#this is gonna be the last update for a while

[dissociativewriter]

Unnatural Affinity- Part 12

Isekai!Reader x Love and Deepspace

wc: 2.6k

cw: angst, very vague allusions to self harm, semi-crash out from em i guess (?), hurt/comfort technically, yearning tbh, reader is referred to with she/her pronouns (i try to avoid that but sorry), im getting really casual with these content warnings, mostly bc i think no one reads what i actually write up here

Synopsis: While you talk with Rafayel, Sylus gets a visit from someone he thought had disappeared. (i’m bad at synopses)

author’s note: this took me a little longer to put out so im sorry >_< im really looking forward to writing zayne next though! then caleb and then its reader and em again and its gonna get crazy and then im gonna put up a poll so y’all can decide how i end it! i hope y’all are excited lol im getting closer to the end and its making me kinda sad cause i love this series but i have multiple ideas for different series so i might have multiple ongoing after this <3

taglist: @animegamerfox @ixloom819 @magennta09 @an-ever-angry-bi @corvid007 @vigtore @ph1lo-s0ph1a @ameili @babyx91 @sadsaidthesadthing @bidisasterforevermore @liz9898 @iconoclastoc @elegantdeerlady @lifumi @auraficial @plzdonutpercieveme @dolledbunnytail @junebuggz @mangooes @anatherone @skulzooka @yuhuahuaaa @nm4565natty @feikyuu @lunia-likes-pomegranet @xfangirl-trashx @glitterykingdomangel @eialovescats @mimiu3usoft @alyssac9 @000rpheus @novaisbebita @coffeedragonhobbyist @udejoenrlddo @lanxianschoenheit @paper--angel @xyzbeloved @rafayelridesfisheatsfish @myheartfollower @nightmarewasteland @feralwolfkat @junni-berry @chiikasevennn @lethalasylum @loudpiratepirate @sweetnightowl @rafaissance @white-wolves-and-golden-sunrises @iunse @asilaydead

Series Masterlist

Onychinus’s base was quiet. Its occupants were comfortably off fulfilling their own tasks, no last-minute crises disrupting them. An unexpected peace settled, though an air of anticipation filled the space.

Sylus had been eyeing the door since you left this morning. Just like he had when you left yesterday.

He knew he shouldn’t worry. He knew you could handle yourself.

He also knew he was going to worry anyway.

You came to him after your talk with Xavier last night, a serious, somber expression painted on. You were quiet at first, sorting through the conversation. He let you. You’d filled Sylus in then, just enough to keep him updated, to know everything was fine. He respected your privacy, the distance you kept with such a sensitive subject, though he wished you’d confide in him.

Allow him to give you shelter from the storm in your eyes.

You’d stopped him, before you left for bed. Told him not to worry. It was sweet of him, you’d said, but unnecessary. That he didn’t need to give Luke and Kieran a task as boring as watching you talk to Xavier, that you knew he wouldn’t hurt you.

Sylus didn’t tell you that he knew that, too. He didn’t tell you that he wanted Luke and Kieran to watch you with Xavier to see if you were interested in him, interested in a way Sylus couldn’t compete with.

Instead, Sylus told you he’d let you be. Not before making you promise to tell him if something goes wrong, though. He’s only a phone call away, after all.

Even a panicked look to Mephisto would do.

You nodded, assuring him that he would be the first person you’d call if things went haywire.

He wasn’t quite sure if he believed you, but he relented nonetheless.

So, when you left the base early this morning, just as Sylus’s business day was ending, he’d told Luke and Kieran to simply drop you off where you asked, no need to watch you.

Of course, now his eyes hadn’t wandered from the front door.

Even as the dark circles under his eyes sunk deeper and his shoulders drooped, Sylus stayed. Waiting patiently.

He wasn’t sure when you’d be back. He just wanted to see you as soon as you were. Make sure you were okay under the guise of a smug smile and a teasing remark.

It wasn’t worth risking the raw vulnerability embedded in his worry if you had another man in your heart, after all.

The soft click of the back door pulled Sylus’s head up, listening carefully to the barely audible footsteps padding through the hallway behind him. Two sets, he noted. Luke and Kieran.

The tension in his shoulders relaxed again as he turned to see the two boys unceremoniously drop onto the couch.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep, Boss?” Kieran asked.

“I’m alright,” Sylus answered shortly.

“You sure, Boss-man?” Luke pushed. “Looks like the bags under your eyes could carry the weight of the world.”

Sylus stared at the twins. “Don’t you two have something better to do than worry about my sleeping habits?”

“Oh, that’s right!” Luke starts, sitting up. “I almost forgot why we came here.”

Kieran sighed. “We’re here to give you a report on the tracking.”

Sylus nodded. “Continue.”

“Looks like Em and Caleb have been staying at his apartment in Skyhaven since Little Boss came here. Haven’t been outside much,” Kieran explained.

“Yeah, they’ve just been holed up in there together. From what we could tell, things looked pretty tense,” Luke said. “But it was pretty much the same thing for a week. Except today. Em left early, about 7:30. Caleb left at 8:00. Went to the Fleet, a new mission or something. We couldn’t track him very far, too high of surveillance on the Colonel.”

“We could track Em after she left, though,” Kieran continued. “She boarded the Coelum Express at 8:00, arriving back in Linkon at 10:00. She first went to her apartment, where she checked every room before leaving. Then she went to the Hunter’s Association.”

“She went to her desk immediately, and she was stopped by Tara and Simone. They talked for about five minutes before Jenna called Em over,” Luke listed off. “Em reported on her most recent mission and then said she had to go. Then she went to Research, talking to Nero very briefly where he gave her very vague answers. Em then sought out Xavier, who seemed more worried about how panicked she looked then answering the questions she asked him.”

Sylus nodded. “Seems like everything’s following the plan,” he muttered. “Where is Em now?”

Kieran shifted on his feet. “That’s the thing, Boss,” he confessed. “We lost her.”

Linkon was incredibly lively.

Bustling streets filled with locals and tourists alike. The chatter rose, echoing through the city so that even the quietest corners were filled with the hum of connection.

It was overwhelming, to say the least.

You navigated the busy streets, wondering just how anyone could manage to live here permanently.

Wondering how the you from before you landed in Love and Deepspace did it.

You’d almost forgotten it, how this life wasn’t really your own. You were filling in the slot of a life already lived, already planned, that you had no recollection of.

Was that person from before really you? Or did you steal the life of another, taking what they deserved?

Feeling your chest tighten, you tried to focus on your breathing instead.

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

It wasn’t like the feeling was new. On the contrary, you often felt like your life wasn’t really your own. Like it wasn’t real, you weren’t real. That all that you’d experienced before was just a precursor to what life really was, what it was supposed to be. Almost convincing yourself that the life you had couldn’t be real, because wasn’t life supposed to be more than that?

Maybe you were still that kid reading Narnia, waiting for a world at the end of the Wardrobe to find her.

You were almost getting better, you thought as you sat down at a cafe. Your hands itched at your thighs, the lengths you’d gone to feel real again a constant reminder.

But then you got dropped into Love and Deepspace. A world that, as far as you were concerned, was just a game come to life.

This wasn’t real, you told yourself. Which is why the fulfillment this life brought hurt all the more.

You thought of what Xavier had said when you told him. How he wasn’t really surprised.

That had caught you off guard at first, but it all clicked when you thought about it later.

Xavier hadn’t been your favorite Love Interest, but there was always something there you connected to. Something quiet, lurking there but not making a show out of itself.

Xavier was never really present, it felt. He was quiet, reserved, always lost in his mind or his dreams.

Always thinking of something else, always something taking his focus, never truly being in the moment.

It made sense he would almost expect a twisted reality, after all he’s seen.

But then you thought of what he’d said after.

It’s real to me. That’s enough.

You hadn’t understood at the time, hadn’t gotten how he could so easily live with that doubt.

How could you live with the possibility that this life might not completely be your own?

But maybe that’s what you were missing. That doubt is just a part of life. No one’s ever really sure, you thought, and that’s okay.

Our reality is what we make it.

It seems this is your reality now. If this is what you have, it’s time to make the best of it.

Sylus was now settled in his office, eyelids still feeling heavy as he watched the security screens. He watched as you made your way to Mo Art Studio, Mephisto patiently watching you from a distance. He wouldn’t know what you were talking about, but he could see if anyone laid a hand on you, and that was enough for him.

Luke and Kieran had run off to who knows where, to sleep or to prank Sylus didn’t know. It was negligible to him, what they did. They had limits, he knew, and he could clean up any messes they made.

It had been a while since their last prank, though, so Sylus kept an eye on the door behind him. He wouldn’t put it past them to do something now, especially since he’s so tired and out of his element.

Sylus didn’t flinch when the door slammed open. Didn’t flinch when his chair was aggressively pulled back from the desk.

What gave him pause was, instead, the click of heels against the floor.

The feeds were immediately cut, any glimpse of what they had shown gone as soon as the door opened.

A security measure Sylus was now thankful he’d implemented.

“Where is she?” Em hissed.

Sylus rose from his chair leisurely, letting out a deep breath. “I don’t know who you’re referring to.”

“You know damn well who I mean!” she exclaimed. “I saw Mephisto outside that morning. I shooed him away, but when I came back she was gone.”

“What a shame.” Sylus smirked. “If you’d let him be, he might have seen who took her.”

“I know it was you, Sylus, just admit it! I saw your stupid bird outside, and that same day she was gone!”

“And obviously, that means I took her.” Sylus raised an eyebrow.

“Well, who else would have?” she asked.

“Enlighten me,” Sylus sighed. “What reason would I have to take your little friend?”

“I don’t know,” Em groaned. “All I know is she’s gone. I—” Her breath caught, eyes watering ever so slightly. “I lost her,” she whispered. “And now I can’t find her.”

Sylus inhaled sharply, staying quiet for a few beats. “You lost her,” he began softly. “Have you ever considering she doesn’t want to be found?”

Mo Art Studio was bright, elegant, a seaside paradise. The soft crash of waves could be heard throughout the grounds, a view of the changing tides almost always visible. You checked your phone again, seeing Rafayel’s latest confirmation that it was okay for you to stop by. The gates in front of the studio were intricate and, most noticeably, open.

You hesitantly made your way through the grounds, stopping just before the front door. With a deep breath, you pushed it open, immediately met with the smell of paint, canvas, and seafood. Rafayel was easily spotted in the open floor plan, situated in an awkward position in front of a canvas.

“Great timing, cutie,” he said as he cast his paintbrush aside. “If I stayed in that position any longer, I’d probably be stuck like that.”

You chuckled as he stretched, white shirt opening slightly. You remained silent as he walked towards you, leaving down slightly to match your height.

“Now, cutie, why did you need to see me so urgently?” he asked.

“I’ve got something important to tell you,” you said, wringing your hands.

Rafayel straightened up. “Do you want to go walk on the beach for this?” He pointed back towards the opened French doors behind him.

Nodding, you took his hand as he led you out onto the sand.

You both discarded your shoes once you got off the boardwalk through the dunes, allowing the sand to shift under your bare feet. The incoming waves nipped at your heels as you took a deep breath.

“Do you remember the first time we met, that painting we were looking at?”

“Of course,” he nodded, “I loved that piece. So did you. But, it didn’t sell.”

“And you remember what you said about when you painted it? How that afternoon was really weird, like the universe was trying to fit in something new?”

Rafayel nodded again, the crease between his brows growing deeper.

“That afternoon was weird for me, too.” You exhaled. “See, I’m not from here, not like you are. I’m from a— a different world. I think that was what was weird about that day. It was me coming into this world.”

Rafayel stared at you. A few beats of silence passed. “So… so what? You’re saying there’s other worlds? Other dimensions? How did you even get here?” he sputtered. A deep sigh. “I knew something weird happened, I just didn’t think…”

“I don’t know how it happened. All I know is, I was there one moment, and the next, I was in Linkon,” you explained.

“Is it that Deepspace tunnel?” he muttered.

“There’s another thing,” you said sheepishly. “In my world, there’s this game, Love and Deepspace.” You tried to explain it slowly, carefully. You explained the events of the Main Story, everything that had happened that even he didn’t know all about. You left out the memories, the romantic moments stolen away that hadn’t happened yet.

You told him about the past lives, though, all that you knew. You watched as a myriad of emotions passed through his eyes, the ghosts of past loves haunting him.

