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raven-dor · 3 days ago

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illicit affairs

in which you distance yourself from bucky barnes, and he won’t rest until he knows why

PAIRING: congressman!bucky barnes x fem!reader

WARNINGS: fluff, morning sickness, pregnancy, miscommunication (but ig it's more like refusing to communicate), given last name! (Clark), arguing, ANGSTY ANGSTY ANGST, more arguing, kissing, fluff ending

WORD COUNT: 4.7k

🎶 : illicit affairs - taylor swift

AN: 🩵♥️💗 - this is like my favorite angsty fic of all time, like it's up there with me and my husband (gwayne hightower) EEEK HAPPY READING!! also i might write a part two where the use the house she bought if that's something you guys would be interested in

The sun shone through the curtains, yellow and bright. You stared at the man dead asleep beside you, a contented smile creeping on your lips. He looked so peaceful, not at all like how he looked awake, always stressed, always worrying over something. If it wasn’t Congress or the team, it was you. Worry was Bucky’s main emotion, you would say when you teased him. He worried over your safety the most, often trying to convince you to stop working in the office, practically begging you to work from home.

You glared at him every time.

You could never bring yourself to stay angry, though. He was caring, more than most had ever been with you. You were fragile, something he cherished.

It made you feel valuable; your cheeks warmed just thinking about it.

He grumbled, burying his face further into your torso. His arm was lazily wrapped around your waist, and he smiled in his sleep, pulling you closer. You hadn’t wanted to wake him, but he had a meeting in forty-five minutes, and he still needed his routine cup of coffee. “Buck. You have to get up.”

“Five more minutes.”

“Bucky…” You laughed, running your fingers through his hair. “You’ll be late.”

“I could run there in five minutes.” You knew from the look on his face that he was considering it. Thanks to his super soldier serum, he really could run around the entirety of Washington D.C. in less than an hour.

“You could, but your hair would be a mess.” You frowned, reaching down to run your fingers through the sleep-tangled tresses. “A lot like it is now. Besides, think about the people who voted for you, who elected you to this office. They wouldn’t exactly enjoy learning that their congressman was late to a meeting.”

“I hate when you’re right.” He groaned, rolling over and walking toward the bathroom, leaving the door open as he fixed his appearance. “Have I told you how lovely you look this morning?”

“No.” You playfully glared. “And if you did, you’d be a liar.”

He scoffed. “You’re timeless, Doll. Would’ve took my breath away even in the ’40s.” Your heart fluttered from his compliment. “Are you coming into work with me?”

You shrugged, biting your lip as you admired his back muscles. “Dunno. I think I’ll take a half day. Probably go on a walk, find a nice cafe to get some work done in.”

He frowned. “What am I going to do without you?”

You rolled your eyes. “You’ll be just fine. The world will turn without me running the office while you’re gone.”

“I don’t know.” He was rather dramatic in the morning. “My executive assistant is important-”

“We can’t go to work together.” You hissed. ��You know that. The press would have a field day-”

“I don’t care.” He sat on the edge of your shared bed. “Don’t you think it’s time the office knows?”

“Bucky. Think of your career, your position. It would look like an abuse of power, I would have to stop working-”

“Perfect.” He looked terribly pleased with your last statement. “I’ve been trying to get you to stop working in the office for months.”

“I like working.” You glared. “And I thought we’d finally gotten past that.”

“We have.” He smiled, reaching out to hold your hand in his. “I just want you to be-”

“I know.” You sighed. “But I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can.” He leaned in, lips brushing against yours. “Doesn’t mean I can’t worry.”

Your eyes welled up, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. “You love me too much.”

He shook his head, eyes darting to your lips. “Not such thing as too much, Doll.”

You leaped up, pulling him down to you, his eyes wide as you kissed him senseless. “God, I love you.” You murmured against his lips.

He grinned, kissing down your neck. “I love you more.”

He’d been late to work. You had to peel yourself away from his touch and practically push him out the door, waving goodbye until his car had vanished from your sight.

His townhouse was perfect, warm and inviting. When you first started dating, it was empty, with only the bare necessities. You’d laughed when you’d entered, insisting that he let you take him shopping. He’d agreed, and you would later find out he would agree to anything you asked simply because he loved the way your eyes lit up when you were determined.

Your stomach lurched, and you groaned, squeezing your eyes shut to try and quell the nausea. Finding your way into the kitchen, you grabbed your favorite mug, one that Bucky had bought with you in mind, and made yourself a cup of peppermint tea. Another wave of nausea, stronger than the last, hit you as the steam hit your nostrils. You realized that this was not something you could solve with a couple of deep breaths and a cup of tea; your stomach once again grumbled as you rushed toward the bathroom.

Denial.

That was the first stage, right?

You stared at the tests on the bathroom counter, too shocked to cry. There was no possible way this was real. You’d been safe, you’d taken extra precautions. The science behind the super soldier serum coursing through his veins was something neither of you understood, and so you decided you’d rather be safe than sorry.

Apparently, you thought as you stared wide-eyed at the positive pregnancy tests in front of you, your extra precautions had been for nothing. This was horrible timing, plain and simple. He’d finally made a name for himself other than the ‘Winter Soldier’. He was finally coming into his own, and you’d ruined it.

You had to resign. You had to leave before the press found out.

No, you reasoned with yourself. No one knew you were dating; if you simply pretended that you were pregnant by some random man, the office would believe you.

There was one major flaw in that plan. What would Bucky think? What would he think if his girlfriend of almost two years suddenly broke up with him and showed up to work a week later, visibly pregnant?

You decided to stick with your original plan, resigning from the office and fleeing DC. You ran up the stairs, shoving everything you’d accumulated into the two bags you kept here. Your drawer would be empty by the time he came home.

He would eventually understand that you were saving his job, saving what you’d both worked so hard for him to achieve. Besides, who knew if he even wanted that with you, a child, a domestic life? This was James Barnes, the World War II veteran, Avenger, and congressman. He had no time for trivial things like that.

Anger.

Your life was exactly what you’d wanted, perfect in every way that counted. Your relationship with Bucky was perfect.

At least, until now.

He had been the first man to truly love you, to care about you. You weren’t some object, some underling. You were his equal, his great love, his partner.

You’d finally achieved your dream. You came to DC to head an office, to become a political weapon. You’d done that, you’d seen the potential in Bucky, and you had gotten him into office.

This wasn’t fair.

You loved him, you loved him so much that it hurt. He was a gentleman. He held the door open, he respected you, he was- Angry hot tears ran down your cheeks as you lugged the bags over your shoulders, locking the front door behind you, leaving your key underneath the mat.

This really sucked.

You hailed a taxi, smiling gratefully when the driver helped you with your bags. “Where to, Miss?”

“Doll?” Bucky called out, shutting the door behind him. “You didn’t show up to work! Something wrong?”

No response. You were probably upstairs, too tired to call back out to him. He set the takeout bags on the kitchen counter, shrugging off his sports coat. “I brought Indian food from your favorite place down on 8th street.”

By this point, you were typically barreling down the hallway, jumping into his arms and peppering kisses over his face. He frowned, the house much too silent for his liking. “Baby? Are you home?”

The hallway was dark, too dark for his liking. You were known for leaving the lights on, too scared to walk around his house in the dark. He laughed when you’d told him, but he’d never judged. If it made you feel safer, then he was all for it.

He’d checked every room, every possible place you could be, but you were nowhere to be found. It was like you’d never even existed. His mind began to cloud, dark and poisonous.

His first thought was that someone had taken you. That they, whoever they were, had followed the pair of you home one day, found out where he lived, and taken you as collateral. He began to dial Sam’s number when he pushed your shared bedroom door open, frowning at the sight before him.

Your drawer was open, empty of all the things you’d brought over. He shut the door behind him, pushing the bathroom door open to find that even your products in the mirror above the sink and the shower had disappeared. His heart stopped, hands shaking as he deleted Sam’s number to make way for yours. It had rung two times before you picked up.

“Hello?”

“Thank god.” His voice was quiet. “Came home and you weren’t here. Thought something had happened.”

“I um…” You felt horrible, horrible that he had thought you’d been taken. You almost gave in, almost told him the truth. He loved you, and you knew he would be excited. “I-” No, you shook your head, you had to do this for him, for his future. He loved you, and you loved him, which is precisely why you had to do this. “I think we should stop seeing each other.”

This was his nightmare; this was infinitely worse than someone taking you. That he could fight, he could win; this was uncharted territory. His heart clenched, on the verge of breaking clean in half. “What?”

“This has been on my mind for some time now.” Lie. “It would be best, for both of us, for your career-” You willed yourself not to cry, not to break from the sound of his voice, more anxious than you’d ever heard him. “I’m sorry, but-”

“Where is this coming from, Doll?” He sounded desperate, broken. A tear ran down your cheek. “Did something happen? Did I-”

“Bucky.” You cried, the tears you’d tried so hard to hold back breaking free. “Please don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I am going to make this harder than it has to be, because I love you."

Bargaining.

His voice broke, desperate for an explanation. “Just tell me what happened, baby.”

“I’d like to take the rest of this week off, please.” He would be better off without you, without this whole mess. This was for the best, you tried to convince yourself. “I’ll be back to work next week.”

“Where are you?” If he could just see you, he would know. He was sure of it; he could read you like an open book. It was for that very reason that you did not want to tell him where you were.

“I’m-” It was only a matter of time before he found where you were. Hell, he’d had your location in his phone since before you started dating, for safety purposes, of course. You’d laughed when he'd asked, giving him yours in return. It had been sweet, the way he nervously bit his lip. You remembered your cheeks flushing, stomach fluttering at the action.

Now it made you want to cry.

“I’m at my apartment.”

“Your apartment?” He felt like he was dying, his heart clenching so tightly he thought he was having a heart attack. Maybe he was. You hadn’t been to your apartment in months, spending virtually every waking moment at his place. He’d even persuaded you to move in last week. “Thought you were moving in with me-”

“Things change, okay?” You snapped, slapping a hand over your mouth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- to snap like that.” You wiped your face clean of tears. “We were never going to last forever.” Lie number two. “Please, just let me do this.”

“No.” He shook his head as if you could see him. “I can fix this, we can-”

“I’ll see you in a week, Congressman.”

True to your word, he hadn’t seen or heard from you all week. The radio silence made him jittery, and he began to lose focus in meetings, his peers growing more and more annoyed by his apparent lack of care regarding the nation’s interest.

He wished he could tell them that his life turned upside down on a random Tuesday, that the love of his life had left him out of nowhere, but he knew better.

They wouldn’t care.

He’d been counting down the days, staring at his door for some form of life, for your familiar frame.

