from the inside out.

“fuck,” he mutters against your neck. “why do you always do this to me...”

you want to ask him what he means, but you already know. it’s the same reason you keep showing up at his door in the middle of the night; because even if it’s temporary, even if it hurts, this is the closest you’ve ever felt to being wanted. especially by someone like him.

“ahhh rin—s’too good, i can’t handle it—”

you were barely keeping it together, body arching beneath him, moans spilling out like second nature the rougher he got.

“oh?? that’s the spot, isn’t it? look at you...” he groans, already slowly falling apart from the sensation.

“… you gonna be a good girl and cum for me?? or should i keep playing with you until you cry??” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear as two fingers circle your clit in slow, taunting circles.

“you’re too deep, rinn, i can’t—” you gasp, trying to steady your breathing, but it’s useless. he’s got one hand pinning your thigh wide open, and the other??? still circling your clit, taunting and precise, like he wants you to fall apart faster.

he groans, low and guttural, leaning down to kiss your jaw. “then take it,” he growls.

his pace falters — not out of mercy, but to lean in close and whisper, “you feel that? that’s mine.” and just when you think he’s about to break you completely, he pulls out with a slow drag of his cock, watching the way you whimper at the loss. before you can whine, his hand grabs your jaw, forcing your eyes back to him.

his thumb swipes across your bottom lip.

“mouth now, baby,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “be good and let me fuck your throat too.”

your lips part instinctively, breath hitching as he presses his thumb down on your tongue, just enough to make you look up at him through your lashes. “that’s it,” he breathes, thumb still resting on your tongue as he strokes himself slowly with the other hand. “look at you… already so obedient.” after he removed his thumb, you don’t even wait for a cue before you lean forward, tongue sliding along the underside of his cock as you take him inside your mouth — inch by inch, until your lips are flush against his base. his breath stutters.

“shittt—” he hisses, hand tangling in your hair. “you missed this, huh?” you hum around him, and the vibration makes him curse under his breath. his hips jerk forward once, then again — and that’s when he starts thrusting, slow at first, but steadily deeper.

“yeah… now that’s my good girl,” he groans. “so fucking good with your mouth… look at the mess you’re making.” your eyes water, as he rocks into your throat with more force now, hips snapping forward. the stretch, the weight, the sound of his breath unraveling—it’s all dizzying.

“… hands on the mattress,” he mutters, voice low and dangerous. “i wanna see you take it without touching me. just your mouth... nothing else.”

your fingers curl into the sheets, knuckles tightening as you brace yourself, breathing hard through your nose. he watches with that unblinking gaze as you lower your mouth onto him again like you know exactly what he wants.

“… there you go,” he breathes, voice fraying. “look at you… fuck, you’re perfect like this.”

his hips roll forward, testing your gag reflex. you choke slightly, and he grins before muttering, “… breathe through it, baby.”

he starts training your mouth with sharp, precise thrusts — using your throat like it’s his personal project, groaning every time you gag around him. spit starts to drip down your chin, pooling at the corners of your lips, but he doesn’t stop. “eyes on me,” he growls, dragging your head back just enough so he can see your face. “wanna watch how good you look when you’re falling apart.”

you blink up at him, tears streaking, mouth stuffed full, and his voice drops even lower. “ahhh— that’s it... yesss take it like a good girl. fuck— i could come just from seeing you like this.”

his abs flex with every thrust, muscles rippling from years of volleyball training — spikes, drills, sets — and now every ounce of that strength is wrecking your throat. your jaw burns. spit still dripping down your chin. but you take it, just like he told you to. “now… look at you,” he pants, hips snapping forward again. “not even touching me, and still being such a good little toy.” he groans when your throat tightens. “bet you’ve dream about this, don’t you??? being used like this.”

when he pulls out, panting, a thin string of spit still connecting him to your swollen lips. he lets out a low chuckle, eyes dark with satisfaction as he takes in the mess he made of you.

but then your voice breaks the silence — breathy, almost needy. “ …. rin,” you whine, cheeks flushed.

he raises a brow, cock twitching again at the sound of your voice.

“oh??? now you’re making requests?”

you nod, eyes wide and glistening. “please...”

he leans in, thumb brushing over your lips to smear the spit there, before slipping it into your mouth again; watching you suck on it, obedient and desperate. “… you taste me so well,” he murmurs, pulling it out with a wet pop. “but you want me to taste you now, huh??”

your thighs press together instinctively, a reflex you barely register but he does — already lowering himself between your legs; eyes low-lidded, soaked in lust — locked onto your every twitch. “spread them,” he says, voice low. you hesitate just for a second, and he’s already swatting your inner thigh. not hard, but just enough to make you gasp.

“now.”

and you do; slowly, shyly, like your body knows better than to disobey him. the second your legs fall open, he immediately sees how soaked you are.

“fuckkk… baby you’re dripping already.”

he doesn’t tease you for long. his mouth is on your cunt in seconds. he eats you out like a mad-man, almost as if this is how he plans to make you pay for making him lose control; tongue dragging slow, teasing strokes before sucking your clit just to hear you cry out. and when your fingers tug on his hair, hips rolling up against his mouth? he growls against you. “keep those legs open for me, baby. i’m not stopping till you scream.”

you’re already close — thighs trembling, breath hitching every time his tongue flicks over your clit.

he knows it, too. knows the exact way your hips twitch when you’re on the edge, how your fingers tangle tighter in his hair, how your moans start falling apart like they’re not even words anymore.

so of course he pulls back.

you whine — broken, needy. “r-rin… why’d you stop??”

he smirks, lips glistening, voice low and wrecked. “you thought i’d let you come that easy??” his fingers slide through your folds, spreading the wetness just to watch you twitch. “nah, baby… not yet.”

he leans in again, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh instead.

“rin, please… i’m soo close—”

his fingers circle your clit again, barely brushing. just enough to frustrate you. “… you’ll come when i say you can,” he mutters. “not when you think you’ve earned it.”

your eyes flutter shut. your breath stutters. you’re dripping, aching; already so desperate that it’s borderline pathetic.

and then he goes all in — tongue dragging over your clit like he’s starving, as his fingers pump slow and deep inside you, curling juuust right. your hips jerk, your back arches, and your moans spill out unfiltered, raw, like a prayer he’s pulling straight from your lungs.

“… that’s it,” he mutters against you. “look at you… so fuckin’ pretty like this.”

you’re shaking, already close to your limit but he doesn’t stop. not even when you scream because now that he’s made you fall apart, he wants to see you do it again and again.

you barely have time to catch your breath.

you’re still aching from your last orgasm, thighs slick and trembling, when he crawls back over you — pupils blown, jaw clenched, cock flushed and still so fucking hard it makes your mouth water. his hands trail up your torso, until they reach the flimsy lace of what’s left of your lingerie top.

he grabs the lace between his fingers then immediately rips it off without warning.

you gasp. “… wait rin—?! that was new—”

he just shrugs, cocky and unbothered, eyes dragging down your now-exposed chest like a feast. “oops,” he mutters with a smirk, not sounding sorry at all. “guess i’ll just buy you a new one.” he tosses the shredded fabric off the bed like it’s trash, mouth already lowering to your chest.

“maybe something even sluttier this time,” he murmurs against your skin. “… something easier to take off.”

you moan when his tongue flicks over your nipple, one hand gripping your waist as the other strokes between your thighs again — fingers slipping back inside like your body was made for him. “… damn, you’re still soo wet after all that we did??”

“rin—”

“you like when i ruin things, huh??” he grins, voice dark. “your clothes... your body… this pretty little pussy.”

when he thrusts into you again, it’s with the full force of a man who plans to ruin a lot more tonight. your legs are already jelly, body wrecked from everything he’s done to you, but rintarou still isn’t finished. not until he’s buried so deep inside you as your walls clench around him like they’re begging him to stay. his hand snakes behind your back, and with one rough pull, he lifts you up — pushes you against the headboard with your knees straddling his thighs.

“…hold on, don’t let go,” he grits, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head, fingers curling around the bars of the headboard.

“fuck—!”

he groans low in your ear, hips slamming up into you, relentless and so deep your eyes roll back. “you’re still gripping me so tight, baby… you gonna let me finish inside??”

you can barely speak. all you can do is whimper, nod — as your hips instinctively rolling to meet his.

his pace falters for a moment — then sharpens.

“say it.”

“yes, rin… fuck—inside,” you gasp. “finish inside me.”

he kisses you sloppy and desperate, hips drawing back just enough before slamming into you one last time — deeper than before, as his release hits; thick and warm, spilling deep inside you. you cling to the headboard like it’s your only anchor, moaning through the aftershocks as he groans your name into your shoulder. and when he finally pulls out, slow and spent, his cum gushes out in sticky waves, dripping down your thighs and staining the sheets below.

“shit…” he breathes. “you okay, baby??”

you nod, breathless before managing a soft little “barely.”

“good… you did well,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple as his fingers trace slow, gentle circles over your hips — right where he held you too tight just moments ago, almost as if he’s trying to soothe the ache he left behind.

“… you always do,” he adds — softer this time, almost like a quiet confession meant more for himself than for you.

and the way he says it??? low, vulnerable, and just a little too tender; it makes you ache in a way that has nothing to do with lust. because even the quietest part of you still yearns for the chance that whatever this is between you two… could one day turn into something real.

© itoshiierae 2025 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ please do not modify or repost my content onto any other platforms.

✶ p.s: found this fanart on pinterest — credits goes to the original artist! // ‘warning’ divider credits to @/cafekitsune ✶

[checkthescript]

[* Everyone appears to still be sound asleep.]

...

(They look so... so exhausted. Might be best to just let them sleep for now...) (I... I didn't mean to make them worry like this... I never want anyone to worry...)

...

[* Tenna looks down at himself and almost shrieks in horror.]

[* His body, his suit, everything is...]

[* His favourite signature suit is positively annihilated and his torso is equipped with shiny new material all across the front. Smells... fresh, like a brand new Cungadero straight from the dealership. All of the scuffs, the marks, the patches of discolouration from years of wear and tear that he was so intimately familiar with were... gone.]

(Something feels very different inside...)

[* He shifts, trying to figure out the sensation. If he had skin, it'd be crawling. The TV host freezes, realising what it was that was bothering him.]

(New... new wiring. New circuitry.)

[* Some of his insides... have been replaced.]

[* Tension coils tightly up inside him like a spring under pressure at this revelation. Tenna stays still for a few minutes, utterly silent in contemplation.]

[* Eventually, he slowly heaves himself up off the floor and leaves the room. He stumbles a few times, grabbing the wall of the hallway for support. A raspy, desolate laugh escapes him as he considered that he probably looked like a mechanical zombie shambling through the studio the way he was.]

