#send me one of these and a character/pairing

[venusbyline]

Out of Love (1/4)

— summary: Everyone talks about how Aegon the Conqueror married one sister out of duty and the other one out of desire. Unlike his ancestor, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon wants to marry both his aunt and his cousin out of love.

— pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x Targtower!reader x Baela Targaryen

— type: smut

— chapter's warnings: female!reader, Targcest (nephew/aunt & cousin/cousin), threesome FFM (female/female/male), throuple, corruption kink, vaginal sex, doggy style position, oral sex (female receiving), cunnilingus, fingering, scissoring/tribadism, creampie, overstimulation, secret relationship, cuddling & snuggling, aftercare, dom!Jacaerys, sub!reader, dom!Baela, reader is Alicent's second daughter, mild hurt/comfort, kinda fluff too, canon divergence (No The Dance of the Dragons), porn with plot. no use of y/n, english is not my first language.

— author's notes¹: I'm not a Jacela shipper, but I had the idea for this shortfic yesterday. So... I'm writing for them hahaah btw, don't worry cuz this story wouldn't be a love triangle, the characters are a throuple, the three of them love each other equally, they just have different dynamics between them.

— author's notes²: Out of Love is a mini series involving Targcest, throuple and forbidden love.

— author's notes³: Each chapter will contain its own trigger warnings.

— author's notes⁴: If you want to be tagged for the next chapters, tell me!!! <3 <3

❥ Jacaerys masterlist • HOTD masterlist

❥ about me • main masterlist

You were on Jacaerys' bed for the third time that week, enjoying the carnal pleasures that he and his betrothed were willing to teach you.

Ever since Rhaenyra succeeded to the Iron Throne and the entire family was forced to get closer, you had become almost inseparable from your nephews and cousins — which had deeply irritated your mother and your brother Aemond, although you did not mind so much, because at least you could have some true friends.

Surprisingly, both the crown prince and Baela showed an intense interest in you, something that was wrong — at least in the eyes of the Seven —. You tried to resist at first, denying their advances and saying that you were saving yourself for a future marriage.

All that resistance fell apart when you caught them having sex during a random afternoon. The sight of Baela riding on Jacaerys' cock, her breasts bouncing right in front of his face as he grabbed her hips to help her move even faster... It was too much for you, and you did not even try to hide your accidental presence there.

After that day, the couple dedicated themselves to showing you a lot of sexual things that could be pleasurable for you and would not take your maidenhead — since you were afraid that you would not get a propitious betrothal if you were not a virgin anymore.

On that night in question, Baela was eating you out and Jacaerys was fucking her from behind at the same time.

"Mmm, that feels so good..." Baela moaned when Jacaerys fucked hard inside her, hitting that most sensitive spot.

"So fucking good..." Jacaerys grabbed her hips for more intense thrusts, growling when she shook her ass to tease him. His attention turned to you as he saw you squeezing your own breasts and enjoying Baela's full lips sucking on your clit. "Is Baela making you feel good, sweetheart?"

You opened the eyes and stared at Jacaerys behind his betrothed, who was between your spread legs. "Yeah, baby... It feels so good." The sweet, trembling praise made Baela chuckle, sending a tingle through your bundle of nerves.

Speeding up his movements, Jacaerys slapped Baela's ass once, tilting his body down so he could grab her curly, white hair and push her a little further against your cunt.

Baela gasped in pleasure, because of the rough thrusts and the sweet taste of your juices soaking her face. Sensing that Jacaerys was close to the high, she wiggled her ass again against his groin and increased the stimulation on his cock.

"B-Baela... Shit, love, I am going to cum," Jacaerys' moan sounded like a whimper and he almost felt ashamed of himself. However, despite his desire to cum on your breasts or your face, he remembered about the same fetish shared by the three of you. Then he grabbed both of Baela's buttocks one last time before spilling his seed inside her tight cunt.

The princess hummed at the delightful feeling of Jacaerys' cock throbbing and filling her insides with dense, warm spurts.

The poor boy barely had time to recover, pulling himself out and lying on the other side of the bed, his head aching a little bit from the pleasure. He looked at his seed dripping from Baela's entrance, giving a weak smile and taking a deep breath at the sight of her purplish inner lips.

Lying there, Jacaerys rested while Baela sat up, only to fit her legs over yours right away. A whine escaped your lips at the sticky sensation of Baela's cunt on you, Jacaerys' cum making everything slippery.

She held one of your legs to keep them wide open, lips parted and brow furrowed, a clear demonstration of how aroused you were making her feel. One of your hands went up to her breast, the soft weight in your palm sending shivers down both of yours.

"Baela..."

"I am close too, darling..." She whispered, biting the lower lip as she heard your needy whimper. Rolling her hips back and forth, Baela arched her head back, moaning loudly when your two clits rubbed against each other.

The chambers filled with the wet sounds of your cunts and the ones of pleasure as you both reached the climax. The pace of Baela's hips stuttered, but she kept moving them so she could prolong her high, stopping only when she heard your whimper and realized that you were already too overstimulated.

"She will have to go back to her private chambers in a few hours..." Baela whispered, stroking your silver hair while you slept snuggled against Jacaerys' sweaty chest.

The crown prince clenched his jaw, looking at your sleepy form. You seemed so serene like that, together with them, resting after experiencing one more hint of the pleasure they were capable of giving you. It was not fair that you had to sneak out of there and leave them so soon.

It was not fair that you had to leave them.

Noticing the silence of her cousin, Baela gossiped with a tense tone: "Rumors are running through King's Landing. You know... They are about the fact Alicent is probably considering a betrothal between her and Daeron."

There was no surprise on Jacaerys's face, but rather anger. He knew about the rumors and he also knew that you had plenty of suitors from other Houses, all of them interested in a political alliance. You were beautiful, young, fertile and with your maidenhead intact, besides being a Targaryen princess. Any single lord in his right mind would try to have a chance.

That did not make the situation any easier to overcome. "I do not want this to happen. And I know very well that you do not want that either."

Baela remained quiet for a few moments, her heart warming seeing you and Jacaerys cuddling in his bed, the after-sex smell making her aroused for the second time in that night — though she was not going to say anything about it, considering everyone was exhausted and Jacaerys were quite tense, just like herself.

The last thing Baela and Jacaerys wanted was to have to end whatever was going on between the three of you someday. The idea of you marrying someone, really falling in love with your future husband, or at least being forced to be faithful to him panicked them...

They wanted you. They needed you. They loved you too much to let you move on any time soon.

“I could try to convince my mother and then marry both of you,” Baela raised an eyebrow at Jacaerys’ words, clearly not shocked by the prince’s impulsive decision. He seemed to realize that too, because he immediately frowned, all frustrated. "Do not give me that look, love. I would not be the first Targaryen man to do something like that. Aegon the Conqueror married both of his sisters. Maegor the Cruel had six wives."

"Well, that is the problem. One of them was a conqueror and the other one was a tyrant. It's not like the people of Westeros would accept something like that these days," She did not add the fact that he being considered a bastard by the Realm was already enough of an obstacle that his legitimacy as heir might be challenged at some point. He understood what she thought without her even having to say it, though he did not want to admit that she was right. "Being the next king and queen does not give us the freedom to have our every wish granted, Jace."

Jacaerys sighed, too tense for his own good, closing his eyes and trying hard to keep the mind free of melancholy or angry thoughts. Just as he was about to fall asleep, Baela drew his attention back. "However, we can at least try."

[enjakey]

THE CERTAIN ROMANCE OF WINGS AND WAR

TEASER

PAIRING: [DAD!JAKE SIM x FEM!READER]!MAFIA AU

SETTING: Seoul, Korea → Santorini, Greece

TROPES: Mafia au | soulmates au | angel/devil wings au | childhood best friends au | frenemies au | I didn’t know I loved you until I lost you | eloping/running away | family friends au | found family au

TW/N: cheating, blood, drugs, mentions of sex, alcohol, lots of cussing, mentions of murder, guns, therapy, psychological trauma, abandoning children, adoption care, estranged families, physical abuse, anger issues, characters make terrible decisions, some characters have sexual relations but not romantic, mentions of a lot of fucking each other over (betrayal), can't trust anyone.

In a world where people grow wings when they’re in love, all anyone seemed to want is to find their soulmate.

Jake thought he’d found his perfect love. The wings on his back said so. But the woman he trusted disappeared overnight, leaving nothing but betrayal in her wake. For her, love was just a tactic. Business was the only game she played.

Raised by a powerful mafia family, Jake eventually took the reins of the empire when their father stepped down. Sunghoon stood as his right hand, while Jungwon and Niki- inseparable and unflinching- were the muscle that held their world together.

By their side was Y/N and her family- allies bound not just by loyalty, but legacy. Her father had built the syndicate with theirs, and the two families rose together.

Their world seemed untouchable- until it wasn’t.

Jake’s misplaced trust would spark a war no one saw coming. And when it led to the death of Y/N’s brother, Jay, the fallout shattered everything. Love had brought wings. But betrayal would leave scars that followed them for years- across cities, across borders, across time.

Oh… and Jake had a daughter now.

Chapter breakdown

Prologue 0; the beginning of the end

PART ONE; five years later

Chapter 1; prolonged interlude

Chapter 2; a long lost friend

Chapter 3; abominable rendezvous

Chapter 4; to run or not to run

PART TWO; six months later

Chapter 5; abscond

Chapter 6; redamancy

Chapter 7; cheers to a new beginning

Chapter 8; an elaborate ruse

Chapter 9; the cherry on top

Character breakdown

The first mafia family (the adopted children of David and Helen)

Jake Sim

Park Sunghoon

Yang Jungwon

Niki

The second mafia family (the children of Martin and Nayna)

Y/N

Jay Park

Additional characters

Emily- Jake’s ex

Erwin- Emily’s twin

Lola- Erwin’s girlfriend

Heeseung- Y/N’s fwb

Alice- Jungwon’s girlfriend

Chelsea- Jay’s soulmate

Sophie- Niki’s fwb

Yeji- Sunghoon’s estranged sister

Athera- Jungwon’s 2nd love interest

Sunoo- Y/N’s coworker

I hope I come around to writing this. I’m just putting this out there. God knows when I’ll start writing this but yeah.

Originally, I’d planned this series out for Wattpad and it was inspired by Tom Holland cuz back then, he was OG like I started writing fanfiction for him.

Now, I think I can work ENHYPEN into this story and I’m so excited to write this.

In the original story, Jake is a dad and Y/N is the favourite aunt until these two fall in love. I’m not sure if I want to continue with that plot or not. Yall can let me know in the comments or by sending me an anon or whatever!

Every single Enhypen member is mentioned, by the way. The casting might piss some people off but in my head, it makes so much sense.