Your desk was right outside his office, and he often found himself watching you through the glass wall. Now he just stared at nothing, at the empty desk that turned his mood sour. He frowned, dropping his face into his hands, wallowing in misery.

“Congressman?”

His heart skipped, head whipping up. “Ms. Clark.”

You hadn’t wanted to go back to work, but you couldn’t just quit over the phone.

Or at least, that’s what you told yourself. You could have, probably should have, but your heart craved him, your eyes had to see him once more.

Then you could hand in your resignation letter.

You waved hello to the office as you walked toward your desk, almost laughing to yourself at the sight before you. There sat Bucky Barnes, in all his glory, with his head in his hands. If this were normal circumstances, if you hadn’t just broken up with him and were planning on moving across the country, you would have laughed.

You draped your coat over the back of your chair, pulling your resignation letter out of your bag. “Congressman?” You cleared your throat, heart thumping hard against your chest.

“Ms. Clark.” His head whipped up, eyes wide as he stared at you. “You’re back.”

“I am.” You reminded yourself that you were in the office and thus had to behave professionally. Placing the letter in front of him, you mustered up the weakest smile known to man. “Here is my resignation letter.”

“Resignation letter?” Bucky rubbed his eyes, like you weren’t real, a figment of his imagination. “Ms. Clark-”

“Thank you.” You whispered, not having the strength to look at him any longer. “For understanding.”

“Wait just a second-” He stood up, practically racing toward the door to shut it before you could leave. “Don’t thank me for understanding.” His cologne threatened to overpower your senses. “Don’t thank me because I don’t understand.” He looked miserable, hands twitching like he was forcing himself not to touch you. “You haven’t given me any real reason.”

“Bucky.” Your voice was like a warning, a plea not to escalate things.

He didn’t happen to care, because he couldn’t let you go. Not without a fight, or at the very least, a reason for your sudden end of an otherwise happy relationship.

He whispered your name so faintly you could have sworn he’d never said it. “I can’t let you go.”

“This is highly inappropriate. We are at work, anyone could walk in at-”

“I don’t care.” He hissed. “I love you? Do you know how much I love you?”

“Of course I do.” You whispered, scared of someone overhearing. “And I- I loved-”

“Bullshit.” He shook his head, refusing to believe it. “We were happy. You were happy. You told me you loved me that morning. What happened in nine hours?”

“If there’s nothing else you need…” You straightened your posture. “I’ll be just outside.”

“I need you.” He said it like it was a fact, like it was certain, etched in stone since the beginning of time. “You might not need me, but I need you.”

Oh, how you wanted to correct him. You needed him like air, like the very oxygen that filled your lungs. You’d been in love with him for so long that you’d forgotten what it had been like before him. “Congressman-”

“Don’t.” He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t hear you reject him one more time. Not when he knew that you still loved him. He knew it, even if you didn’t. “That will be all.”

“Fine.” You nodded, turning on your heels like you hadn’t just broken his heart. Like you hadn’t just broken your own heart.

Depression.

You were actively fighting through it, fighting against crumbling into ash and letting the Earth swallow you whole. You’d been to a total of two doctors’ appointments, and even that had done nothing to improve your mood.

If anything, it made it worse, knowing that Bucky would never be there, holding your hand and whispering sweet nothings in your ear. He would never see her first steps, her playing in the front yard, her first dance recital.

And that was fine, because he would be doing great things, he would be changing the world.

You didn’t even know if it was a girl or a boy. You had a feeling that it was a girl; your feeling was more of a wish than intuition. You’d always known you’d have a girl; it was something that had been part of you for as long as you’d loved playing with dolls.

Your hand fell to your stomach, caressing it gently as you whispered. “Hello, my darling.” It was too early to tell if it was a boy or a girl, too early for kicking, too early for most things.

You felt crazy when you talked to your baby; it wasn’t like she (or he) could hear you or show you that it could. “You’re going to be so loved, so deeply loved.”

The bed in your apartment was comfortable, but you missed your bed, the one you’d been sleeping in for almost a year. Bucky’s bed. You missed his smell, his warmth. You slept in the one shirt he’d left over here every night, pretending as if nothing had gone wrong, that you hadn’t broken the one thing that kept you sane.

“Can I tell you a secret?” You whispered again, eyes tearing up as you thought of him. “I miss your father.”

Only two more days until you leave DC.

Technically, one and a half.

It felt surreal. You’d come here with such big dreams, and now, here you were, leaving with your tail tucked between your legs.

It was fine, not everyone was made for this life.

You thought you had been.

You’d already put a down payment on a modest house in a small town somewhere in Pennsylvania. It was pale blue, with three bedrooms, two stories, and it took everything in your savings.

The front yard was perfect for playing in, for growing up. The large oak tree that shaded the house was perfect for climbing, even a tire swing.

Maybe this was it, acceptance.

It felt like it, in some horribly strange way. You’d finally reached the last stage of grief, of mourning your past life.

Mourning your great love.

The office was relatively quiet, a nice reprieve from a normally chaotic environment. You’d decided to make the most of your last two days to finally organize the file system, hopefully enough so that his next executive assistant had an easier time finding things than you had.

You wondered as you flipped through a folder labeled ‘The Superhero Support Act’ if he and his next assistant would fall in love, if she would make him forget about the pain you’d caused.

You hoped she did; he deserved happiness.

By noon, you’d already organized all the digital files, your desk, and Bucky’s office. It was time for the white whale - the file closet.

It was dingy in here, the one hanging light doing nothing to brighten the space. You groaned, knowing that this would take longer than you thought. The files were dusty; they had obviously been neglected since the invention of the computer. Deciding to organize the files chronologically, you began your last mission.

“Thought I’d find you here.”

You cursed at the sky, wishing that Bucky would just leave before either of you said something you’d regret. You continued to face away from him, still sorting through the files as diligently as before. “Just doing my job.”

“Mhm.” You imagined he was leaning against the doorway, looking as handsome as always, his jacket unbuttoned. “I see that.” He didn’t speak for a while, simply watching you organize. You wished he would leave once more.

Wishes, apparently, are not granted on Capitol Hill.

“I love you.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Congressman-”

“Don’t call me that.” He frowned. “C’mon, Doll-”

“Don’t.” You stood up, finally facing him. “We are at work.” He raised an eyebrow, stepping forward and letting the door fall shut. Your eyes widened, and you stepped forward, trying to open it. “If someone finds us in here-”

“What will they do?” Bucky laughed. “You're leaving, as you love to remind me.”

“Why are you being so difficult?”

“Funny.” He took in your face, trying to memorize it before you left. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

“Stop looking at me like that.” You whispered.

“Like what?” He whispered back.

“Like you still love me.”

“Of course I still love you.” He scoffed, following after you as you walked backwards, desperate to put distance between the two of you. “I’ll always love you.”

Your eyes welled. “You don’t mean that.”

“Stop telling me what I mean.”

Your back hit the file shelf, gasping. “I-”

He was barely a breath away from you, eyes darting toward your lips. “When will you understand that I love you? That I’m here, and I’m not leaving. That I’ve loved you since you walked into my campaign office, all frazzled, barking out orders?” His hand came up to your cheek, wiping away the tears that had fallen against your will. “That I wake up in the middle of the night, and the first thing I do is look over to make sure you’re still there, that you’re breathing, that you're real?”

“Bucky-” You were sobbing, fighting every instinct that screamed to let him in, to tell him the truth. “Stop.” Every time he spoke, it softened your resolve, made you want to tell him what you’d been carrying by yourself.

He shook his head, leaning his forehead against yours. “I don’t know what happened, but I’m not going to leave you alone. I know you love me, I know-”

You place one hand over his mouth, the other on his chest. “It’s for the best, trust me. You said you love me, so just let me do this. Let me do this for you.”

He raised an eyebrow, delicately peeling your hand away from his mouth. “Do what? What’s going on, baby?” He grew more and more worried every second you sobbed, every second you refused to open up to him. “Did someone-”

“No.” You shook your head. “No, it’s nothing like that. Bucky, I love you so much-”

He grinned, a glimmer of hope breaking through his otherwise melancholy face. “I love you too-”

“But this is for your own good.” Both of your hands were on his chest, pushing him away like he was temptation itself. “You’re meant to do great things, and you can do those, but I can’t be the person who slows you down.”

“Is that why you broke up with me?” He laughed. “I appreciate you looking out for me, really I do, but you can’t make that decision for me.”

“Too late.” You cried, his shirt wrinkling under your hold. “It’s too late.”

“No, it’s not.” He shook his head, his hands holding your face like it was precious. If you had asked him, it was. “You’re scaring me, baby. What’s got you so upset? Talk to me.”

“I- I can’t-”

“You can-”

“You don’t get it-” You sobbed. “I-”

“C’mon, Doll.” His lips brushed against yours as he spoke. “I’m right here.”

“I’m pregnant, alright?” You sobbed. “There you go, there it is.” He staggered back, staring at you in disbelief. You felt jittery, manic with fear from his reaction, or lack of reaction. “I’m sorry, I just-” You hugged yourself, rambling as you tried to explain the reasoning behind your decision.

“I found out after you left for work, and I-I couldn’t live with myself if I slowed you down. You’re amazing, you’re really making a change for these people. And I’m so proud of you, so so proud. You’re my finest achievement, and I-I couldn’t see it all go to waste. I knew if I told you, you’d drop everything, and I couldn’t have that. Because you care too much, and it scares me. It’s horrifying how much you love me. I’m not used to it. You’re supposed to be more selfish, you have to be more selfish, especially in this-”

You tilted your head, glaring at the man in front of you. “Are you even listening?” He had that same glazed-over look in his eye, still staring in disbelief. “Are you serious? I know I messed up, but the least you could do is say something.” Bucky slowly walked back toward you, like a predator stalking its prey. “I’m sorry, I really am. Just please, say something, say anything-” You gasped when his arm snaked around your waist, pulling you carefully into his hold. “Bucky-”

His lips dove to yours, your eyes fluttering shut as your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer. He grinned, your teeth momentarily clashing, neither of you wanting to let up. Your knees weakened, glad that he had an arm around your waist, holding you up with ease. “We can’t-”

“Are you sure?” He pulled back, breath heaving as he spoke. “Are you sure that you’re pregnant?”

You nodded, smiling timidly. “Eight weeks yesterday.”

“Eight weeks?” His eyes welled with tears as he stared at your stomach. “Oh, baby…”

“I’m so sorry.” You whispered. “I didn’t want to-”

“I love you.” He grinned, peppering kisses all over your face, your laughter bubbling in waves as you squirmed under his attack of affection. “I love you so much, and I-” He fidgeted with something in his pocket. “This is horrible timing, I know that.”