[* In a way, he supposed that was sort of accurate, considering the circumstances. He winced with a grimace every time a new, unrecognised part of his body caught his eye. Through the sleeves of his shredded suit, he could see patches of twinkling metal, foreign to him. A heavy and deeply aggrieved feeling clamped down onto his chest from the inside. He felt like he could cry.]

[* ... ]

[* That didn't last for long when he saw the Green Room.]

[* Destroyed furniture. Holes in the walls and floor. A massive crater blasted out of the centre of the room. It looked like a war had taken place in here. His gaze fell upon the Janitor, still toiling desperately away trying to clean the mess. It hadn't noticed him yet.]

[* His hand, lacking a glove, wandered up to his chest. It hovered there a moment, trembling, hesitating. As he took in the absolute destruction, his finger tips finally made contact with this unfamiliar part of his body. It didn't feel the same as before...]

[* ... But he felt lucky to be alive.]

[* ... It felt like... love.]

[* An immense gratitude washed over him.]

[* Despite the changes to his body.]

[* Despite the changes to the studio.]

[* Despite everything...]

(It's still you.) (My friends... They really love me enough to... to do all of this. I'm still here because of them.)

[* He smiled softly, which quickly blossomed into a wide grin. Something bright and gentle warmed through his chest, the feeling of despair dissipating like a fading static.]

[* Tenna moved quickly to his office. He needed to check on something before tackling the rest.]

[* The door creaked open and the CRT peered inside. Everything was exactly as he'd left it yesterday morning. Wow! Even his friendly little Anon was still curled up on the couch under that blanket he'd put over them.]

[* ... Oh! But there was something new.]

[* ... ]

[* Tenna picked up the Tenna doll.]

[* He held it in both hands, staring at it for a long moment. There were bandaids on its screen, stitches on its tie...]

[* He read the card that came with it. "Get well soon."]

Ha...

[* His chest shook. His hands shook.]

[* He hugged the doll tightly to himself, sinking down to the floor as he cradled it against his form.]

(Broken... but... still good, right?) (To be loved... is to be changed. That's what they say.) (I must... really be loved.)

[sapphicides]

please write that nastylot meta if you feel so inclined!!! i’m a believer as well <3

i’m not sure how coherent or well-written this will be but i have SO many thoughts on their dynamic(s) so i’m gonna try my best to put them together

i think what makes nastylot so compelling to me is that all three of these women have been ostracized or outcasted in some way. either by society, their friends, their families, or some combination of all 3, misty, natalie, and lottie are all intimately familiar with what it means to be “othered.” this seems to bleed into all of their romantic relationships, as well, with lottie being the only main character without a canon love interest, misty’s multiple failed attempts at dating, and natalie’s inability to achieve stability with any of her partners

… which is why it makes perfect sense to me that these would be the three characters most open to polyamory out of anyone. lottie seems like the most obvious candidate for someone who would be into it— out of all three of them, i think she’s the one who craves togetherness and community the most. misty’s desperation is more evident in her drastic and, oftentimes, outright dangerous attempts to get people to pay attention to/like her, but, unlike lottie, misty never really stoops to the point of changing herself for anyone. instead, misty hovers around people like a lost puppy looking for its owner, hoping they’ll see her for what she’s worth if they only get to know her. lottie, on the other hand, takes the opposite approach, projecting an image of stability and leadership while hiding the parts of herself she’s been taught to hate (see: her mental illness)

misty and natalie both have something lottie wants desperately: the ability to be completely and utterly themselves. misty never changes for anyone, despite many people’s attempts at getting her to. natalie is similar in this way, maintaining her sense of morality no matter how bad shit gets in the wilderness + being one of the only survivors who openly admits that what happened to them was traumatizing despite the unspoken agreement to never acknowledge it. lottie, on the other hand, falls so deeply into this role of prophetess that she built in the wilderness that she maintains it into adulthood, creating an entire commune that surrounds her with worshippers so that she can feel connected to people after being isolated and ostracized in her youth, no matter how empty or fickle that connection is

the thing that sets lottie’s connections to misty and natalie apart, though, is that they’re based in the harshest parts of reality that the other survivors tend to look away from: the shared trauma, the innate understanding of one another’s desire for intimacy, and the knowledge that each of them are so fundamentally damaged that they will likely never receive it in anyone but each other. so of course lottie is the key here. she’s the one who proposes the idea of polyamory, likely positing it as a spiritual thing and asserting the importance of the collective (think about how she referred to shauna’s baby as “our baby;” how she acknowledged the wilderness as “just us;” how she’s often speaking in “we”s in both timelines)

misty may initially reject this— despite her desire for a romantic relationship, she’s very much a traditionalist in how she views romance. she has an idyllic perspective on what a relationship should look like, often falling into this dreamy fantasy and imposing unrealistic expectations on the guys she’s interested in. she convinces herself she’s dating ben because, in her mind, it’s a fun, thrilling teenage romance when, in actuality, it’s a nonexistent, one-sided relationship that would be extremely disturbing if it were ever to actually materialize. she even does this with walter, romanticizing him before realizing that he can’t provide her with the emotional support or understanding she actually needs. and i think she realizes this at some point in season 2, on the commune with natalie and lottie and the other remaining survivors who actually do understand her, and that’s when she opens herself more to the idea of polyamory

even though i can see her showing some hesitancy, much like lottie, misty also values the idea of community and would likely open herself up to polyamory more quickly than natalie. where i think natalie’s main issue lies, however, is not with her holding onto some vague idea of monogamy being the “right” way to have a relationship (she was a punk kid in the 90s, trust me she doesn’t give a fuck about that) but moreso with her own commitment issues. i think her issues with her father influenced her in such a way that she began associating emotional intimacy with her dad’s violent outbursts from a very early age. on top of this, her mother seems to have been emotionally distant up until she died, setting a bad example for her from the time she was a young girl that never corrected itself

she’s known to have a lot of hookups in high school and this seems to continue well into adulthood, but there’s a reason they tend to stay as hookups rather than full-on relationships. travis is the closest thing to a real relationship she had and that was far from stable— except for her dynamics with misty and lottie, which seem to not only mimic romantic relationships in the adult timeline (her and misty working together to solve travis’ death, her becoming lottie’s right-hand woman completely unintentionally and “adopting” lisa with lottie) but provide her that sense of stability she can never seem to associate with relationships in both timelines (misty and lottie protecting her from the others in the wilderness, misty and lottie saving her from herself as her addiction/mental health issues spiral in adulthood)

this is also something natalie realizes in season 2 while on the commune— think about how she was initially so wary of lottie, only to give her trust over to her completley. think about how she was initially confrontational with misty, only to be genuinely happy to see and involve her when she joins them. after a while, i think natalie would realize what a critical part of her healing journey letting go of her commitment issues is and ultimately allow herself to be loved and love both of these women; not just from a distance, but as an actual romantic partner

and that is precisely what makes nastylot the most feasible polyamorous relationship out of anyone imo. each one of these girls has something to gain from entering an established partnership with the others, and each of them have a unique, mutual dynamic with both of the others that makes the idea of them entering a relationship entirely believable. i love love love most polyjackets ships but what makes nastylot so compelling to me is its genuine canon basis that a lot of other ships just don’t have

but don’t get me wrong here: i can absolutely meta-ize just about any polyjackets ship involving the main cast. so if anyone has any requests… my ask box happens to be open hehe

[astralrainn]

healer

@drarrymicrofic, 416 words. prompt: wound. cw: infidelity (not between drarry), mild nsfw, injury, implied possible self-harm and wound kink

There are wounds beneath his shirt, under the legs of his trousers. A nasty curse trapped right beside his heart too, just for good measure. Draco barely feels any of them over the hammering in his chest.

"Potter," he says, knowing he looks as smug as he sounds, as he watches Potter march into the room in his Healer robes.

He never looks happy to see him, at first. Something in Draco revels in it. It's easier, this way.

"You know, there are other ways too—if you wanted to see me."

"Ah, but don't insult me, Potter." Draco leans his body to the side, shirt revealing a bloodied collarbone, and watches green eyes follow the new lines on him. "Merely another accident—you do remember what it was like being an Auror with me, don't you? Though, while I am here—"

Hands reaching to clutch green fabric, Draco pulls warmth that has become both his salve and episkey—the reason for all his wounds—close against him.

"Every week," Potter says. Breathless, already. "You—I see you here every week."

It's not Draco's fault that Robards keeps giving him risky missions. Not that Draco would ask, or settle for anything less, either. Just like Potter, who makes sure he is the one to take Draco in whenever he shows up at Mungo's.

But this week, it isn't quite the same. Draco was made to wait. He swallows his dread, and pulls Potter down over him on the hospital bed he's become quite familiar with.

"There's a rumor going around, you know."

He breathes it into Potter's mouth so he doesn't have to look into his eyes.

"There is."

Potter's magic brushes over Draco as his hands move across him—the intimate touch assessing, possessive of the cuts he is to heal, jealous of ones that aren't his.

"Are you going to?" Draco's voice is quiet. Desperation has made him gentle—he hates it. Just like he hates Potter for making him ask this. "Marry her, I mean?"

Potter slips hands under Draco’s shirt, fingers splayed wide and firm across his wounds. This time, Draco feels them—where Potter’s attention goes has never been easy to ignore.

Potter means it to hurt. Still, he buries his head into the crook of Draco's neck, as if insatiable for the one place where he is yet to be marked.

"I don't know, Malfoy. Am I? I'm not the one who already wears a ring on his finger."

[fandomfluffandfuck]

Congrats on the summer freedom! I have a bunch of stuff that popped into my head throughout the year but lets start with one and hey look at me dropping the anon shield /j

Post serum pussy!Steve getting tag teamed by two or more Buckys. Timeline shenanigans, cloning, whatever. Just, him utterly overwhelmed, overstimulated, wrecked by more than one Bucky, Bucky everywhere. Touching him, fucking him, making him shake and cum over and over

Thanks! Though I'm not sure I'd call it freedom, haha, I feel like I'm doing just as much as I usually do throughout the school year, if not more, lmao.

Also, I'm glad to see you being horny loud and proud on main 💀

And, okay, I fucking love this.

I love it because can so easily picture Steve getting fucking destroyed like this.

I immediately thought of Bucky just, just before he's shipped out back in the early 1940s, and Bucky just post-Civil War when he's thick as hell and still putting the pieces back together, but he's clearly returning to himself. And, Jesus Christ, having another version of himself around shows Bucky what exactly Steve means when he says he could've charmed a devil and convinced an angel to fall with just one look. He understands. And it flips a fucking switch inside him, so suddenly modern Bucky, big and thick as hell, isn't so quiet, he's grinning more than he has in forever, crooked and cocky, and he's grabbing at Steve, and any shyness he had still has melted away.