If you guys have any questions, feel free to ask me. If yall want chapter spoilers (like in bullet points) I can leak some of those too (wink wink).

Hope yall are excited for this!

[arabella-syntax]

Update: Part 2

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 second part of the story. To read the first part, here’s the link.

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

She didn’t ask for permission.

Didn’t send a warning text.

Didn’t overthink the logistics — for once.

She just packed a small bag, told Marianne she’d miss two meetings, and booked the next flight to London.

The idea came to her the night after Y/N’s birthday call.

She couldn’t sleep.

She kept replaying the way Y/N had smiled — beautiful, yes, but worn. Like she was trying to hold something together inside her bones. Like she was dancing on a thread too thin to hold weight.

Alexia had told herself not to interfere.

She’d promised not to push.

But there was something about loving someone like Y/N that rewrote the rules.

So she booked the flight.

Because sometimes, love wasn’t a grand gesture.

Sometimes, it was arriving.

She texted once, when she landed:

“Estoy en Londres. No es sorpresa if I say it now.”

(I'm in London. No surprises, if I say so now.)

No reply.

Fine.

She took a cab to Y/N’s neighbourhood. Bought coffee and stood outside her building like some awkward indie film character — hoodie, sneakers, and a tiny suitcase that looked ridiculous next to her very serious face.

She wasn’t nervous.

She was terrified.

Y/N opened the door in a robe, eyes puffy from sleep, hair messy and still perfect.

She froze. Blinked twice.

“You’re here.”

Alexia nodded. “Estoy aquí.”

“You didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“You didn’t tell me it was your cumpleaños.”

Touché.

Alexia shifted on her feet. “Puedo entrar?”

Y/N opened the door wider. “You came all this way… what, for coffee and confrontation?”

Alexia walked in. Set down her bag. Looked at her.

“No. I came to hold you.”

Y/N didn’t answer.

So Alexia stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her.

It was awkward. Heavy with unsaid things.

But Y/N melted into her chest like a breath she’d been holding for weeks.

Later, they sat on the floor of Y/N’s kitchen, eating leftover pasta and drinking tea.

No music.

No performance.

Just quiet chewing and occasional looks.

“You didn’t have to come,” Y/N said finally.

“Ya lo sé.”

“But you did.”

“Claro.”

Y/N reached over and touched her knee. “You’re not scared?”

Alexia smiled. “Estoy terrified.”

“Of me?”

“Of loving you more than you’ll let me.”

Y/N didn’t flinch.

Instead, she leaned in, forehead touching Alexia’s.

“You’re ridiculous,” she whispered.

“And tired. And here. And… maybe in love.”

Y/N let out a slow, cracked breath. “Maybe me too.”

That night, they slept tangled up on her too-small sofa.

Alexia snored softly.

Y/N stared at the ceiling, fingers brushing against her ribcage like a tether.

Maybe she couldn’t promise tomorrow.

But tonight?

Tonight, she would let herself be held.

Y/N

Alexia had fallen asleep first, as usual.

She always curled toward Y/N in sleep, one arm draped awkwardly across her stomach like she was claiming space she wasn’t sure she deserved. Her mouth parted slightly, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands even in bed. Like a child, still too soft in a world that had tried to make her hard.

Y/N watched her.

Watched her breathe.

Watched the steady rhythm that belonged to someone who didn’t know the kind of countdown Y/N carried behind her ribs.

She didn’t sleep.

Instead, she stared at the ceiling.

Counted the months. December. January. February. March now.

Three months since she took the test. Three months of silencing the scream of truth beneath jokes and choreography.

Her mother had started fading in her early forties. The diagnosis came at thirty-eight. By forty-five, she didn’t remember her own daughter’s name without pictures.

Y/N had tested positive at thirty-six.

Same sharp handwriting.

Same lab in London.

Same faulty gene.

She hadn’t told Alexia.

Not that she took the test.

Not the results.

Not anything.

Because saying it out loud made it harder to pretend she could still have a future.

And Alexia? Alexia was a future. That was the danger.

Alexia stirred beside her, groggy.

“Mmh… qué hora es?” (What time is it) she murmured, voice thick with sleep.

“Late,” Y/N whispered.

“You’re awake still?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

Alexia sat up slowly, eyes narrowing at Y/N’s face in the dark.

“Your brain too loud?”

“Too many tabs open,” Y/N said with a dry smile.

Alexia blinked. “You want to talk? Or distract?”

Y/N hesitated. “Talk. I think… it’s time.”

Alexia shifted to face her more fully, legs crossed, hoodie hood halfway up now like she was preparing for a storm.

“I never told you,” Y/N began, “about my mum.”

Alexia nodded once. “No. But I know you miss her.”

“She was brilliant,” Y/N continued. “English. Choreographer. Fire and thunder, but gentle with me. Until… she wasn’t.”

Alexia didn’t interrupt.

“She was diagnosed with Huntington’s disease when I was seventeen. It was a bleak outlook. It took everything from her slowly. Memory, mobility… humour stayed the longest, weirdly.”

“Lo siento,” Alexia said softly. “Mucho.”

Y/N exhaled. “I always told myself I wouldn’t test. That I didn’t want to know.”

“And then?”

“And then I met someone,” Y/N whispered, voice cracking. “Someone who made it all feel very… real.”

Alexia stayed very still.

“I took the test in December,” Y/N said. “Positive. Same mutation. Same progression. Same odds.”

A long silence.

Then Alexia reached out and took her hand.

“No me dijiste.”

“I couldn’t. I didn’t want you to… pity me. Or see me different.”

Alexia was quiet for another beat. Then she said, very softly:

“Yo no te miro diferente. Te miro más.” (I don't look at you differently. I look at you more).

Y/N looked at her, blinking fast. “I’m terrified.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t want to make you carry this.”

“I carry you anyway.”

“I don’t know what happens next.”

“Pues… vamos paso a paso. Step by step.”

They didn’t say much after that.

Y/N leaned into her chest. Let herself cry — not dramatically, just quietly, in the way only someone used to enduring finally learns how to release.

Alexia stayed.

Held her.

Didn’t offer any grand promise.

Just stayed.

And that was enough.

Alexia

The café con leche was too sweet.

Alexia stirred it absentmindedly, watching the spoon swirl in circles like it could make the ache in her chest less loud.

She hadn’t meant to come here. She was supposed to train. Stretch. Do something constructive.

But instead, she’d walked the familiar steps to Alba’s place — where she knew Marianne would also be, probably hijacking Alba’s terrace and drinking overpriced cold brew from her pretentious thermos.

Sure enough, when Alba opened the door in mismatched socks and a Barcelona hoodie, Marianne was already sunbathing with her laptop, doing something vaguely important for the foundation.

“Hòstia, tía,” Alba said. “You look like shit.”

“Gracias,” Alexia muttered.

Marianne looked up. “You okay?”

“¿Puedo… hablar?”

That was all it took. Alba stepped aside. Marianne closed her laptop. Coffee was made. Feet were curled up on chairs. And they waited.

Alexia took a deep breath.

“Y/N has Huntington’s.”

A beat.

Then Marianne blinked. “Joder.”

Alba frowned. “¿Qué es eso?” (What's that?)

Alexia blinked at her. “It’s… enfermedad neurológica degenerativa. Genética. Su madre la padecía. She just tested positive a few months ago.” (It’s… a degenerative neurological disease. Genetic. His mother suffered from it…)

Alba’s brows stayed furrowed. “So… like Parkinson’s?”

“Un poco. But worse - maybe. It affects movement, memory, mood—everything. Slowly, but… always.”

Marianne exhaled. “It’s brutal. There’s no cure, is there?”

Alexia shook her head.

Alba’s face shifted. “¿Y tú sabías que se hizo las pruebas?” (And did you know that she got tested?)

“No,” Alexia said. “I didn’t know she tested. I didn’t know anything. She just told me last week. En su piso. Late. Like it was casual.” (…In her apartment…)

“And what did you do?” Marianne asked.

“I didn’t freak out,” Alexia said simply. “I stayed. I held her. I listened.”

Alba was quiet now. Processing. “Joder…”

“She didn’t want to tell me because she thought I’d leave,” Alexia whispered.

Marianne snorted. “She clearly doesn’t know how stubborn you are.”

Alexia gave a weak laugh. “She doesn’t know how badly I want to stay.”

Alba reached over and touched her arm. “¿Y qué necesitas, Ale?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I just needed to say it out loud. So someone else would know too. Because now… everything feels real. And heavy.”

“We’ll carry it with you,” Marianne said. “You’re not alone.”

Alba nodded. “Sí. No es un partido que juegas sola.”

Alexia exhaled.

Something loosened in her ribcage.

She still didn’t know what came next — but for the first time, she didn’t feel like she was standing on the edge alone.

Y/N

Her father was late, naturally.

She’d told him to meet her at the café near the park at eleven. He arrived at eleven twenty-two, carrying a paper bag of Russian pastries and his usual expression of amused disappointment in the world.

“You look tired,” he said, by way of greeting.

“Hello to you too, Papa.”

He kissed her forehead, sat down, and immediately began criticizing the table’s wobbliness.

“Do you know,” he said, unwrapping a sticky bun with alarming speed, “what you need?”

“Let me guess. To stop dating women with emotional depth?”

“No. To go blonde.”

Y/N blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“You already cut your hair,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward her neat bob. “Very tragic. Very French. But now you go blonde. Reinvent. Channel this pain into something fashionable.”

She snorted. “You think I’m having an identity crisis?”

“I think you’re boring. Blonde would at least confuse people.”

“Papa, I told you I have Huntington’s.”

“Exactly. Go out in style.”

Y/N shook her head, laughing into her coffee. “You’re so emotionally stable.”

“I am Russian,” he said, sipping his espresso like it had insulted him.

They sat for a while in silence, birds picking at crumbs near their feet.

“I told her,” Y/N said quietly.

“Alexia?”

She nodded.

His gaze softened. “And she didn’t run?”

“She stayed.”

“Good,” he said. “But you are still scared.”

Y/N didn’t reply.

“You’re waiting for the symptoms to shout. You think when that happens, she’ll change. But let me tell you something: love is stupid. It doesn’t care about science or timing. It just stays until it can’t.”

Y/N exhaled. “And when it can’t?”

“Then you grieve,” he said. “And you dye your hair blonde.”

She smiled despite herself. “You’re relentless.”

He reached across and patted her hand. “You are still here, malyshka (baby). Still dancing. Still drinking overpriced coffee. This is not the end.”

“I know.”

“But if you ever want it to be the end,” he said, “just know that I have room on my couch in Moscow. And vodka. So much vodka.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

She didn’t go blonde.

But she did go home, curled up in her flat, and opened the texts from Alexia — small, silly, steady ones:

You okay?

I miss your weird slippers.