“What?” Your heart dropped as he lowered himself onto one knee. “Bucky-”

“Before you say anything, just let me get this out, and then you can scold me or kiss me, whatever you want.” He smiled, pulling out a small velvet box. “I’ve been trying to find the right time to say this, and now seems as good a time as any.” The ring inside was old, simple, but elegant all the same. “This is my mother’s ring. Rebecca still had it.”

“Bucky-”

“I want to marry you. So badly it hurts. Marry me, and I swear you’ll be happy as long as you live.”

“You know my answer is yes.” You cried, leaning down to kiss him. “A million times, yes.”

He smiled, placing the ring on your finger. “Thank god. If you tried to leave again i was just going to blurt it out, and I didn’t think that-”

“This is perfect. You’re perfect.” You grinned, staring at the ring as he stood up. “I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize, Doll.” He kissed the back of your hand, smiling when he saw his mother’s ring. “I do have one request.”

“Yeah?” You raised an eyebrow. “And what’s that?”

“Next time you’re pregnant…” Your heart skipped at the way he so casually said ‘next time,’ like it was inevitable. “Tell me before you do anything rash.”

You nodded, reaching out to brush a strand of hair behind his ear. “Sounds reasonable enough.”

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#literature #fanfiction #x reader #angst #marvel #bucky barnes #marvel angst #marvel fanfiction #marvel x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x fem!reader #marvel angst angst angst #marvel x fem!reader #congressman!bucky barnes #congressman!bucky barnes x fem!reader #ugh i love this fic so much i think it might be my crowning achievement #fluff ending #🪩! fics

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sapphicstrawcore · 2 days ago

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ᰔ Mother Sevika!au: headcanons pt2 - angst, fluff

masterlist ᰔ pt1 , pt2

TW: This one hurts a little, and it’s a long one. Realized if I wanted it to be accurate I couldn’t make it entirely happy, it would be too easy and unfair to Sevika’s life

(just needed a pic of a zaunite kid to illustrate <3 )

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ Sevika’s whole life was built on power and control—her way, her rules. So hearing “no” from her own toddler? That’s not just defiance—it’s this tiny, high-pitched rebellion that shakes her more than a bar fight ever could.

The first time it happens, it’s over something small.

“Okay, put your shoes on.”

“No.”

Just like that. Defiant. Eyebrows scrunched, arms crossed, pure toddler energy. And— oh, they actually know what ‘no’ means now. Shit.

Sevika freezes. Her jaw tightens automatically, that old instinct twitching in her gut—you don’t tell me no. Every fight, every insult, every drunk bastard in Zaun who ever tried her—she’s shut them all down with a single glare.

But this? This is her kid. Their tiny little face is red, their voice shaking just a little with that stubborn “no.” It’s not a threat. It’s a child trying to be someone.

So Sevika exhales, slow and quiet through her nose, and crouches. “You wanna do it your way?” she says calmly. “Then show me. I’ll wait.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ Eventually, “no” becomes part of their daily rhythm. Sevika learns to live with it—laugh at it, even.

“Time for bed.”

“No!”

“Tough shit. You’re goin’ anyway.”

But there’s always that faint smile tugging at her mouth. Because her kid is strong. Loud. Unafraid.

Just like she hoped they’d be.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ She hates how hard it is. How much effort it takes to not raise her voice, not snap, not just pick them up and force it. But she doesn’t. Because deep down, she wants her kid to grow up strong—not scared.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ Toddler mischiefs are a pain in the ass to handle for her. Crayons on the wall? Water spilled on her jacket? Sneaking food to the floor like she can’t see it?

Sevika stares, rubs her temples, and mutters, “I used to break jaws for less than this.”

But she doesn’t yell. Instead, she grabs a rag, hands it over, and says, “Clean it. You made the mess.”

Consequences, not anger. It’s hard, it sucks, but it’s what her kid needs—and she knows it.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ But her biggest struggle? Not being feared.

Sevika’s used to fear being power. Control. Respect. But with her kid? She wants them to respect her without being afraid. So when they cry after she raises her voice one time—just once—she feels sick.

It happens one night. The house is a mess. The kid’s running on pure chaos, climbing the couch like it’s a jungle gym. Sevika’s on her third attempt to get them to put on pajamas. There’s marker on the walls again. Her arm’s acting up. She’s running on two hours of sleep and half a coffee. She steps on a toy— and then she yells.

“You stop, RIGHT NOW.”

The words rip out of her like a whip crack—loud, sharp, furious. The room freezes. Her kid does too, eyes wide, mouth trembling, completely silent for the first time all day.

It’s a silence Sevika knows too well. The kind of silence that comes before fear.

And then, she sees it. In their tiny face. In the way they shrink just slightly, the way their lip wobbles like they’re not sure what happens next.

She scared them. She scared her baby.

Sevika doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Just stands there, frozen, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. And then?

She drops to her knees.

“Hey. Hey, look at me. I’m sorry.”

It’s quiet. Her voice—raspy, broken, barely holding together. “That wasn’t okay.”

She holds out her arms—not demanding, just offering. The kid hesitates. Then toddles forward and buries themselves in her chest.

Sevika wraps them up in both arms, mechanical and human alike. Holds them so tight they squeak. She’s not crying—she doesn’t do that—but her throat hurts. Her stomach turns.

Later that night, she holds them close, whispers into their hair: “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” —The words are awkward, heavy in her mouth. But true.

She rocks them gently, back and forth. Back and forth. “I’m gonna keep trying, I promise.”

And that night, she sits in the dark after they’ve fallen asleep on her chest. She doesn’t move, she doesn’t even light her cigarette. Because for the first time, Sevika feels like she’s fighting something harder than any war:

Her own self.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ Sevika has to learn to use her words.

Her kid’s getting older now. No longer tiny enough to carry around, no longer all giggles and clumsy hugs. They’re quiet sometimes—too quiet—and Sevika knows silence when she sees it. The kind that holds something.

They still come to her, still press into her side when they’re tired, still laugh when she growls playfully under her breath. But there’s a hint of a sadness sometimes. A distance she can’t put her finger on. And then one night, when they think she’s not listening, she hears it:

“She never says it back.” To a stuffed animal. Barely a whisper. Like a secret.

And Sevika’s stomach drops. And it hurts. It hurts more than any stab or punch she’d ever had.

Because it’s true.

She does love them. She’d die for them, kill for them, live for them. She shows it every day—in the way she cooks, protects, listens, shows up. But saying it?

Saying “I love you” feels like putting a knife in her throat and twisting. Not because she doesn’t mean it—but because no one ever said it to her when she grew up. Not when it mattered. Not when she was small and angry and scared.

And now her own kid feels unloved, because she can’t say three goddamn words.

So the first time she tries, it’s clumsy. Awkward. It’s ugly, even.

Her kid’s sitting on the floor, shoulders hunched after a bad day. Sevika stands behind them, arms crossed, chewing the inside of her cheek almost nervously.

“…I love you.” It comes out so flat, so forced, she winces.

Her kid turns around, eyes wide. “What?”

“I said it,” she mutters, suddenly hot in the face. “I meant it, alright?”

She doesn’t repeat it, not then. But the kid smiles. Like sunshine after rain. And that smile?

That kills her more than any fight ever could.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ So after that, she starts saying it more.

Still awkward. Still low-voiced. Sometimes under her breath.

“You did good today. Proud of you.”

“Go to bed, little shit. Love you.”

“I got you a new coat. You better wear it. …I love you.”

Every time, her heart races. Her throat tightens. But every time, her kid lights up—like the words mattered. Like they belonged.

Because they do.

And even if Sevika never got them as a kid, she refuses to let silence raise hers.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ After learning how to use her words, She doesn’t lose that stoic shell, especially not in public, especially not with people watching. But once she figures out that her affection means safety to her kid, not weakness—she stops hiding it from them around people. Even if the rest of the world doesn’t get to see her heart, her kid always will.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ Her kid gets nervous around crowds.

Especially stiff ones. Pilties in suits, long speeches, formal pressure, council chambers where Sevika doesn’t look scary—she is scary. Where everyone speaks with too-perfect words and no one dares to raise a voice. Where they whisper about Sevika in the corners, like she can’t hear them.

Her kid clings to her leg before every meeting.

And Sevika doesn’t say a word. She just reaches down, grips under their arms—

— lifts them clean off the floor, flips them onto her shoulder, and keeps walking, straight-faced, mechanical arm steady as steel.

Everyone watches like she’s marching into war. She’s not. She’s just letting her kid hide in the safest place in the world.

“You good up there?”

Tiny nod against her neck.

“Alright. Don’t drool on my jacket.”

No smile. No softness on her face. Just total composure.

But her kid laughs—every damn time. The tension breaks like glass, and Sevika walks into the chamber taller than everyone, her child riding on her shoulder like a crowned menace. And no one dares to say shit.

In public, Sevika stays composed. Cool. Controlled. —Unless her kid needs her. Then she’s all in—no hesitation, no shame.

“C’mere.”

“You okay?”

“Take a break. Sit with me.”

She won’t flinch if people see her hold them. Not anymore. Because now she knows love doesn’t make her weaker.

Now, she can understand Silco and Vander.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ they’re not present at the core political events—but they’re nearby sometimes. Sevika brings them to Piltover on the days she has council work and they don’t have school, but keeps them tucked in a quieter room with trusted aides or staff. Not because she wants to hide them but because she wants to protect them.

And she knows the difference now.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ It’s a day like any other. Tense, pilties buzzing, documents being passed, council members speaking in clipped tones.

Sevika’s in the middle of reviewing a proposal—something dry, wrapped in red tape, but important. Her kid is just one floor below, in a side room with books, puzzles, and an aide she trusts. Close enough to keep them near. Far enough from the chaos.

Then— A thud. A shout. A cry.

It echoes faintly through the council floor, but Sevika hears it like a gunshot. The papers in her hand still. Her head lifts.

And then she’s gone.

She doesn’t say a word. Just pushes back her chair and moves. Not brutally, calm and steady, but her long legs are quick.

She finds her kid on the floor, tears streaking a scrunched-up little face, one knee scraped open from falling on the cold marble. The aide is already apologizing, but Sevika isn’t listening.

She drops to one knee, slow but focused, arms open.

“C’mere.”

The kid flings themself into her, still sobbing. And Sevika—Zaunite soldier, former enforcer killer, steel-armed threat in every council report—sits on the floor of a marble hallway in full council attire, holding her crying kid in her lap like nothing else exists.

Because in that moment? Nothing else does.