So, poor fucking Steve has these two fucking dreamboat hunks pawing at him, and, oh, Christ, they're gonna pull him apart.

How are they both gonna fit in him? Are they gonna take turns? There's no way both of them can squeeze inside his pussy at once. It just won't work. Steve is intimately familiar with what they're both packing.

Steve viscerally recalls how big Bucky felt to him in the 40s when he got it into his mind that he had to get the jump on basic, going out in the mornings to run and staying late at the dock's to work on building his muscle more, lifting anything heavy, always sweaty, grunting, and looking good enough to eat. Steve thought, back then, he'd be able to climb him like a tree. Then, in the same breath, Steve viscerally knows how big Bucky felt to him when he finally let himself be found in Romania, muscles packed onto his frame that weren't there the first time they met in their cruel twist of fate under the modern 21st-century age. Having the both of them crushed tightly against either side of his body is overwhelming to say the least. Steve feels smaller now than he did when he was 90lbs soaking wet.

They're going to tear him apart.

They're not gonna fit.

Bucky was always hung. Now, post-serum, fucking forget about it.

They're not gonna fit!

But...

They do.

They make it work 😈😈

Both his Buckys--charmers, the both of them--talk to him in that low, smooth tone, they paw at him, they pet him, they stroke and touch him just right until he's so wet he could be convinced he's just melting.

Steve is a popsicle held in a hot mouth on a sizzling summer evening.

There is no rest from the heat. He's liquified. He's never felt so much wetness drool out of him, he swears it. His brains must be melting out of his swollen, hot pussy, throbbing devastatingly between his legs. He's so overwhelmed before they've even tried to put anything bigger than two or three fingers in his pussy that he can't tell when it's just another cramping, gasping, aching swell of need--his whole center throbbing--or when he's about to cum. He can't warn them. He doesn't need to. His Buckys can tell. They know. They know his body and the slutty, guttural noises coming uncontrollably out of his gaping lips better than he does. And so, naturally, they pull orgasm after orgasm from him, wringing him dry, making him clench and squirt around two fingers until there's nothing left. Pulling him apart.

Then.

Then, his Bucky's take him.

They plunge deep into his quivering, limp body, filling his ass and pussy to bursting, so much cock all at once that Steve can taste it on his tongue, choking, crying, sobbing as he's bounced cruelly between the two Buckys laps. He's so fucked out he can't even make a sound. He's been groaning, moaning, squeaking, squealing, and shouting. But now, after hours of torture, rubbing his g-spot until he's sure he's gonna die and circling his clit until he wants to shove their hands away from him, too raw and hot, nothing left but a puddle of wetness on their suddenly-too-small, king-sized bed, now he can't do anything but gasp silently. His mouth hangs open, stupid, like a fish out of water. He can't make a sound. He can't even quiver. He's fucked out. Fucked raw. Fucked stupid.

He is nothing except for the cocks inside him.

Nothing.

He's fucking ruined.

All his composure completely and utterly lost, manhandled like a doll. He is a toy. No thoughts. No muscle to take his weight. Nothing but two hot, wet, leaking holes. He's not anything close to tight anymore. A set of holes to be used and abused. He's a toy. They're playing with him, using him, touching him. Overwhelming him in every way. Growling and purring filth between breaths that lavish him with praise for what a fallen angel he is.

Really, though, for whatever reason, when I got this ask, I thought first about the aftermath.

'Cause can you imagine how hard Steve struggles to not let the aftermath turn him on, too? He just got finished being fucked within an inch of his life--and, actually, can he really prove that he's not already in heaven and that they fucking killed him with their heavy, fat cocks fucking him until he just goddamn lost it--he can't get fucked again! Even a super soldier has limits.

...Right?

I'm thinking about how afterward, the Bucky's are still being mean to him. Sure, they let him pass the fuck out for a few hours, making sure to clean him up of all that slick wetness and lube and cum after he's passed out in part because he did just fuckin' conk out so easily after and in part because they knew how sensitive he was gonna be after. So, it'd be nice to give him a break, wiping and patting his achiest parts only once he was unconscious. However, when he's had his nap, they've made sure he's had a whole two water bottles worth of water and a couple of protein bars, at the least, he could certainly use more calories than that, that's when the fun begins--

They fed and watered him in the guest bed (where they carried him to after cleaning him up since the master bed is one big wet spot and reeks of sex), and they don't bother bringing him anything to wear except a pair of his running shorts. His summer running shorts. The short, teeny-tiny ones that look like girls' shorts and that are made of some magic, future-type material that's so silky and thin it feels like it should be lingerie more than workout gear. Alas, Steve owns them because he's a slut, and so when he asks, legs still shaking at what could and should be identified as a vibration, the Buckys hand them over with a sparkle shared between them. They know where this will end up.

Steve slips them up his legs and doesn't realize his mistake until ten minutes later, when he's helped to the couch out in the living room, he's shaking, shuddering, and hobbling on weak legs, leaning on one of each Buckys arm, expecting his refuge to be sitting. He doesn't think about going commando under his shorts. He doesn't think about that thin, silky material riding up. He doesn't think about the pressure of the couch cushions. He doesn't think about how his thighs are still too weak to lift him up from sitting with any kind of speed.

And he doesn't think about it when he sits down either.

Nah.

He just knows.

All. at. once.

He understands.

Oh.

He inhales so sharply it cuts against his throat, hurting, because, fucking christ, he can feel his used, achy pussy pressing against the cushions between his legs. He's still so sensitive and swollen. The silky, thin fabric of his shorts rides up perfectly, dragging the seams against him. His teeth chatter. Oh, god, he can even feel the thicker thread and grain of the couch beneath him. He wants to squirm, he wants to moan, he wants to squirm and rub his pussy against the couch at the same time that he aches to shoot up and spin around like a goddamn cartoon character that's sat on a thumb tack, spinning, rolling, and collapsing to land face-first on the couch, ass up, never letting his oversensitive pussy touch anything ever again 'cause it's too damn much.

He could sob.

His modern Bucky sits down next to him, smirking but acting oh-so nonchalant, casual as he inquires, "something wrong, doll?"

The fucking problem is that he's heavier than Steve and he sits down by dropping all his weight and it dents the cushions, swaying Steve's body into his, rocking his tender, puffy lips and swollen clit against the furniture. The sound he makes is, frankly, mortifying and dripping in sensuality, "AH!"

There's no mistaking that gasp for anything other than what it was.

They're on him like sharks, swimming in circles around him, knowing he's bleeding, smiling with all their teeth. One after the other offering to let him sit in their lap instead of the couch, huh, how does that sound?

Steve's gonna die. If he's not already dead, this is how he dies. Too many orgasms. Too much dick. Too many Buckys. And fucking fuck the serum and his healing factor, he's gonna be feeling this for days.

[themetalvirus]

yes, fuck cops. but also if you think you understand WHY cops are bad, you should probably dig more into why. if you're completely self assured that you know the full breadth of why the system of policing is so rotten, you have failed yourself.

[bertoyana]

gay ass dialogue 😭😭😭 what do you mean ANNOYING SECRET SMILE LMAOOO be serious for ONCE man

[wutheringheightsmp4]

what if I killed myself

[prettyboysdontlookatexplosions]

we really need to bring wishbone classics and the like back to the children’s media ecosystem….

[anghraine]

Just thinking about how, when my favorite show—Showtime's The Borgias—aired in 2011, it was 519 years after the RL version of the events in the first episodes (i.e. since 1492). To compare, the accession of the Holy Roman Emperor Otto II (husband of the Byzantine princess Theophanu), and likely the birth of Murasaki Shikibu (author of The Tale of Genji) were as far removed from the real Borgias' lives in 1492 as The Borgias is from the historical events inspiring its premiere.

[arabella-syntax]

Update: Part 3

Paso a paso

They don’t move fast.

They move toward each other.

Paso a paso.

~ ~ ~ ~

Pairing: Alexia Putellas x Reader (Y/N)

Summary: A footballer still learning how to breathe after glory. A ballerina who knows her time is running out. A one-night stand in Ibiza that was never meant to last — and yet somehow, it keeps finding them both. Alexia Putellas meets a woman who moves like silence and secrets. But Y/N carries a truth she hasn’t spoken.

Word count: > 40k, one shot

Tone: 💔 queer love 💃 ballet x football 🧠 terminal illness 🕯️ no promises, just presence ⏳ slow-burn · soft angst · quiet intimacy

Rating: Some intimate scenes

A/N: Here’s the last part of the story. Read the first part and second part prior to this.

Whilst I’m a trilingual, unfortunately, Spanish is not one of the languages I’m fluent in. So do allow some margin of error with the translation.

————————————————————————

Alexia

The Madrid listings blurred together after a while.

So many white-walled, sterile spaces pretending to be lived-in.

Alexia scrolled through her fifth tab, muttering, “Por favor, no more grey sofas.”

She’d been helping Y/N from afar — sending links, vetting floor plans. Y/N had a few final performances left in London, and Alexia was determined that when the curtain fell, a future would rise.

Something sturdy. Something with sunlight.

“¿Qué haces?” Alba asked, wandering into the kitchen and grabbing a yoghurt drink.

“Buscando piso para Y/N,” Alexia said without looking up. (Looking for an apartment for Y/N.)

Alba peeked over her shoulder. “That one looks like a dentist’s office.”

“Gracias.”

Alba tapped the table. “Isn’t Olga in Madrid?”

Alexia paused.

“Sí.”

Alba squinted. “You’re not gonna ask her for help?”

Alexia gave her a look. “¿Crees que debería?” (Do you think I should?)

“A menos que tengas miedo.” (Unless you’re afraid.)

But that night, she went through her contacts anyway.

Found the familiar name and number.

She messaged.

Hola, Olga. Need help. It’s not drama. I promise.

A few minutes later:

This is already drama.

Alexia replied:

No. Piso stuff. For someone. She moves to Madrid soon.

¿Estás saliendo con alguien otra vez?

(Are you dating someone again?)

Came Olga’s response after a while.

Alexia hesitated.

ALEXIA:

Sí.

OLGA:

Serious?

ALEXIA:

Yes. She’s… different.

OLGA:

Different how?

ALEXIA:

Prima ballerina. She deserves good place. Light. Safe. Not depressing.

OLGA:

So not like your old flat.

ALEXIA:

Exactly.

OLGA:

I’ll make some calls.

Alexia smiled despite herself.

Because that was Olga. Always the right balance of salt and heart.

They’d met after her ACL tear in 2021.

When her body broke, and she didn’t know how to put herself back together.

Olga had seen the cracks — and loved her anyway.