Do you want me to send you a video of me trying to do ballet? I will.

She smiled.

And she wrote back:

No video needed. Your last attempt at plié is permanently tattooed on my soul.

Alexia replied with a selfie of her in a tank top and very dramatic pout:

Your favourite Catalan disaster still intact.

Y/N held the phone to her chest. Closed her eyes.

Still here.

Alexia

She had rewritten the message three times.

First:

Hey. My mami is cooking next weekend. You should come.

Too casual. Could sound like a trap.

Second:

My family misses you. Dinner at my mami’s?

No. Too much.

Third attempt included a GIF of a dancing empanada and simply:

Hungry?

In the end, she gave up and called.

Y/N answered on the third ring. “Hey, Catalan Disaster.”

Alexia smiled, relief pouring through her chest. “Hola, gremlin de Londres.”

They spoke in a warm rhythm — half teasing, half I-miss-you — until Alexia cleared her throat and said, in a rush of slightly broken English:

“So… next weekend. My mami makes arroz caldoso. Is kind of family thing. My sister also comes. And maybe… tú?”

Y/N paused. “You’re inviting me to dinner?”

“Yes. But more. Not just dinner. Like… proper thing. Not formal. But serious, maybe? You can say no. But no is illegal.”

Y/N laughed softly. “What if I’m a nightmare at family dinners?”

“You already are nightmare,” Alexia said flatly. “So no new information.”

That got a real laugh.

Then a pause. A real one.

“Are you sure?” Y/N asked quietly.

Alexia swallowed. ”Si. They like you, and want to spend time with you.”

Another pause. But this one was warmer. Steady.

“Okay,” Y/N said. “I’ll come.”

Alexia closed her eyes. Let the exhale slip out slowly. She hadn’t realised she’d been holding her breath.

“Bring slippers,” she added. “Mami is dramatic about cold floors.”

“Oh good. I was hoping to be judged by a Catalan mother in my socks.”

“You will be judged regardless. Better to be warm.”

After they hung up, Alexia sat in the quiet of her living room, phone pressed to her chest.

She didn’t say it out loud.

Not yet.

But something in her had clicked.

Something soft, and stupid, and maybe brave.

She wasn’t just inviting Y/N into her home.

She was quietly, clumsily, inviting her into her life.

Y/N

The smell of garlic and thyme hit her before she’d even knocked.

Inside Alexia’s flat — small, tidy, unmistakably hers — the sounds of sizzling and humming mingled like an old song. When the door opened, Y/N was greeted not by her girlfriend, but by her girlfriend’s mother.

“Cariño,” said Eli Putellas, dressed in a loose linen blouse and an apron that read “La reina de la cocina.” “You’re early. Qué bien.”

Y/N smiled, stepping inside. “You’re the chef tonight?”

“I don’t trust my daughter to feed anyone properly. She keeps vegetables like they’re souvenirs.”

Alexia’s voice called out from the kitchen: “¡Mentira!”

Y/N laughed. “Hello to you too.”

This wasn’t their first meeting — they’d danced around each other at Alexia’s birthday, shared polite glances and cautious affection. But this… this felt more real. Like family, minus the ceremony.

Alexia emerged from the kitchen with a wooden spoon in one hand and a smudge of tomato on her wrist.

“You’re here,” she said, cheeks pink with heat and something else.

“She’s early,” Eli repeated. “Which means I like her.”

Alexia gave Y/N a look. “I said six.”

“It’s 5:57.”

Eli waved her hand. “She’s punctual. You’re lucky. I hope you’re not feeding her frozen pizza when I’m not around.”

Alexia groaned. “Mami, por favor…”

Alba arrived twenty minutes late, naturally, wearing ripped jeans and eyeliner that belonged in a music video.

She entered the flat like a storm with opinions. “This building has no elevator. My thighs are screaming.”

“You’re dramatic,” Alexia muttered.

Alba waved her sister’s reply, tossing her bag onto the couch before spotting Y/N. “Oh look, the ballerina lives.”

“Alive and slightly wine-flushed,” Y/N said, lifting her glass.

“You’ve upgraded your position,” Alba said. “From party mystery to dinner guest. Impressive.”

“She brought wine and washed her hands,” Eli said proudly. “She’s already better than your last girlfriend.”

“Mami,” both daughters groaned in unison.

Dinner unfolded in Catalan chaos and Spanish sarcasm.

Eli kept insisting everyone take seconds — even though no one had finished their first.

Alba dominated the conversation with the fervour of someone who thought Twitter wasn’t fast enough.

Alexia remained steady and quiet, the eye of her family’s hurricane — occasionally tapping Y/N’s knee beneath the table like she was reminding herself this was real.

Y/N wasn’t prepared for how easy it felt.

How laughter came naturally.

How Eli would touch her hand and refill her wine.

How Alba would shoot her a half-smile when she made a joke in Spanish that landed.

It terrified her. And yet…she stayed.

Later, after Alba had gone and Eli insisted on scrubbing every pot herself, Y/N sat cross-legged on Alexia’s bed while the footballer toweled her damp hair and tried not to blush.

“She really does love you,” Alexia said, sitting down beside her.

“Your mum or your sister?”

“Both. But my mum will fight someone for you. Alba will just insult you more affectionately.”

Y/N leaned back against the pillows. “I don’t think I’ve ever… had something like that.”

“What, a chaotic Catalan dinner party?”

“A family dinner that didn’t feel like a performance.”

Alexia looked at her then — all soft eyes and stillness. “I’m glad you came.”

“I’m glad I didn’t run.”

Alexia reached over, laced their fingers together. “Then stay.”

Y/N hesitated, then squeezed her hand.

“I will.”

Y/N

It wasn’t a grand question.

Alexia asked it casually, like she was asking if Y/N wanted tea.

“Maybe you move here?”

The words floated gently into the quiet. They were in bed — not wrapped in heat or tangled limbs, but in the softness that came after. After dinner. After teasing. After brushing their teeth with the same mint. Just lying there, backs pressed to pillows, feet grazing beneath the blanket.

Y/N blinked. “Barcelona?”

Alexia nodded, fingers nervously toying with the edge of the sheet. “I mean… you already come a lot. You have a toothbrush here now. Shampoo. Slippers.”

“Slippers?”

“Sí,” Alexia muttered. “Very domestic.”

Y/N smiled, her heart doing that irritating thing where it both warmed and sank at once.

“I want to,” she said carefully. “You don’t know how much. But I have to finish the season, Ale. Royal Ballet won’t exactly replace a principal mid-run, and Giselle’s been sold out for months.”

Alexia nodded. Quiet. Still.

Y/N reached over and tugged gently at her hoodie sleeve. “I’m not saying no.”

“Just… not now.”

“Exactly.”

“I get it,” Alexia said. “I do. I just… sometimes I look at you brushing your teeth here and I think: sí, this is it. Stay.”

Y/N closed her eyes for a moment.

“I can’t stay yet,” she said. “But I’m thinking about after. Maybe Madrid. There’s more ballet infrastructure. I could look into teaching. Performing occasionally.”

Alexia’s face softened. “Madrid is not far.”

“No. And we’re already experts at distance.”

Alexia gave a little smile. “You’ll still get a key.”

“To the flat?”

“To the city,” Alexia said. “Barcelona owes you one.”

Y/N laughed. “So dramatic.”

“I’m in football. It’s required.”

They sat in the silence, both gazing at the ceiling like it might give them answers.

Then Y/N whispered, “This is new for me. Making future-shaped decisions with someone else in mind.”

Alexia turned to her. “We don’t have to rush.”

“I know,” Y/N said. “But I think I want to. For once.”

And just like that, something invisible settled in the room between them — not a promise, but a direction.

Alexia

She didn’t tell anyone she was going.

Not Alba.

Not Marianne, who would have grilled her for answers the moment she saw “LHR” on the boarding pass.

Alexia booked the flight late, on instinct — somewhere between missing Y/N’s voice and missing the way Y/N made her forget she was famous.

London met her with drizzle and muted traffic.

The city was grey and quick. Alexia stayed quiet in it.

She checked into a hotel she barely looked at, ate room service she barely tasted.

The theatre — the Royal Opera House — felt like a palace of silence. Velvet seats, hushed voices, chandeliers watching from above.

Alexia sat at the very back, hoodie up, sunglasses off. No one knew her here. She liked that. She was just a woman with something to lose.

And then — Y/N appeared.

Not walked, not entered.

Appeared.

Alexia had never seen her like this. Not in the daylight, not in leggings and sarcasm and coffee breath.

This was something else.

Y/N danced like her bones held ghosts. Like she knew the end of every story before it began. She moved across the stage with purpose and devastation, bending and breaking as Giselle, soft and dying and defiant.

Alexia didn’t understand ballet. Not properly.

But she understood grief. And hunger. And love that came too late.

And watching Y/N—

Her body so sure, her eyes so vulnerable—

Alexia’s chest ached with it.

This woman — with her sharp humour, her bob haircut that somehow made her even more impossible, her ability to slip past all of Alexia’s defences like water through fingers — was a storm wrapped in silk.

Alexia was helpless to it.

She waited until the curtain fell.

The crowd leapt to their feet. Bravos, whistles, flowers. A standing ovation that thundered like a football stadium — but with more mascara.

Alexia stayed in her seat.

She typed slowly.

Estabas hermosa. Estoy orgullosa de ti.

(You were beautiful. I’m proud of you.)

Delivered. No reply yet.

She didn’t mind.

Sometimes love was a quiet thing.

A hidden thing.

A thing you didn’t announce, only held.

She stepped out into the London rain. The same hoodie up over her head. Same hands in her pockets.

Her boots splashed through the puddles as she walked. Her heart was somewhere else.

Still on stage.

Still in the air.

Y/N

The applause still echoed when she got backstage.

A wall of sound that pressed into her skin even as she peeled off the layers of Giselle — tulle, grief, powdered death across her cheekbones.

Stagehands smiled.

Her dresser gave her a knowing squeeze on the arm.

Another dancer offered her half a protein bar and said, “You killed them out there.”

She laughed, breathless. “Just doing my job.”

But inside, everything was shaking.

The muscle twitch hadn’t come tonight.

But something else had — something just beneath the ribs.

A sharp flutter, like expectation with teeth.

She sat down at her dressing table, surrounded by white lilies someone had sent anonymously. She checked her phone.

One message.

Estabas hermosa. Estoy orgullosa de ti.

Alexia.

No emojis.

No drama.

Just truth.

Y/N stared at it.

And then, without replying, she stood up — still in her stage tights and rehearsal hoodie, makeup smudged — and ran.

Outside, London offered her its usual evening chill.

She didn’t stop for an umbrella.

Didn’t stop for a cab.

She knew where Alexia would be.

Not flashy.

Not front-row.

Back. Quiet. Watching. That was her.