“You’re okay. I got you. I’m right here.” She whispers it, low and gentle, her voice a tether.

The aide tries to offer help. Sevika lifts a hand, and it meant ‘not now’. One of the councilors leans out of the chamber, confused. Sevika doesn’t look up.

Her kid is more important right now.

She rocks her kid slowly, smoothing sweaty hair back from their forehead. “I’m sorry you got scared. You’re not in trouble.”

Some councilors whisper that she’s become soft for a zaunite. Others see the steel in her spine as she walks out, her kid curled against her chest, and realize that she, too, cares for people she loves.

bow dividers: @/cursed-carmine

taglist: @lonerslug

Couldn’t add more dividers so i stop here ! part 3 is going to be real sad I’m afraid but I’ll make a few cute drabbles in between

I swear don’t listen to mitski while reading this it’s torture

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bewitched-hours · 3 days ago

Note

I wanted to ask if you could make more of the yandere Noli and 007n7 thing. Something like they got into a fight and they’re all just fighting like children or just anything!

I just love that au ^^

Gonna be honest- I don't think I remember which one you mean but I'll gladly make more of them? I'll just try to come up with something new and hope it works but it'd be great if you could use a link to it if you make a new request so I know what you're looking for because I've done a lot at this point with Noli and 007... And not just one with them as yanderes-

Let's say reader gets She/They?

You've learned not to question your circumstances anymore...

It all started out fine when you agreed to team up with Noli and 007n7. Hell, you were giddy to work with other exploiters and you guys helped cover each other's tracks to hide from admins.

You were quick friends and had your own little base for just you three. A place you were most proud of even though you'd do most of the decorating. They didn't really seem to care much as long as it wasn't an eye sore or one simple colour.

No, you combined all your guys' colours together to make the best decorative palette ever!

You weren't into decorating even half as much as you seemed when you all moved in together at first. But turns out you were actually pretty good at it.

You got comfortable... Perhaps too comfortable...

You were blinded by the bliss of this new life and the comfort of your new home made you ignorant to the fact you were basically isolated.

Sure, you were part of a trio that caused chaos so who would wanna be associated with you but you wouldn't even get so much as a chase with some poor fellow who saw you and could report you. It was almost boring how little fight there was for you but you shrugged it off as bad luck.

Of course you wouldn't know that you were trapped because you flew into the cage first.

You wouldn't know that they intentionally kept you away from prying eyes and planned out where to send you in your chaos to get you away from people subtly. In a way that wouldn't have you suspect a thing.

But you only needed to see the truth once. They needed luck everytime they hid the truth from you.

One slip up was all it took.

One mistakenly placed box was all you needed when you got home after a shopping trip in your disguise.

They weren't home for once and you figured they were off causing chaos somewhere else, only causing slight envy to rise in your chest as you wondered why they couldn't wait for you.

But slamming the door caused a box to lose balance in the messed up pile of packages and you could only groan as the fact you now had documents to pick up and put back.

Except it wasn't documents... It was plans.

Papers that were left in the trash pile that would detail things they've done to keep you to themselves without raising suspicion which made the cogs in your head click together.

They were head over heels for you but in a way that made you cringe just a bit. A messed up part of you wanted to see how far they'd go and before you knew it, you were sat with the plans on a coffee table and curled up on the couch whilst reading through their strategies.

You had to admit, they were smart for playing you like they did but you still felt betrayed and confused.

Why? Did they think it was fun? Did they worry you'd try to run? Maybe they thought you could betray them?

Ugh, the more you questioned it, the more you wanted to find them and just ask. You weren't even that upset over it because of the life they gave you but...

Actually, maybe you were a bit upset. What if they used this life to lure you further in? It wasn't like you regretted being part of this trio...

You were growing drowsy when you heard the click of the lock that made you jump back awake in seconds. They were back and there was no hiding anymore. You had to quickly gather your courage and confront them.

They had been joking around until they turned the corner to see you calmly get up, papers in hand and giving them a cautious look that was even worse than when you had first met them. And even back then you've been cautious because you had no choice but to assume the worst from them.

It made their smiles turn to slight frowns. Only for Noli to start smirking again. Though he didn't say anything.

"I'm not gonna scream. I'm not gonna pretend to really be upset or any of that shit." You started, refusing to act like some movie main character. "But I just want to know why. Why did you need any of these plans and why would I be worth such a hassle???"

Your confusion only seemed to amuse them as they stepped closer. You let them because their plans did mention not letting you be harmed.

"Would you believe us if we said you were divine?" Noli's teasing tone made you cringe at such words but you chuckled lightly. "What? Don't act like you're obsessed now..."

"But we are." 007's firm tone made your gut practically scream.

There was no way this was happening...

Stepping away from them, you dropped the papers and shook your head. "No no no- I'm not about to let my whole life be controlled-" You were chuckling nervously, though a blush crept over your face.

Were you enjoying this? Maybe. But it didn't stop them from teleporting behind you to hold you in a loving embrace that had you more confused than anything.

"You're not being controlled~ We're just making sure to set a fair ground between letting you be so beautifully chaotic and independent and guaranteeing you'll never want to leave." Noli held held you from the front while 007 stopped you from behind.

You were effectively caged between them and the heat building in your face betrayed you. "... So you promise not to tie me up or anything to keep me at home, right...?" You muttered, biting your lip as you mentally cursed yourself out for letting them see you like this.

"How would we be able to see you laugh or smile otherwise?" 7n7's voice was quiet but you felt his head rest on your shoulder.

Great... You were essentially giving in.

"Well... I guess I shouldn't be complaining then... If everyone benefits..." You hesitated to raise your arms but Noli made sure to grab one of your hands for himself when you finally did. The other hand just went to feel 007's hair for a moment.

It was surprisingly soft...

"That's our little harbinger of chaos..." Something about those words felt... Right...

Honestly I feel kinda bad for not knowing what to give you for this one-

Anything you'd like to request/ask? Check out my pinned post first and I'll be happy to write up whatever you want!

#forsaken roblox #forsaken #roblox forsaken #forsaken x reader #forsaken x y/n #noli forsaken #noli x reader #007n7 x noli #noli x 007n7 #007n7 forsaken #007n7 x reader #yandere forsaken x reader #yandere noli #yandere 007n7

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xandezsims · 3 days ago

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L&D Trans Sim Tagging: EA Made an Oopsie

Xan here. Remember how I never got into Fullbody outfits, in the original Trans Sim tutorial? Well, I am honor-bound to get into it a little. Why? Because I made a discovery, and it's...not great.

TL;DR: The Part Flags for most of Life & Death are messed up. Trans Sims are wearing the wrong meshes and it cannot be avoided; EA has to fix it.

If this concerns you, please upvote the report, and spread the word. They have ignored the Sims community about gender-related glitches in the past. Help us make them fix this, so we don't have to.

In-depth explanation about the problem below.

I was stoked to see we got clothes for both frames in the newer packs. Finally, Sims can wear whatever gender clothing they want! That's the goal, right? But, recent testing made me wonder how they handle opposite-frames. I thought I could learn something to help with inclusive tagging. So, I stuck Carmen in a dress from L&D, and:

It passes from the front, but...her chest. That's the opposite gender distortion. The one caused by putting a AM (masc frame) mesh on any AF (female) Sim, trans or not. I've definitely talked about this.

I went and cloned both meshes to check the tags, and sure enough:

Quick tagging lesson: toggling Restrict Opposite Frame means Carmen can't wear the AF one. She has to wear the AM frame dress, because as a trans Sim, her frame is AM. (Literally, the Opposite Frame of her gender.) But because she has breasts, she inherits the chest distortion all female Sims get wearing a man's top. The same applies for Erik, her counterpart (AM w/AF frame).

With a sinking feeling, I went back to the game and tried...everything.

I ran out of space, there are more. Trans-men are the same. I got halfway through the AM catalog and ran out of willpower. I'm betting almost every item made for both frames in this pack is tagged wrong. It's locked by frame, instead of gender. With pants, that's not a problem--but tops, dresses and suits will all be swapped.

So, now we know Fullbody meshes work similarly to tops. They need to be locked by Gender. And it's really just that tag. To test, I went back to my cloned dresses, and fixed it with two clicks:

This means all women regardless of frame can use the AF, and all men can use the AM. And here's the result: AF dress on AF Sim, AM dress on AM Sim. They literally swapped dresses.

So, easily fixed! That's 2 files out of...all of them. (sigh) I filed a Bug Report, linked above. Hopefully the amount of evidence I provided will get an actual response. That, or they'll think I'm an arrogant prat for telling them how their game works. But, I didn't break it.

Moral of the Story: this is a great example of what not to do if you make cc, or if you retag what you download. Remember, if you want to limit who can wear a mesh:

"Restrict Opposite Gender" for Tops and Fullbody; this makes sure all AF and AM Sims wear their meshes, and don't end up with chest lumps.

"Restrict Opposite Gender" for AF Bottoms; Trans-AM Sims break in half. Don't Restrict AM Bottoms at all. They fit everyone.

Or, Don't Restrict Anything, if you want all options. Note: distortions will happen. Mark your gender filters. They help a lot.

Earrings, Hats, Makeup, Gloves, Socks, Tights work for everyone

Necklaces and Nails are "Restrict Opposite Frame"; Trans Sims can't wear these from their own gender. They don't fit.

If you got this far, thank you for sticking it out. My innocent question turned into a tagging lesson (again). But, if it helps anyone in the future, I'll be glad. At least now we know there's a problem.

Please boost the Bug Report, share if you found it useful, and thanks for reading. I'm on the soap box again re: trans inclusion, but it's still Pride and I can't not stand up for my people. The more we know, the better we can do on our side.