Three years. No public mess. Just a private world that slowly ran its course.

At one point, Alexia thought she might marry her.

But things shifted.

Lives moved.

Love didn’t end — it just changed shape.

Now, they were… not friends, not strangers. Something in between.

The kind of ex you could call for help without bitterness.

By morning, Olga had sent five listings.

One stood out — a pre-war flat near El Retiro. Arched windows. Balcony. Tall ceilings. Warm light.

Alexia stared at it for a long time.

It felt… soft. Still. Like breath.

It felt like Y/N.

This one, she typed. She’ll like the way the floor creaks. And sent another message swiftly after.

Olga replied:

You’re still romantic. It’s disgusting. I’m proud of you.

Alexia sent the listing to Y/N without fuss:

Maybe this one makes you feel safe. I like the windows.

The response came a day later:

I love the windows. I love you.

Alexia sat there for a while, hand over her mouth.

A laugh caught in her throat. Or a sob.

Sometimes they felt the same.

She whispered to herself, “Joder…”

Alba walked by. “Are you okay?”

“Necesito vino” (I need wine.)

“You always need wine.”

“Now I need to marry her.”

Alba froze. Then said, “Todos lo vimos venir. Excepto tú.” (We all saw it coming. Except you.)

Y/N

She hadn’t expected Olga to be so… stylish.

Not in a glossy, curated way. But effortless. Styled hair, black blazer, coffee in hand, attitude like a quiet blade. It made sense, somehow. Alexia didn’t do half-hearted people.

“Y/N, right?” Olga said as they met outside the building in Madrid. “You look like a ballerina.”

“Because I am?”

“That’ll do it.”

They shook hands.

To Y/N’s surprise, the awkwardness didn’t last more than five seconds. Olga was brisk, direct, but not unkind. There was a familiarity in the way she spoke — like someone who didn’t waste energy unless she meant to.

“The flat’s on the third floor. Walk-up, but the stairs won’t kill you.”

“I do pliés for a living.”

“Good. They squeak.”

They climbed in silence, save for the sound of Y/N’s suitcase wheel bumping the steps. At the landing, Olga turned to her, key in hand.

“I was going to say something dramatic here. Like, ‘Welcome to the rest of your life.’ But I’ll spare you.”

Y/N smiled. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. There’s a weird stain near the kitchen sink I haven’t identified.”

The flat was… beautiful.

In that quiet, aching kind of way.

Golden floors. Curved windows. A bedroom that looked like it would echo in winter and hum in summer. It was empty now, but not hollow. It felt like somewhere people remembered things.

Y/N stepped toward the window, touched the glass with her fingertips.

“I could dance here,” she whispered.

Olga leaned against the doorway. “She said you’d say that.”

Y/N turned. “Alexia?”

Olga nodded. “She said you’d like the light. The floor. The way it sounds when you walk.”

There was something in her tone. No bitterness. Just a passing breeze of memory.

Y/N folded her arms. “You were with her a long time.”

“Three years. I met her just before she was angry at her knee and herself.”

Y/N looked down. “That version of her still shows up sometimes.”

“She’s softer now,” Olga said. “Not weaker. Just… lighter.”

“She loves hard.”

“She always did.”

Y/N paused. “Are you okay with this? With me?”

Olga gave her a look. “If I weren’t, I wouldn’t be here. I’ve moved on. She has too. And from the way she talks about you… she’s not confused.”

That caught Y/N off guard.

“Talks about me?”

“You’d be surprised how many metaphors you can cram into a message about hardwood floors.”

Y/N laughed, almost shy. “She told me once I’m her favourite accident.”

Olga smirked. “That’s disturbingly romantic.”

“I know.”

They signed the papers together.

Y/N handed over the deposit, keys exchanged with the crisp slide of paper.

As Olga got up to leave, she paused at the door.

“She’s awkward as hell, you know.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“But she means everything she says. Even when she says it sideways.”

“Thank you,” Y/N said again, more softly this time.

Olga smiled — genuinely this time.

“Good luck, ballerina.”

And then she was gone.

Later that night, Y/N stood in the centre of the flat, barefoot, her bags still unpacked.

She texted Alexia:

It’s perfect. I love it. Thank you.

Alexia replied instantly:

It’s yours. Madrid’s lucky.

You okay?

Only thinking how to get to Madrid faster.

I left you a coffee mug. The one with the dog. It’s in the top shelf.

Y/N laughed.

She looked around.

Her future looked like curved windows and creaky floors and light she hadn’t even earned yet.

But she would.

She was trying.

Alexia

She stood outside the door for longer than she’d admit.

The keys felt foreign in her palm. Madrid air pressed warm and close. She could hear the low hum of street noise behind her. And beneath that, her heart, making a fool of her.

“Cállate,” she muttered under her breath, unlocking the door.

It swung open with a click.

She stepped inside.

Bare walls. Bare floor. Bare everything.

But somehow, it still felt like her.

Or rather — like them.

The mug with the cat sat proudly on the shelf, just like Y/N had said.

Alexia grinned and whispered, “Hola, gato.”

She placed her overnight bag on the floor. Kicked off her shoes. Walked the rooms slowly.

Bedroom. Bathroom. Living space.

Each room smelled like a future.

And then the front door opened again.

“Hey,” Y/N called. “Did you—”

Alexia turned. And forgot how to breathe.

Y/N stood in the entryway, cheeks pink from the evening breeze, hair tousled from her scarf. She dropped her keys with a metallic clatter and smiled like she knew exactly what she was walking into.

“Hola, mi bailarina,” Alexia said, her voice low.

Y/N dropped her bag.

No more words.

They met in the middle of the hallway.

Mouths, hands, hips. No ceremony. Just hunger.

Days of distance collapsed in seconds.

Alexia kissed her like she was remembering how.

Y/N moaned softly into her mouth, fingers tangled in the back of Alexia’s hair. The bob cut brushed just beneath her cheek, and Alexia exhaled sharply — she loved this haircut far more than she wanted to admit.

“Too dressed,” Y/N murmured against her neck.

“Take it,” Alexia whispered.

So Y/N did — slowly, reverently — lifting Alexia’s shirt over her head, pressing kisses down her chest, fingers lingering along the lines of muscle and softness alike. She peeled her out of her jeans like she was undoing something sacred.

Then Alexia turned the tables.

She pushed Y/N gently against the wall — not hard, just enough. Kissed along her collarbone, then lower. Her hands mapped familiar terrain with new reverence.

“You smell like Madrid already,” Alexia said, nipping the skin at Y/N’s waist.

“I smell like nerves.”

“Same.”

They both laughed, breathless — and then neither of them laughed again for quite a while.

The floor was hard.

The sex was not.

It was the kind that bruised knees and made thighs shake.

That left both of them panting and laughing, forehead to forehead, eyes too wide for casualness.

Alexia kissed Y/N’s fingers one by one.

Y/N cupped her cheek like she’d just been handed a small galaxy.

“You always do this,” Y/N whispered.

“What?”

“Make me forget my name.”

Alexia kissed her again. “I remember it. That’s enough.”

Later, they lay in a heap of limbs and discarded clothing on the living room floor. No mattress. No bed. Just skin, sweat, breath.

“You broke in,” Y/N teased.

“I have a key.”

“You should still be arrested.”

“Only if you do the handcuffs.”

Y/N laughed so hard she snorted.

Alexia made a note in her mind:

She wanted to hear that sound in this apartment forever.

Third Person

Madrid mornings had a different weight to them.

Softer than London. Warmer than Barcelona. They lingered like something left unsaid.

Alexia stirred first, eyes adjusting to the strange ceiling of Y/N’s nearly-empty apartment. Her arm was thrown across warm skin, cheek pressed to a shoulder that had become both anchor and ache.

Y/N sighed in her sleep.

Alexia smiled.

They didn’t say much over breakfast.

It wasn’t the kind of morning that needed words.

A neighbourhood café — all chipped tiles and perfect cortados — played quiet jazz through old speakers. They sat pressed thigh-to-thigh on a bench too small for one person, let alone two.

“So,” Y/N finally said, wiping crumbs off her lip. “We’re still doing this?”

“This?” Alexia asked, sipping from her cup.

“You. Me. Train rides. Airports. Neck cramps from FaceTiming on the sofa.”

Alexia looked at her then, properly.

Dark bob. That sleepy smirk. A softness in the eyes that hadn’t always been there.

“I want to,” she said simply.

Y/N nodded. “Me too.”

Later that afternoon, after the train back to Barcelona, Alexia ducked into a small jewellery store tucked away near Gràcia. No cameras. No fanfare. Just a velvet-lined case and a woman behind the counter who looked like she knew when to stay silent.

Alexia didn’t know what she was looking for.

Something quiet. Something sure.

Something like Y/N.

She paused at a ring that wasn’t showy — a delicate gold band, simple setting, but the stone caught the light like a secret.

“This one,” she whispered.

She paid in full.

And then, walking out into the sun-drenched Barcelona street, she pulled out her phone.

Mami.

It rang twice.

“¿Alexia?”

“Mami…”

She didn’t start with the ring. She started with everything else. The train rides. The smile. The way Y/N once wept into her shoulder after watching a Pixar film. The fear. The fierce grace. The way Madrid had started to feel like a strange new limb.

Then, softly:

“Estoy pensando en pedirle matrimonio.”

(I'm thinking about asking her to marry me.)

There was a pause on the other end.

“¿Estás segura, mi vida?” (Are you sure, my love?”

“Sí. No sé cuándo. Pero sí.” (Yes. I don't know when. But yes.)

“Entonces ya sabes la respuesta. Lo sabías antes de llamarme.” (So you already know the answer. You knew it before you called me.)

Alexia swallowed. “I just… wanted to hear it.”

Eli laughed. “You’re your father’s daughter. Always needing the permission you already have.”

Alexia looked down at the ring box in her palm.

“Gracias, mami.”

“No me des las gracias. Just make sure she never doubts.”

“I won’t.”

She didn’t tell Y/N about the ring.

Not yet.

It would wait.

Not because she feared the answer — but because she wanted to ask it right.

In the light.

In Madrid.

Maybe on a day when the wind was warm and the world didn’t feel borrowed.

But for now, it stayed tucked away in a drawer.

Between training schedules and charity gala invitations.

Waiting.

Like she was.

Like they both were.

Y/N

The screen froze just as her father raised a piece of black bread to his mouth.

“Papa, you’ve turned into a still life.”

“I’m eating. Must I perform for the Apple gods?”

Y/N laughed, balancing her phone against a stack of sheet music she hadn’t touched in months. Her father — still based in Moscow, still annoyingly sharp in the morning — appeared again in motion. Mismatched glasses, thick sweater, and the soft grumble of a man who lived too long around mirrors and dancers.