And sure enough, just down the steps of the theatre, beneath the marquee lights softened by mist, Alexia was standing by a column. Hood up. Arms crossed. Looking like guilt and devotion had formed a woman.

Y/N stopped a few feet away.

She didn’t speak.

Neither did Alexia.

Then Y/N stepped forward, grabbed the front of that hoodie with both hands, and kissed her.

Not softly.

Not politely.

But like she had danced death and come back alive for this exact moment.

Alexia melted into her, hands landing on her hips, grounding them both. The kiss was wet from the rain and warm with something older than fear.

When they broke apart, Alexia whispered, “Hola.”

Y/N snorted. “You’re such a menace.”

“Only for you.”

Y/N let her head rest against Alexia’s. Her voice was quieter now. “You didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“You deserved to be seen.”

“I always feel seen with you.”

Alexia let out a breath. “Then stay.”

“Not now,” Y/N said, brushing a strand of wet hair from Alexia’s forehead. “But I’ll come with you to the hotel. If you ask nicely.”

Alexia smiled. That dopey, ridiculous, adoring smile.

“Please.”

They were just two women in the rain.

Still aching. Still trying. Still choosing.

Alexia

She couldn’t sleep.

Not from jet lag. Not from excitement.

Just Y/N — curled up in her hotel bed, face half-buried in the pillow, the London rain still drying in strands of her hair.

They hadn’t done anything more than lie there.

No sex.

No rush.

Just fingers on ribs.

Just stories about stage superstitions.

Just laughter when Y/N found out Alexia once wore the same shin guards for five years “for luck.”

Now, it was midnight, and Alexia’s heart was louder than her breath.

She reached over gently, tracing the curve of Y/N’s knuckle.

“Can I ask you something?” she whispered.

Y/N hummed without opening her eyes. “That sounds dangerous.”

Alexia smiled, small and crooked. “Why did you leave that morning? New Year’s. Barcelona. You disappeared.”

The air shifted.

Y/N opened her eyes slowly.

“Didn’t think you noticed.”

“I did.”

“I left you breakfast.”

“You left pan con tomate and no goodbye.”

Y/N exhaled, staring at the ceiling now.

“I panicked,” she said. “You looked so… peaceful. And I felt like a storm. Like I was about to drown everything.”

Alexia didn’t say anything.

Y/N sat up, wrapped the duvet around her shoulders like a curtain.

“I knew something was off in my body,” she said. “The twitch, the fall in rehearsal. I hadn’t tested yet, but… I had a feeling. And I didn’t want to make you a witness to the collapse.”

Alexia sat up too. She didn’t reach for her. Not yet.

“You thought I couldn’t handle it?”

“I thought I couldn’t. Not if I looked at you and saw that pity.”

“Pena?” Alexia repeated, a little too loud. “Is that what you think I feel?”

“I didn’t want to find out.”

They were quiet for a moment. Long enough to hear the city breathing outside.

Then Alexia said, carefully, “You scare me sometimes.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow.

“Because you disappear. And I don’t know how to hold someone who keeps vanishing.”

Y/N didn’t flinch. She looked at Alexia with something raw.

“I’m scared too. This thing — my body — it’s not a maybe anymore. And I don’t know how to let someone stay when I’m not sure how long I’ll be… me.”

Alexia reached out then, took Y/N’s hand.

“You’re you now. That’s enough.”

Y/N didn’t reply. But she squeezed her hand. Hard.

Then softer.

Then she whispered, “I wanted to stay. That morning. I was just… still learning how.”

Alexia leaned her forehead against Y/N’s.

“I’m still learning too.”

They fell asleep like that.

Not in full understanding.

But in a fragile, deliberate closeness.

No promises.

Just presence.

And for Alexia, that was something like peace.

Y/N

The theatre lights had barely cooled before she was back at her flat.

Same coat draped over the same chair.

Same mug with the chipped handle on the sink.

Same faint ache in her hip — the one she no longer chalked up to bad landings.

But something in her had shifted.

Or maybe—tilted.

She had spent the weekend with a woman who loved like a lighthouse. Quiet, steady, always turning toward her even in the fog.

Now, her apartment felt like a life still clinging to an old season.

She opened her laptop.

Typed: Madrid ballet schools.

Deleted it.

Typed: Contemporary dance teaching positions Madrid.

Then: Dance pedagogy certification Spain.

Then finally: email@estudioballetmadrid.es

And she just sat there.

Fingers poised over the keys like a pianist who couldn’t remember the melody.

Until she finally wrote:

Hello,

I’m a current principal dancer at the Royal Ballet in London.

I’m considering relocating to Spain in the next year.

Would your school be open to a visiting artist or guest instructor position for the upcoming season?

Warmly,

—Y/N

No CV.

No big flourish.

Just an open door. Slightly ajar.

Later that night, her father called. FaceTime, as always.

“You look pale,” he said, “but dramatic. Good combination.”

Y/N smirked. “Been a long week.”

“You saw your Spanish footballer?”

“Yes.”

He squinted. “Did you cry again?”

“No.”

“Then it went well.”

She laughed softly, curling into the sofa. “I emailed a school in Madrid.”

His face lit up. “So the stubborn ballerina admits she might not live on stage forever.”

“I’ve never lived on stage. Just hid there.”

He nodded. “Madrid is nice. They have jamón. And sun. And maybe… future.”

Y/N looked out the window.

Rain again.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she said quietly.

“You’re not dying yet,” he replied. “You’re just changing. That’s allowed.”

Alexia

Some traditions didn’t fade.

This little bar in Gràcia — the one tucked behind a bakery that somehow always smelled of anise and fried secrets — was one of them.

Tonight, they were six: Alexia, Marta, Irene, Caroline, Jana and Leila.

Vermut was on the table. So were olives.

So were memories that refused to get old.

“¿Os acordáis del partido contra Lyon?” (Do you remember the match against Lyon?) Irene was saying. “When Marta got that yellow for shoving someone twice her size?”

“No me arrepiento,” (I have no regrets) Marta replied, calm as sin.

“She stepped on your foot,” Caroline noted, unimpressed.

“She breathed near me,” Marta corrected.

Jana grinned. “Vibes-based fouling. I respect that.”

Then came Leila Ouahabi. She has missed a few of the recent gatherings, but she made it that day.

She walked in like she’d never left the game — long coat, AirPods still in, looking half-deal, half-chaos. But instead of cleats, she carried contracts now.

“Hola, mis reinas,” she announced, switching her AirPods off with flair. “Perdón. One academy deal in Paris, one striker in Bilbao crying about her TikTok clause.”

Alexia stood to hug her. “Eres insufrible.” (You’re insufferable.)

“Y tú, still dramatic,” Leila replied, kissing both her cheeks. “You still walk like you’re wearing the armband.”

“Muscle memory,” Alexia said, smirking.

“Retired, not erased,” Marta added.

They all laughed.

Leila slid into the booth beside Jana, unrolling her scarf. “So, what’s the chisme tonight? Or are you all behaving?”

“Mostly reminiscing,” Irene said. “Until someone—” she side-eyed Jana, “—decided we need another holiday.”

“Girls’ trip?” Leila asked, half a tortilla chip already in her mouth. “Yo estoy dentro. Ibiza or Mallorca?” (I’m in…)

“Ibiza,” Jana said, typing aggressively into her phone. “Aggie’s off-season overlaps. Y/N might be able to come. Patri’s in. Bruna replied to my text with thirteen emojis and a photo of a flamingo pool float, and Bruna sent a thumbs up.”

“That’s practically a blood oath,” Caroline said.

“Sí, sí,” Leila nodded. “I’ll bring the vibes. And sunscreen. And maybe one or two future clients. But not like… agent agent. Just… chill agent.”

Alexia raised an eyebrow. “There is no such thing.”

“True. I will absolutely poach Patri if Manchester City ever makes her an offer.”

Marta deadpanned, “You’ll lose teeth.”

Irene raised her glass. “To the agent life.”

Caroline added, “To aging disgracefully.”

“To remembering who we are,” Jana said quietly. “And who we still get to be. Together.”

Alexia looked around the table.

At faces that had carried her through years of glory and collapse.

At the women who’d seen her joy, her ACLs, her press conferences, her heartbreak.

This—

This was the team that still mattered.

And maybe, just maybe, it was time for Y/N to see this part of her too.

Y/N

She wasn’t expecting the voice note.

It came through while she was brushing her teeth, mid-scroll through nonsense — one ballet meme, one news article about Russia’s weather being too Russian, and a video of a raccoon stealing someone’s baguette in Paris.

And then: Alexia’s voice.

“Hola, mi amor. I want to tell you something. Is not serious. Bueno… maybe. Jana said we should do a trip. Ibiza. The girls, their… novias, parejas, lovers. You know. Aggie is coming. And I think… I want you to come too.”

There was a pause. Then:

“You don’t have to decide now. I just… quiero que lo pienses, vale? I want you there. With me.” (…I want you to think about it, okay…)

She stared at the waveform.

Replayed it twice.

She could still hear the tiny nervous smile in Alexia’s words. Like she was offering not just a vacation, but… entry.

Later that night, she replied.

How many flamingo floaties are too many?

Alexia responded instantly:

I will bring seven. You, only swimwear. And sunscreen. And maybe some grace for my English.

Y/N laughed. But her hand trembled as she typed.

The truth was, the idea of Ibiza — of being in close proximity to all of Alexia’s past and present — made her want to retreat into an orchestra pit and never resurface.

She imagined it too clearly.

The Barça legends.

Their perfect sun-drenched tans.

Their inside jokes and locker room Spanish and slightly terrifying emotional fluency.

She imagined trying to explain why she didn’t drink much, why she didn’t stay up late, why she flinched when her calf twitched even slightly.

Why she could dance Giselle until her soul bled, but couldn’t promise her body would last the next five years.

She imagined trying to be normal.

Trying to be enough.

And then she imagined Alexia’s hand in hers.

And how it had always been warm. Steady.

How she’d never once asked her to explain anything she wasn’t ready to say.

She booked the leave.

Ordered a new black one-piece that made her feel a little less like a ghost.

She told her father over FaceTime.

“You? Holiday? Voluntarily?”

“Shocking, I know.”

He sipped his tea. “Wear sunglasses. Spanish sun makes English daughters stupid.”

“And Russian fathers smug?”

“Always.”

The night before she flew, she stared at her suitcase.

Packed and repacked.

Then finally, tucked one thing in the side pocket — a book her mother used to love. Slim and dog-eared.

Just in case the silence got too loud.

Just in case the world tried to convince her she didn’t belong.

She texted Alexia before boarding.

I’m coming. Don’t let Jana schedule group yoga at sunrise. I will rebel.

Alexia replied:

You already belong. See you soon, mi bailarina.