Finally, tagging some folks who might want to know, if they don't already (feel free to ignore): @sejianismodding @the-crypt-o-club @yooniesim @whyhellosims @thefoxburyinstitute @sims4tutorials @mmfinds @gncc

#sims 4 bugs #ts4 bugs #s4 tutorial #ts4 tutorial #sims 4 studio #lgbt sims #ts4 trans #carmilla #phantom #realizing I never actually explained how tagging works #might be time soon #in my defense I didn't know when I wrote the first guide #but I'd rather not annoy everyone banging on about this

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ariaxco · 2 days ago

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why you're not glowing up (it's not what you think) ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ 🎀

you're doing all the "right" things. skincare routine, gym membership, new wardrobe, pinterest-worthy morning routine. you bought the supplements, followed the influencers, saved every "that girl" post.

so why do you still feel exactly the same?

because you're trying to glow up from the outside in. completely backwards.

the girls who actually transform — the ones who look different six months later, who carry themselves like they know something you don't — they didn't start with the aesthetic. they started with the invisible stuff first.

you're still operating from your old identity

here's the thing nobody tells you: you can't dress like her, work out like her, eat like her, and still think like the old you. your brain will sabotage every external change until your internal world catches up.

you'll buy the expensive skincare and still pick at your face. you'll meal prep on sunday and binge by wednesday. you'll set the 6am alarm and hit snooze until 9.

why? because deep down, you still believe you're the girl who doesn't follow through. you still see yourself as the one who starts strong and gives up. you're trying to change your actions while keeping your old story about yourself.

the real work is rewriting that story. deciding you're someone who keeps promises to herself. someone who deserves the life she's building. someone who doesn't quit when it gets boring.

you're avoiding the real work

face masks are easier than facing your patterns. new clothes are easier than new boundaries. gym selfies are easier than sitting with why you actually hate yourself.

the real glow up work is boring:

going to therapy and actually doing the homework

journaling without making it aesthetic

saying no to people who drain you (even when they guilt trip you)

setting standards and sticking to them when someone tests them

sitting with discomfort instead of shopping it away

looking at why you seek validation from people who don't even like themselves

you want the transformation without the mess. but healing is messy. growth is uncomfortable. real change means grieving who you used to be.

you're performing transformation, not living it

posting about your 5am routine doesn't make you a morning person. talking about self-love doesn't mean you practice it. buying the books doesn't mean you read them.

you're performing the aesthetic of change without doing the actual work.

real transformation is invisible at first:

choosing yourself even when no one's watching

doing the work when it's not exciting anymore

building habits so quietly no one notices until the results are undeniable

healing your relationship with yourself before you try to fix anything else

stop documenting your journey and start living it.

you're waiting for motivation to maintain you

motivation got you started. that burst of "new year, new me" energy that had you buying workout clothes and downloading meditation apps.

but motivation is a liar. it shows up when you don't need it and disappears when you do.

discipline keeps you going. discipline is showing up on tuesday at 6am when the excitement has worn off. discipline is choosing the salad when you want the fries. discipline is doing your skincare routine when you're exhausted.

the girls who actually transform? they show up on the days they don't want to. every single time. they built systems that work even when they don't feel like it.

you're trying to skip the basics

you want the advanced routine before you've mastered drinking enough water. you want the perfect morning routine before you can wake up on time. you want self-love before you've learned basic self-respect.

glow ups aren't built on complicated routines and expensive products. they're built on basics done consistently:

sleeping 7-8 hours

drinking water

moving your body

eating food that nourishes you

protecting your peace

keeping promises to yourself

master the boring stuff first. the magic happens in the mundane.

you think time will fix what discipline won't

"i'll start monday." "after the holidays." "when life calms down."

life is never going to calm down. there will always be stress, chaos, reasons to wait. the girls who glow up don't wait for perfect conditions — they create them.

stop waiting for the right time. there is no right time. there's only right now.

the real glow up formula

change your identity first. decide who you want to be, then start acting like her today.

do the boring work. therapy, boundaries, healing, discipline. the stuff that doesn't photograph well.

build systems, not motivation. create routines that work even when you don't feel like it.

master the basics. sleep, water, movement, nourishment, peace.

stay consistent longer than you stayed inconsistent. this is where most people quit.

stop trying to look transformed. start being transformed.

stop performing your glow up for the internet. start living it for yourself.

stop waiting for motivation to save you. start building discipline to sustain you.

your glow up isn't about becoming someone new — it's about becoming who you've always been underneath all the fear, doubt, and other people's opinions.

she was always there. you just forgot how to be her.

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rachetmath · 1 day ago

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Emerald was Abused

Emerald: Jaune I'm sorry. I know I messed up and -

Jaune: *checking Emerald’s condition*

Emerald: What are you doing?

Jaune: Are you okay?

Emerald: Yeah.

Jaune: You sure? You're not hurt right?

Emerald: Yes Jaune I'm fine.

Jaune: Alright then. Come on.

Emerald: Wait, aren't you mad?

Jaune: Why? Why would I be mad?

Emerald: Because I messed up.

Jaune: How?

Emerald: Because I got caught.

Jaune: … … … Question; Um, did you get the info I needed?

Emerald: Yeah.

Jaune: Did you fold and tell anyone of your past or anything that could jeopardize our plan?

Emerald: No.

Jaune: Are you alive?

Emerald: Yes.

Jaune: Then what's there to apologize for? You're alive and I got my information. But more importantly you're alive which I appreciate even more than just getting ahead.

Emerald: Wait so you value my life? Even after everything I have done?

Jaune: I mean I will never forgive you for what you did in the past. But I am willing to give you a chance to do right in the present. That depends on you though. So until you give me a reason not to, yes, I value your life.

Emerald: … … …

Jaune: Why are you finding this hard to believe?

Emerald: …. …. …

Jaune: Has Cinder or Salem ever thanked you for anything? Mainly Cinder.

Emerald: … … …

Jaune: Okay I am getting scared to ask. What does Cinder do if you mess up? Talk out of line? Or say anything she doesn't want to hear?

Emerald: … …. ….

Jaune: Oh my god. I have another one. Emerald, do you have a favorite food? Do you want to eat out? My treat.

Emerald: Yeah… that would be nice.

Jaune: *sigh* I really need to kill that bitch. Or help Ruby, Winter or somebody do it because- oh my- the more I learn about her the more she doesn't deserve to live or breathe.

#rwby #jaune arc #emerald sustrai #cinder fall #rwby salem

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arabella-syntax · 3 days ago

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Update: Part 3

Paso a paso

They don’t move fast.

They move toward each other.

Paso a paso.

~ ~ ~ ~

Pairing: Alexia Putellas x Reader (Y/N)

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

Word count: > 40k, one shot

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

Rating: Some intimate scenes

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

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

————————————————————————

Alexia

The Madrid listings blurred together after a while.

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

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

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

Something sturdy. Something with sunlight.

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

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

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

“Gracias.”

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

Alexia paused.

“Sí.”

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

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

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

But that night, she went through her contacts anyway.

Found the familiar name and number.

She messaged.

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

A few minutes later:

This is already drama.

Alexia replied:

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

¿Estás saliendo con alguien otra vez?

(Are you dating someone again?)

Came Olga’s response after a while.

Alexia hesitated.

ALEXIA:

Sí.

OLGA:

Serious?

ALEXIA:

Yes. She’s… different.

OLGA:

Different how?

ALEXIA:

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

OLGA:

So not like your old flat.

ALEXIA:

Exactly.

OLGA:

I’ll make some calls.

Alexia smiled despite herself.

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

They’d met after her ACL tear in 2021.

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

Olga had seen the cracks — and loved her anyway.

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

At one point, Alexia thought she might marry her.

But things shifted.

Lives moved.

Love didn’t end — it just changed shape.

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

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

By morning, Olga had sent five listings.

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

Alexia stared at it for a long time.

It felt… soft. Still. Like breath.

It felt like Y/N.

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

Olga replied:

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

Alexia sent the listing to Y/N without fuss:

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

The response came a day later:

I love the windows. I love you.

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

A laugh caught in her throat. Or a sob.

Sometimes they felt the same.

She whispered to herself, “Joder…”

Alba walked by. “Are you okay?”

“Necesito vino” (I need wine.)

“You always need wine.”

“Now I need to marry her.”

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

Y/N

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

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

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

“Because I am?”

“That’ll do it.”

They shook hands.

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

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

“I do pliés for a living.”

“Good. They squeak.”

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

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

Y/N smiled. “Thank you.”

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

The flat was… beautiful.

In that quiet, aching kind of way.

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

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

“I could dance here,” she whispered.

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

Y/N turned. “Alexia?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She loves hard.”

“She always did.”

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

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

That caught Y/N off guard.

“Talks about me?”

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

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

Olga smirked. “That’s disturbingly romantic.”

“I know.”

They signed the papers together.

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

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

“She’s awkward as hell, you know.”

“I’ve noticed.”

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

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

Olga smiled — genuinely this time.

“Good luck, ballerina.”

And then she was gone.

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

She texted Alexia:

It’s perfect. I love it. Thank you.

Alexia replied instantly:

It’s yours. Madrid’s lucky.

You okay?

Only thinking how to get to Madrid faster.

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

Y/N laughed.

She looked around.

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

But she would.

She was trying.

Alexia

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

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

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

It swung open with a click.

She stepped inside.

Bare walls. Bare floor. Bare everything.

But somehow, it still felt like her.

Or rather — like them.

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

Alexia grinned and whispered, “Hola, gato.”

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

Bedroom. Bathroom. Living space.

Each room smelled like a future.

And then the front door opened again.

“Hey,” Y/N called. “Did you—”

Alexia turned. And forgot how to breathe.

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

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

Y/N dropped her bag.

No more words.

They met in the middle of the hallway.

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

Days of distance collapsed in seconds.

Alexia kissed her like she was remembering how.

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

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

“Take it,” Alexia whispered.

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

Then Alexia turned the tables.

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

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

“I smell like nerves.”

“Same.”

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

The floor was hard.

The sex was not.

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

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

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

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

“You always do this,” Y/N whispered.

“What?”

“Make me forget my name.”

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

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

“You broke in,” Y/N teased.

“I have a key.”

“You should still be arrested.”

“Only if you do the handcuffs.”

Y/N laughed so hard she snorted.

Alexia made a note in her mind:

She wanted to hear that sound in this apartment forever.

Third Person

Madrid mornings had a different weight to them.

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

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

Y/N sighed in her sleep.

Alexia smiled.

They didn’t say much over breakfast.

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

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

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

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

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

Alexia looked at her then, properly.

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

“I want to,” she said simply.

Y/N nodded. “Me too.”

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

Alexia didn’t know what she was looking for.

Something quiet. Something sure.

Something like Y/N.

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

“This one,” she whispered.

She paid in full.

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

Mami.

It rang twice.

“¿Alexia?”

“Mami…”

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

Then, softly:

“Estoy pensando en pedirle matrimonio.”

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

There was a pause on the other end.

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

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

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

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

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

Alexia looked down at the ring box in her palm.

“Gracias, mami.”

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

“I won’t.”

She didn’t tell Y/N about the ring.

Not yet.

It would wait.

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

In the light.

In Madrid.

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

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

Between training schedules and charity gala invitations.

Waiting.

Like she was.

Like they both were.

Y/N

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

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

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

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

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

“I just moved in two days ago.”

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

Y/N smiled. “She wasn’t wrong.”

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

“You’ve unpacked?”

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

“She wants to marry you.”

Y/N blinked. “Excuse me?”

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

“Papa.”

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

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

“I start teaching today.”

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

“It’s orientation. Not trauma.”