“You look tired,” he said, squinting. “Madrid not feeding you?”

“I just moved in two days ago.”

“Excuse. You always give excuses. Like your mother. She once blamed being late on the ‘existential dread of Tuesdays.’”

Y/N smiled. “She wasn’t wrong.”

Her father’s eyes softened for a moment. That particular brand of love and mourning that never really left.

“You’ve unpacked?”

“Mostly. Found a mug Alexia left. It’s got a dog on it.”

“She wants to marry you.”

Y/N blinked. “Excuse me?”

“She does. You can always tell. Her face looks like she swallowed a light bulb.”

“Papa.”

“You don’t believe me?” He pointed a half-eaten crust at the screen. “I saw that look once before. Your mother. When she said yes to moving to Moscow for me.”

Y/N fell silent. Let it wash over her like a small tide. Then shifted.

“I start teaching today.”

Her father raised an eyebrow. “Already breaking tiny ballerina spirits?”

“It’s orientation. Not trauma.”

“Don’t be too kind,” he warned. “They sniff weakness.”

She shook her head, laughing. “Any other advice?”

“Cut your hair again.”

“It’s already in a bob.”

“Then dye it. Go blonde.”

“I’m not going blonde.”

“You’d look terrifying. I support it.”

She smiled. He watched her carefully for a beat.

“You’re afraid.”

“A little.”

“Good. It means you’re trying something new.”

She nodded. “I don’t know who I am without the stage.”

“You’re still on stage. You’ve just moved backstage. The view is different, but the magic? Still there.”

The ballet academy was tucked behind a stone courtyard in Salamanca. Grand, tasteful, too many mirrors. Her shoes echoed down the hall like they were announcing someone far more important than her.

“Miss Y/N?”

She turned. A girl — no older than sixteen — peered up at her with wide, nervous eyes.

“I’m here for your class.”

And just like that, it began.

The studio was bright. The mirrors were less cruel than she remembered. The music felt different — like something she was shaping from the outside now, rather than dancing through.

She led warmups. Corrected posture. Reminded them where breath lived in the body. The girls listened. Some with fear. Some with hunger.

Y/N saw versions of herself in every plié, every glance at the glass.

When the final bell rang, she sat alone for a moment, hands still resting on the barre.

Not crying.

Not shaking.

Just still.

She texted Alexia.

First day done. Nobody cried. Except maybe me. Internally.

The reply came fast:

Estoy orgullosa de ti, mi bailarina.

She read it twice.

Outside, the Madrid sun painted gold across the pavement.

Maybe this was the right city after all.

Third Person

Alexia stood in the back of the studio with her arms crossed, doing her very best not to get in the way. She wasn’t dressed for attention — just a hoodie, joggers, hair pulled back — but it didn’t matter. One of the girls had clearly recognised her. There had been a gasp, a whispered “es ella”, and the rest had stolen glances ever since.

Y/N carried on like nothing had happened.

It made Alexia grin.

She stood at the barre correcting someone’s elbow, then crouched by another girl to adjust her posture. Her voice was soft but certain. She moved with the memory of discipline, but her smile never felt like a threat.

Alexia’s throat tightened unexpectedly.

She was proud. She didn’t know it could feel like this — watching someone be excellent without needing to shine herself. There was no scoreboard here. No press conference. Just one room. One woman. Thirty feet away. And all of Alexia’s focus.

When the class ended, Y/N gave her a crooked smile and motioned for her to wait.

Alexia waved from the corner, muttering to herself:

“Calma. No te pongas tonta.” (Calm down. Don't act silly.)

Later, they sat side by side on Y/N’s small balcony, sharing a bottle of cheap white wine and a pack of olives she insisted were from the better supermarket. The Madrid dusk leaned in like a secret.

“You stayed the whole time,” Y/N said, toying with her wine glass.

Alexia shrugged. “You didn’t kick me out.”

“You didn’t laugh when I fell over during the port de bras demonstration.”

“I did. Internally.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “You’re cruel.”

“You’re sexy when you’re strict.”

“Oh, God.”

They both laughed. The kind that spilled into their knees.

Silence stretched between them. Comfortable. Wide.

Y/N reached out, took Alexia’s hand. “Why did you really come?”

Alexia hesitated. Then said, “Because I missed you. Because you belong here now. And maybe I want to belong to here too.”

Y/N turned to her. “To Madrid?”

“To you.”

They made love that night not with fire, but with gentleness — like unwrapping something you’re afraid to damage.

Alexia kissed the scar on Y/N’s inner thigh like a prayer.

Y/N pulled her closer, murmuring in Russian, something Alexia didn’t understand but felt in her ribs.

Later, tangled in bedsheets, bare legs against bare legs, Y/N whispered, “What are you thinking?”

Alexia paused.

About the ring.

About how it was still hidden in her drawer back in Barcelona, burning a quiet hole in her life.

She didn’t say it.

Instead: “That I want to wake up here more.”

Y/N smiled. “Then do it.”

Alexia

The ring was still where she left it.

Tucked in the back of her sock drawer, in a box that didn’t match anything else in her wardrobe. Gold. Simple. Honest.

Alexia stared at it like it might grow teeth.

Then she closed the drawer and went straight to her mother’s.

Eli Segura was in the kitchen making bacalao al horno and humming something suspiciously close to a Coldplay song. She raised an eyebrow when Alexia walked in.

“Hola, mi amor. You only visit unannounced when you’ve done something. Or are about to.”

Alexia held up her phone. “I need your opinion.”

“That dangerous?”

Alexia opened the photo — the ring, gleaming in soft light. She passed it to her mother.

Eli was quiet for a long moment. Then: “Simple. Beautiful.”

“Like her.”

Eli handed it back. “So… you’re doing it?”

“I want to.”

“Then what’s stopping you?”

Alexia opened her mouth. Closed it. Then rubbed the back of her neck.

“I’m scared.”

“Of her saying no?”

“No. Of her saying yes. And it being real.”

Eli softened. “That’s the good kind of fear, cariño. That’s the kind that grows you.”

Alba arrived an hour later, wearing sunglasses indoors and holding a takeaway croissant like it was a newborn.

“You look constipated,” she told Alexia.

“I’m proposing.”

“Oh. That explains the face.”

Jana arrived not long after — freshly tanned from training, hair pulled back in a ponytail, phone buzzing every five minutes with texts (likely from Aggie, who apparently enjoyed sending her Instagram reels of sheep wearing sunglasses).

“You’re proposing?” she gasped. “Por fin.” (At last.)

“Why does everyone act like this is overdue?” Alexia muttered.

“Because you’ve looked like a kicked puppy since March every time you leave London.”

“I do not.”

“You do,” Alba and Jana said in unison.

Alexia buried her face in her hands.

They moved to the kitchen table. Eli brought out lemon tea and almonds. Alba brought chaos.

“You should do it on a boat,” she said. “In Menorca. Naked.”

“I’m not proposing naked, Alba.”

“Coward.”

Jana sipped her tea. “Do it in a café. The kind she likes. With too much tile and sour bread.”

“She’s allergic to sourdough,” Alexia muttered.

“Oh right. Then not that.”

Eli watched her daughters with bemused affection.

“You know,” she said, “it doesn’t have to be a performance. It can be quiet. It can be yours.”

Alexia looked down at her tea. “That’s what I want.”

Jana nudged her. “Then do it like you play football. Calm. Intentional. No drama.”

“You clearly never saw me play in a clásico.”

“Point stands.”

That night, Alexia lay in bed at her apartment in Barcelona, staring at the ceiling.

Ring on the dresser. Phone buzzing with a new message from Y/N:

Today was exhausting. Come back soon?

She typed, deleted, retyped.

I will. And when I do… I want to ask you something.

Then she sent it.

And finally — finally — she let herself imagine a yes.

Third Person

The café was barely the size of a decent storage closet.

Cracked tile floors. Mismatched tables. A waitress who looked like she hadn’t smiled since 1992. And the best napolitanas de chocolate in all of Madrid, according to Y/N.

Alexia had learned not to argue about food with her.

She sat at a corner table, ring box heavy in the pocket of her coat. The coat was too warm for May, but she didn’t trust herself to carry the ring any other way. It felt alive. It felt loud.

She drummed her fingers against her cup of café con leche.

Then Y/N walked in.

Hair still damp from her morning class, sunglasses sliding down the bridge of her nose. She wore an oversized beige jumper tucked half-heartedly into black trousers, and when she spotted Alexia, she lit up like the whole sky.

“Hola,” she said, dropping a kiss to her temple as she slid into the seat.

Alexia smiled. “Napolitana?”

“Obviously.”

The waitress appeared, grunted, took their order.

Alexia was not nervous.

She was not nervous.

She was actively lying to herself.

“So,” Y/N said, halfway through her pastry. “What’s the serious face for?”

Alexia blinked. “This is my normal face.”

“No, your normal face is broody and brooding. This one has too much intent.”

Alexia huffed, and Y/N chuckled.

“Okay,” Alexia said, sliding her cup aside. “I wanted to ask you something.”

Y/N froze slightly. Not out of fear — but out of instinct. The same way dancers pause right before a turn, sensing shift.

Alexia reached into her coat and pulled out the ring box.

She didn’t open it. Not yet.

Y/N blinked, slowly. “Are you—”

Alexia nodded once. “Yes.”

Y/N let out a breath. “Now?”

“Now.”

“Here?”

“I mean, unless you want a mariachi band and hot air balloon…”

“No,” Y/N said quickly. “No. This is… this is better.”

Alexia opened the box.

The ring sat nestled in black velvet, simple and unapologetic. Like them.

“I want a life with you,” she said. “Whatever we get. However long we get. I want it. You. All of it.”

Y/N was quiet. Her eyes were glassy. She blinked once, twice.

Then: “You are the stupidest person in the world.”

Alexia blinked. “I—”

Y/N smiled, trembling. “And yes. Of course yes.”

Alexia let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sigh and relief in its purest form.

She slipped the ring on Y/N’s finger, hands trembling.

Y/N stared at it for a long moment, then leaned across the table and kissed her. Not like a dramatic declaration. Not a show for the café.

Just a kiss. Soft. Sure. Home.

Behind them, the waitress grunted, unimpressed.

Alexia grinned against Y/N’s lips.

Later, as they walked back to Y/N’s apartment, hand in hand, Y/N said, “You know my father is going to grill you.”

Alexia smirked. “Lo sé.” (I know)

“And Jana is going to scream.”

“Por supuesto.”

“And Eli will cry.”

Alexia paused. “Already did.”

They both laughed.

Madrid shimmered around them. The city was loud and sun-warmed and indifferent to their little moment.

But they didn’t care.

They were two women in love.