Alexia

Alexia stood in her kitchen, phone jammed between her ear and shoulder, one hand trying to wrestle her suitcase closed while the other held a Tupperware full of sunscreen, mosquito spray, and — inexplicably — a packet of chuches she swore she didn’t buy.

“Leila,” she sighed into the phone. “Si Patri trae a su altavoz otra vez, I will throw it into the sea.” (…If Patri brings her speaker again…)

“Let her!” Leila replied, far too cheerful for 9:00 AM. “We need the energy. Ibiza is about chaos.”

“I need sleep. You need therapy.”

“Says la que brought the ballerina.” (Says the one who…)

Alexia paused. “She has a name.”

“I know, I just like watching you go soft when I mention her.”

Alexia nearly dropped the sunscreen. “Shut up.”

“¿Está confirmada?”

“Sí. She comes.”

Leila whistled. “Uff. Brave. You know this group is… not normal.”

“I warned her.”

“Still. I’ll keep Patri and Ona from interrogating her. No promises about Bruna.”

Alexia hung up before Leila could name-drop more group chats.

Later that day, Alba barged in.

“¿Qué haces con esa cara de funeral?” she said, plopping herself onto Alexia’s couch with a yoghurt drink. (What are you doing with that funeral face?)

“Estoy empacando.” (I’m packing.)

“Sí, I can see. You fold like an accountant.”

“You pack like an animal.”

Alba grinned. “I booked a ticket.”

Alexia blinked. “Perdón?”

“IBIZA, hermana. You didn’t invite me, rude. So I invited myself. More merrier, no?”

“You’re not bringing your date, right?”

“Too early. She thinks Ibiza is a brand of tequila.”

Alexia groaned. “Alba…”

“Relax. I’ll behave. Besides, someone has to make sure la bailarina doesn’t get overwhelmed by your football cult.”

“She’s not overwhelmed,” Alexia said — too fast, too defensive.

Alba just smirked. “I’m bringing cards. And sunscreen. And judgement.”

The group chat exploded that night:

LEILA:

All set. Villa confirmed. Bruna called dibs on the biggest float. Patri threatened to sabotage the AC if she doesn’t get the room with the sea view.

JANA:

Aggie just asked if we’ll see dolphins. I told her maybe and now she’s googling snorkels.

ONA:

Dibs on the hammock. I will fight.

ALBA:

Ya voy. Intenta no morirte de la sorpresa. Que alguien traiga sangría.

(I'm coming. Try not to die of surprise. Someone get sangria.)

ALEXIA:

This is not a retreat. This is a hazard.

Y/N:

I’m deeply underqualified but fully committed. See you all soon.

Alexia smiled at the screen.

Let her thumb hover above the keyboard for a second longer.

Then she typed:

She’s coming with me. I don’t need this to be perfect. I just want her to see the version of me that laughs this much.

And hit send.

Third person

Caroline and Marta politely declined - citing to many Gen Zs around - they prefer a chill getaway instead, knowing that it will be hectic. Irene uses her son, Matteo as an excuse - to miss the craziness.

Whilst the group was upset, the trip continued as planned.

Ibiza didn’t welcome them with glamour.

It welcomed them with wind, late luggage, and a taxi driver who refused to believe Bruna was over 18.

The villa was tucked behind terraced hills, sun-drenched and faintly smelling of sea salt, sunscreen, and too many women with too many opinions.

The rooms filled in minutes.

Leila and Patri commandeered the sea view, citing seniority and emotional manipulation respectively. Ona won the hammock by physical threat. Jana and Aggie tucked themselves into a room with matching swimsuits and playlists full of indie acoustic covers that made everyone else want to scream.

Y/N arrived later — the last to land — suitcase in hand, hair tucked behind her ears, and that elegant stillness she wore like a second skin.

She didn’t know what she expected.

She hadn’t expected this.

Not Leila teaching everyone how to open a bottle of wine with a sneaker.

Not Alba sunbathing in socks and accusing people of being mainstream.

Not Alexia looking like she hadn’t stopped smiling since Y/N stepped onto the patio.

“Hola,” Alexia said, kissing her cheek.

“You look… sun-kissed.”

“Burning,” Alexia replied. “But in a cute way.”

Y/N glanced at the chaos — the flamingo float deflating mid-pool, Bruna and Ona bickering over who could do a better underwater handstand, Patri setting up a Bluetooth speaker like it was her job. Jana and Aggie staring at one another with dopey smiles. Whilst Leila was on call, sounding agitated and desperate to escape. Alba was the surprisingly calm one, working on her tan as she was sprawled on the lounge chair.

“You weren’t exaggerating,” she murmured.

“No. They are… a lot.”

“I like them,” Y/N admitted. “They’re… terrifying.”

Alexia grinned. “They’re family.”

Y/N smiled faintly. It was the first time she felt it.

Not like an outsider peeking in, but someone being handed a small space in the noise.

That night, after a grilled dinner cooked by half the group in chaotic rotation, they sprawled across cushions under fairy lights. Someone started a game of “Who had the worst ex,” and Aggie won by telling a story that involved a parrot, an ex-girlfriend, and a football injury she refused to elaborate on.

Y/N found herself curled next to Alexia, wine glass balanced, the hum of Catalan and Spanish and broken English rolling around her like music.

She didn’t understand every joke.

But she understood the laughter.

And Alexia’s hand on her knee.

And the way Leila leaned over, smiled, and said, “You’re brave, you know. Not everyone walks into this circus and stays.”

“I’ve met worse,” Y/N replied. “I used to dance with a man who thought warm-up was for cowards.”

Leila laughed. “You’re one of us now.”

She didn’t know if that was true.

But for once, she didn’t need certainty.

She had sunburnt shoulders and a heart that wasn’t folding under fear.

She had Alexia’s quiet warmth beside her.

And she had tomorrow —another day in the sun.

Alexia

The others were laughing over something inside — Ona yelling “¡Trampa!” at Bruna while Patri accused everyone of cheating at a card game Alexia was pretty sure Leila had invented on the spot.

But she and Y/N had slipped outside.

No announcement. No fanfare. Just the silent kind of pull that required nothing but the act of following.

They sat on the edge of the pool, bare feet grazing the water. The stars were gentle overhead, not showing off, just there — like old friends who didn’t need to be spectacular to be comforting.

Y/N hugged her knees. She wore one of Alexia’s sweatshirts. The sleeves swallowed her hands.

“Too loud in there?” Alexia asked.

“No, just… I like outside better. Fewer rules.”

Alexia nodded. “And less alcohol.”

Y/N smirked. “Also that.”

A beat passed.

Then Y/N leaned into her side, shoulder to shoulder.

“I like your friends,” she said, softly.

Alexia tilted her head. “Even Leila?”

“She’s aggressively persuasive. But really sweet.”

“She was like that as a teammate too. Once kicked my shin because I didn’t pass her. Off the field - good vibes.”

Y/N laughed under her breath. “Romantic.”

Alexia looked over. “You’ve been quiet today.”

“Not sad. Just… full. Like my heart is digesting too much.”

Alexia didn’t say anything, but her hand found Y/N’s under the sweatshirt sleeve. Her fingers were always cold. Y/N’s, always warm.

She whispered, “Estás bien aquí?” (You’re fine here?)

Y/N didn’t respond right away. Just watched the water ripple, catching slivers of moonlight.

Then: “Yes. I feel like I’ve stepped into something that existed long before me… and somehow, it doesn’t spit me out.”

“You fit,” Alexia said. “Even if you don’t think so yet.”

Another pause.

A quieter kind of vulnerability.

“I know you’ll move to Madrid,” Alexia said eventually, “and I know is not… close-close. But is still Spain. Still hours, not countries. I’m happy.”

“I didn’t pick Madrid because of you,” Y/N said honestly.

“I know.”

“But I didn’t not pick it because of you either.”

Alexia let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding.

“Gracias,” she said.

“For what?”

“For letting this… be real. I know is hard.”

“It’s not hard,” Y/N said. “It’s just new. And I’m out of rehearsal metaphors.”

Alexia smiled, leaned in, kissed her slowly. It wasn’t urgent.

It wasn’t even about wanting more.

It was about anchoring.

“Te quiero,” Alexia murmured against her cheek. “No pressure. Just truth.”

Y/N didn’t flinch. Didn’t back away.

She just rested her head on Alexia’s shoulder and whispered, “You’re my favourite accident.”

Alexia chuckled. “That’s… not so romantic.”

“It’s deeply romantic.”

They stayed outside long enough for the crickets to take over the soundtrack, for the shouting inside to fade into lazy hums of contentment.

There was no rush.

They had time.

Even if the world didn’t promise forever — tonight, it promised this.

Third person

On the last day, the villa held a certain quiet.

Not sadness, not quite. But the kind of hush that follows a laugh so loud your ribs ache — when you finally sit still and remember your body.

There was sand on the kitchen floor. Someone’s towel hanging from the lemon tree. The flamingo float had deflated overnight — Bruna had dryly remarked it “died in service.”

Patri brewed coffee like she was trying to win an award. Ona was sunburnt and pretending she wasn’t. Jana had braided Aggie’s hair into some elaborate pattern that made Leila stare and mutter, “Too domestic, disgusting.”

Alexia stood on the balcony, sipping her coffee. Y/N was still asleep, curled in her bed like punctuation. She’d stayed up late the night before, laughing too hard at something Alba had said, then falling silent again — in that way she did when too much joy slipped in all at once.

From above, Alexia could see it all.

The way Leila sat with Bruna, haggling over whether or not Bruna should sign with her once her Brighton contract ended. The way Ona snuck bits of pineapple off people’s plates. The way Jana leaned her head against Aggie’s and sighed like she forgot anyone else was watching.

And for a moment, it was like time folded into itself.

Like every version of them — the champions, the heartbreaks, the teenagers in cleats and shin guards, the women in swimsuits and bare feet — all coexisted on this lazy golden morning.

Y/N emerged sometime after noon.

Hair still wild from sleep, sweatshirt stolen again. She found Alexia in the hammock, legs swinging gently, trying to read and failing.

“Join me?” Alexia said, pushing her glasses up.

Y/N slid in carefully, their limbs folding together without effort.

They said nothing for a while. Just the sounds of summer and Leila’s awful playlist bleeding faintly from inside.

“I liked this,” Y/N said finally.

Alexia turned. “Ibiza?”

“Your people. Your… world.”

“I liked that you came.”

“I liked that I stayed.”

A beat.

“I’m glad I’m not a secret,” Y/N added, softer.

“You never were.”

Y/N didn’t smile right away. Then she did. Small. Real.

Alexia leaned in, whispered something in her ear that made her snort, slap her shoulder, and kiss her nose.

“Still awkward,” Y/N murmured.

“Always,” Alexia said proudly.