“You know what’s going to happen, then? How it’s going to end?” he asked quietly.

“Not really,” you admitted. “I just know a lot about what has happened, even the things other people haven’t noticed.”

With barely a nod, Rafayel turned to the incoming ocean. Treading the water, his pants were soaked, up through the calf with salt staining the silken black.

“She had my heart,” he whispered, keeping his back to you. “I guess I never had hers, though.”

You took a step forward, the waves lapping at your legs. Pearls dropped, one by one, to the ocean, their tiny splashes becoming lost in the moving tides.

“Rafayel…” you began.

He turned to you, eyes bright and swirling like the eye of a hurricane. “She was never really going to be mine, was she? Not wholly, not completely.” He let out a dull, empty laugh. “Not in this life, not in the last, not in the next. I guess I was never really meant to have a love like that. All I get is something not meant to last, but something that can’t seem to let me breathe without aching.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice cracking.

“Do you know… what happens to me? The bond, it’s still—”

You shook your head. “I’m sorry, I really don’t know.”

“Then… did she ever really love me?” His hands trembled at his sides, the hurricane in his eyes nearly spilling out.

You rushed forward, taking your hand in his. “Of course she did,” you murmured. “She’s always loved you. I think she always will.” You laughed lightly. “I don’t know if it’s ‘meant to be’ like you say, but I think anyone would be foolish not to love you.”

Rafayel chuckled, looking back to the sun’s rays across the ocean before his gaze met yours again, leaning down once more so he was eye-level with you.

“Well, well, cutie. Does this mean you love me, too?” He grinned.

You glanced away, feeling your cheeks warm up. He moved next to you, pulling you against him with an arm around your shoulder.

Pressing a kiss to your hair, he whispered, “Thank you, cutie. That’s more than I need. She was never meant to willingly give me her heart. Maybe its time I find a new muse.”

comments and reblogs appreciated and asks open! <3

masterlist

[e1e4n0r5]

Their Little Plaything: Bonus Scene 5

Masterlist, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Epilogue, Bonus Scene 1, Bonus Scene 2, Bonus Scene 3, Bonus Scene 4

Fandom: Arcane: League of Legends

Pairing: Former Bullies Cait & Vi x Loner Nerd Reader

Words: 6589

Synopsis: The summer between Junior and Senior years doesn't go exactly as you'd planned

Warnings: ANGST!! Relationship insecurities, feelings of isolation, bullying, implied excessive alcohol use

Notes: This wasn't my fault! Someone suggested this a while ago and I wasn't planning on doing it because it's too heart-breaking but then my brain went 'do it' and I had to obey 😭

Summer between Junior and Senior Years

The air on campus buzzed with early summer heat and long goodbyes. Students were dragging overstuffed suitcases down the sidewalks, calling out promises to meet up over the summer break, hugging, laughing, and posing for last-day selfies.

Cait adjusted her bag on her shoulder and turned to Vi with a look that said don’t make a scene.

Vi, of course, was already making one. She had you pulled tightly against her chest, chin tucked over the top of your head, swaying the two of you back and forth with a grip that didn’t seem like it would never let go.

“Eight weeks,” Vi muttered into your hair. “Fuck it, you’re not going, you’re coming with us.”

“Vi-”

“Cait can refund your mom whatever she’s booked, you can’t go,” she begged.

“Vi-”

“How the fuck are we supposed to manage without you for two months!”

Cait spoke louder than you, calling firmly, “Violet.”

She sniffed, shaking her head. “Okay. Okay, I’ve got it. I’ve got it. It’s only eight weeks. That’s nothing. That’s just, like…Forty gym sessions. Without you. Fuck, I’m gonna be so buff by the time you see me.”

Vi finally let go, though her hand lingered around your waist, reluctant to fully let go.

You chuckled softly, but your smile didn’t reach your eyes.

Cait stood close, watching the hug, arms folded lightly. She looked so poised, even now, dressed neatly for her family’s car service that was waiting by the curb. She was trying to keep it together. You were already upset, Vi’s neediness and clinginess was starting to come out…Someone had to be strong. But her eyes softened when you turned to her.

“Are you sure you don’t want us to drive you to the train station?”

“Cait, it’s almost an hour away, in the other direction. You’ve already got to drive three hours; don’t make it five. I’ll be fine, the campus bus’ll be here any minute.”

She nodded unhappily. She knew you were going home to be with your mother over summer – your mum had booked some non-refundable vacation spots months ago, as surprises for you, not knowing you were now in a relationship – but it didn’t mean she wouldn’t miss you.

Still, you’d come spend the last two weeks at the Kiramman summer estate with them (even though Cait’s parents didn’t yet know you were a throuple) but it was still going to be a long summer without each other.

“Have you got your ticket?”

“Yes.”

“Purse?”

“Yes.”

“Phone charger? Headphones, book for the journey?”

“Yes, yes, and yes.”

Cait nodded. “Text us when you get to the station.”

You smiled, trying to force down the tears. “Okay.”

“And when you arrive,” Cait said, stepping forward to cup your face in both hands. “And I expect full updates from you. Books read, meals eaten – with pictures! – outfits worn, exercises done. Photo collages of all the places you go with your mother.”

“Got it,” you whispered. “Everything. You’ll be sick of me.”

Vi’s hand twitched on your waist, resisting the urge to pull you back in. “You’ll be okay, right? You’ve got your mom, and…We’ll have video sex every night-”

You giggled, tears in your eyes. “Not when I’m sharing a room with mum on vacation.”

“Okay, secret titty pics in the shower will suffice for those days,” Vi joked.

“And we made the shared playlist, so we can think of each other when we’re apart…” Cait’s eyes started getting damp.

“Yeah,” you interrupted gently. “Yeah, we’ll be fine. Eight weeks. Two months.”

It felt like you were all saying it to reassure yourselves.

As they said their final goodbyes, Cait pressed a lingering kiss to your lips, and Vi bumped her forehead against yours, whispering, “Don’t forget us, baby.”

The campus shuttle bus arrived only a minute after their car pulled away. You queued with your suitcase, trying not to cry as you got on board, settling into a window seat, watching the campus slowly empty of students as they all went home for those glorious weeks between years.

It wasn’t until you put in your headphones and they didn’t automatically connect that you realised the worst had happened.

You hadn’t noticed at the time, but as you’d been scrambling to finish packing that morning, you’d accidentally knocked your phone off the bedside table, and under the bed. In the chaos to get out of the house on time, you hadn’t checked if it was in your bag.

Your lifeline – your only connection to the women you loved – was out of reach. And would be for eight weeks.

The train ride was torturous. Not only did you not have your music or any way to communicate with your girlfriends or your mother, but because you knew Cait and Vi would be worried sick. You hadn’t texted them when you’d arrived at the train station, you hadn’t texted once during the two-hour train ride, and you hadn’t let them know you’d arrived in your hometown. You knew they’d be going insane with worry!

But you tried to put it out of your mind; there was nothing you could do about your phone, and when you got back to your childhood home, you’d just think of another way to contact them. At least you still had your laptop.

You walked through the Arrivals area of the train station, looking out for your mum. You smiled wide when you saw her.

“There you are!” she called happily, running over and pulling you into her arms.

You hugged her back tightly, not wanting to let go. You hadn’t realized how much you’d missed this; your mum’s shampoo, her perfume, the warmth of her voice, the way she held on like you might slip away.

“Hi, mum,” you choked against her shoulder, trying to hold back tears.

“Oh, I missed you so much, sweetheart!”

Sweetheart.

Your heart panged. Vi. She’d be so worried about you.

“I was texting you, you didn’t reply.”

You shook your head. “I forgot my phone in…My dorm,” you covered quickly.

“Oh, no. We’ll sort something out when we get home. We could always get you one of those ‘burnt’ phones?”

“A burner phone?” you teased.

“Oh, stop it. Come on, let’s get you home. And you can tell me all about what you’ve been up to!”

The house looked the same as ever: white paint peeling just a little more, flower boxes full of red geraniums struggling in the summer heat, wind chimes clinking softly in the breeze.

Inside, everything smelled like lemon polish and fresh laundry. You sank into the familiar cushions of the old sofa, curling your legs under you as your mum bustled about, making tea.

“You look tired,” your mum said, handing you a steaming mug and sitting beside you. “School been that rough?”

You hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. The semester ended okay. Just…A lot happened this year.”

“Girlfriend trouble?” Your mum raised an eyebrow and gave you that look – curious, patient, not pushing.

You traced the rim of your mug with your thumb. “Well…”

She grinned. “I knew it! I knew my baby had a girlfriend! Who is she, what’s her name?”

“Well…Um…”

“Oh…Oh, is it a boy?” she asked in surprise, like it were a secret.

That snapped you out of your hesitation. “No, no, definitely not a boy.”

“So, we’re still lesbian?”

You laughed. “Yes, mum, we are still a lesbian.”

“Well, spit it out then! Who is she?”

“Cait-”

“Cait! Awww, that’s such a nice name! Is she-?”

“-And Vi.”

Your mum paused, blinking. “Caitandvi? That’s her name? Where’s she from?”

“No, mum. Caitlyn and Violet. I have two girlfriends.”

She gasped your full name. “Are you cheating on those girls? Do they know about this?”

“No, mum, stop! I have two girlfriends. We’re all together. We’re in a three-person relationship. I have two girlfriends; Cait has two girlfriends; Vi has two girlfriends.”

You could almost see your mum’s brain rebooting. “Oh. Oh, I see! Is that the open relationship stuff?”

You shook your head. “No, not open. The three of us are together, no-one else. Closed unit.”

She finally nodded. “Okay, okay, got it. How long have you been together?”

You sipped your tea. “Since just before Christmas.”

She gasped. “And why haven’t you told me this before?”

You looked at her. “Mum, can you imagine trying to have the conversation we just had…Over the phone? When half the time you still face the camera the wrong way.”

She rolled her eyes at you. “Alright, missy, settle down.” She was quiet for a beat. “Are they nice to you?”

You smiled a little, surprised by the question – and the emotion it stirred. “Yes. They make me feel safe. Loved. Seen.”

Your mum nodded slowly. “Then I’m happy for you, and I can’t wait to meet them. It’s not about the shape of the relationship. It’s about how it makes you feel.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, feeling so relieved at your mum’s acceptance and blessing. “They’re really different. Cait’s like…Precision and care. She was Class President this year, and she’s won again for next year too! And Vi’s all fire; she’s on the school football team. They balance each other, and somehow…I fit in there too.”

“They sound like good girls,” your mum said, sipping her tea.

Your eyes stung a little. “I miss them already. I can’t believe I dropped my phone at home and didn’t even notice! I haven’t been able to get in touch with them. They’re going to be so worried about me, or think I’m ignoring them!”

Your mum reached over, rubbing your shoulder gently. “They’ll be waiting for you. The ones who love you always are.”

The first few days at home weren’t terrible. Maddening. But not terrible. You’d spent the first evening trying to figure out how the hell you could contact either, or both, of them.

Your mum had offered to buy you a burner phone – but you didn’t know their numbers.

You’d considered email – but you didn’t have their email addresses.

You could see their social media accounts, but you couldn’t comment or message without an account.

You’d tried to get into your private account (that you only ever used to doomscroll and look at what Cait and Vi posted), but the platform wanted to send a verification code to your phone number – which you didn’t fucking have access to! You’d emailed the help desk, offering to answer any and all security questions – do anything they needed! – but they said there was nothing they could do without your phone.

You could write them a goddamn letter – except you didn’t know either of their families’ addresses, and the Kiramman summer estate was unlisted.

And this rate, you’d have to resort to smoke signals or carrier pigeons…You could just imagine trying to wrangle a bird, sticking a letter to its leg and telling it to go find Cait or Vi. That would only go well…

You unpacked slowly, folding your clothes into the drawers of your childhood bedroom, surrounded by posters you hadn’t bothered to take down when you left for college. Your mum made all your favourite meals, fussed over your hair, asked too many questions about your relationship. It was familiar. Safe.

But not the same.

You kept reaching for your phone, again and again, only to realize it wasn’t in your pocket. Wasn’t on the dresser. Wasn’t in your bag. It was nowhere.

Day by day, the silence stretched out longer. No Cait teasing you in the morning with perfectly timed sensual voice notes. No Vi sending blurry selfies from the grocery store with captions like do we need ten frozen pizzas?