One with a ring on her finger.

The other with everything she’d ever dared to hope for.

Y/N

She considered texting.

She considered letting the ring do the talking the next time she and her father were in the same room, perhaps letting it glitter subtly over a shared breakfast and letting him draw the conclusion himself.

Instead, she FaceTimed him at 9:00 p.m. Madrid time, knowing full well it was past midnight in Moscow.

He answered on the third ring, squinting at the camera like it had offended him.

“You better be dying,” he rasped.

“Nice to see you too, Papa.”

He sniffed, bare-chested under a threadbare robe, cigarette already between his fingers.

“You are wearing makeup.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are glowing. This is unnatural. It must be hormonal or emotional. Which is worse.”

Y/N exhaled, held up her left hand.

There was a pause.

Then: “Is that a weapon or are you engaged?”

She wiggled her fingers. “I said yes.”

“To who? Did I miss a suitor?”

“Alexia proposed.”

He dragged from the cigarette, expression unreadable. “About time. I was beginning to worry she’d die of nerves before doing it.”

Y/N blinked. “You knew?”

“You think I’m blind? The girl’s face melts when you enter a room. Like butter in microwave.”

“Wow. Romantic.”

He tilted his head. “You’re happy?”

She hesitated. “Yes. Terrified. But happy.”

He nodded. “Then I’m happy too.”

She smiled. “You’ll come, right?”

He made a face. “To Spain? Pretend I enjoy paella?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. But only if there’s vodka.”

“There will be. I’ll sneak it in if I must.”

He waved a hand. “Then marry your Catalan and let’s get this over with before I get too old to dance at the reception.”

“For someone in ballet, you dislike dancing.”

“I do. But I love embarrassing you more.”

She laughed. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not making this weird.”

“Oh, it is weird. You marrying a footballer? Very weird. But she makes you laugh. That is rare.”

She nodded.

Then he said, softer: “Your mother would have adored her.”

Y/N’s throat tightened. “I hope so.”

“She would. And she would say… what was her British thing?” He squinted. “‘Good on you, pet.’”

Y/N laughed through the sudden tears.

Later that night, she told Alexia, “He’s in.”

Alexia kissed her cheek. “¿Fue muy dramático?” (Was it very dramatic?)

“He asked for vodka and threatened to dance.”

“So… sí.”

The chaos began the next day.

Jana sent a string of voice notes:

“Wait, WAIT. Am I a bridesmaid? Can Aggie come? Will there be pastel de nata?”

Leila sent a voice memo too, heavy on Mancunian slang from her Manchester days:

“Oi, I know people who know people who plan these things, yeah? Spanish weddings are wild — we need a spreadsheet.”

Alba simply wrote:

I’m wearing red. Nobody stop me.

Alexia’s response? A smile that could light an entire coast.

Y/N didn’t know what their wedding would look like.

But it was going to be loud. And full of food. And friends. And the strangest little family she could’ve asked for.

—————————————————————

A month later

Third Person

Marianne arrived at Alexia’s apartment in Barcelona carrying a whiteboard, a laptop, and the expression of someone prepared to launch a full-blown campaign.

“No quiero meterme…” (I don't want to get involved…) she said, kicking off her boots, “pero no puedo ver cómo estás haciendo esto sin sufrir un ataque de nervios.” (but I can't see how you're doing this without having a nervous breakdown.)

Alexia looked up from the sofa, where she balanced her laptop on one thigh and a mostly empty bag of patatas fritas on the other.

“You’re already in,” she mumbled in English. “Sit down.”

Marianne rolled her eyes. “You sound tired. Is this wedding or a World Cup final?”

“Worse,” Alexia muttered. “At least finals have rules.”

Y/N’s voice floated in from the kitchen. “For the record, I welcome the chaos.”

Marianne smirked and headed straight for the dining table. “Perfect. Because Jana already sent me a Google Doc. Title: ‘Vibes and florals.’ Subtitle: ‘Aggie’s eyebrows as inspiration.’”

Alexia groaned. “She is… annoying.”

An hour later, they had two venue folders open, three overlapping Pinterest boards, and one bottle of cava breathing on the counter.

Y/N, now in Alexia’s hoodie, legs folded beneath her on the floor, tapped through PDF images with a red pen like she was grading a very mediocre ballet performance.

“This one has fairy lights in the courtyard,” she noted. “And the curfew is 2 a.m.”

Alexia perked up. “Late curfew is good. Tu padre quiere… how do you say, el show.”

“He wants vodka and drama.”

Marianne lifted her head. “I like him already.”

Then came the messages.

Marta, somehow already informed via some mysterious Barça ex-players channel, sent a voice note:

“Tías, tenéis que mirar ese viñedo cerca de Girona. Muy vibes.” (Ladies, you have to check out that vineyard near Girona. Very vibes.)

Caroline, naturally on brand, replied two minutes later:

“Absolutely not that place. Bathrooms were tragic and Marta nearly died of an allergy. Try the gallery in Montjuïc — the light’s incredible.”

Alexia dropped her forehead to the table. “Dios mío. I don’t even know who invited them to opinar.”

Y/N reached for the cava. “We kind of did. Unofficially.”

Marianne picked up her whiteboard and clicked a fresh marker.

WEDDING RULES

No venues with haunted bathrooms.

Y/N picks flowers. No debate.

No dancing before speeches.

Leila and Patri are not allowed near DJ equipment.

Eli Segura has final catering approval.

Alexia squinted at the last point. “Mami does not like spicy food. This is big problem.”

Y/N smiled. “We’ll make her a whole side table of bland, comforting things.”

“She likes you,” Alexia said softly, switching to Spanish. “Más que a mí, tal vez.” (More than me, maybe)

Marianne smirked. “She told me you’ve grown up since dating ‘the ballerina.’”

Alexia blushed and threw a chip at her.

By 11 p.m., they had three venues shortlisted. All with decent bathrooms. One with swans. The swans were up for debate.

Y/N leaned into Alexia’s side. “Do you think we’ll actually survive this?”

Alexia kissed her hairline. “I won Champions League. I think this… is harder.”

Marianne raised her cava. “To lesbian wedding logistics.”

Y/N raised hers in return. “And fairy lights.”

Alexia didn’t say anything. She just smiled — content, quiet, sure.

Sometime within the week

The drive took just under an hour. A winding road, peppered with olive groves and stone fences, led them higher into the hills until the city was a glittering suggestion behind them.

Y/N had fallen asleep with her head against the window, her bob fluttering slightly every time the wind cut through a narrow bend. Alexia kept her eyes on the road, one hand resting on the steering wheel, the other fiddling nervously with the hem of her shirt.

“Joder,” she muttered under her breath. “No es tan difícil. Solo mirar lugar. Tranquila.”

(It's not that difficult. Just look for a spot. Don't worry.)

She wasn’t nervous.

That’s what she told herself.

But as they turned into the gravel path of the old estate and the white stone building came into view, she swallowed hard.

Because it felt real now.

The venue manager — a tall woman named Blanca who spoke five languages and radiated competence — met them in the courtyard.

“It’s very rustic,” Y/N said, glancing around.

“Sí,” Alexia agreed. “And quiet. I like the quiet.”

Blanca smiled. “The ceremony would happen here,” she gestured toward a courtyard shaded with olive trees and fairy lights strung lazily overhead, “and we can set up dinner in the back terrace. There’s room for dancing inside or outside.”

Y/N wandered toward the view. The valley below rolled into green softness. Behind it, the faint glint of sea.

Alexia stayed behind.

And imagined it.

Chairs filled with faces. Some familiar, others blurry with time and distance. Her mother in the front row. Alba beside her, probably weeping despite all her tough talk. Jana in a cute cocktail dress and sneakers, probably holding Aggie’s hand under the table.

And Y/N. Walking toward her.

Hair back. That calm intensity she always carried — the one she wore onstage and off.

Alexia imagined her knees shaking.

She imagined the small hitch in her breath just before she would say: Sí, quiero.

“¿Estás llorando?” (Are you crying?) Y/N asked, appearing beside her again.

“No.” Alexia wiped her cheek, immediately defensive. “Es polvo del campo.” (It is dust from the field.)

Y/N smiled. “Right. Very emotional dust.”

They walked the rest of the venue in silence.

Alexia kept glancing at her. At the way Y/N’s fingers trailed along the old stone walls. The way she squinted up at the light as if measuring its texture.

“How does it feel?” she asked.

Y/N paused. “It feels… safe. Not perfect. But right.”

Alexia nodded. “Sí. I like… the right feeling.”

They sat for a while at the edge of the terrace. Blanca brought them water and a list of available dates.

Y/N asked, “Are you scared?”

Alexia was quiet for a long time.

“Sí,” she finally said. “But only because… I never thought I could have this.”

Y/N reached across the table, laced their fingers. “You do now.”

And for once, Alexia didn’t try to answer with humour, or sarcasm, or deflection.

She just smiled and whispered, “Gracias.”

A month after, the wedding week

Alexia

“Dios mío, esto no es normal,” (Oh my God, this is not normal) Alexia muttered under her breath as she stepped into the private room of the bar.

There were balloons.

There were pink streamers.

And there was Leila Ouahabi in a sparkling cowboy hat, screaming, “¡La reina de la noche ha llegado!” (The queen of the night has arrived!) while holding a porrón full of sangria.

Jana and Alba were clapping wildly.

Y/N turned to Alexia with her eyebrows arched. “You knew about this?”

Alexia blinked. “Yo pensé… cena tranquila. Quiet dinner, sí. Not… this.”

Y/N laughed, kissed her cheek, and walked in like she was born for chaos. Which, apparently, she was.

Irene had declined the bachelorette invitation — politely, with voice notes and the promise of a brunch later. Caroline and Marta sent a video message from Norway with a dog (Caro’s brother) barking in the background, saying, “Good luck surviving that circus. And yes, I’m referring to Leila.” Irene, Marta and Caro promised to be there for the wedding.

The room was warm, lit with too many fairy lights and filled with far too much noise. But it smelled like pan con tomate and someone had brought in three types of vermut, so Alexia allowed herself to breathe.

Even if Leila had now started DJ-ing from her phone.

“Por favor, no más reggaetón,” she begged.

“Too late,” Jana shouted, already halfway through dancing with Aggie, who’d arrived from London with a smug smile and a suitcase full of duty-free gin.

Alba leaned against the bar, sipping a beer. “You’re blushing.”

Alexia rolled her eyes. “I’m drinking.”

“Nope. That’s emotion. Admit it.”

Alexia glanced at Y/N — across the room, laughing so hard her bob shifted messily over her cheekbones.

“Estoy jodida.” (I'm screwed)

“Por fin.”

They toasted.

To love.

To heartbreak survived.