That night, before they left, Alba found a Polaroid camera no one remembered packing. She made everyone pose in pairs or threes, demanding funny face, then serious face, then fake crying face.

When it was Alexia and Y/N’s turn, Y/N tried to refuse. Said it was silly.

Then Alexia made a face so stupid Y/N burst out laughing mid-shot.

Click.

The photo came out blurry.

They both looked ridiculous.

It would be Y/N’s favourite photo for years.

Y/N

The theatre felt different in June.

Sweatier. More urgent. More final.

She could feel it in the way the stage creaked, how the rosin stuck to her slippers, how even the silence between movements felt like it was saying goodbye.

One more month.

A handful of performances.

And then, Madrid.

She said it to herself the way some people whispered prayers. Madrid. Not London. Not Moscow. Not even Paris, where she’d once dreamed of finishing her career.

Madrid — chosen not for ambition, but for proximity to a woman who made her laugh without trying and cry without pushing.

Alexia.

And for once, the decision didn’t feel like a compromise.

She hadn’t told many people yet. Her colleagues assumed she’d simply be taking a sabbatical — a rest before the next season. She let them believe it. She wasn’t ready for long explanations or soft goodbyes.

Her body had begun to whisper small betrayals. Nothing drastic. Just tightness where there should’ve been ease. The occasional tremble. The ever-present hum of not knowing what day the real decline would begin.

She rehearsed anyway.

Danced like she still had twenty years in her.

Because that’s what it had always been — defiance disguised as grace.

The letter came tucked inside her suitcase.

She found it while packing rehearsal tights and a cracked water bottle.

Folded in half. No envelope. Just her name scrawled in Russian and English.

From Papa.

You are not running from anything, finally.

You are walking toward. That is good. That is brave.

Madrid is not a punishment. Ballet will miss you.

But it will miss the woman you were, not the one you are becoming.

Let it.

Also — tell the footballer I said to feed you more. You look like an elegant matchstick.

She laughed through a tear.

Typical.

The last dress rehearsal ended with a standing ovation from the crew — not for the performance, but because someone had brought cake, and dancers are creatures of sugar and starvation.

Y/N sat on the edge of the stage, hair damp with sweat, tights sticking to her skin. She stared at the seats, empty now.

She’d memorised every creak of this space. Every rigging line, every shadow. And she was leaving it.

Not fleeing. Not flinching.

Leaving. By choice.

Her phone buzzed. A message from Alexia.

Tienes tiempo para llamar esta noche? No es urgente. Just… miss your voice.

(Do you have time to call tonight? It's not urgent…)

Y/N replied:

Always. Let me wash off the theatre first.

Then she paused. Typed again:

I’m almost ready to begin again.

__________________________________________

Continue to Part 3

[gigilovesmovies]

Pink!

Pairing: Joost Klein x reader

Summary:Joost helps you dye your hair

An:I’ve been thinking about dying my hair pink for so much time but i’m so scared to fry it,also sorry for the grammatical errors there are so many in this one(my first language isn’t English)

Also can you send me requests please 🙏🏼

….

You’ve been feeling a little weird about yourself lately,not insecure just weird and specifically bored about yourself,the same face,features,hair looking back at you from the mirror,it’s not that you didn’t like how you looked,you just grew bored of your usual look.

You’ve been feeling a little weird about yourself lately,not insecure just weird and specifically bored about yourself,the same face,features,hair looking back at you from the mirror,it’s not that you didn’t like how you looked,you just grew bored of your usual look.

You needed to add something about yourself,customise your character.

The easiest way to achieve that was to dye your hair,and seeing Joost dying his hair blue only made the want intensify.

So one morning while explaining your boredom about yourself to Joost he decides to helps you like the good boyfriend he is.

“Come on get up let’s go sweetie,we’re going shopping”he says excitedly,getting up from the kitchen chair and stretching.

We arrived at the shop,we were inspecting the hair dye aisle,examining every little bottle of dye and the several choice of colours.

“What colour should I take” You ask joost not looking up from the container full of green hair dye

“What about blue” he says cockily”We could match”he continues handing you a blue hair dye

“Nuh-uh blue is your color Joosti”You answer him smiling,continuing your little investigation.

Then suddenly he gasps and jump excitedly”Pink!let’s dye your hair pink,it would go perfect with your hair”he rambles playing with a rebel strand of your hair

“Yes!pink highlights,pink highlights would look sweet”You answer back as excited as him so much that it made some people turn their head at you and frown

After debating on which shade of pink you should take and if you needed bleach you finally paid and went back home.You gathered all you needed as Joost started to wear his gloves and preparing the bleach.

Joost parted your hair and put them in little buns,so he would be able to bleach and dye comfortably without rebel strands of hair falling on his work.He continued the process calmly and carefully the music on the background creating a calm environment .

“You know I never dyed my hair” you declare looking at joost trough the mirror as if it was the most shameful thing in the world.

“Really? Not even when you were a teenager” he asks locking his eyes on yours through the mirror and smiling.

“Yeah my mom never let it me dye it,she was too scared it would fall out or whatever”you answer,smiling as you remembered all the time your mom scolded you for wanting to dye your hair.

“Well now it’s happening”he says leaning down to peck your cheek,he pulls out with an exaggerated “mwah” sound that made you giggle.

“Ewww you left spit”you say jokingly,wiping the little amount of spit he left.

“You wanna see real spit”he jokes as he wrap his palm on one of you cheek and lick your other cheek,making you wince in disgust, you couldn’t help but laugh,getting on your tip toes to lick him as well.

Loads of kisses and playful teasing later,the alarm rang,it was time to rinse.He sat you on your knees in front of the bathtub and gently dipped your hair and stared rinsing massaging my scalp,when he finished he wrapped my hair in a towel drying it carefully not to hurt you or pull your hair.

“Okay what do we think” he asks you,both standing in front of the mirror.You took a moment to admire his hard work,pink highlights,dyed perfectly all around your hair,just enough to add something new to yourself but not completely change it.

“It’s perfect”You say smiling and touching your hair,you turn to face him”Thank you baby,you’re the best boyfriend ever”I lean to press a kiss on his lips as his hands found your waist pulling you closer to him as he deepened the kiss.

“And you’re the best girlfriend”he answers,kissing you back smiling into the kiss.

Now everytime you looked at the mirror you felt good about yourself.Plus now you and Joost have a new activity to do from time to time,refreshing your pink.

[kukukurona]

romantic killer ; blue lock edition ᝰ.ᐟ

⤷ all your life, you thought romance was basically useless. why would you need romance when video games, pastries, and your cat were already in your life? plus, you could feed the need for romance through dating sim games too! until one day, some potato-shaped wizard breaks out of your tv and makes your life into a cliché shoujo???

status ; ongoing, no set upload schedule in fear of burning myself out

pairings ; rin itoshi × fem!reader /—/ (to be revealed) × fem!reader /—/ (to be revealed) × fem!reader /—/ (to be revealed) × fem!reader

genre ; reverse harem, dating sim, multiple love interests, modern au!, highschool au!, smau elements, cliché, fluff, crack

warnings ; there are side ships (nagireo, ryusae, kunigiri), probably gonna be suggestive but nothing like down right smut, reader is the rizzler, probably ooc, probably grammar and spelling mistakes, lowercase intended, reader is chigiri’s sister, reader has glasses

a/n ; my first series so like bear with me over here guys.. very heavily inspired by romantic killer hehe but you dont have to watch romantic killer to understand the fic tho, i’m just using its plot as a base

taglist; open! send an ask or comment to join :3

@asteriaq @ibyobi @taronyuhunter @bigbootyamongusimposter @shinsen-haruki

character profiles ; 1 — 2

chapters ;

00 — wtf happened to my game

01 — screen crack

02 — rainy days

03 — what in the cliché

thank you for reading !! ᢉ𐭩 please consider reblogging, commenting, or sending an ask if you enjoyed, it would really motivate me hehe! do not copy, translate, edit, or repost, any of my content on any platforms. this is my only account.

[horrorists]

OKAY HII 250+ follower event thanks you guys so fraking much sorry for the misspelling on the thing I'm shaking I'm scared okay''

let's get to it there are 5 prompts and it starts June 27th and ends july 6 to win you need to complete at least 3 prompts

@ me and use the tag?? hashtag?? #vashsloveandpeace or don't # you can only @

If you have any questions regarding the prompts prizes or anything send an ask! Everything else under cut

Prompts

Day 1. make something based on your favorite game or make something with no gifs

--

Day 2. draw your edit or base your edit off of a horror movie game / something like Mandela catalogue

--

Day 3. edit something using your favorite animal for coloring or edit your favorite animal

--

Day 4. edit your favorite pairing ( doesn't have to be romantic ) or edit a character with multicolored hair

--

Day 5. Free day

Prizes

First place : themepack + psd your choice of coloring + two graphics graphics + three icons

--

Second place : themepack + two graphics + three icons

--

Third : themepack + one graphic

Tag list : @hwizou @hauntingmizi @pupytrail @vampiressmaiden @cuisinekuga @gravitatives @docele ( ask to be removed AAA DONT THROW TOMATOES AT ME I'M. SORRY )

[carolina-thiell]

Crash Landing (Into You) – Part 3 · Jack Abbott x Plus Size!Reader

Character: Jack Abbott Pairing: Jack Abbott x Plus Size!Reader (Adriana) Format: Fic (Part 3 of 3) Word Count: ~1.7k Genre: Domestic Fluff, Humor, Post-Smut Shenanigans, Established Relationship Warnings: Partial nudity, suggestive content, interrupted intimacy, food kink jokes, public embarrassment Status: Part 3 of 3 — Final part Summary: Post-orgasm bliss turns into post-brunch chaos as Jack attempts pancakes, robe theft, and potentially scandalizing the neighbors. It's messy, sweet, and absurd in all the right ways. In the quiet that follows the laughter, Adriana reminds him that healing isn't always solemn—and Jack reminds her that some disasters are worth loving.

🔗 You can read Part 1 HERE and Part 2 HERE.

Part 3: Fluff and Fuckery.

1:43 PM: Adriana’s Kitchen.

Jack was barefoot, wearing nothing but black boxer briefs and Adriana’s pink satin robe draped over one shoulder like a half-assed toga. His hair was still wet from the shower and he looked like a Roman god who just woke up from a nap and decided to make pancakes.

Adriana, sitting at the kitchen table in his T-shirt and nothing else, watched him pour batter into the pan with the kind of concentration usually reserved for surgery.

—You’re aware that’s my robe, right? —she asked, biting into a strawberry.

Jack didn’t look away from the pan.

—It’s technically laundry and it touched your skin. So it’s sacred now.

—You’re such a menace when you’re well-rested.

—You like it.

She did. God help her, she really did.