Just…Nothing.

Your mum had surprised you with a disposable camera on day three.

“I know it’s not a fancy phone but you can still take pictures to show the girls! You’ll have to get them developed and printed, but that’s what we did back then,” she explained as she unpacked some groceries.

You examined the camera with a smile, eyeing the extra rolls of film she brought. “Thanks, mum. This is kinda cool. Retro.”

“Please do not describe anything from my youth as retro,” she scolded.

So you started taking photos. You hoped they were okay, you couldn’t see what you’d taken. Maybe everything would end up blurry, or your finger would be over the lens. You captured your outfits of the day – OOTD, as you’d learnt from Cait’s social media. Most of your meals, so Cait would know you’d eaten, even if she wasn’t getting live updates. The beach day you and your mum went on (obligatory secret titty pic for Vi, which then gave you a panic attack thinking of an employee at a photo shop who may end up seeing your boobs). An award-winning photo of your feet propped up on the porch swing, a book in your lap, the sunset in the distance, a gentle blur to the photo to give it that soft and romantic vibe.

The knowledge that the girls would see the photos in the future kept you going, even when you were cut off from them. It was a little thing to hold on to.

But by day ten the doubts began to creep in.

You’d been looking at their social media accounts over the days. Smiles, sun, cocktails by the pool, evening meals in restaurants Cait’s family paid for. Not one mention of you, or missing someone special. Nothing. Just them enjoying themselves.

Two carefree love-struck college girls, living their best summer life.

Maybe it was easier if they didn’t love you back.

Maybe it was better not to hope.

Maybe they’d gone back to Caitlyn’s estate, to her rich family and fancy silverware and acres of land, and realized how easy it would be to forget about you.

You began to wonder if you’d made it all up. If the love was temporary. Conditional. Something that had ended with the school year, like a class schedule or a lease agreement.

Without Cait or Vi checking in, holding you, reminding you that you were safe and wanted and real… You’d never felt so alone.

You walked past your old high school on your way to the grocery store, and it made your stomach twist. Your mind filled with all the horrible memories of your years there – the mocking, the tormenting, the horrific isolation.

The fluorescent lights in the grocery store buzzed quietly overhead. You hadn’t meant to linger, just grab milk for the two of you and leave. But your thoughts kept wandering – without a phone to distract you – to the feel Cait’s fingers tracing your hip, Vi’s laugh muffled into your neck, the smell of both of them next to you in bed.

“Oh my god, look who it is,” a voice drawled behind you.

You turned slowly, praying it wasn’t—

Heather Scott. The girl who played the prank on you in high school, outing you to the whole school, your humiliation published on social media for the world to see. Same perfect teeth, same overly tanned skin. She looked you up and down with a smirk that made you feel fifteen again.

“Didn’t think I’d see you back here,” Heather said, arms crossed. “You always acted like you were too good for this town. What happened, college not work out?”

You frowned. “It’s summer break, Heather.”

Her eyes scanned you. “You look the same. Bit skinnier. Still quiet, huh? Still lesbo?”

You wanted to disappear, but somehow you couldn’t move.

“Oh, come on. Not learnt how to take a joke yet? Bet you’re still the weird girl no-one wants to sit with.”

Your cheeks burned. “Actually, I’m not.”

She raised her eyebrows. “No? You finally got some friends at that fancy college?”

“I do, yeah. I’ve got a best friend-” Shit, you haven’t been able to talk to Powder, either!

She laughed. “Wow, that’s super impressive…”

“And two girlfriends.”

Heather blinked. “Two girlfriends? Now I know you’re making shit up.”

“Look them up: Caitlyn Kiramman and Violet Lanes,” you challenged, even though you hated every desperate word pouring out of your mouth. Why were you doing this? Why were you so desperate for this bitch’s approval? You’d stopped liking her the second she aided in your public humiliation, and that was years ago!

She just laughed to herself as she tapped away on her phone. After a few seconds, she paused, eyebrow lifting. “Blue hair, kinda tall?”

“Yeah! That’s Cait-”

“You’re seriously trying to tell me that these two,” she turned the phone around and showed you the latest photo on Cait’s profile – the two of them sitting in the shallow end of a pool, each with a drink in hand, kissing passionately, “Drop-dead gorgeous women are into you?”

Your heart twisted. “Yes-”

“No fucking way, Y/N. They are way too hot for you. They’re both off-the-scale hot, and you’re seriously like a three on a good day. And besides,” she scrolled back on Cait’s feed, shaking her head, “There’s no mention of you. No other girlfriend, they don’t say they miss anyone, they’re not looking forward to seeing anyone…”

Your heart twisted again. “I’ve asked them to keep me off social media-”

“Why, if you’re really together? Oh, because of that stupid prank years ago? You really think people from school will still pick on you for that? No-one gives a fuck about you anymore.” She rolled her eyes. “You’re such a fucking loser, Y/N. I bet you’ve made up this whole thing in your head, and these girls don’t even know you. Hey, let me check.” She tapped away on her phone, chewing her gum for a few seconds, and then laughed. “Ha! See!”

She turned the phone back around, showing you a private message screen between her and Cait.

Heather Scott: Y/N says hi

Caitlyn Kiramman: ??

Your lip trembled, your heart pounded.

No.

No, they wouldn’t.

Two question marks doesn’t explain anything! That could mean anything!

Then another message popped up:

Caitlyn Kiramman: Stay the fuck out of our business

* * * Ten days earlier * * *

“Do you think she’ll miss us?”

Vi lay on Cait’s chest in the back of her family’s car, a waterproof blanket beneath them and fluffy one tucked over their naked bodies. It was a three-hour drive to the Kiramman summer estate from college; they had perfected a routine, one they couldn’t wait to show you.

Vi held Cait tightly, as Cait stroked her fingers through her dark hair, lightly scratching her scalp.

“Of course she will.”

“Has she messaged?” she lifted her head a little of Cait’s chest, only to have her hand bring it back down.

She checked her phone screen, unable to hide her disappointment. “Nothing yet.”

“But it’s been two hours,” Vi protested.

“I know,” Cait soothed, “But she might have been in a rush at the station, or maybe her phone died on the train. She’ll let us know as soon as she can. Now, do you want another quick round, or a 30-minute nap before we have to make ourselves presentable?”

Vi growled playfully. “What do you think?”

The Kiramman summer estate was beautiful, quiet, and utterly suffocating. The white brick mansion sat surrounded by orange groves, miles from the nearest neighbouring mansion. Complete with a large pool and bar, terrace, home gym, games rooms, home cinema, and much more, it was the perfect place to escape city life for those precious few weeks of glorious summer weather.

Cait stood at the balcony of her bedroom, arms crossed, watching the distant lights of the city on the horizon. Her family’s staff had unpacked their things as they got settled with tea with her parents. The sheets were pressed, the pillows fluffed, and dinner had been served with ceremonial polish.

But it was missing something. Someone.

Vi tossed and turned behind her, huffing softly. “She hasn’t texted.”

“I know.”

“I know she can be forgetful, but she wouldn’t just disappear.” Vi sat up, bare arms tense, tattoos flexing with every anxious movement. “What if something happened to her?”

Cait turned. “Maybe her phone died, or maybe she’s just catching up with her mother. She’s been saying for weeks how much she’s missed her. She’ll reach out when she can.”

Vi ran her hands through her hair, agitated. “I don’t like this.”

“I don’t either,” Cait admitted gently. She crossed the room, sitting beside Vi. “But she knows how much we love her.”

Vi leaned forward, elbows on knees. “How can she not have texted back yet? She cried when we were 10 minutes late home last week!”

Cait smiled faintly, brushing Vi’s arm with her fingers. “Okay, to be fair to her: her period was really messing her up that day and she later admitted that she overreacted.” They both smiled softly. “She’ll come back to us, Violet. She always does.”

Cait’s mother, Cassandra, insisted they have tea on the terrace, dressed in light summer linens, surrounded by the expansive gardens filled with bright flowers and gleaming marble paths.

Vi barely touched her tea, her legs jostling under the table constantly.

When they returned to Cait’s room, Vi threw herself down onto the chaise, groaning.

“I’m losing my mind,” she said into a pillow.

Cait sat on the edge of the bed, undoing the clasp of her sandals. “It’s only been three days.”

“Exactly. And I already feel like I’m going to chew through the walls. Why hasn’t she messaged us back! Or even just read the messages!”

Cait looked over at her, walking over slowly. “Is this about missing her, or needing something else?”

Vi met her eyes. “Both.”

Cait’s expression softened.

Vi looked up at her, and for once her bravado cracked – she looked small. “She grounds me. I’m angry all the time and she just…Dissolves it.”

Cait kissed her forehead, then pushed her onto her back on the chaise with a hand on her throat. “Then let me help until she’s back.”

Vi pulled her hips close with a desperate sigh. “You better. I’m losing it here.”

They always shared Cait’s bed at the summer home – the Kiramman parents weren’t naïve enough to imagine that the girls would sleep separately. It was soft and plush, a wonderful bed by all accounts. But neither Cait nor Vi had slept well since they arrived.

“Cait,” Vi whispered desperately on the fourth night, “Touch me.”

Cait turned, stroking her hand down Vi’s side. “You’re trembling.”

“I just…I can’t stop thinking about her.”

“I know.”

Vi pressed into her, mouth at Cait’s collarbone. “You have to take it. All of it. Please. I can’t be gentle.”

Cait allowed Vi to roll her over in a practiced, effortless shift of movement. “Then don’t be. Let it out. You know I can take it.”

Vi’s fingers clawed at her, and Cait kissed her like a balm. Steady, grounding, there. There was no teasing. No slow build. Just desperate hunger, and the two of them trying to chase something that didn’t feel whole without their third.

Afterwards, Vi broke down a little, quiet tears slipping down her cheeks. Cait pulled her close, combing through her hair as they lay in the dark.

“We’re gonna be okay,” she whispered.

“Not until she’s home.”

Cait stared at her phone, brows drawn.

“She still hasn’t read any messages,” she said, sitting on the lounger by the pool, clad in her favourite bikini.

Vi paced the patio like a trapped tiger. “She always answers. Even if it’s just a heart. Even if she’s in class.” She groaned, squeezing the back of her neck. “I knew something felt off. Something’s happened.”

Cait raised a hand. “Let’s not panic. It could be something small. Broken phone, tech issue...” But even as she spoke, she didn’t believe it.

Vi paused, hands clenching and unclenching. “What if it’s not?”

Cait shook her head powerlessly. “Well, she hasn’t blocked either of us, and she hasn’t left our group chat. So, we’re not dumped yet. Plus, imagine how she must be feeling – at least we’re together; she doesn’t have either of us, she’s on her own.”

They both sat in silence for a moment.

“I just…” Vi started, then stopped. Her voice cracked slightly. “I just miss her so bad, Cait. And I feel guilty. Like I shouldn’t, because I’m with you and I love you – I love you so fucking much – but it’s like...Half of me’s gone.”

Cait took her hand and pulled her down to sit next to her on the lounger. She wrapped her arm around Vi’s waist, leaning into her chest.

“You’re allowed to miss her,” Cait whispered. “I miss her too. Every time I wake up and she’s not wedged between us like our little space heater, I miss her all over again. Every time I send her a text and see it sitting there, unread. You’re not alone in that.”

Vi buried her face in Cait’s shoulder. “I didn’t think I’d fall this hard. For both of you. But I did. And now it feels like she’s just…Gone.”

Cait pulled back just enough to cup her face. “She’s not gone. She loves us. We’ll figure out what’s going on soon, and then we’ll laugh about how panicked and stressed we were.”

Vi nodded slowly, clinging to the hope in Cait’s voice.

Vi barely made it halfway through breakfast.

The Kirammans had insisted they join the morning meal on the terrace again – polished silverware, crystal glasses, and political small talk.

Vi pushed her food around her plate – having drunk too much the night before – and gave clipped, muttered responses. Her hand twitched toward her pocket every few minutes, checking her phone again and again for a message she knew wouldn’t be there.

When her fork clattered too loudly against the porcelain, Cait’s mother looked at her in concern. Vi muttered an apology and stood.

“I’ll go check on her,” Cait said smoothly, folding her napkin and excusing herself to follow before Cassandra could ask what on Runeterra was going on with the two of them.