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

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

“Cut your hair again.”

“It’s already in a bob.”

“Then dye it. Go blonde.”

“I’m not going blonde.”

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

She smiled. He watched her carefully for a beat.

“You’re afraid.”

“A little.”

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

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

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

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

“Miss Y/N?”

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

“I’m here for your class.”

And just like that, it began.

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

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

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

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

Not crying.

Not shaking.

Just still.

She texted Alexia.

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

The reply came fast:

Estoy orgullosa de ti, mi bailarina.

She read it twice.

Outside, the Madrid sun painted gold across the pavement.

Maybe this was the right city after all.

Third Person

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

Y/N carried on like nothing had happened.

It made Alexia grin.

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

Alexia’s throat tightened unexpectedly.

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

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

Alexia waved from the corner, muttering to herself:

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

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

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

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

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

“I did. Internally.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “You’re cruel.”

“You’re sexy when you’re strict.”

“Oh, God.”

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

Silence stretched between them. Comfortable. Wide.

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

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

Y/N turned to her. “To Madrid?”

“To you.”

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

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

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

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

Alexia paused.

About the ring.

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

She didn’t say it.

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

Y/N smiled. “Then do it.”

Alexia

The ring was still where she left it.

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

Alexia stared at it like it might grow teeth.

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

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

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

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

“That dangerous?”

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

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

“Like her.”

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

“I want to.”

“Then what’s stopping you?”

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

“I’m scared.”

“Of her saying no?”

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

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

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

“You look constipated,” she told Alexia.

“I’m proposing.”

“Oh. That explains the face.”

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

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

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

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

“I do not.”

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

Alexia buried her face in her hands.

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

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

“I’m not proposing naked, Alba.”

“Coward.”

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

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

“Oh right. Then not that.”

Eli watched her daughters with bemused affection.

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

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

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

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

“Point stands.”

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

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

Today was exhausting. Come back soon?

She typed, deleted, retyped.

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

Then she sent it.

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

Third Person

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

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

Alexia had learned not to argue about food with her.

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

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

Then Y/N walked in.

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

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

Alexia smiled. “Napolitana?”

“Obviously.”

The waitress appeared, grunted, took their order.

Alexia was not nervous.

She was not nervous.

She was actively lying to herself.

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

Alexia blinked. “This is my normal face.”

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

Alexia huffed, and Y/N chuckled.

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

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

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

She didn’t open it. Not yet.

Y/N blinked, slowly. “Are you—”

Alexia nodded once. “Yes.”

Y/N let out a breath. “Now?”

“Now.”

“Here?”

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

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

Alexia opened the box.

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

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

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

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

Alexia blinked. “I—”

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

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

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

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

Just a kiss. Soft. Sure. Home.

Behind them, the waitress grunted, unimpressed.

Alexia grinned against Y/N’s lips.

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

Alexia smirked. “Lo sé.” (I know)

“And Jana is going to scream.”

“Por supuesto.”

“And Eli will cry.”

Alexia paused. “Already did.”

They both laughed.

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

But they didn’t care.

They were two women in love.

One with a ring on her finger.

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

Y/N

She considered texting.

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

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

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

“You better be dying,” he rasped.

“Nice to see you too, Papa.”

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

“You are wearing makeup.”

“No, I’m not.”

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

Y/N exhaled, held up her left hand.

There was a pause.

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

She wiggled her fingers. “I said yes.”

“To who? Did I miss a suitor?”

“Alexia proposed.”

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

Y/N blinked. “You knew?”

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

“Wow. Romantic.”

He tilted his head. “You’re happy?”

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

He nodded. “Then I’m happy too.”

She smiled. “You’ll come, right?”

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

“Yes.”

“Fine. But only if there’s vodka.”

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

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

“For someone in ballet, you dislike dancing.”

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

She laughed. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not making this weird.”

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

She nodded.

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

Y/N’s throat tightened. “I hope so.”

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

Y/N laughed through the sudden tears.

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

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

“He asked for vodka and threatened to dance.”

“So… sí.”

The chaos began the next day.

Jana sent a string of voice notes:

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

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

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

Alba simply wrote:

I’m wearing red. Nobody stop me.

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

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

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

—————————————————————

A month later

Third Person

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alexia groaned. “She is… annoying.”

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

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

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

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

“He wants vodka and drama.”

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

Then came the messages.

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

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

Caroline, naturally on brand, replied two minutes later:

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

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

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

Marianne picked up her whiteboard and clicked a fresh marker.

WEDDING RULES

No venues with haunted bathrooms.

Y/N picks flowers. No debate.

No dancing before speeches.

Leila and Patri are not allowed near DJ equipment.

Eli Segura has final catering approval.

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

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

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

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

Alexia blushed and threw a chip at her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sometime within the week

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

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

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

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

She wasn’t nervous.

That’s what she told herself.

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

Because it felt real now.

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

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

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

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

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

Alexia stayed behind.

And imagined it.

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

And Y/N. Walking toward her.

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

Alexia imagined her knees shaking.

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

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

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

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

They walked the rest of the venue in silence.

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

“How does it feel?” she asked.

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

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

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

Y/N asked, “Are you scared?”

Alexia was quiet for a long time.

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

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

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

She just smiled and whispered, “Gracias.”

A month after, the wedding week

Alexia

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

There were balloons.

There were pink streamers.

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

Jana and Alba were clapping wildly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nope. That’s emotion. Admit it.”

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

“Estoy jodida.” (I'm screwed)

“Por fin.”

They toasted.

To love.

To heartbreak survived.

To knees held together by tape.

To ballet and boots.

To unlikely joy.

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

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

Alexia hugged her.

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

“I’m engaged.”

“Same thing.”

Later, they sang.

Badly.

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

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

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

She mouthed, I love you.

Y/N smiled and didn’t stop singing.

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

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

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

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

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

Alexia wrinkled her nose. “Mentira.”

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

And that, Alexia realised, was what this was.

Not a show. Not a spectacle.

Just… heart.

Loud, messy, ridiculous heart.

Day after

Y/N

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alexia blinked. “Mierda. We forgot?”

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

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

Inside were two sentences, scrawled in her familiar handwriting:

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

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

Y/N’s chest tightened.

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

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

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

She wrote in English at first:

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

Alexia groaned, dropped her head dramatically on the table.

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

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

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

No audience.

No rehearsal.

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

Day before the wedding

Alexia

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

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

Alba smirked. “Your stomach is doing rondas.”

“Funny.”

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

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

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

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

Alexia smiled. “This feels bigger.”

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

That shut her up.

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

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

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

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

Alexia didn’t reply.

Because she was absolutely planning to.

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe two.”

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

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

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

“And fear.”

“Don’t be scared.”

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

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

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

“You’re not nervous?”

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

Alexia gasped. “Mi postura es perfecta.”

“Your back is a corkscrew.”

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

“I’d marry you with a walker.”

They kissed once. Soft. Then again. Slower.

Alexia sighed. “Mañana, sí?”

Y/N nodded. “Tomorrow.”

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

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

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

Alexia laughed.

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

Y/N

The gravel crunched under tires.

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

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

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

He squinted at her. “You look tired.”

“Hello to you too.”

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

She smiled against his chest. “Long night.”

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

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

“And it only gets more true.”

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

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

She stopped short when she saw him.

He stared.

Then said, “You are smaller in person.”

Alexia blinked. “Gracias… creo?”

Y/N elbowed her lightly.

“This is Sergey. My father.”

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

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

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

Alexia looked genuinely offended. “Solo un poco.”

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

Alexia gave Y/N a helpless look.

She smiled. “Welcome to the family.”

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

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

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

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

Alba blinked. “No jodas.”

“Swear on it.”

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

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

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

She looked at herself.

Thirty-six. Still breathing. Still dancing.

Still here.

Sergey’s reflection appeared behind her.

“You are ready?” he asked, gently.

“I think so.”

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

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

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

Sergey shrugged. “I am sentimental bastard.”

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

She just looked like… her.

That was enough.

Wedding day

Third person

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

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

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

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

“It’s a collar, not a noose.”

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

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

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

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

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

She didn’t need to reread them.

She just held them.

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

Alba entered with a garment bag. “Ready?”

Y/N nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Y/N laughed. “They’re good together.”

Alba nodded. “So are you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back inside, Alexia was ready.

Her mother kissed both her cheeks.

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

“Gracias, mami.”

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

“From who?”

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

Alexia blinked. “She scored that day.”

Marianne shrugged. “Then wear it.”

She clasped it on.

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

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

He didn’t answer immediately.

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

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

Y/N nodded.

They stepped out into the soft applause of sunset.

Alexia turned.

And saw her.

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

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

She smiled.

Alexia smiled back.

Her hands stopped shaking.

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

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

Eli sat in the front row, already sniffling. Alba had subtly swapped her glass of cava for water, sensing the tears were only just beginning.

Patri whispered something to Leila — who promptly giggled, then immediately swore when a tear escaped her eyeliner. Ingrid handed her a tissue without looking away from the aisle. Jana sat between Bruna and Aggie, gripping both their hands like she might float away.

Then the music began.

Not the usual classical strings. Something quieter. Contemporary. A piano melody that felt like a letter.

Alexia stood beneath the arch, fingers twitching slightly. She wore the suit like it was stitched into her skin. But her expression was that of someone stripped bare.

Y/N walked down the aisle slowly. No veil. No bouquet. Just her father’s hand, then none — as he stepped aside halfway and nodded, proud and quiet.

Alexia’s eyes never left hers.

When she reached her, they didn’t speak.

Just hands, clasped.

A deep breath.

And then Marianne stepped forward, smiling gently.

“Welcome,” she said. “You know why we’re here.”

A few chuckles from the crowd.

“We’re not going to talk about fate, or timing, or the miracle of two people finding each other in a nightclub and somehow surviving the chaos that followed.”

Laughter again, especially from Leila and Mapi.

“We’re here because, somehow, they made it. Not by accident. But by choosing, over and over, to stay.”

She turned to Alexia first.

“Alexia?”

Alexia unfolded the flyer from ELEVEN, now creased from being held so tightly.

She took a deep breath, glanced at Y/N, and began:

“I don’t write poetry. But I know how it feels to score in extra time — And you feel better than that. You make the quiet loud. You see the version of me I thought I buried with my ACL.

You held space for me — even when you were the one afraid. I choose you, every day. Even when you talk during movies. Even when you steal my hoodies and say they smell like victory. I choose you. That’s all.”

Silence.

Not because people didn’t want to react, but because no one trusted their voice.

Y/N blinked fast. She adjusted her posture and began her speech. No paper, she had hers memorized.