He flipped the pancake with too much flair, sending it airborne. It landed mostly in the pan. He grinned at her like a golden retriever who knocked over a vase but meant well.

—That was a surgical-level flip.

—You are banned from similes, metaphors, and puns while cooking.

—You’re just mad I look hotter in your robe than you do.

Adriana scoffed.

—You didn’t make me moan into a pillow three hours ago wearing this robe.

Jack nearly dropped the spatula.

—Okay, that’s it. Pancakes go on thighs.

She raised a brow.

—You won’t.

Jack walked over, took the plate, and gently set a warm pancake on her thigh like he was prepping for surgery.

—I just did.

She stared at him and he stared back.

—Don’t you dare eat that off me.

Jack bent down, mouth open, eyes locked on hers like a challenge. That’s when the front door creaked open.

—Adriana? I left my charger... OH MY GOD.

Her neighbor stood frozen, clutching a Starbucks cup, staring at Jack: all tall muscle, half-naked, robe askew and tongue dangerously close to syrup. Adriana squeaked and covered her leg.

Jack? Jack just turned slowly, pancake still in hand.

—Hi, I’m Jack. The boyfriend, surgeon and pancake enthusiast.

The neighbor backed out of the door like she’d witnessed a demonic ritual and Jack looked back at Adriana, unfazed.

—You were saying something about me not eating off you?

She laughed so hard she nearly fell off the chair.

Later, curled on the couch under a throw blanket, the smell of syrup still hanging in the air, Adriana traced lazy shapes on Jack’s chest.

—So. Your dignity’s gone.

—Was it ever really here?

—Your ass was out, Jack.

—Was it a good angle?

—Tragically, yes.

He kissed her temple.

—You really make everything better, you know that?

She smiled into his skin.

—That’s my job. I don’t do trauma surgery, I do emotional triage.

He laughed; it wasn’t the clipped kind she usually got after his shifts. It was the full-bodied, breath-warming, real one.

—I love you, sunshine.

—Love you too, disaster man.

Author’s Note: This is the final part of Crash Landing (Into You). I loved writing this version of Jack: a little unhinged, a little smitten and very bad at keeping pancakes off people’s thighs.

[616ioi]

I NEED SPICY TOGO SHIBA CONTENT. you’re the only one on tmblr who can fulfil my dreams

❛ #STRUGGLES! KAGURABACHI.

────────── a man who's lived many lives, yet he can't seem to keep a single lover .ᐟ.ᐟ

⤿ pairings. togo shiba x gn reader

⤿ contents. sub character, no height stated but reader is shorter, unrequited feelings, friends with benefits, dirty talk, praise, handcuffs, pretty romantic for a couple of buddies, pretty short. this contains mature content, read at your own discretion.

⤿ thoughts. i have a personal vendetta against men in suspenders.

Time after time, day after day, body upon body (literally), no matter how hard he tried to become a better partner, shiba just couldn't get it down right.

What's wrong with him? He wants to love, and the only one he can really think of ever loving is... you. He thinks it's stupid.

A struggle, really.

Especially when you sit across from him, sipping at your drink gingerly, giving it a swirl with the straw before continuing. How can you look so pretty?

"A damned man I am.." He mutters under his breath as he watches you carefully. Your soft lips quirk up, clearly having heard him.

He has always been one who melts at your attention. Eyes softening around the edges, shoulders dropping, heart warming up.

"Wanna get outta here?"

An invitation.

Yes, he's foolish. He's a dummy in love with his friend.

If he had to have you, if you would have him... if you could just want him then, maybe..

Then, maybe your kisses could be filled with genuine adoration.

Well, it's whatever.

However you want him, a friend or lover, he only wants to be a part of your life.

Shiba pants in between kisses, and you're tangling your hand in his hair to deepen it. His lips are wet and desperate. Stop it. He reminds himself to slow down.

"[Name]..." He huffs while your hands reclick the cuffs in place after his tugging. His hips roll into the air, elbows dropping down to support himself on the kitchen counter.

"Yes?" Your voice sounds like a teasing melody with its lilt.

There's a light in his eyes as he looks down at you. It dances and shimmers about as he scans your face.

"You - hah - let me feel you.. I need my hands on you, plEase." His voice cracks with need. The restraints around his wrist nearly melt from the heat his entire body experiences.

"Hmm.. Don't think so, togo." You chide him with a click of your tongue, "this is the second time you broke the cuffs. Why do you want to touch me so badly?"

Why wouldn't I?

"Look at ya..." He rasps out, tongue darting out to prod your mouth open again. He breathes you in, lips brushing against yours in a feather-like touch. It tingles and sends a shiver down his spine. "You're so.. magnificent. Who wouldn't want to touch something so holy. Let me kiss you again, and I won't ask for anything else."

"Are you saying I'm pretty?"

His brows pinch together. "You're very pretty. So.. use me however you like, I'll be pliant for you."

The words tumble out like vomit.

That scolding churn in his chest doesn't help either. He feels the need to push every emotion out.

His restraint deteriorates when he's with you.

"'Use me however you like'?" You repeat, your fingers dancing across his shoulders. You pry your lips away from his, earning you a groan from the blond man. "How romantic you are!"

"Sh.. shut the hell up." Shiba swallows thickly. His hair sticks to his nape, and it itches him.

Your joyous laughter rings in his ears. "Haven't we played enough?"

"Hm?" His eyes drop back down to your lips, watching and, honestly, not listening very well. It's all muffled. It's almost like he's underwater. "What do you mean?"

Your palms find their way to his waist, supporting yourself as you get on your knees, coming face to face with his crotch. You look up through your lashes.

His cheek burned red at the sight.

"Just a minute ago I had my mouth on your fat cock, yanking on your hips, shoving this thing down my throat." He ignores the missing warmth when you remove your hands from his body. "You haven't even fully recovered, and you still want more?"

You flick at the spent head, watching in awe as his cock twitches back to life. "Look at this!"

He strains his neck to keep his half lidded eyes on you. "You're leaking on the floorboards, your pants are stained and if I collect your cum like this..." You make a show of spreading your sticky fingers.

The thick, white goo trails down your wrist and drips onto his shoes with a 'plop!'.

A smile graces your pretty face, nose crinkling in faux disgust. In spite of this, you bring your wrist closer to your lips and press your tongue flat against your cum stained hand, licking yourself clean.

He throws his head back with a frustrated groan.

It's a struggle.

"Just use me already!" He rushes out, adam's apple jumping at his words. His harden cock grazes your soft cheek and he moans.

"If you say sweet things like that, don't wonder why I won't make things official." Shiba's arms tremble behind his back as he struggles to hold himself up.

He wants to sniffle. "Why..?"

"Remeber that, togo," You chuckle, "you're my friend."

[brandwhorestarscream]

Hi! Been a long time fan of your work!

idk if this has been asked before but

What are your thoughts on the equivalent of Playboy/Playgirl and things like Only Fans existing on Cybertron & its other colonies? Who uses it most and would lusting on the other faction's photos be looked down on?

Daaaw, I have a fan? How sweet 🥰 glad you like my crazy ramblings lmao

So, ultimately, yeah, I do think there is sex work on Cybertron. Anything from raunchy photoshoots to nude modeling to adult films to BDSM clubs to pleasurebots, it's all there. Any society with a sex drive is going to have sex work and sex-adjacent products/businesses.

Collections like playboy, stuff that can be ordered on a monthly subscription or just a one time thing is probably most popular with the working class: don't get me wrong, the lower castes would love to have access to that sort of thing, but it's not really financially possible. Can't spend money on sexy magazines when every last cent goes to keeping a roof over your helm and making sure you don't starve til next paycheck. Lower castes probably also have homemade sex toys

Smthn like onlyfans, private, personalized sex work where a single content creator works for themselves, those are preferred by the wealthier mecha, because they can Afford It and find something that's to their specific tastes. It's also not uncommon for the higher castes to sponsor someone in exchange for producing the exact content they want.

Ik you didn't ask about it but I do feel the need to mention it: I also think Cybertron had brothels, ranging from rundown little whorehouses to high end establishments with well trained courtesans that people pay half a year's worth of salary just to spend time with. There's even an AU for that 🤭

And finally, viewing cross faction porn... hm. As far as like, the autobot or decepticon code goes? There's nothing explicitly banning it, and most people don't really care all that much. Whatever Steve likes to jerk it to in his off time isn't really anyone's business, yk? If it gets brought up during locker room talk, there's a couple stick-in-the-ass people that would sneer and rag on their companions for lusting at the enemy team. But, for the most part? No one cares what gets your rocks off

[ismyteadoneyet]

How fortunate am I to have so many Things to love and be excited about, to appreciate and look forward to?

Things I feel so strongly about that they stumble into my mind, univited, at random times of the day? Things that spill into my speech and vocabulary without me noticing? Things that impact my vision to the point where everywhere I look, everywhere I go, I see ghosts of them?

How lucky am I to have so many Things I love and cherish enough for them to reshape my very person, change my beliefs and make me grow? Things that make my own loved ones see the Things out in the wild, and go out of their way to make sure I see them too?

How wonderful is it that I have Things that I love so much that the very act is deemed and dubbed "not normal", making my love for them seem like it's more than they are supposed to recieve? An out-of-the-ordinary and above-the-norm appreciation for the Things that make the people around me shake their heads, call me "silly".

My dear, beloved Things, may I always stay silly for you ❤️

[fromtheseventhhell]

I'm sorry for coming to complain but I have something to say: I already know that in this fandom there are many opinions about what Arya and Sansa's relationship is going to be in the future and that we always complain that the Sansa stans talk about Arya as if she were going to become a servant of her sister, "one is the strength and the other intelligence", which are going to complete each other and all that shit (among all the other stupid things they have said) I agree with complaining about that because they are erasing attributes of Arya's character THAT SHE ALREADY HAS, and that we have always talk about Arya being a character apart from Sansa, someone who has her own story, her own purpose and that her whole character is definitely not reduced to just becoming her sister's employee after she always treated her badly in the their childhood.

Okay, I agree with all that. Those types of comments bother me too. But I feel that as a result of this very silly arguments have been born about why Arya and Sansa could never be friends because "they are very different, in personality, experiences and worldview" I'm sorry but I don't agree with that because, it is true that they are different, but let's not pretend that they don't have many things in common, and this goes beyond their personal characteristics or the fact that they share an entire family.

How different are their experiences? Yes, one is the red fortress and the other has to travel thousands of kilometers but in the end they both went through similar things. Both saw their father die, both were abused, both were beaten, both have been sold into marriage, both have been sexually abused, both have met cruel people and have had to pretend another identity to survive. The fact that it is in different contexts does not take away from the fact that they do have similar experiences, so that argument is very silly. And I don't say it with the intention of saying that Arya and Sansa are going to be the "best sister foreveh" I just hate that argument cause it dosen't make any sense, also throughout the asoiaf universe we have seen how completely different characters have had a great relationship come on.