She found Vi standing beneath the covered walkway, staring out at the fountain like she wanted to punch it.

“She’s still not answered,” Vi said when Cait came up beside her.

“She still hasn’t blocked us, though. That’s something.”

Vi huffed, tugging at her hair. “You don’t get it.”

“I miss her too, Vi,” Cait replied defensively.

“No, Cait, I need her. I wake up thinking about her, I can’t sleep without her breathing next to me. You’re my rock, you always have been, but Y/N…She’s like breathing now.”

Cait didn’t speak. She only reached out, gently curling her hand around Vi’s, pulling her forehead to rest against hers

“I don’t know how to calm down without her. I need her here. I need her safe. I can’t do another seven weeks of this, Cupcake,” she wept.

“We’ll help each other,” Cait said. “And when we get back, we’ll remind her how much she matters to us. Every day.”

They didn’t speak much that morning. Vi was up first, pacing the length of their bedroom like a caged animal. She needed to fucking destroy something. Cait stayed in bed longer than she normally would, her arm curled around your pillow, which Vi had insisted they bring, despite Cait’s protests that it was ‘a little much.’ Both women were grateful for it now.

She buried her face in it, inhaling your scent, and when Vi looked back over to check on her, Cait didn’t lift her head.

“Hey.” Vi knelt beside the bed. “You alright?”

“I thought I’d be stronger than this,” Cait admitted. “I thought if anyone would hold us together, it’d be me.”

Vi’s heart ached seeing her like this, neat hair loose, voice small.

“We both suck at this,” Vi said, crawling into bed beside her and pulling Cait against her chest.

“I want to be with her. I want to wake up with her. I want her curled up on the couch reading while you and I bicker about what to make for dinner.”

Vi smiled softly. “I miss those dumb slippers. The ones with the ears. I always said they weren’t cute. But now I realise how fucking adorable they are.”

“I miss her humming while she brushes her teeth.”

Vi leaned her forehead against Cait’s. “We’re so gay.”

Cait laughed for the first time in days.

By the eight day, something had changed.

Cait had retreated into a cold silence. She read books, scrolled on her phone, posted pool pics like nothing was wrong. But Vi saw through it – the coolness that was a mask for something fraying underneath.

That afternoon in their room, Cait pulled out her laptop and scrolled through photos, silent.

“She’s in every one,” she said softly.

Vi came to lie beside her on her front, looking at the black-and-white photo on the screen.

You were in a towel, hair wet and smiling shyly as Cait took the picture.

“We made her feel safe,” Cait said. “And now she’s gone home, without us. To that place that was never safe for her.”

Vi swallowed. “We’re gonna bring her back. We have to. She’s probably scared. Or lonely. Or convinced we’ve forgotten her.” She gritted her teeth. “Why can’t we just say we miss her in a post?”

Cait shook her head softly. “She asked us to keep her off social media. We made a promise, Vi. We can’t break her trust just because we miss her.”

Vi teared up a little. “But if she’s watching our feeds, she’d see it.” Her throat started burning and she had to swallow thickly. “She’s hurting somewhere, I know it. And we can’t do anything about it.”

“We will,” Cait said. “As soon as we get home.”

“In seven weeks,” Vi almost sobbed into the comforter.

Taking a break from the pool, Cait and Vi were in the pool’s private kitchen getting some cold drinks. Cait sat on a stool at the bar, Vi rifling through the glass bottles on top.

Cait looked up. “Vi…,” she said softly, a small shake of her head.

The dark-haired girl sighed, hanging her head. With annoyed acceptance, she pulled out a pitcher of fruity mocktails from the fridge, pouring two glasses.

“Day ten,” she said, voice flat.

Cait replied quietly, “I know,” staring at her dark phone screen. Waiting for message. Anything.

Vi braced her arms on the counter. “What if she thinks we’ve moved on? What if…What if her mom said something? Or some dipshit from town?”

“We don’t know that. But we know her. We know how much she loves us.” It had become a mantra for them both during their stay.

“Then why hasn’t she tried to message? Not even a fucking email?”

“Violet, she doesn’t know our emails,” Cait reminded delicately. “She doesn’t have our numbers memorised. Who does, these days?”

Vi looked up, red-rimmed eyes meeting Cait’s. “I feel like I’m falling apart. And I’m with you. That should be enough, right? But it’s not. And I hate that.”

“Vi. You don’t have to choose between me and her. Missing her doesn’t mean you love me less.”

Out of nowhere, Cait’s phone pinged. She grabbed for it frantically, almost dropping it in the process.

1 message from [Unknown Contact]

It was you! It had to be! You found a way to make an account!

Cait’s face lit up…And then dropped.

“Who the fuck is Heather Scott?” Vi demanded, reading over Cait’s shoulder.

“And why is she with Y/N?”

Cait typed back ‘??’, dreading the response she would get. “I don’t think Y/N has ever mentioned-”

Vi’s head shot up. “She’s that bitch!” she shouted, accidentally too close to Cait’s ear.

“Ow, Vi!”

“She’s that bitch that pretended to like Y/N in high school and then posted her online! Heather Scott!” she slammed her hand down on the marble top in rage.

Cait glared back at her phone, fury rising within her.

‘Stay the fuck out of our business’

She had to stop herself throwing her phone down, putting her head in her hands, rubbing her scalp to try and calm down.

“I want to go home,” Vi said firmly. “Now. We’ll go home, and we’ll find a way to get to Y/N from there. I don’t give a fuck if we have to drive to her town and scream her name out the car window. She’s not safe there.”

Cait nodded. “We’ll leave first thing tomorrow.”

The front door creaked as Cait eased it open. The house was still. Dim with the blinds half-drawn, stale with the scent of summer heat. Vi followed behind her, suitcase thunking softly against the floor as she put it down, exhausted from the journey. Three-hours was a long way to sit in tense silence.

Faintly, from upstairs, they heard sniffles.

“Y/N?” Cait called gently, looking towards the staircase, her heart in her chest.

Silence.

Then more sniffles, a weak cough.

Vi ran ahead, heart pounding. What if you were hurt? How long had you been there? What if you’d broken your legs, or your back?! What if you needed a fucking ambulance because you were dying?! Cait heard her footsteps along the hallway upstairs, and then—

“Cait,” Vi’s voice cracked, “She’s here.”

Cait dropped her own bag and rushed toward the bedroom. God, what would she find? The door was open, Vi in the doorway.

You knelt on the floor by the bed, a chaotic assortment of your things on the floor around you, a suitcase open in front of you as you shoved things in, uncaring for the state of your clothes. Your phone lay on the comforter, charging by the cable, the battery image flashing red.

“Y/N?” Cait called gently, not wanting to overwhelm you, even as she longed to pull you into her arms. Her soft tone just earned more sniffles and a miserable hiccup. “Sweetheart, did your phone die? Is that why you didn’t reply to us?”

You groaned loudly, coughing as you cried.

Why was she being nice to you!

Your eyes were red, as though you’d not stopped crying for hours. You were crying – sobbing your fucking heart out – as you kept stuffing your items into the suitcase, purposefully not looking at the two girls.

Vi didn’t hesitate.

She ran over and dropped to her knees in front of you. “Baby. No. No, no, no. What are you doing? Talk to us, baby.”

You looked up slowly. Your voice was hoarse. “I lost my phone on the first day, and I didn’t hear from you, and I couldn’t contact you,” sob, cough, “and I thought…You were just faking before. And I made it all up in my head. I couldn’t-,” cough, “I didn’t have any photos to prove to myself it was real.”

Vi let out a sound that was more of a howl than anything else and pulling you into her lap, arms wrapped tightly around you, like she was afraid you might disappear. You were too upset, too weak, to even wrap your arms around her in return.

“You didn’t make it up,” Cait said gently, stepping into the room. She looked shaken too, but her voice was steady. She came over to kneel next you, her hand gently but firmly stroking your back. “We’ve been messaging you every day. We thought you wanted space, or you were having so much fun with your mother. Vi was tearing her hair out.”

“I was going to leave,” you confessed. “I didn’t want to come back here, and you both pretend it never happened.”

Vi pulled back, cupping your cheek. “Don’t say that. We’ve been counting down the days to see you again. We missed you. We fucking missed you, sweetheart.”

“I thought I wasn’t enough,” you said. “Not enough to miss. Not enough to matter.”

Cait leant forward, kissing your shoulder. “You are the most important part of us. We love you so much, sweetheart. You belong here. With us.”

Your jaw trembled. “But Heather Scott-”

Vi growled. “Fuck that bitch and anything she said to you.”

“I don’t want to be apart again,” you whispered.

“Then don’t be,” Cait said. “Move in with us, officially.”

Vi nodded fiercely, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You’re already here all the time anyway. You can choose new bedsheets, we’ll redecorate whatever you want!”

Your lower lip trembled and then you sobbed even harder.

“I missed you both so much,” you breathed.

“We’re home now,” Cait said. “And so are you.”

They didn’t unpack. They didn’t talk about what they’d missed or try to explain the ache in their chests in any eloquent way. They just held you close.

You lay together in bed, your head nestled on Cait’s chest. Vi had curled around your back, arm slung tight over your waist. Cait had her phone in a holder over your heads, talking you through all the photos and videos they’d taken in the first few days when they could, somewhat, function. Their voices soothed you, but you weren’t truly listening. You just needed them there. And they knew that; they’d tell you everything again when you all felt better. The familiar scent of the house, the softness of clean sheets, and the presence of the women you loved wrapped around you like a blanket.

“I didn’t realize how quiet it would be without you,” Cait murmured into your hair.

Vi gave a soft grunt. “I was tearing through the garden like a maniac.”

“I slept in my mum’s room a few times,” you whispered. “I felt twelve again.”

Neither Cait nor Vi said anything for a long time. They just held you tighter.

Your voice was muffled when you continued. “I ran into Heather. The girl who played that prank on me. She asked if I was still weird and lonely, and I immediately started trying to prove myself to her. Like, ‘I’m cool now, I have two girlfriends!’”

Vi lifted her head slightly, about to speak – probably something brash and full of fire – but Cait gently touched her arm.

“We’re proud of you,” Cait said quietly. “That you stood up for yourself.”

You shook your head sadly. “Wasn’t much ‘standing up’. I cracked the second she was mean to me, about us.”

Vi sighed and kissed the back of your shoulder instead. “We’re going to remind you every day that you’re not that girl anymore. And even if you were, you’d still be ours.”

You sniffled. “I thought maybe I’d made it all up. You two, this house, everything. It felt too good to be true.”

Vi kissed the edge of your jaw. “No way. You’re the best part of it.”

Cait adjusted slightly to press a kiss to your forehead. “You ground us, darling. We fell apart when you were gone.”

You lay like that for a long while, tangled in warm limbs and whispered promises, the kind too soft and slow for the daytime.

Eventually, Cait reached for a remote and turned on the soft glow of the fairy lights they’d strung up before summer – your idea to give your photos and videos some mood lighting. The room filled with a delicate pink warmth.

“Let’s stay like this,” she said. “No expectations. Just us.”

Outside, the evening deepened. Inside, they breathed as one.

Safe. Together. Home.

Taglist: @sevikas-whore, @djstinkyfartz, @jinririz, @abbyandcaitlover, @ayuxiru, @bebeluvvv, @youdoyou-andiwilldome, @kittymrtnezz69, @wyprettylilone, @jlb20416, @autisticratbagtm, @theoreticalfreak, @riotstemple29, @zaunite-516, @zmbieeee, @godhatesgoodgirls, @yoyo-w, @milanyas, @unknownomgg, @bella-but-not-hadid444, @marvelwomenarehot0, @nenoino, @opalundercover, @beggingonmykneesforher, @qlelwow, @loneliestafterparty, @flowersareup

[ginnsbaker]

All Of Your Pieces (31 - Paradise Calling)

Chapter Summary: After several weeks of looking for her, you do eventually find Wanda Maximoff after she leaves Westview, but not in any way you ever imagined.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 3k+ | Chapter Tags/Warnings: violence, mention of blood and injury

A/N: The story continues in the aftermath of Wanda’s release of Westview. I’m still debating whether to stick with the canon concept of Billy and Tommy’s souls being real but bodiless since I started this story long before Agatha All Along entered the picture. Also, there might not be an update next week as I'll be out of town. Thanks to everyone who still continues to follow this story :) You guys are awesome. P.S. can you guess which mutant attacked y/n? :P // More author's notes here. // gif

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The Hex dissolves completely at midnight.