She spoke clearly, with that half-smile that always made Alexia ache.

“I never planned for this. I planned for seasons. For injuries. For decline. For endings. But you’re not an ending. You’re the chapter I didn’t know I could write. You never asked me to be perfect. You just asked me to be real. So here’s the real part, I am messy, scared, irreverent. And I love you. In the mornings when you burn toast. In the evenings when your Spanish gets too fast and I just nod. I love you. Not forever — because I don’t believe in that word. I love you now. And I’ll keep loving you in the next now. And the one after that.”

Alexia looked like she was about to cry.

Or run.

Or kiss her senseless.

She did the latter.

After Marianne coughed politely.

“Do you, Alexia Putellas Segura,” she said, barely holding in her own tears, “take this woman — this wildly sarcastic, devastatingly honest, stunning creature — to be your wife?”

Alexia nodded. “Sí. Con todo mi corazón.”

“And do you, Y/N — take this awkward, painfully competitive, far-too-gifted-for-her-own-good woman to be your wife?”

Y/N smirked. “Obviously.”

“Then I now pronounce you… in so much trouble.”

Laughter, cheers.

And then — the kiss.

Soft. Fierce. Final.

Not as in the end.

But as in — finally.

Dinner was served beneath a canopy of fairy lights strung between olive trees. The air still carried a trace of sunlight, but the sky had already begun its slide into dusk. Cicadas buzzed softly in the background, harmonising with clinking glasses and bursts of laughter.

The long wooden table overflowed with food — pan con tomate, grilled vegetables, paella, roasted lamb, and a suspiciously large number of croquetas. Eli had insisted.

“Hay que comer bien después de llorar tanto,” she said, passing a basket of bread to Sergey.

Sergey took one, sniffed it, and muttered, “Better than Moscow wedding. They served borscht. In August.”

Eli nodded in solemn agreement, as if that explained a war.

The speeches began as the sky turned violet.

First came Marianne — precise, tearful, but somehow still composed.

Then Leila, who promptly ignored her note cards and instead told a chaotic story about the time she and Alexia got locked in a storage room with a goat during a preseason tour in Mallorca.

“Y la cabra tenía mejor sentido de la orientación que tú,” (And the goat had a better sense of direction than you) she said, pointing at Alexia.

“I was concussed,” Alexia replied.

“Y aún así jugaste mejor que media plantilla.” (And yet you played better than half the squad)

Laughter.

Not to be outdone, Jana’s speech has awws, oohs and laughter. She recalled the times Alexia has been there for her despite going through some challenges, and that her wish for Alexia finally came true - finding happiness with Y/N.

Caroline stood next with Marta beside her — an unlikely duo of deadpan and dry Norwegian wit.

“We knew it was serious,” Marta said, “when Alexia stopped editing Y/N out of photos before posting in our group chat.

“She never edited you out of photos,” Caroline added. “Just cropped.”

Y/N sipped her wine, amused. “Ruthless.”

Alexia flushed, muttering, “Es mentira.” (It’s a lie)

Even Sergey stood — slow, regal, and entirely himself.

“I do not make speeches,” he began. “But… today, I make exception. Because my daughter, she marries a woman who plays football like war and loves like fool. I like her.”

A beat.

“Also, she finally eats properly now. Thank you, Putellas.”

Alexia saluted him with her wine glass, deadpan.

“De nada, suegro.”

The first dance began without announcement. Just the soft drop of a song — one they’d chosen a month ago, over text, too embarrassed to discuss it in person.

It was quiet. Not romantic in the cheesy sense. Just… real.

They danced slow.

Clumsy at first — Alexia trying not to lead, Y/N trying not to trip over her own nerves.

“You’re stiff,” Y/N whispered.

“Tú también.”

They both laughed.

And loosened.

Their hands fit. They always had.

Around them, their loved ones swayed, clapped, held each other.

Aggie pulled Jana into a spin.

Patri dragged Bruna into an impromptu bachata.

Leila and Mapi competed for who could dip Ingrid better — Ingrid rolled her eyes but let them try.

Even Eli swayed with Sergey, who looked vaguely horrified but stayed.

Later, beneath the stars, after cake and speeches and more cava than anyone needed, Alexia and Y/N slipped away.

To the edge of the olive grove.

Just them.

They sat on a blanket, shoes discarded, heads close.

“I’m still not used to saying ‘wife,’” Y/N said, staring up at the constellations.

Alexia smiled. “Practice, cariño.”

“Wife.”

“Again.”

“Wife.”

Alexia kissed her.

The stars spun slowly.

————————————————————————

Continue the last part.

#alexia putellas #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas imagine #woso imagine #woso x reader #woso fanfics #jana fernandez #aggie beever jones #leila ouahabi #marta torrejon #irene paredes #ona batlle #patri guijarro #bruna vilamala #rpf

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inspired-lesson-plans · 3 days ago

Text

Instead of taking a nap I just had the greatest idea.

Children's cartoon series that focuses on the lives of all the English letters. Each one has its own personality that is in part derived from its phonic function, and they all have relationships with each other that come from how the different letters relate to each other.

This was inspired by the thought that kids might learn the alphabet just as well if the letters had full names like Kappa instead of the tiny names they have today. This evolved into the thought that every letter has its own personality and that we could tell stories about them because they're all characters (ha).

Here are a few notes that I thought of in the shower and couldn't sleep until I wrote them all down:

Subconsciously I am 100% basing this on a combination of the Mr Men books and the Wayside School series.

Every letter has a proper name based on their ancestral Greek letter names*, but they are typically called by their nicknames (the English versions). I do not know what to do about C and the like.

The letters have genders because that makes them easier to remember.

They should have English or Australian accents because it's a kid's cartoon.

Speech bubbles must always be present when characters are talking. This is a phonics-focused edutainment show. The kids need to read.

C & K are married. K gets jealous when she sees her wife hanging around H because she knows what kind of effect H has on letters like S or T.

In one episode K is really upset and she refuses to make a sound when forming words like KNOW or KNIFE. Some of the letters don't get it, but her friend G helps her out.

I & E are sisters. E is the popular sister whom everyone wants to include in everything. The other vowels say "We're just not the same without you!"

I is always trying to be like E, which is why she's often trying to make the same vowel sound. When E is asked to help spell the word FRIEND, she brings her little sister along even though I doesn't actually do anything.

In one episode, E feels overwhelmed by everyone's expectations of her, so she decides to take a Self Care day. But that means that all the other letters need to figure out how to make words without any E's. Soon they start to panic because their words are all messing up now. This is reflected in the dialogue, such as "A S_lf Car_ Day? What do_s that m_an?" This is pronounced without the underscores, for comedic effect. Anyway, I decides that she has to take her sister's place. After some fumbling around, she realizes that she can't do everything her sister does, but she can still be useful. SKATE can't be SKATI, but with some help they can still make SKATING, for instance.

Ampersand is a letter. At first they think they're a punctuation mark, but then their adoptive family (grandparent . parents ! and ? siblings , ; – ) reveals that their full name is "And per se and", which means "& itself" and used to be said at the end of the alphabet song.

I am very open to discussion on this.

Please, reach out if you have any thoughts. I do not have anywhere near the skills to do something like this for real, but I want this idea to be out there and for someone to make it. And I am willing to be involved.

This is Tumblr, let's collaborate.

*Fun fact that I just learned, the Roman alphabet is taken from the Etruscans, who borrowed it from Greek immigrants but shortened their names. And the Romans called Y the "Greek I", which is why when I go to the DMV I keep on hearing a Spanish voice calling for "Igriega". (Sources 1, 2)

#not academic material #not yet anyway...#phonics #early childhood education #early literacy #target audience K-2 #teachblr

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justevelynnnn · 2 days ago

Text

Helping a friend (again)

Summary: Your mind hasn’t stopped racing since your night with Rex. A low moment in time. You turn to drinking to try and stifle the thoughts but it only makes you go right back to his place.

And now it’s Rex’s turn to help you.

Warnings: {Smut} MDNI 🔞, Reader is implied to be drunk & Rex is not, reader has female genitalia, alcoholism, throwing up, mentioning of oral sex and piv

A/N: I love the ask so much 😭 and also Rex. I saw some silly video a while back about guys who have messy rooms have bomb dick and that’s totally him.

Part 1 here | (Inspired by this ask)

You should’ve known better.

It had been about three weeks since that night between you and Rex. It was just supposed to be a one time thing; and it was at the time, but that’s what drove you mad recently.

If you were really honest and truthful, that was the best sex you’ve ever had and it was fucking embarrassing. Rex was a fool. An asshole. A cheater. The list goes on and on and on…

But, you could not deny the fact that that man could lay down some serious ass pipe.

Mark was fine, but Rex was crazy good. Maybe it was the difference in personality but either way there was just no denying it.

So, when his “birthday” came up and there was a party in the hideout you wished you said no. It wasn’t his actual birthday, since he was raised in a lab and was never told it he just made one up, but still he loved to go crazy for his birthdays.

This one was “special” since he’d be turning 21 according to him. He planned to get everyone drunk, but no one was having it nor following.

You tried to stay away from him after that night. Something about the way he looked at you and held you made you feel violently ill. It wasn’t being in love with him that was the issue, it was what came with it all. Both of you had serious baggage and, also, exes. Eve would probably be pissed. Mark would be livid, or worse, utterly disgusted. Maybe not to an extreme amount but still.

That next day you just drank, tried to forget it all happened, but then you woke up the next day with a bottle next to your head that assumed you didn’t finish before passing out because your pillows and bedding reeked of alcohol. It even got in your hair. Not to mention the gross hangover you had.

Last week, you tried again, but it was the same results.

You tried your best to forget. Doomscrolling, watching movies and reruns, you even played cards with Robot knowing you just lose over and over, but at the end of the day the only thing to help was alcohol. You didn’t care what it was…beer, wine, whatever. As long as you were good and drunk for a while and on cloud nine. Nothing mattered and of you were careful, you learned, you wouldn’t just throw it all up later.

It helps for a little while, but you did have to admit it was getting out of control. And fast.

You needed help.

Anyways, today was the day. You put on some sweats and a tank, nothing fancy. Not like Rex would’ve cared anyway, he already knows what you look like underneath any clothing.

You took a long swig of wine before you left your place. Pregaming was a new habit of yours. You didn’t even know why you did it, and you knew Cecil would kick your ass if he found out you showed up to missions drunk as shit. You only did it because recently you were a mess and the drinking helped stifle that.

The party, or really the gathering was in the evening. It was getting dark by the time you walked in. Your eyes immediately laid on Mark, who was surprisingly there. After him you saw Rex laughing it up with Eve, though she looked a bit bored of him already. The place was poorly decorated, so much so that you almost started laughing.