Tyrion and Jaime are also wildly different and loved each other, Sam and Jon are also wildly different and no one is saying they could never be friends.

Also, it bothers me that they ignore the fact that Arya DOES care about Sansa, maybe Sansa doesn't care about Arya that much but Arya has always been fond of her sister, even when she was cruel to her.

Again, I don't come here with the intention of saying that they are going to be the best sister forevah and all that, I just hated that argument and also pls don't erase that from Arya's character either! that she has always been a good sister to Sansa, even if it was not reciprocated she was always loyal to her people, to her "pack"

Plus Arya and Sansa's relationship is definitely deeper than just "respect." Way more.

I feel like this is a good example of my earlier point that Arya stans need to over-explain points/theories to not have them taken maliciously (especially if they included Sansa). I still want to answer this in good faith though, because I don't believe you intended it to come off like that.

But I feel that as a result of this very silly arguments have been born about why Arya and Sansa could never be friends because "they are very different, in personality, experiences and worldview"

I will start by saying that the theories about Arya and Sansa not getting along aren't retaliatory to the fandom's perception of the "Stark Sisters 4ever". The idea of them not getting along is based on their conflict in AGOT, them being written as foils, George saying that they have issues to work out, and the fact that their characters haven't fundamentally changed since they've been separated (i.e. what's in the books). They've both been through a lot but trauma isn't a substitute for growth, and the issues they have will still exist. A big part of their conflict is Sansa's classism, which leads her to look down on Arya, and she has yet to grow out of that trait. If she reflects on this in TWOW then that's a different story. For now, we have to speculate with what we have. Not only that, but I could see Arya having less patience for her sister's behavior considering everything she's been through. There could be mutual hostility.

Tyrion and Jaime are also wildly different and loved each other, Sam and Jon are also wildly different and no one is saying they could never be friends.

As for this, the difference is that we're shown these characters having a positive relationship on-page. No one says Jon and Sam can't be friends because we see their friendship develop. Tyrion and Jaime eventually have conflict, but there's also a caring relationship built between them before that. Arya and Sansa have tender moments and fond memories, but their relationship is mainly antagonistic in the first book. If we had seen them getting along well before and, say, the trident incident had been the source of their conflict, that's an entirely different dynamic.

I just hated that argument and also pls don't erase that from Arya's character either! that she has always been a good sister to Sansa, even if it was not reciprocated she was always loyal to her people, to her "pack"

I don't think anyone with this prediction is ignoring Arya caring about her sister, it's more about the lack of growth on Sansa's part. While Arya tries to apologize and bridge the gap, even thinking of ways to please Sansa (I'll kiss her and beg her pardons like a proper lady, she'll like that), we don't have any equivalent moments from Sansa. She has fond memories of them playing in the snow, thinks of naming a daughter Arya, and overall misses her family and I'm not downplaying that. It's just that it doesn't supersede the relationship we've seen play out between them (or the fact that she thinks of Arya as unsatisfactory even though she believes her to be dead). It shows that they love each other and could reconcile, but there's no guarantee. Arya can't maintain that relationship one-sided and, considering she's already tried to apologize, Sansa will have to put in some effort on her side.

Plus Arya and Sansa's relationship is definitely deeper than just "respect." Way more.

I don't think their relationship is built on just "respect", they do have sisterly/familial love but that isn't all-powerful. George has stated that he reworked the Starks to give them conflict because they were all getting along and "families aren't like that". I doubt that he'd go to that trouble just to conveniently get rid of that tension, especially considering the amount of sibling conflicts we see in this story. No house gets along perfectly and this is intentional! We aren't ever going to really know until we get TWOW, but I just dislike the framing of this theory as baseless or trivial.

[sometimesraven]

did not expect to be uncontrollably sobbing at the end of a fucking Deadpool movie but here we are

[nocentis]

Reforged┆x791

╳┆The ground beneath them groaned, preceding its shift by mere moments. He prepared to leap from one platform to the next, but his borrowed attire got the better of him and he sorely undershot the landing. The ledge scraped him from shin to chest on his downward plummet, arms just barely catching the platform before he managed to sink toward oblivion.

As he began dragging himself toward safety, fighting the rotation of the still-turning maze, he felt someone grab his wrist and hoist him to relative safety.

“Stay on yer feet,” Gajeel snapped, irritation laden in both face and voice, “If yer gonna be embarrassing, do it away from me.”

“Right,” he agreed, just barely managing to suppress his mortification. Only the first event and he was already making a mess of things. Not using his own magic was going to be even more of a challenge than he'd already anticipated.

Blasted pants. It’s hard to believe there is any alternate version of himself that would wear these gravity defying monstrosities.

Belatedly, he tossed out an underbreath, "Appreciate it," as they turned to catch up with the others, who had taken the shifting map into stride and carried on without missing a beat.

Gajeel grumbled back, "Don't mention it."

╳┆As the third day's events began and the stadium came abuzz, he found his window to slip away unnoticed. The past few nights of aimless roaming about, catching whispers of that sour presence on the wind, have yet to bear fruit. All that time wasted was compounding; it made his bones itch. He hadn't attended these games on holiday — hadn't broken the rules and risked Fairy Tail's elimination just to suffer a humiliating forfeit and then sulk in the stands. No, there was something evil lurking about, and he fully intended to find it.

"They went that way."

Despite his prickly countenance, Gajeel seemed adept at sneaking about. Jellal barely heard him approach before he'd issued his offhand comment, pointing in the opposite direction in which Jellal originally intended to go.

Just as he opened his mouth to respond, Gajeel cut him off to explain, "They stink."

Jellal nodded, remembering the reaction he received upon his last expression of gratitude, and shifted his stride accordingly. "Tell me how the day goes."

"Nah," Gajeel called behind him, "I ain't yer fuckin' parrot."

[ladylynse]

Hello! I love your works, they're all so cool! I especially love your rc9gn ones because it's my current hyperfixation. Do you think you can make some (even your 3-sentences ones would make me really happy!)? I have a bunch of prompts!

Prompt 1: Viceroy trying to create a robot, but something went wrong (Bash/McFist/a robo-ape probably messed it up) and it caused an electric short-age to the whole town

Prompt 2: There's a thunderstorm at the end of class and everyone was advised to wait out the storm before they could get home, shenanigans ensues

Prompt 3: (contains human!Nomicon) the Nomicon thinks about all the good and bad things his current student has done

I have more, but I don't want to spam you with all of them, so here's all I'll give! It's fine if you can't do any of it, I'm just thankful for the work you've alr done!

Thanks so much, Anon! I'm sorry I'm getting to this so late, but I am delighted you like what I've written. I really appreciate you letting me know!

These prompts are best for ficlet prompts (specific scenarios always are), and unfortunately my ask box isn't open for that at the moment, but I'll turn them into three sentence prompts: blackout, stormbound, and human!Nomicon AU, reflections. I'm specifying what I'm boiling the prompts down to because I don't take specific scenarios for three sentence fic prompts anymore, so I ask for a word or two (along with the AU if it's an AU) for those, and this is how I'm going to list them in my three sentence fic list. (I'm still going to do your scenarios because I'm assuming you're new and don't know what I've been doing more recently, but this will give you an example of how a prompt can be boiled down.) You are welcome to still share any ideas you have, though! (It's always fun to see what people come up with.) I just won't necessarily turn them into ficlets.

Prompt 1 - Blackout

“Viceroy,” McFist growled in the sudden silence that seemed all the louder for the absence of any hum of machinery, “what did you do?”

Viceroy pinched the bridge of his nose—of course he’d get the blame for this when McFist, in all his enthusiasm, had been the one to activate the prototype before it was ready—but somehow summoned the patience to say, “It seems premature activation caused a power outage that, if the view out the window is any indication, is affecting the entire town; if you had waited—”

“The Ninja was right here,” snapped McFist, his words nearly—but not quite—covering up the sound of a pair of feet hitting the floor behind Viceroy and their owner no doubt dropped from above, “and if he’s going to show his face under my own roof, I’m going to send every WND we have after him!”

Prompt 2 - Stormbound

Randy didn’t think it would be too long before the rain let up enough for them to safely leave, but Howard—and clearly Heidi—had other ideas, since Howard had his phone out and was willingly watching Heidi’s Me-Cast, where she was saying, “Hey, N-villers, Heidi here with the DL on the downpour; the storm has us all stuck in school, so I propose a contest: first person to—hey!”

“First person to discover the real secrets of Norrisville,” continued Debbie, her face only partly in frame and the entire camera bouncing as she scrambled to keep the phone out of Heidi’s reach, “will win the prize. So how about it—who wants to unmask the Ninja with me?”

Prompt 3 - Reflections, Human!Nomicon AU

He would be lying if he called Randy his best student or his most skilled one, but Randy may well be the one who most embodied what it meant to be the Norrisville Ninja; he had a heart that wouldn’t fail him, and when he dealt with the likes of the Sorcerer and now the Sorceress, that was the most valuable of all.

Of course, he also had more luck than the last ten Ninjas combined, and at times like these, it was hard to accept (despite ample supporting evidence) that that luck was entirely natural and not the result of a magical artefact altering the luck of others and bending fortune to his own favour, no matter how well that would explain the current predicament.

“Yo, Nomi,” called Randy, since Randy had insisted on calling him that once he’d realized he wasn’t speaking with the one he called First Ninja, “now that you’re, like, a person and not a book, this is a perfect time to teach me how to do the Ninja Dragon Fist, so how ‘bout it?”

-|-

see more fics | more RC9GN fics

[saturdays--sun]

i don't even want to write out the rest of these. nothing is going to top this.

[greenleaf4stuff]

Thank you so much @plotdesigner for sending this to me! <3

Using this to tell the amazing ppl I know that I love their stuff and am so thankful for their efforts (be it fanfic, fanart, memes, graphics, edits, theory posts etc) - you make this site a richer, more lively place and I feel like stepping into a confectioner's shop whenever I open my dash because of you! <3: @ailendolin @radiant-sunlight-blueberry @fumbles-mcstupid @hextechmaturgy @plotdesigner @themalhambird @janacariad @illegalcerebral @wowstrawberrycow @gauntletgirlie @thephoenixandthecrocodile @cestpasfaux24601 @askereiniongilgalad @adarssuggestionbox @myblacksailstales @shestoodintears @eowyn7023 @itwillbeourswansong @valar-did-me-wrong @varda-star-queen @rivendellwatch @finchxs-reverie and soooo many others! <3

i made this version of that popular cake meme as a love letter to my favourite artists, writers, editors etc who keep making content about my favourite characters/ship

ermm

I LOVE YALL!!!!!!!!