To knees held together by tape.

To ballet and boots.

To unlikely joy.

Marianne arrived an hour late and immediately took over logistics of the shots tray.

“I’m here to ensure we don’t get banned from this venue,” she said. “Again.”

Alexia hugged her.

“You’re drunk,” Marianne replied, amused.

“I’m engaged.”

“Same thing.”

Later, they sang.

Badly.

Jana and Leila’s rendition of “Shakira – Ciega, Sordomuda” nearly started a fire in Alexia’s ears.

Y/N, dragged onto the stage by Alba, sang Cabaret in a smoky whisper. Everyone fell silent. Even Leila stopped filming.

Alexia sat at the back, chin in hand, staring.

She mouthed, I love you.

Y/N smiled and didn’t stop singing.

The night ended on the floor, both of them barefoot, heels abandoned, Alexia’s voice hoarse from laughter.

“¿Fue demasiado?” (Was is too much) she asked softly.

Y/N leaned her head on her shoulder. “No. It was just enough.”

Alexia turned to her. “I’m not good with… the centre stage. Not like this. But I liked seeing you in it.”

“You’re not so bad at it yourself, Putellas.”

Alexia wrinkled her nose. “Mentira.”

Y/N giggled. “Okay, maybe a little. But tonight, you were all heart.”

And that, Alexia realised, was what this was.

Not a show. Not a spectacle.

Just… heart.

Loud, messy, ridiculous heart.

Day after

Y/N

The flat smelled like espresso, dry shampoo, and leftover tortilla.

The living room was a battlefield — feather boas clinging to the back of a chair, Leila’s glitter hat still perched proudly on a wine bottle, and Jana’s suit jacket folded neatly on the armrest with the precision only a footballer with mild OCD would possess.

Y/N padded into the kitchen barefoot, hair a mess, oversized Barça hoodie swallowing her frame. Alexia sat at the table, hunched over a mug of coffee like it had personally wronged her.

“¿Estás viva?” (You’re alive) Y/N asked in a raspy voice, flicking the espresso machine to life.

Alexia lifted her head. “Casi. Media vida.” She pointed to the fridge. “We have one yoghurt. It is mine.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “So generous. Truly wife material.”

Alexia made a face and sipped her coffee. “Estoy trabajando en ello.” (I’m working on it)

They sat in companionable silence for a while, broken only by the hiss of the milk frother and Y/N’s quiet hum of something vaguely classical under her breath.

“You know,” Y/N finally said, settling opposite her fiancée, “we never actually wrote our vows.”

Alexia blinked. “Mierda. We forgot?”

Y/N laughed. “No, we… postponed. Like emotionally repressed adults.”

Alexia pulled out a small notebook — one of those branded ELEVEN ones — and handed it over.

Inside were two sentences, scrawled in her familiar handwriting:

Te elijo hoy, mañana, y todos los días que nos quedan. Even when you are annoying. Especially then.

(I choose you today, tomorrow, and every day we have left. Even when you're annoying. Especially then.)

Y/N’s chest tightened.

“I like the second one best,” she whispered.

Alexia shrugged. “Es verdad.” (It’s true)

Y/N picked up a pen and started to write.

She wrote in English at first:

You held my hand in silence when I didn’t know how to ask for it. You made room for the weight I carry. You love the part of me that knows how this ends — and still, you stayed.

Alexia tilted her head. “¿Eso es todo?” (That’s all?)

Y/N smiled. “No, I’m saving the last line.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to say it to you, not write it.”

Alexia looked at her, eyes soft. “Me vas a matar, bailarina.” (You're going to kill me…)

“I already did. With the Cabaret solo last night.”

Alexia groaned, dropped her head dramatically on the table.

“I still hear Leila’s screams in my skull,” she mumbled into the wood.

Y/N leaned over and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “You’re very brave.”

They stayed there, hunched over coffee and vowels and vowels-that-would-become-vows, until the late morning sun stretched its fingers across the floor.

No audience.

No rehearsal.

Just two women who’d once walked into a nightclub not knowing they’d end up here.

Day before the wedding

Alexia

“Tía, estás temblando,” (…you’re shaking) Alba said, peering at her over a cup of mint tea. “You nervous or just cold?”

Alexia shook her head, curled deeper into her oversized hoodie. “No lo sé. I think… stomach is dancing. Maybe with cleats.”

Alba smirked. “Your stomach is doing rondas.”

“Funny.”

They were sitting on the back terrace of the country house they’d rented for the wedding weekend. Everyone else — guests, friends, Marienne with her obsessive spreadsheet, Jana and Aggie trying to teach Leila a TikTok dance, even Eli — had gone to bed or wandered off. Only Alba stayed behind, barefoot, humming softly under her breath.

“You slept the night before the Euros?” she asked.

Alexia sipped her tea. “Poquito. Maybe three hours. I dreamed I forgot my boots and Jana and Vicky played in my jersey.”

Alba cackled. “You had dreams about them even then. Madre mía.”

Alexia smiled. “This feels bigger.”

“Because it is,” Alba said gently. “And because you finally chose something for you. Not for Spain. Not for Barça. For you.”

That shut her up.

For a moment, the world was quiet. Even the cicadas seemed to take a breath.

Then: “Y la bailarina? Is she sleeping?”

Alexia glanced toward the house. “She said no peeking. Superstition.”

Alba nodded. “Buena suerte con eso. You’ll sneak in anyway.” (Good luck with that…)

Alexia didn’t reply.

Because she was absolutely planning to.

She waited until Alba went inside. Until the lights in the kitchen dimmed and the breeze grew cooler.

Then she padded quietly down the hallway, socks muffling her steps, until she found the door slightly ajar.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the bed, face bathed in the glow of a bedside lamp, reading a novel with a dog-eared page and a cracked spine. She looked up, and without missing a beat said, “Rule-breaker.”

Alexia smiled sheepishly. “No puedo dormir.” (I can’t sleep)

“You came here to steal a kiss, didn’t you?”

“Maybe two.”

Y/N put down the book and held out her arms. “Come here.”

Alexia climbed onto the bed like a teenager, crawling into Y/N’s lap, hiding her face against her neck.

“You smell like mint tea,” Y/N whispered.

“And fear.”

“Don’t be scared.”

“I’m not scared of you. I’m scared of… feeling too much.”

Y/N ran her fingers through Alexia’s hair. “That’s the point. Feel it.”

Alexia pulled back, studied her fiancée’s face — so composed, yet so heartbreakingly open.

“You’re not nervous?”

“I’m thirty-six, marrying a retired footballer with terrible posture. What is there to fear?”

Alexia gasped. “Mi postura es perfecta.”

“Your back is a corkscrew.”

Alexia grinned. “You still want to marry me.”

“I’d marry you with a walker.”

They kissed once. Soft. Then again. Slower.

Alexia sighed. “Mañana, sí?”

Y/N nodded. “Tomorrow.”

“Then,” Alexia whispered, sliding off the bed reluctantly, “hasta mañana, mi amor.”

She turned at the door. “You remember your lines?”

Y/N raised a brow. “I was born for the stage, remember?”

Alexia laughed.

And walked out into the hallway with her heart floating six inches off the floor.

Y/N

The gravel crunched under tires.

She knew that sound. It was the Audi she’d booked two weeks ago. Her father insisted on arriving in style — not for appearances, but because he hated taxis, and he’d read a one-star review about a car service in this part of Catalunya and decided never to trust them again.

Y/N opened the front door just in time to see her father climb out, looking like some misplaced opera villain.

Black linen. No tie. Silver-rimmed sunglasses. And a small suitcase she had no doubt contained five identical shirts and exactly one pair of shoes.

He squinted at her. “You look tired.”

“Hello to you too.”

He walked forward and took her face in his hands. Then kissed her forehead. “Still beautiful. Tired. But beautiful.”

She smiled against his chest. “Long night.”

He pulled back. “If this is wedding hangover, I applaud your restraint. Your mother once drank an entire bottle of champagne before breakfast the morning we married. And she still danced better than me that day.”

Y/N grinned. “You’ve told me that story a hundred times.”

“And it only gets more true.”

She led him into the house — rustic, sun-warmed, filled with voices echoing in multiple languages.

Alexia appeared first. Soft-eyed and somehow even more nervous than the night before.

She stopped short when she saw him.

He stared.

Then said, “You are smaller in person.”

Alexia blinked. “Gracias… creo?”

Y/N elbowed her lightly.

“This is Sergey. My father.”

Sergey offered a firm handshake. “You are the footballer.”

Alexia nodded. “Sí. I am… her fiancée.”

“You look like you would cry during penalty shootout.”

Alexia looked genuinely offended. “Solo un poco.”

Sergey chuckled. “Good. Men cry too little. Women should cry more than them, to make them feel shame.”

Alexia gave Y/N a helpless look.

She smiled. “Welcome to the family.”

Later that morning, Sergey found himself seated beside Eli at the outdoor table, drinking café solo and discussing how best to raise strong daughters.

Alba wandered over, glanced between them, then leaned down to Y/N.

“Tu suegro da miedo, hermana.” (Your father-in-law is scary, sister)

Y/N whispered back, “He used to scare Mikhail Baryshnikov.”

Alba blinked. “No jodas.”

“Swear on it.”

Jana, passing by with a tray of croissants, added casually, “He told Leila her hair looked like a horse’s tail. Leila said thank you.”

By noon, everyone had found a strange rhythm. Sergey sat outside polishing his glasses. Eli fussed in the kitchen. Marianne was running point on the logistics with military efficiency. Alexia had vanished into the guest room to write “one last line” for her vows, which Y/N knew meant she was probably panicking and erasing half of it.

Y/N stood in front of the full-length mirror, her dress still hanging behind her. No makeup yet. Just skin and shadow and something unfamiliar brewing in her chest.

She looked at herself.

Thirty-six. Still breathing. Still dancing.

Still here.

Sergey’s reflection appeared behind her.

“You are ready?” he asked, gently.

“I think so.”

He handed her something small — a silver ring on a thin chain.

“It was your mother’s,” he said. “She wore it under her tights every time she danced Giselle.”

Y/N blinked fast. “You kept it all this time?”

Sergey shrugged. “I am sentimental bastard.”

Y/N put it around her neck and looked at herself again. She still didn’t look like a bride.

She just looked like… her.

That was enough.

Wedding day

Third person

The house was full of hushed anticipation. The kind that settles between whispers and perfume and half-zipped dresses. The kind that slows time and makes mirrors feel too honest.

In one room, Alexia sat on a wooden stool, holding her breath as Marianne carefully adjusted the collar of her tailored white suit.

“Stop fidgeting,” Marianne said. “You’re wrinkling the whole thing.”