By then, more and more of Westview have become accessible, its walls shrinking like the last breath of a dying storm. Throughout the wait, Monica’s order remains ironclad, which is that no one who isn’t a Westview resident is to step across the boundary.

It turns out to be the right call. Letting Wanda end it on her own terms—without pressure, or interference—is the last mercy anyone can offer. So they wait at the edge of town, in the solemn dark, while those inside slowly begin to come back to themselves.

And when the last of it winds down, Monica gives the signal. The military moves in, not with weapons this time, but with medics in tow. People stumble into the streets, dazed and hollow-eyed, like toys winding themselves up after years on a shelf. Some of them rush to scoop their children into their arms, while others just stand there, holding each other, staring at their hands like they’ve only just remembered what it means to move on their own.

It’s harder than anyone on the rescue team expected. Because how do you assess damage like this? These people aren’t injured in any conventional way. Their minds weren’t broken so much as hijacked. Puppeted. Made to smile and speak and move without their consent. It’s not madness, and it’s definitely not grief that they are experiencing. 

It’s something more…alienating. Locked in the backseat of your own body, watching your hands move and your mouth speak, knowing none of it is you. It’s the kind of trauma that leaves even seasoned therapists unsure where to begin. So the medics do what they can. Blankets for the cold, water for the dry-mouthed, and a hand on the shoulder for those who can’t seem to stop shaking. 

And you—you stay rooted at the edge of the ground where Wanda’s house once stood, silently taking in the aftermath. It’s the first time you’ve really looked at the lot you bought on a whim five years ago. It feels larger than you remembered, and standing here now, it stirs more regret than pride.

“There’s no sign of her,” Clint says as he approaches. He glances between you, Monica, and Darcy. “She’s gone.”

Monica exhales sharply. “Of course she is,” she mutters.

Agent Woo’s already packed up and gone too, reassigned mid-crisis to another urgent matter. Those left behind are burdened to help pick up the pieces.

“I guess she escaped?” Darcy offers.

You wince. “Don’t say ‘escaped.’ She didn’t—” The sentence stalls, the logic collapsing halfway out of your mouth.

Monica catches it and shrugs. “Yeah, maybe ‘escaping’ wasn’t her plan.” Then, more pointedly, “But what did you think was gonna happen? That she’d stick around? Turn herself in? Like you did, Y/N?”

Right. You’re still technically a prisoner. Still walking around on borrowed time, under a conditional release that’s quickly running out, especially now that Wanda’s vanished, and no one has a clue where she went.

You’d been hoping for a moment—just one—to talk to Wanda alone. And now, you’re starting to think your presence never mattered at all. The other you, her you, was the one who got through to her, who helped her bring down the Hex.

All you’ve ever done here was make it harder for Wanda.

“And her children?” you ask quietly, turning to Clint, your voice stripped down to worry.

Clint just shakes his head. “No sign of them. Or your copy.”

Everyone’s face falls at that. They’d all felt so real, the idea that they simply blinked out of existence is hard to swallow even if the theory always seemed to suggest that direction.

Darcy breaks the spell. “Shame, really. I kinda liked that Y/N.” She shoots you an apologetic grin. “No offense to the original, it’s just... we never got our moment.”

You manage a weak smile. “None taken.”

Monica claps her hands together. “Well, I guess… that’s it.” 

You turn to her slowly, frowning. “What do you mean ‘that’s it’?”

Monica’s hands drop to her sides. “I mean… she’s gone. The Hex is down. Everyone who was trapped is free. There’s nothing more we can do.”

Clint gives a weary shrug. “Sometimes disappearing’s the only thing a person has left.” You shoot him a glare, but he honestly seems oblivious that his words just struck you straight on.

Before you can argue further, a young S.W.O.R.D. tech jogs up, tablet in hand.

“Uh, Director?” He gestures vaguely at Monica. “We found a vehicle just outside the old perimeter. Abandoned. Figured you’d want to take a look.”

Monica glances between you and Clint. “Yours?”

You shake your head no.

“Color?” Clint asks.

“Deep maroon,” the tech says. “Old Volvo wagon. New Jersey plates.”

Clint lets out a low whistle. “That’s Wanda’s.”

You’re already moving before the words finish leaving his mouth.

“Y/N—” Monica calls after you, but you don’t look back.

Clint mutters a curse and follows. Monica and Darcy hang back, letting you go.

You’re desperate for any sign of Wanda, anything that might tell you where she went. You haven’t run this far or this fast in years, and your lungs are burning from the effort. But the thought of her out there, alone and possibly hurt, keeps your legs moving, pushing through the ache.

Soon, just past the edge of the boundary, you spot the Volvo.

You slow as you approach, heart thudding in your chest.

Clint catches up beside you. “That’s definitely hers.”

You nod, already reaching for the handle. It shouldn’t open, but it does. The door gives with a soft click, swinging open without resistance. You slide into the driver’s seat and glance around. 

“She didn’t even lock it,” you murmur.

“The keys?” Clint asks.

You check the ignition. Nothing. Then the cupholders, under the seat, the center console. Still nothing.

“Glove box,” Clint says, leaning in through the open door.

You press the latch. The compartment drops with a soft thunk, and something slides forward: a single manila folder, edges crisp, your name penned in Wanda’s looping cursive across the tab. Your breath catches. Carefully, almost like it might break in your hands, you lift it. It feels like it holds everything you’ve been chasing.

Inside, everything is heartbreakingly familiar. The property deed you mailed Clint weeks ago. Photographs you never had the courage to burn when you first became convinced that Wanda wasn’t coming back. Letters and notes you randomly wrote to Wanda throughout the years she was gone. 

And resting on top of it all, catching the faint moonlight—

Your wedding ring. The one you gave her. The match to the one you still wear around your neck.

With trembling fingers, you turn the band over between thumb and forefinger; it’s still warm, as if she’d only just set it down.

“She left this car here,” you whisper. “Because she wanted me to find this.”

Clint drifts a few steps back, giving you space but not leaving. He folds his arms and waits, giving you time to come to terms with Wanda’s clear response at having found out you lied to her. And it’s not pretty.

After a long, brittle silence, he clears his throat. “So… what are you going to do now?”

It’s the same question everyone’s thrown at you all day, and you still don’t have an answer.

Instead of answering, you whisper, “Did I make a mistake, Clint? Walking away back then, leaving her to sort through the rubble alone, was that when everything started to fall apart?”

He exhales and lowers himself onto the curb beside the car. “We all made mistakes,” he says, rubbing a thumb over a scar on his knuckles. “But no one could have known it would lead to this. We were careless, sure, maybe blind to how much she was really hurting. But this,” he says, nodding at the folder in your lap, “this was Wanda’s pain. Her choice. Not something you could have predicted.”

“I should’ve seen her slipping. I asked you to look after her and—”

“I know,” he cuts you off, shaking his head. “And I’m sorry, Y/N. I wasn’t there for her like you asked. I was drowning in my own mess, trying to keep my family together once we got them back… I missed the signs.”

You nod slowly and slip the ring into your pocket. Then, flat and quiet, you say, “I’ve still got about a decade of my sentence to serve.”

“I can buy you more time,” Clint offers. “Tell them Wanda escaped. Technically, this whole thing isn’t over.”

You huff a humorless breath. “It won’t matter. I don’t want to go back.”

Clint studies you for a long moment, brow furrowed. “You mean that?”

You nod again. “The second I saw her… I wanted to take it all back. The deal. The surrender. All those years I spent trying to convince myself that moving on was the right call.”

He sits with that for a while, then says, quiet and honest, “You know I can’t turn myself in either.”

You glance over at him. “I’m not asking you to.”

“I’ve got my family back,” he says. “I’m rebuilding. I can’t walk away from that.”

“I know,” you reply. “I wouldn’t want you to.”

He gives you a sidelong look. “Then what are you thinking? You planning to go back on the run? Because you remember what it was like after the Accords, right? We didn’t end up in the Raft, but we weren’t free either. We were always looking over our shoulders.”

A faint smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. “Wanda was with me back then.”

He raises a brow, watching you carefully.

“And somehow,” you add, voice soft, almost to yourself, “that made all of it bearable.”

After a long lull, Clint asks, “What were you hoping for, Y/N? When she saw you?”

“I don’t know,” you admit with a shrug. “Maybe that… that she’d recognize me, at least.”

“She probably did,” Clint says. “That might be why she destroyed the Hex herself.”

You shake your head, hard, unwilling to accept that. “I doubt it was that simple.” 

The idea feels impossible. You remember the look on Wanda’s face: hurt, disappointment, the unmistakable sting of betrayal. You have put that look there before, but this time it was different. This time, that betrayal caused her this guilt she now carries with her for something she’d done out of her mourning you—

When she never should have had to mourn at all.

—

With Clint’s quiet blessing, you slip into the night, becoming a fugitive once again, determined to reach Wanda before the authorities do. It isn’t enough that Wanda released the town willingly; the damage is already done. Westview’s residents remain traumatized and disoriented, and dissolving the Hex doesn't absolve her actions. This is exactly what Tony always fought for—the idea that even heroes, even Avengers, must answer to laws meant for everyone, not just hide behind the duty of saving the world.

You don’t blame them for hunting her. You just don’t trust them to understand her.

So you go first.

You swap your jacket for a plain coat, leave your comms behind, and start reaching out to contacts you haven’t spoken to in years. A woman like Wanda can’t move without leaving a ripple, and eventually, you learn to follow a pattern: unexplained power surges in rural areas upwards north. Clint checks in with you every now and then, but you don’t expect anything more. He’s busy these days—a civilian fully occupied with being a father. 

The first few weeks blur together. Deep down, you keep hoping Wanda will be the one to find you—not because she misses you or wants to forgive, but because she finally wants answers. Isn’t there at least one question she needs to ask? Maybe she hates you too much to bother. Maybe she hates you enough to stop caring about your reasons altogether.

That thought hurts more than you’d like to admit. Still, it’s nothing compared to what you’ve put her through. You don’t know how you’ll face her when the time comes. All you know is that she’s hurting—and a hurting Wanda Maximoff isn’t just a danger to the world. She’s a danger to herself.

Late one evening, while tracking rumors of strange sightings in the forested mountains of Vermont, you feel unease settle in your gut. The trees grow denser, their branches knitting overhead, and the pale yellow moon offers little light. Shadows slither and shift across the narrow trail. You stop, breath misting in the cold air, certain now that you’re not alone.

You hold still and listen. Over the thud of your own unsteady pulse comes a faint rustle in the undergrowth. It’s too careful, too deliberate to be wind or wildlife.

“Who’s there?” Your voice is brittle, an uncertain challenge.

In the dark forest, you know you shouldn’t make a sound. But if it’s Wanda—

A low growl answers, so deep and guttural it sends a chill racing down your spine. You spin, eyes straining through the gloom, just as a shadow barrels toward you. The movement is fast, smooth, and completely inhuman.

It slams into you with brutal force, all muscle and claws—definitely not Wanda—knocking you hard to the ground.

You scramble to your feet, breath ragged, eyes sweeping the darkness in search of your attacker. The figure rises slowly, towering and hunched, its skin a sick, mottled gray. Its limbs are grotesquely stretched, ending in claws slick with fresh blood (yours).

Its face—

No. That can’t be right. Tony’s snap wiped out all of Thanos’ army. This thing shouldn’t exist. So how is it standing here? How did it survive?

“What the—” you gasp, stumbling back.

It lunges again, jaws gaping open with teeth glinting sharp and savage. You swing your arm wildly, and your fist connects with its jaw. The impact jars painfully up your arm, but the creature barely reacts, snarling viciously as it swings one massive clawed hand toward your face. You dodge by inches, claws slicing the air with a sharp hiss.

You stagger back again, trying to regain your footing. Your breath comes out in uneven bursts of fogged air. The creature circles slowly, blocking any clear route of escape. You study it, desperately searching for a weakness, but its movements remain erratic, unpredictable. 

Your combat skills are still there, but you’ve aged some, and it’s not as easy to fall back into your old rhythm and speed, especially when facing such an aggressive foe.

“Stay back,” you warn weakly, your voice trembling despite your attempt at bravado.