You decided to make your way to the table with snacks and drinks and pick up a glass to pour yourself some of the champagne that sat in the middle.

You need up drink nearly the whole bottle before Mark eventually made his way over to you. You took a deep breath, already feeling buzzed.

You two made usual just recently broke up awkward conversation. Bland “how are yous”, even more bland and awkward updates to subtly show the other person was moving on. Already buzzed you let it slip you slept with someone and that was your first big regret of the night. The alcohol started to hit you like a truck right then and there. Your legs were soon replaced with jello and your heart hammered as Mark slightly narrowed his eyes. You could tell he was trying to mentally guess who.

Please don’t guess Rex. You thought while also trying not to throw up.

Mark just awkwardly shrugged it off and congratulated you. He found a way to get away and found himself sitting close to Eve sipping a drink.

The party was going as expected, Rex going crazy whole everyone watched and smiled or made some witty comment about his behavior. Amanda took it upon herself to even bake a cake. Oh, how wonderful. His ex bakes him a cake to what? Win him back?

You don’t know when you started glaring at Eve, but that was regret number two. You immediately started just drink out of another champagne bottle and this was after you had a can of beer right after your awkward encounter with Mark. Kate saw you slightly slumped in a chair away from everyone else and decided to approach. She asked what was wrong, and all the alcohol had you spilling just like with Mark. You told her everything. Breaking up with Mark, Sleeping with Rex and now sufro some reason craving him? You told her you figured she’d understand because she also slept with him and just had to relate in some way…right?

Well, no. Kate was just horny, apparently. Rex was a weirdo. Apparently.

You felt bile coming up just from that alone. Her comforting words after didn’t help either. Most of it was a blur actually just like most of that night now. You never really liked her anyways. Why were you even here? You were making such a fool of yourself-

The second she patted you on the back you puked. The room went silent as you threw up on yourself. Rex, who was in the middle of trying to backflip off a table, immediately rushed over with everyone else while Kate reeled back in disgust.

You tried so hard to avoid Rex that night and yet here he was in front of you asking over and over if you were okay. The taste of your breakfast and the multiple drinks made you want to puke again but you refused to let your body do so. Tears were already welling up as heat rose to your cheeks immediately. You never wanted to disappear so bad in your whole life.

You already felt like shit when you showed up but now things were worse. You smelled bad, you looked bad and you felt bad.

Regret number three was letting Rex take you into the bathroom.

He seemed genuinely concerned sure, but all you could think about was that night. It didn’t help with the position he had you in, sitting on the side of the sink while he was kneeled down in the cabinets looking for towels. He said nothing but moved swiftly. He wiped your face for you while you quietly cried, you didn’t know when you started crying but you were. Words sat on the top of your tongue.

It was nothing but water running and you sniffling for several minutes.

Then he guided you down and held your hand as he led you to his room down the hall. He notably left the door open, probably to make you feel safe knowing nothing will go down. It eased your nerves a bit for some reason, though, being back in the room you couldn’t stop thinking about did not. In fact, it probably made you feel worse than better.

He rummaged around for a clean shirt while you just stood by his door. His room was mess, as usual, but it seemed more messier than usual. Empty soda cans, dirty laundry, a bed not made and notably that bong under his bed. There’s lots of other things too but he distracted you when he handed you a shirt.

“I….i can’t.” You whispered hoarsely. You couldn’t look him in the eyes right now. Maybe not ever again.

He paused and looked confused. “….Uh..why?”

“Because, because I can’t go out in your shirt..what if-what if they….?” You glanced into his eyes for a second before looking away again.

He said nothing for awhile. You couldn’t look at anything but your feet or that bong. The smell of his room made you feel an emotion you couldn’t quite explain. Just about a mix of everything maybe. Anger for making that stupid decision to sleep with him. Sadness for the same reason. Lust for the same reason as well. Fear because being here increased that happening again. Nausea, but that could still be the alcohol….

He cleared his throat, “Look, I’m…sorry if you felt pressured that night…”

“I didn’t feel pressured-”, You interrupted rather embarrassingly quickly. He actually stifled a laugh at that.

“Well, okay, but…” He looked away and sighed. “ Look, you can’t go back out in your shirt because it’s, well, covered in your pretty princess vomit. Just wear mine, no one will think anything.”

You took the shirt and sighed yourself. You finally looked back up to see his face. He had a rare look of calm, but mixed with that look that made you sick. Why did he have to look at you like you were everything?

“Hey, so, if we don’t hurry back they probably will think something by the way..”, He joked but you still stood there.

You giggle a bit and started to take your slightly damp shirt off before he whistled.

“What now?”

“Where have we seen this before?” Rex smiled a shit eating grin and you couldn’t help but laugh again.

“Shut the hell up and turn around.” You teased feeling notably lighter.

When he did turn around you quickly changed shirts. His was a bit bigger on you but it was comfortable.

“Can I turn back around now, madam?” He asked in a sing song tone.

You didn’t really respond but after a few seconds he ended up turning around anyway. Once he laid eyes on you it seemed like he had that look again. That soft look he seems to only have around you. Maybe it was seeing you in his clothes that did it, who knows.

You still felt a bit lightheaded from drinking all day and the fact you vomited in front of everyone; the scene replayed over and over in your brain like torture. Rex could tell from the fact you were wobbly and buddied you sit on your bed even though you drunkenly tried to fight him off.

“Hey…why are we on your bed?”, you asked skeptical. His room started smelling like Mountain Dew and weed but it could very much be the bed itself. Rex just sat next to you and handed you a water bottle.

“Here. I think you need to sober up a bit before going back actually.” He sighed looking away.

You didn’t drink the water at first, afraid you’ll probably throw up again, but you decided you need to do it anyway. Rex was right, you lost a lot of fluid. You took small sips, not noticing Rex was looking at you once again. You couldn’t lie, he looked good. Maybe it was from you being drunk or maybe he was just like that but he did. And if he knew this he definitely took advantage because he had a ridiculous amount of confidence.

“You look like you wanna kiss me.” It came out quick and blatant. Your filter was slipping more and more. Rex just snorted but even you could see the faint blush forming. You smiled at this and leaned closer.

“Maybe I do…but you’re…drunk and pukey…” He made an exaggerated disgusted face at you and waved his hands as if to shoo you. While you wanted to laugh again this time you felt saddened. You didn’t know why. You were back to looking at your feet on the ground and it was then you noticed this man didn’t even have a bed frame. Was it like this before or did you miss it when you were in here the first time?

Rex picked up on this and put a hand on yours, “I’m sorry, was that too…harsh?”

You nod once.

A beat of silence and then you feel his other hand guide your face towards him so you could look into his green eyes once more. He apologized again but you weren’t really paying attention because your mind was still wandering. The door was still wide open. This was only an issue because there was a creeping thought and desire of just wanting to be plowed by Rex again.

You felt your self respect was slipping when you glanced down at his crotch. Maybe your mind was playing tricks on you but you swore he had a semi hard on there. You started feeling giddy, was this because you were pretty? You always loved this part of being drunk. It started to feel like you were floating on air as you started to move in to kiss him.

The second you felt his lips on yours you were a moaning mess. Rex never stopped you either, in fact he kissed back.

The next moments were a blur. Clothes were coming off, really everything but his shirt on your back. The kisses were sloppy on your part but naturally you didn’t care as you just felt satisfied with finally giving in. You didn’t need alcohol, you just need his hands and mouth.

The door was still open when he was eating you out and telling you how it was going to be okay. You cried about how you wanted to find answers at the bottom of a bottle or can, how you didn’t know why you felt this way you just did. If someone walked by or even heard what was happening you’d never hear the end of it.

But it was okay because Rex was here. His wet, warm tongue against your folds made none of that matter. You didn’t care about the smells or the trash or the messy bed you just wanted him. You wanted him and you didn’t want to explain why.

Everything moved so fast but so slow at the same time. It was your turn to please him before you knew it. He pulled your shirt up so it was bunched by your neck and your breasts were exposed. He groaned at the sight and groaned deeper when he finally had himself in your mouth. Rex loved blow jobs. Head. Brain. Whatever people said.

But he loved nothing more than pussy. It was probably the best thing on earth.

Eve and Kate were great but you? Maybe it was how you threw yourself at him and practically begged for his dick. He knew he had problems sometimes in moments like this..he just didn’t care.

He had your face in a pillow just like before with your ass perched in the air before you knew it. He teased your clit before going in. You never felt so full of every emotion. You didn’t even know what you were doing anymore. Rex said he was helping you, just like before, so why did it feel like you both were doing something wrong?

The usual wet, slapping sound of sex filled the room and both your ears. Mattress squeaks and Rex’s low grunts also. You could barely breathe, his string hand in your hair pushing for face down as he thrusted deeper into your begging pussy. You clenched him with every moan he let out because, god did he sound beautiful.

You let out an extended whimper as you neared orgasm, signaling him to fuck you harder. You became hyper aware of all the sensations suddenly. The smell of sex and faint smells from his room, the knot in your belly threatening to snap and the feeling of his balls slapping against your clit. You forgot you were crying the entire time until he rubbed your back to soothe you. You were a mess and yet, here you were about to make a bigger one on his bed.

A couple more thrusts and a shuddering sigh from you as you started to cum and he was finishing in you yet again. Cumming at the same time was therapeutic. This is what you needed all along.

Your body felt weak and unfortunately that post clarity was kicking in the second he pulled out of you. You felt his cum dripping out of you and yiu never felt more like a whore.

“I hope you’re not going anywhere..” Rex said softly as you shifted to get up. He wiped you down with yet another shirt like last time and just tossed it.

“Where will I go?” You sighed sitting up fully, your body aching more. “I can’t face them now for sure. It’s probably been like 20 minutes.”

Rex just laughed as he stood and pulled his pants up. He handed you some underwear, which were just his boxers, to put on but you were confused why he was laughing.

“What’s s’funny?” You asked shifting your weight awkwardly, you were still loopy and weird from being drunk but also from the aftermath of your orgasm.

“Heh, well it’s just that we’ve been gone for a hour. Not 20 minutes.”

Your heart was instantly in your ass and your mouth got very dry. An hour? How the hell could you explain that to anyone down there?

Rex smiles wide. Of course he didn’t care, these things were different for guys. Before you could really spiral he was right by your side with a hand on your shoulder.

“Don’t look so scared…I’m just happy to help a friend.”

#rex splode x you #rex splode invincible #rex splode smut #rex splode x reader #invincible rex splode #rex splode #invincible smut #invincible fanfic #invincible x reader #invincible

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