“I can’t breathe,” Alexia muttered. “And this shirt is choking me. Me quiere matar.”

“It’s a collar, not a noose.”

Alexia gave her a narrow-eyed glare through the mirror. “You are enjoying this too much.”

“Not as much as Leila, who’s been sneaking photos of you changing.”

From the hallway, Leila’s voice rang out: “Solo para el archivo histórico, hermana!” (Just for the historical record, sister)

“Vas a ver,” (You’ll see) Alexia threatened under her breath. But her heart wasn’t in it. It was somewhere else. Somewhere quieter. Waiting.

She pulled out the small note folded in her blazer pocket. Her vows. Written on the back of an ELEVEN Foundation flyer.

She didn’t need to reread them.

She just held them.

Across the house, in the sunlit bedroom facing the olive grove, Y/N stood barefoot in her robe. Her hair curled gently around her bob, soft waves pinned back just enough. Her makeup was minimal — just enough to survive tears, not enough to pretend.

Alba entered with a garment bag. “Ready?”

Y/N nodded.

Together, they unzipped the dress. A silk slip of a thing. Minimal. Dramatic in its lack of drama. The kind of dress that didn’t wear her — the kind that let her breathe.

“You look like a poem,” Alba whispered as she zipped it up.

Y/N gave her a look. “Did Jana write that line?”

Alba smirked. “Yes. She says hi, by the way. She’s crying already.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “We haven’t even walked out yet.”

“Sí, bueno. She’s very soft now. Aggie’s fault.”

Y/N laughed. “They’re good together.”

Alba nodded. “So are you.”

Outside, the chairs were filling up. The late afternoon light turned everything amber. The breeze off the hills made the white linens flutter like breath.

Caroline, Marta and Irene were seated on the second row behind Eli, who had a handkerchief in her lap and a tissue already stuffed in her sleeve. Jana, in a simple blue cocktail dress, was fussing over the music playlist with Patri and Bruna. Mapi Leon, who together with her plus one - fiancé Ingrid- traveled from Lyon just for the wedding - arrived, clearly ready to party as soon as possible. Ona brought Lucy as her plus one, looking amused seeing the antics of her friends.

Leila wore oversized sunglasses and declared herself the unofficial emotional bouncer — no one allowed to cry unless they cried fabulously.

Their former teammates from Barca Femeni and Spain’s national team came for the wedding.

Lola, Virginia, Misa, Marionna, the two Laias.

Even Alexia’s ex-girlfriend Jenni came. Whilst it took them a while to get over their breakup after nearly seven years together, Alexia and Jenni amicably patched up their friendship.

Back inside, Alexia was ready.

Her mother kissed both her cheeks.

“Estás preciosa, mi niña.” (You look beautiful, my girl)

“Gracias, mami.”

Marianne handed her a small bracelet. “This is your something borrowed.”

“From who?”

“Jana. She said it brought her luck during the Champions League final.”

Alexia blinked. “She scored that day.”

Marianne shrugged. “Then wear it.”

She clasped it on.

Y/N stood at the back of the hallway, hand resting lightly on Sergey’s arm.

“You walk me down?” she asked, voice softer than she meant.

He didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he adjusted her neckline, brushed a curl behind her ear.

“I walk you halfway,” he said. “The rest… you can do alone.”

Y/N nodded.

They stepped out into the soft applause of sunset.

Alexia turned.

And saw her.

Not a bride. Not a ballerina. Just Y/N.

The woman who ruined her carefully controlled heart. The woman who whispered both sarcasm and softness into her chest until it cracked open.

She smiled.

Alexia smiled back.

Her hands stopped shaking.

The chairs creaked under shifting weight. The wind made the white ribbons tied to the pergola flutter like breath.

Sergey sat in the first row, legs crossed, arms folded, expression unreadable.

Eli sat in the front row, already sniffling. Alba had subtly swapped her glass of cava for water, sensing the tears were only just beginning.

Patri whispered something to Leila — who promptly giggled, then immediately swore when a tear escaped her eyeliner. Ingrid handed her a tissue without looking away from the aisle. Jana sat between Bruna and Aggie, gripping both their hands like she might float away.

Then the music began.

Not the usual classical strings. Something quieter. Contemporary. A piano melody that felt like a letter.

Alexia stood beneath the arch, fingers twitching slightly. She wore the suit like it was stitched into her skin. But her expression was that of someone stripped bare.

Y/N walked down the aisle slowly. No veil. No bouquet. Just her father’s hand, then none — as he stepped aside halfway and nodded, proud and quiet.

Alexia’s eyes never left hers.

When she reached her, they didn’t speak.

Just hands, clasped.

A deep breath.

And then Marianne stepped forward, smiling gently.

“Welcome,” she said. “You know why we’re here.”

A few chuckles from the crowd.

“We’re not going to talk about fate, or timing, or the miracle of two people finding each other in a nightclub and somehow surviving the chaos that followed.”

Laughter again, especially from Leila and Mapi.

“We’re here because, somehow, they made it. Not by accident. But by choosing, over and over, to stay.”

She turned to Alexia first.

“Alexia?”

Alexia unfolded the flyer from ELEVEN, now creased from being held so tightly.

She took a deep breath, glanced at Y/N, and began:

“I don’t write poetry. But I know how it feels to score in extra time — And you feel better than that. You make the quiet loud. You see the version of me I thought I buried with my ACL.

You held space for me — even when you were the one afraid. I choose you, every day. Even when you talk during movies. Even when you steal my hoodies and say they smell like victory. I choose you. That’s all.”

Silence.

Not because people didn’t want to react, but because no one trusted their voice.

Y/N blinked fast. She adjusted her posture and began her speech. No paper, she had hers memorized.

She spoke clearly, with that half-smile that always made Alexia ache.

“I never planned for this. I planned for seasons. For injuries. For decline. For endings. But you’re not an ending. You’re the chapter I didn’t know I could write. You never asked me to be perfect. You just asked me to be real. So here’s the real part, I am messy, scared, irreverent. And I love you. In the mornings when you burn toast. In the evenings when your Spanish gets too fast and I just nod. I love you. Not forever — because I don’t believe in that word. I love you now. And I’ll keep loving you in the next now. And the one after that.”

Alexia looked like she was about to cry.

Or run.

Or kiss her senseless.

She did the latter.

After Marianne coughed politely.

“Do you, Alexia Putellas Segura,” she said, barely holding in her own tears, “take this woman — this wildly sarcastic, devastatingly honest, stunning creature — to be your wife?”

Alexia nodded. “Sí. Con todo mi corazón.”

“And do you, Y/N — take this awkward, painfully competitive, far-too-gifted-for-her-own-good woman to be your wife?”

Y/N smirked. “Obviously.”

“Then I now pronounce you… in so much trouble.”

Laughter, cheers.

And then — the kiss.

Soft. Fierce. Final.

Not as in the end.

But as in — finally.

Dinner was served beneath a canopy of fairy lights strung between olive trees. The air still carried a trace of sunlight, but the sky had already begun its slide into dusk. Cicadas buzzed softly in the background, harmonising with clinking glasses and bursts of laughter.

The long wooden table overflowed with food — pan con tomate, grilled vegetables, paella, roasted lamb, and a suspiciously large number of croquetas. Eli had insisted.

“Hay que comer bien después de llorar tanto,” she said, passing a basket of bread to Sergey.

Sergey took one, sniffed it, and muttered, “Better than Moscow wedding. They served borscht. In August.”

Eli nodded in solemn agreement, as if that explained a war.

The speeches began as the sky turned violet.

First came Marianne — precise, tearful, but somehow still composed.

Then Leila, who promptly ignored her note cards and instead told a chaotic story about the time she and Alexia got locked in a storage room with a goat during a preseason tour in Mallorca.

“Y la cabra tenía mejor sentido de la orientación que tú,” (And the goat had a better sense of direction than you) she said, pointing at Alexia.

“I was concussed,” Alexia replied.

“Y aún así jugaste mejor que media plantilla.” (And yet you played better than half the squad)

Laughter.

Not to be outdone, Jana’s speech has awws, oohs and laughter. She recalled the times Alexia has been there for her despite going through some challenges, and that her wish for Alexia finally came true - finding happiness with Y/N.

Caroline stood next with Marta beside her — an unlikely duo of deadpan and dry Norwegian wit.

“We knew it was serious,” Marta said, “when Alexia stopped editing Y/N out of photos before posting in our group chat.

“She never edited you out of photos,” Caroline added. “Just cropped.”

Y/N sipped her wine, amused. “Ruthless.”

Alexia flushed, muttering, “Es mentira.” (It’s a lie)

Even Sergey stood — slow, regal, and entirely himself.

“I do not make speeches,” he began. “But… today, I make exception. Because my daughter, she marries a woman who plays football like war and loves like fool. I like her.”

A beat.

“Also, she finally eats properly now. Thank you, Putellas.”

Alexia saluted him with her wine glass, deadpan.

“De nada, suegro.”

The first dance began without announcement. Just the soft drop of a song — one they’d chosen a month ago, over text, too embarrassed to discuss it in person.

It was quiet. Not romantic in the cheesy sense. Just… real.

They danced slow.

Clumsy at first — Alexia trying not to lead, Y/N trying not to trip over her own nerves.

“You’re stiff,” Y/N whispered.

“Tú también.”

They both laughed.

And loosened.

Their hands fit. They always had.

Around them, their loved ones swayed, clapped, held each other.

Aggie pulled Jana into a spin.

Patri dragged Bruna into an impromptu bachata.

Leila and Mapi competed for who could dip Ingrid better — Ingrid rolled her eyes but let them try.

Even Eli swayed with Sergey, who looked vaguely horrified but stayed.

Later, beneath the stars, after cake and speeches and more cava than anyone needed, Alexia and Y/N slipped away.

To the edge of the olive grove.

Just them.

They sat on a blanket, shoes discarded, heads close.

“I’m still not used to saying ‘wife,’” Y/N said, staring up at the constellations.

Alexia smiled. “Practice, cariño.”

“Wife.”

“Again.”

“Wife.”

Alexia kissed her.

The stars spun slowly.

————————————————————————

Continue the last part.

[juniperhillpatient]

feel like people who don’t write don’t realize how many head canons & little things writers do want to include but can’t because the overall tone & flow has to be considered

(rip the deranged gay panty sniffing scene that I know happened off screen in my own work but doesn’t really fit into the chapter 😔)

[bright-and-burning]

hm. new joint pain... what are you doing here...

[piratefalls]

i'm so glad that i have someone at work (a professor i assist) who is basically a walking encyclopedia and spent a part of his morning talking to me about the chaos in our government and breaking it down so it didn't feel quite so overwhelming

it's the first time in two weeks i've felt even a little calm