It snarls louder, head twitching, neck muscles spasming unnaturally as it stalks closer. You backpedal and your foot slips on wet leaves, throwing you off-balance. You hit the ground hard, skull cracking sharply against something hidden beneath the foliage. Stars burst in your vision.

As you struggle to sit upright, the beast approaches slowly, enjoying this, you realize sickeningly. It flexes its claws, taking its time.

“Wait,” you choke out, tasting copper as blood fills your mouth.

It stalks towards you leisurely as if hearing nothing. It snarls again, lips peeling back to reveal teeth sharp as blades. It raises a hand for the final blow, claws poised high—

And all you can think is how ironic it is. That this is what you craved, once.

Back when you were Ronin.

When death felt like the only honest language left, and violence was the only thing that could answer it.

You spent five years chasing this moment. And now? Now, with Wanda back in the universe. Now, when for the first time in years, you actually want to live.

Now is when death decides to show up?

Of course it is.

You laugh, or try to, but it comes out as a choked breath through blood. The creature roars, the sound tearing through the trees. And as the snow drifts down and your vision begins to fade, you manage one last word, soft as a prayer.

“…Wanda.”

—

You wake slowly to warmth, a fire crackling nearby. Every part of you feels bruised, sliced open, and carefully stitched back together. Bandages wind tight around your ribs, your shoulders, your arms. Your throat burns dry, but you're breathing. Miraculously. 

You push yourself upright, careful and slow. The world sways around you as the blanket slips from your shoulders.

Blinking up at the slanted ceiling overhead—wooden, rough-hewn, beams exposed, nothing familiar about it—you realize you’re still in the forest. The earthy, damp scent of pine needles teases your nose. There’s no electricity, just lanterns, candles, heat from flame and old wood. The furniture is simple, hand-built, and worn from use.

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, your bare feet sinking into a rug so soft it draws a quiet sigh from your lips. You have no idea how long you’ve been unconscious—hours, maybe even days.

Unsteady, you find the hallway, one hand trailing the wall for balance. You pass a small kitchen, simple but well-stocked. A kettle rests near the fire, still warm, like it was used not long ago.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the front door slightly ajar, a narrow strip of gray light slicing into the room, dust suspended in its path.

You drift closer.

Outside, there’s Wanda.

She sits on the porch steps, wrapped in a thick sweater, her back to you. Her hair falls in loose, tangled waves, longer than you remember. Despite the biting cold, she’s barefoot, her arms draped over her knees as she stares into the woods.

You stop at the doorway, saying nothing at first. 

She looks so… peaceful. 

“Wanda,” you say at last, barely above a breath.

She doesn’t move.

You try again. “Wanda.”

Still nothing. You can’t tell if she’s ignoring you, or if your voice is simply too weak for her to hear.

Of course it was her who found you. Of course it doesn’t mean anything’s been forgiven. You take a step back, and the door eases shut behind you with a quiet creak.

You head deeper into the cabin. It’s not large, but in your condition, it feels like a maze.

At the end of a narrow hallway, you find a door left slightly open.

Something pulses beyond it—low and red and constant. Your fingers graze the frame as you nudge it open. 

The hair on your arms rises.

Wanda’s there, too.

She’s floating a few inches off the ground, legs crossed. Her eyes don’t blink. They don’t move. Just glowing red, unwavering and endless.

She’s reading. The book in her hands is anything but ordinary. Its pages shift and shimmer, symbols rearranging themselves the moment you try to make sense of them.

You open your mouth, but your voice doesn’t come. You’re frozen.

Slowly, like she already knew you were standing there, she lifts her head.

Her gaze locks onto yours.

The book snaps shut.

[arabella-syntax]

Update: Part 3

Paso a paso

They don’t move fast.

They move toward each other.

Paso a paso.

~ ~ ~ ~

Pairing: Alexia Putellas x Reader (Y/N)

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

Word count: > 40k, one shot

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

Rating: Some intimate scenes

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

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

————————————————————————

Alexia

The Madrid listings blurred together after a while.

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

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

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

Something sturdy. Something with sunlight.

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

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

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

“Gracias.”

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

Alexia paused.

“Sí.”

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

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

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

But that night, she went through her contacts anyway.

Found the familiar name and number.

She messaged.

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

A few minutes later:

This is already drama.

Alexia replied:

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

¿Estás saliendo con alguien otra vez?

(Are you dating someone again?)

Came Olga’s response after a while.

Alexia hesitated.

ALEXIA:

Sí.

OLGA:

Serious?

ALEXIA:

Yes. She’s… different.

OLGA:

Different how?

ALEXIA:

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

OLGA:

So not like your old flat.

ALEXIA:

Exactly.

OLGA:

I’ll make some calls.

Alexia smiled despite herself.

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

They’d met after her ACL tear in 2021.

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

Olga had seen the cracks — and loved her anyway.

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

At one point, Alexia thought she might marry her.

But things shifted.

Lives moved.

Love didn’t end — it just changed shape.

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

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

By morning, Olga had sent five listings.

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

Alexia stared at it for a long time.

It felt… soft. Still. Like breath.

It felt like Y/N.

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

Olga replied:

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

Alexia sent the listing to Y/N without fuss:

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

The response came a day later:

I love the windows. I love you.

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

A laugh caught in her throat. Or a sob.

Sometimes they felt the same.

She whispered to herself, “Joder…”

Alba walked by. “Are you okay?”

“Necesito vino” (I need wine.)

“You always need wine.”

“Now I need to marry her.”

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

Y/N

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

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

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

“Because I am?”

“That’ll do it.”

They shook hands.

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

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

“I do pliés for a living.”

“Good. They squeak.”

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

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

Y/N smiled. “Thank you.”

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

The flat was… beautiful.

In that quiet, aching kind of way.

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

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

“I could dance here,” she whispered.

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

Y/N turned. “Alexia?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She loves hard.”

“She always did.”

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

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

That caught Y/N off guard.

“Talks about me?”

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

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

Olga smirked. “That’s disturbingly romantic.”

“I know.”

They signed the papers together.

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

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

“She’s awkward as hell, you know.”

“I’ve noticed.”

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

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

Olga smiled — genuinely this time.

“Good luck, ballerina.”

And then she was gone.

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

She texted Alexia:

It’s perfect. I love it. Thank you.

Alexia replied instantly:

It’s yours. Madrid’s lucky.

You okay?

Only thinking how to get to Madrid faster.

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

Y/N laughed.

She looked around.

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

But she would.

She was trying.

Alexia

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

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

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

It swung open with a click.

She stepped inside.

Bare walls. Bare floor. Bare everything.

But somehow, it still felt like her.

Or rather — like them.

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

Alexia grinned and whispered, “Hola, gato.”

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

Bedroom. Bathroom. Living space.

Each room smelled like a future.

And then the front door opened again.

“Hey,” Y/N called. “Did you—”

Alexia turned. And forgot how to breathe.

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

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

Y/N dropped her bag.

No more words.

They met in the middle of the hallway.

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

Days of distance collapsed in seconds.

Alexia kissed her like she was remembering how.

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

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

“Take it,” Alexia whispered.

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

Then Alexia turned the tables.

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

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

“I smell like nerves.”

“Same.”

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

The floor was hard.

The sex was not.

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

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

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

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

“You always do this,” Y/N whispered.

“What?”

“Make me forget my name.”

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

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

“You broke in,” Y/N teased.

“I have a key.”

“You should still be arrested.”

“Only if you do the handcuffs.”

Y/N laughed so hard she snorted.

Alexia made a note in her mind:

She wanted to hear that sound in this apartment forever.

Third Person

Madrid mornings had a different weight to them.

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

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

Y/N sighed in her sleep.

Alexia smiled.

They didn’t say much over breakfast.

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

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

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

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

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

Alexia looked at her then, properly.

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

“I want to,” she said simply.

Y/N nodded. “Me too.”

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

Alexia didn’t know what she was looking for.

Something quiet. Something sure.

Something like Y/N.

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

“This one,” she whispered.

She paid in full.

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

Mami.

It rang twice.

“¿Alexia?”

“Mami…”

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

Then, softly:

“Estoy pensando en pedirle matrimonio.”

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

There was a pause on the other end.

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

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

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

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

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

Alexia looked down at the ring box in her palm.

“Gracias, mami.”

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

“I won’t.”

She didn’t tell Y/N about the ring.

Not yet.

It would wait.

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

In the light.

In Madrid.

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

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

Between training schedules and charity gala invitations.

Waiting.

Like she was.

Like they both were.

Y/N

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

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

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

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

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

“I just moved in two days ago.”

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

Y/N smiled. “She wasn’t wrong.”

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

“You’ve unpacked?”

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

“She wants to marry you.”

Y/N blinked. “Excuse me?”

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

“Papa.”

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

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

“I start teaching today.”

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

“It’s orientation. Not trauma.”

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

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

“Cut your hair again.”

“It’s already in a bob.”

“Then dye it. Go blonde.”

“I’m not going blonde.”

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

She smiled. He watched her carefully for a beat.

“You’re afraid.”

“A little.”

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

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

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

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

“Miss Y/N?”

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

“I’m here for your class.”

And just like that, it began.

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

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

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

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

Not crying.

Not shaking.

Just still.

She texted Alexia.

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

The reply came fast:

Estoy orgullosa de ti, mi bailarina.

She read it twice.

Outside, the Madrid sun painted gold across the pavement.

Maybe this was the right city after all.

Third Person

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

Y/N carried on like nothing had happened.

It made Alexia grin.

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

Alexia’s throat tightened unexpectedly.

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

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

Alexia waved from the corner, muttering to herself:

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

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

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

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

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

“I did. Internally.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “You’re cruel.”

“You’re sexy when you’re strict.”

“Oh, God.”

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

Silence stretched between them. Comfortable. Wide.

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

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

Y/N turned to her. “To Madrid?”

“To you.”

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

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

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

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

Alexia paused.

About the ring.

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

She didn’t say it.

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

Y/N smiled. “Then do it.”

Alexia

The ring was still where she left it.

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

Alexia stared at it like it might grow teeth.

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

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

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

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

“That dangerous?”

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

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

“Like her.”

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

“I want to.”

“Then what’s stopping you?”

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

“I’m scared.”

“Of her saying no?”

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

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

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

“You look constipated,” she told Alexia.

“I’m proposing.”

“Oh. That explains the face.”

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

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

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

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

“I do not.”

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

Alexia buried her face in her hands.

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

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

“I’m not proposing naked, Alba.”

“Coward.”

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

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

“Oh right. Then not that.”

Eli watched her daughters with bemused affection.

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

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

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

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

“Point stands.”

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

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

Today was exhausting. Come back soon?

She typed, deleted, retyped.

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

Then she sent it.

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

Third Person

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

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

Alexia had learned not to argue about food with her.

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

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

Then Y/N walked in.

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

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

Alexia smiled. “Napolitana?”

“Obviously.”

The waitress appeared, grunted, took their order.

Alexia was not nervous.

She was not nervous.

She was actively lying to herself.

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

Alexia blinked. “This is my normal face.”

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

Alexia huffed, and Y/N chuckled.

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

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

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

She didn’t open it. Not yet.

Y/N blinked, slowly. “Are you—”

Alexia nodded once. “Yes.”

Y/N let out a breath. “Now?”

“Now.”

“Here?”

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

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

Alexia opened the box.

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

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

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

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

Alexia blinked. “I—”

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

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

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

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

Just a kiss. Soft. Sure. Home.

Behind them, the waitress grunted, unimpressed.

Alexia grinned against Y/N’s lips.

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

Alexia smirked. “Lo sé.” (I know)

“And Jana is going to scream.”

“Por supuesto.”

“And Eli will cry.”

Alexia paused. “Already did.”

They both laughed.

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

But they didn’t care.

They were two women in love.

One with a ring on her finger.

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

Y/N

She considered texting.

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

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

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

“You better be dying,” he rasped.

“Nice to see you too, Papa.”

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

“You are wearing makeup.”

“No, I’m not.”

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

Y/N exhaled, held up her left hand.

There was a pause.

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

She wiggled her fingers. “I said yes.”

“To who? Did I miss a suitor?”

“Alexia proposed.”

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

Y/N blinked. “You knew?”

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

“Wow. Romantic.”

He tilted his head. “You’re happy?”

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

He nodded. “Then I’m happy too.”

She smiled. “You’ll come, right?”

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

“Yes.”

“Fine. But only if there’s vodka.”

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

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

“For someone in ballet, you dislike dancing.”

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

She laughed. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not making this weird.”

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

She nodded.

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

Y/N’s throat tightened. “I hope so.”

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

Y/N laughed through the sudden tears.

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

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

“He asked for vodka and threatened to dance.”

“So… sí.”

The chaos began the next day.

Jana sent a string of voice notes:

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

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

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

Alba simply wrote:

I’m wearing red. Nobody stop me.

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

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

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

—————————————————————

A month later

Third Person

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alexia groaned. “She is… annoying.”

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

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

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

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

“He wants vodka and drama.”

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

Then came the messages.

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

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

Caroline, naturally on brand, replied two minutes later:

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

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

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

Marianne picked up her whiteboard and clicked a fresh marker.

WEDDING RULES

No venues with haunted bathrooms.

Y/N picks flowers. No debate.

No dancing before speeches.

Leila and Patri are not allowed near DJ equipment.

Eli Segura has final catering approval.

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

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

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

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

Alexia blushed and threw a chip at her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sometime within the week

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

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

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

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

She wasn’t nervous.

That’s what she told herself.

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

Because it felt real now.

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

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

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

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

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

Alexia stayed behind.

And imagined it.

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

And Y/N. Walking toward her.

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

Alexia imagined her knees shaking.

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

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

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

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

They walked the rest of the venue in silence.

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

“How does it feel?” she asked.

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

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

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

Y/N asked, “Are you scared?”

Alexia was quiet for a long time.

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

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

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

She just smiled and whispered, “Gracias.”

A month after, the wedding week

Alexia

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

There were balloons.

There were pink streamers.

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

Jana and Alba were clapping wildly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nope. That’s emotion. Admit it.”

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

“Estoy jodida.” (I'm screwed)

“Por fin.”

They toasted.

To love.

To heartbreak survived.

To knees held together by tape.

To ballet and boots.

To unlikely joy.

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

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

Alexia hugged her.

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

“I’m engaged.”

“Same thing.”

Later, they sang.

Badly.

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

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

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

She mouthed, I love you.

Y/N smiled and didn’t stop singing.

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

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

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

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

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

Alexia wrinkled her nose. “Mentira.”

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

And that, Alexia realised, was what this was.

Not a show. Not a spectacle.

Just… heart.

Loud, messy, ridiculous heart.

Day after

Y/N

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alexia blinked. “Mierda. We forgot?”

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

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

Inside were two sentences, scrawled in her familiar handwriting:

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

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

Y/N’s chest tightened.

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

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

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

She wrote in English at first:

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

Alexia groaned, dropped her head dramatically on the table.

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

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

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

No audience.

No rehearsal.

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

Day before the wedding

Alexia

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

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

Alba smirked. “Your stomach is doing rondas.”

“Funny.”

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

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

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

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

Alexia smiled. “This feels bigger.”

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

That shut her up.

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

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

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

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

Alexia didn’t reply.

Because she was absolutely planning to.

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe two.”

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

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

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

“And fear.”

“Don’t be scared.”

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

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

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

“You’re not nervous?”

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

Alexia gasped. “Mi postura es perfecta.”

“Your back is a corkscrew.”

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

“I’d marry you with a walker.”

They kissed once. Soft. Then again. Slower.

Alexia sighed. “Mañana, sí?”

Y/N nodded. “Tomorrow.”

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

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

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

Alexia laughed.

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

Y/N

The gravel crunched under tires.

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

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

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

He squinted at her. “You look tired.”

“Hello to you too.”

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

She smiled against his chest. “Long night.”

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

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

“And it only gets more true.”

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

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

She stopped short when she saw him.

He stared.

Then said, “You are smaller in person.”

Alexia blinked. “Gracias… creo?”

Y/N elbowed her lightly.

“This is Sergey. My father.”

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

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

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

Alexia looked genuinely offended. “Solo un poco.”

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

Alexia gave Y/N a helpless look.

She smiled. “Welcome to the family.”

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

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

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

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

Alba blinked. “No jodas.”

“Swear on it.”

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

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

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

She looked at herself.

Thirty-six. Still breathing. Still dancing.

Still here.

Sergey’s reflection appeared behind her.

“You are ready?” he asked, gently.

“I think so.”

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

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

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

Sergey shrugged. “I am sentimental bastard.”

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

She just looked like… her.

That was enough.

Wedding day

Third person

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

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

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

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

“It’s a collar, not a noose.”

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

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

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

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

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

She didn’t need to reread them.

She just held them.

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

Alba entered with a garment bag. “Ready?”

Y/N nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Y/N laughed. “They’re good together.”

Alba nodded. “So are you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back inside, Alexia was ready.

Her mother kissed both her cheeks.

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

“Gracias, mami.”

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

“From who?”

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

Alexia blinked. “She scored that day.”

Marianne shrugged. “Then wear it.”

She clasped it on.

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

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

He didn’t answer immediately.

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

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

Y/N nodded.

They stepped out into the soft applause of sunset.

Alexia turned.

And saw her.

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

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

She smiled.

Alexia smiled back.

Her hands stopped shaking.

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

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

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

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

Then the music began.

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

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

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

Alexia’s eyes never left hers.

When she reached her, they didn’t speak.

Just hands, clasped.

A deep breath.

And then Marianne stepped forward, smiling gently.

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

A few chuckles from the crowd.

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

Laughter again, especially from Leila and Mapi.

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

She turned to Alexia first.

“Alexia?”

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

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

Alexia looked like she was about to cry.

Or run.

Or kiss her senseless.

She did the latter.

After Marianne coughed politely.

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

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

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

Y/N smirked. “Obviously.”

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

Laughter, cheers.

And then — the kiss.

Soft. Fierce. Final.

Not as in the end.

But as in — finally.

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

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

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

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

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

The speeches began as the sky turned violet.

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

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

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

“I was concussed,” Alexia replied.

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

Laughter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A beat.

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

Alexia saluted him with her wine glass, deadpan.

“De nada, suegro.”

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

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

They danced slow.

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

“You’re stiff,” Y/N whispered.

“Tú también.”

They both laughed.

And loosened.

Their hands fit. They always had.

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

Aggie pulled Jana into a spin.

Patri dragged Bruna into an impromptu bachata.

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

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

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

To the edge of the olive grove.

Just them.

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

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

Alexia smiled. “Practice, cariño.”

“Wife.”

“Again.”

“Wife.”

Alexia kissed her.

The stars spun slowly.

————————————————————————

Continue the last part.

[joyswonderland1108]

Joke's Dead, Barbara. Let It Decompose in Peace.

You ever meet a person whose entire personality is built around a joke from 2017 and just.. never evolved? Like the human version of a Windows XP screensaver, bouncing around aimlessly with no update in sight?

Not to be a party pooper but many ARMY are just like that one cousin who told you a joke when you were kids and it was funny the first time, and still a little funny the second time because, y'know, childhood. But then every single year they show up and tell the exact same joke like it's the crown jewel of their personality. At some point, it's not funny. It's not cute. It's just ✨chronically stale✨and embarrassingly under-evolved.

That's like half the fandom on BTS-tok lately. Still beating the dehydrated, dusty, crusty "Jimin vs Jeongyeon" drama like it's a fresh story not a prehistoric relic buried somewhere next to dinosaurs and your last original thought. They're over here begging for an episode with them to "finally spill the tea" like we're owed an ancient scroll of beef history.

You know who you are. The social media barnacle that keeps clinging to the same stale "jokes" like they're heirlooms passed down by your great-aunt Delusional.

Like babes, that "drama" is older than Jungkook's tattoos. Let. It. Go.

Neither Jimin nor Jeongyeon owe you shit, not a single syllable of explanation, not a quote, not a wink, not even a passive-aggressive emoji. Let's be honest— if Jimin or Jeongyeon did spill any tea, you'd still twist it like a rotisserie chicken and serve it with your own fanfic seasoning (y'all are already doing this), so what's the point? And if they decided to take whatever tension (or complete lack thereof) to the grave with them, that's their business. What is this compulsive need to dig up fossilized gossip like some chaotic archaeologist with a degree in Mind-Your-Business Studies?

This isn't some low-budget drama where idols owe you confessionals like it's a reunion night on Real Housewives of K-pop. Grow the hell up.

I know someone will hit me with the ever-so-original "but it's just a joke 😭" and to that i say: Not when you've turned the internet into a goddamn circus with it. Sweetie, the only joke here is your sense of humour, and i'd sue for emotional damage if I had to endure one more braincell-melting comment section about "tell us about the beef 😭😭😭" Jokes expire, babe. And this one has expired, fermented, decomposed, and been recycled into fertilizer for new, better jokes.

Like.. are you even okay? Are you trapped in a time loop where 2016 keeps resetting? Do you need help escaping? Blink twice.

Do you know what it's like to scroll through BTS content and instead of thoughtful, creative comments, we're bombarded with the same recycled punchlines from 2016 like they're on a looped infomercial? You are the comedic version of "buffering..." A spinning wheel of outdated humor and zero originality.

The same comedic toddler that thinks "Yoongi marry me" is peak humour— like baby, that gag expired five years ago and now it just smells like desperation and fermented cringe. Need i remind you that it started as a joke too? But y'all didn't just beat the dead horse— you dug it up, made it dance on Tiktok, and then dragged it into Hobi's sister's live. Seriously? Yoongi isn't gonna marry you, and Hobi's sister sure as hell doesn't want to hear about it while trying to sell skincare or eat noodles.

And then here comes Barbara, every damn time, clutching her pearls going

"But the members laugh at it 😩" Of course they do, Barbara. What do you expect? You expect Yoongi to break character mid-live and go "Actually, shut the fuck up, this is annoying"? Be serious. They're being polite. Unlike me. They are professional. I'm not. And I'm telling you to shut the fuck up.

Instead of begging idols for exposés on minor passive-aggressive moments from eight years ago, maybe—just maybe— try something relevant and respectful for once? Like:

"Your vocals were insane today!"

"That new song hit me like a truck, in the best way."

"Tae, play Hozier next please, I think you'd like it."

"That choreo? Literally art. I'm unwell."

"JK your hair is perfect even when it's unbrushed and chaotic"

Like damn, you're out here acting like personality is optional.

You're not being quirky. You're being chronically cringe with the humor range of a damp sponge. You've got the energy of someone who peaked in 2015 and then time-traveled here to haunt us with expired memes and decaying catchphrases.

We are in 2025. Almost 2026 now. Your "Jimin vs Jeongyeon tea" jokes are the fan-equivalent of someone who still says "YOLO" unironically.

Please. Get a grip. Or at least a new punchline.

Thank you for coming to my yap session. See you in the next one.

[suzukiblu]

update note for Ko-fi subs, and additional note to readers/followers in general:

subs!! - Brickspace sliiightly exploded on me this weekend so I'm a couple days behind on messaging a few of y'all who I owe messages to over on Ko-fi; if you are expecting to hear from me and wondering why you haven't, there is a 99 percent chance that is the reason why, but you SHOULD be hearing from me in the next day or two.

general audience!! - Today is my last night class so in general I'm gonna be playing catch-up on a bunch of sub thank-you requests/stuff I've written but forgot to post/things I need to edit so I CAN post them from probably Wednesday to Friday this week, so I'm gonna have to save the next round of Battleship WIP Wednesday for next week while I get my shit in order over here. I WILL still be posting plenty of stuff that I just haven't had time to edit/format up for Tumblr yet sometime in the next few days, though, so there will definitely be new stuff for y'all to read comin' up. Like it's at LEAST a good 5k in sub thank-yous alone ( and tbh it's probably more, I gotta run the math again later ), and that's not counting anything else I've been working on; I just gotta get it all presentable and POST-able and imma do my best to do as much of that as I can ASAP.

[ladyhoneydarlinglove]

one piece drabble | zosan | pride kisses 2025 challenge

{PUBLIC KISS}

(scrapped article from the World Economy News, Sunday Edition)

WINGS OF THE PIRATE KING: BITTER RIVALS, CLOSE FRIENDS — OR SOMETHING MORE?

Shockwaves are rippling across the pirate world today following new rumors that Roronoa Zoro, First Mate and Right Hand to the Pirate King Monkey D. Luffy, and “Black Leg” Sanji, Cook for the Straw Hat Pirates and Left Hand of the Pirate King, have entered into a romantic entanglement.

This story was brought to the attention of World Economy News when an anonymous source sent a leaked internal memo from a Marine base in Shells Town, Yotsuba Island Region in the East Blue. The memo contained notes from an unnamed Marine Lieutenant claiming that, during a personal leave on the Conomi Islands (known former home to Straw Hat Pirate Navigator “Cat Burglar” Nami), he saw Roronoa and Black Leg at the same resort where he was staying. The Lieutenant said, quote:

“It appeared as though Roronoa and Black Leg were arguing heatedly, with Black Leg saying that Roronoa should ‘shut the fuck up and let yourself relax for once in your goddamn life’, to which Roronoa angrily replied that he was trying, but Black Leg kept messing it up with his ‘incessant nagging’. The altercation turned physical and I thought that they had come to blows, but upon closer inspection I realized that it was rather more passionate in nature than violent. I believe this information could potentially be vital in future Marine efforts to apprehend the Straw Hat Pirates, which is why I have asked this message to be passed along to [redacted], and only [redacted].”

This is not the first time that rumors have circulated about potential romantic involvements amongst the notorious Straw Hat Pirates, but while most previous cases have quickly died down when no proof could be obtained, the unnamed Lieutenant included in his memo a photo taken via Cameko. The photo is blurry, but appears to show Roronoa and Black Leg embracing in what we here at World Economy News believe to be a kiss.

If true, this is the most shocking romantic news to hit the pirate world since Cross Guild founders and former Warlords of the Sea Dracule Mihawk and Sir Crocodile tied the knot last year in a private ceremony officiated by the now retired New World Emperor “Red Hair” Shanks. But it begs the question: can the so-called “Wings of the Pirate King” really claim total loyalty to their captain if their hearts truly yearn for each other? What potential dangers are they putting their crew in if this continues? And what happens to the infamous Straw Hat Pirates if the entanglement goes south?

We here at World Economy News will be following this story as it develops and promise to keep our readers in the know with all the latest breaking updates.

MEMO TO “BIG NEWS” MORGANS FROM MARINE VICE ADMIRAL HELMEPPO (153rd BRANCH MARINE BASE, SHELLS TOWN, YOTSUBA ISLAND REGION, EAST BLUE)

Look Morgans, I’m not saying you can’t print it. I’m just saying the only reason you survived with your sorry feathered ass intact after reporting on the Dracule Mihawk and Crocodile story last year is because Luffy intervened on your behalf, but if Roronoa and Black Leg decide that they want you dead for this, he’s not gonna lift a goddamn finger to stop them.

[glacierruler]

Last The Magnus Musical update before I head to bed.

Taglist: @cameforstuff @greenbunny7 @bren-the-chicken @randomnerd737

I've changed some of the lyrics. But what's getting to me is the first half is a different time than the second half. Gonna think on how to shorten the second half in the morning

I'll also be adding even more lyrics in the morning as well.

Elias Bouchard:

[Spoken] And here, Jonathan Sims, is your archive.

[Door slams shut]

Jonathan Sims:

[Sung]

…

Why, oh why, is this place askew The previous Archivist Had but one job to do

I have been placed in charge By the one and only Elias Bouchard

After Gertrude's death I was picked among the rest To help give this place fresh breath And unbury the statements left

Someone half decent could do this alright Gertrude, it seems, was less than equipped Wonderful, oh wonderful, that he chose me I'll get this place in order, just wait and see

Uploading these stories, although most of them fables, To the digital world, where then we're able To keep track and understand the less than quick People who submit tales of woe All contained within control of the stick

Insanity fills the will of my role And yet I am the keeper of knowledge My goal to know everything, no matter improbability This vast array, of almost nothing

While some cases of supernatural activity Have place for credence and stability Most who submit a statement Are wrong in their suppositions

[shourtcer]

Smosh Reads Reddit Stories Statistics (June 2025 Edition)

hi everyone! i made a similar post to this about 2 months ago so i decided to make an updated one! first, general episode appearances:

then number of appearances for each member:

now, my favorite part, sides of the couch! ian still seems to heavily prefer the left side compared to everyone else while courtommy keep switching sides

and now, duo appearances! courtgela is leading for the time being, bumping up one place since last time and bringing changela to #2. courtommy, spourtney, arangela, and spengela are the only duos to have +1 appearances due to the liveshows!

and finally, duos that haven't appeared on reddit stories yet! (we're probably never gonna get some of these anyway lol)

and that's it! i update the sheet every time a new episode comes out, so if you wanna check it out when it does, here it is! see you again in like 2 months or so

april 2025 post

[murfpersonalblog]

AMC, is this Talamas.ca website CANON?

Imma just assume everything on this site is legit, cuz it's more fun that way, duh. 😅

"de Lioncourt de Pointe du Lac," IS THIS CANON, AMC? 👀 Did that Black girl LEGALLY walk around in Jim Crow NOLA with TWO DIFFERENT MEN WITH TWO DIFFERENT LAST NAMES' & TWO DIFFERENT RACES' surnames? Explain!!!!

Ok, confirmation that Sept 21st really is Claudia's birthday. So it's NOT the date that she was Turned? (I assumed she was Turned sometime between Sept 1st - Nov 12th.)

Uh, NO ONE in either season has ever referred to Lestat as "the Brat Prince." Yes, Louis said in 1x6 that Lestat was a brat (derogatory) for not killing Antoinette, but he didn't call him a prince. So where is the Talamasca getting this information from? Is this something DANIEL calls Lestat in the actual book/tour?

I like that the Talamasca is letting it be known that the Cloud Gift is NOT a "baseline vampiric power." This is NOT something the average vamps can do by default. The Cloud Gift is the mark of an exceptionally strong vampire, and it's a BIG deal that Lestat can do it pre-QotD, cuz it implies that he drank A LOT of Akasha's blood the very first time in the 1700s, unlike book!Lestat. Which means Les is MUCH more powerful than he was in the books. And also means the Ep5 fight was NOT EVEN.

Lestat is "KNOWN" to Turn humans against their will--wuuut? 🫖👀 Wait--how are they gonna spin Lestat turning Nicki then? 👀 Cuz the argument can 100% be made that neither Nicki nor Louis were in the right or healthy mental/psychological state to properly CONSENT to become vampires, esp. since Nicki was actively losing his mind and Louis was roaring drunk & suicidal. And ofc Claudia said during the Trial how "that f****r didn't ask, gave me no say!," directly paralleling Lestat with Magnus. But is David Talbot actually gonna be a thing?! 😱😩 PLEASE say it ain't so, AMC, I can only take so many racist old white men on the same show, and that slot's already been filled, thank you very much!

Previous lovers are indeed Lestat's weak spot--and Rhoshamandes exploited TF outta that factoid in the PL Trilogy; GOD I hope AMC gets that far with the books!

Why bother greying out Louis' profile and put it all the way at the end of the list? (Thank you @crazykuroneko for the unblurred image!)

Ok, confirmation that Louis' birthday really is 1877, and that the 1878 & 1879 dates in the other episodes were dead wrong.

Claudia called Louis the "BLACK Angel," not the "Dark Angel" wtf

It's not human "emotion" that makes Louis empathetic, it's about humane treatment & giving people the DIGNITY & RESPECT that HE was never given as a Black man in racist AF America. He hates the "extravagant/sadistic" killing of Lestat & the "cruel, barely motivated violence" of the Theatre coven. It has nothing to do with human "EMOTION;" he just tries to prove that just cuz vampires are monsters doesn't mean they have to behave monstrously--Jacob said Louis tries to be "elegant" and rise above his biology, even when he too wants nothing more than to swim in blood. Who TF made this website? This can't be canon. 🤦

"PRESUMED deceased." 👀 Jfc are they bringing him back for S3?

The shapeshifting & dematerialization etc only counts while Lasher was a GHOST--that isn't a natural Taltos ability though. Their records should've specified that--I HATE that Esta didn't stick to the source material, where the book was VERY explicitly a GHOST story about a haunted house/family of witches.

The Talamasca should know what Taltos abilities actually are now, since they now have all of Cip's biological GRANDCHILDREN (Lasher's kids).

And I guess this also confirms that The Talamasca DON'T have Emaleth in custody, which means she really is missing. 👀

Yawn, as usual.

TL;DR: I hope this website isn't canon, and if it is, I hope they edit/update it with more accurate/precise information. Cuz this ain't it, chief. For a Talamasca database/bestiary website, I'd hope/expect them to be on their A-Game, esp. since they know what a "rabid/unwell" fanbase they have, and that book readers are also watching what they do with the lore.

[warmfuzzyanimal]

hi i'm alive i'm just struggling my way to happiness & productivity

[puppenini]

once again, kris was my test subject for rendering. idk the masses can have this one

(please click for better quality ^_^)

[nattikay]

Correcting the Na'vi in the "Activist Survival Guide" Masterpost

A little over a year ago I made a post correcting some of the fake Na'vi in the Avatar: an Activist Survival Guide book based on some images taken from it that I saw in another post. Since then I've gotten my hands on digital copy of the full book and therefore found even more fake Na'vi terms and sentences, and I decided to make a single massive post to fix them all.

I was originally gonna do it as a regular tumblr post, but then decided to make it a google doc instead for the sake of having more formatting options.

Here's the document, enjoy, fellow nerds.

[ender-cloud]

GO HYDE GO! YOUR DOING AMAZING SWEETIE!!!

-lanyon, maybe probably

Tgs spoilers under cut

I’m not ok, the voices merging into Hydes own thoughts of insecurity is like the people are adapting to the new presence.

They realize this is more of Hyde yet dont have to do much because of how similar Hyde and Jekyll are.

Hydes thoughts of worthlessness are same as Jekylls before the potion and before the split, the feeling of worthlessness and mistake carried on through him.

GUYS GUYSSS THE GAYS!!!!

The stark contrast between mind Lanyon and actual Lanyon is interesting because it makes you wonder how Jekyll got that view of Lanyon in the first place.

Then you also have to consider that in this moment Lanyon is being vulnerable, he’s showing emotion because he truly cares for Hyde and wants to help him, but in university, when Jekyll probably made mind Lanyon because it was who he inspired to be, Lanyon was more closed off, having his walls up.

Lanyons closed off personality has back fired to make Jekyll have him almost becoming this enemy in his mind, someone who he always has to prove himself for when in reality Lanyon just wants him as himself.

Lanyon is showing that he just likes Jekyll for him with how he’s acting with Hyde, almost attempting to undo what he has done with embarrassing him and getting him out of this metaphorical jail of self doubt.

He is worried out if his mind for both of them right now and it would crush him to know that he may be a part of it but he also probably knows deep down that he is a part of it in some ways.

ITS THE RIBBON GUYS LOOK!!!! THE RIBBON FROM THE CHAPTER COVER PAGE!

It represents hope, security, and freedom in this moment, Lanyon pulling Hyde out of these thoughts is such an interesting story method and this will probably be what keeps Hyde from going to deep.

Lanyons hope will pull Hyde back if he needs to, Hyde wont get trapped in the mind (hopefully) if Lanyon is there and this is going to help Jekyll too.

Knowing that Lanyon is still there despite everything may help Jekyll, and having the proof of it will especially be great and this will probably be a big part in how to save Jekyll.

Sometimes i forget their British and then I see Lad and it all comes rushing back to me like “oh yeah, this is london”

He looks crazy and I’m all for it, finally fighting back instead of giving in, like he’s done over and over again, he’s sick of it and wont take it anymore.

“I dont hold this against you” now it is possible that Hyde is just joking but I wouldn’t be surprised if he holds it against Jekyll because they are his creations, everything they say and how they act is what Jekyll has thought up.

Yes, they are based on people in his life but they’re his interpretation of what they think of him. He doesn’t really know what they think but he’s scared of what it could be. (He’s so me guys/hj) but for real, i can relate to the mind people in Jekylls head.

I can think of times when ive put thoughts of what other people may think about me in my head even if it’s not true, im sure many people have had something similar to jekyll’s mind people. What Jekyll has made is a real thing put to a story and it feels interesting to see.

If Hyde squares up with the mind people though that would be pretty cool to see, finally working through the self doubting thoughts even if it is through a violent manner

[burningcheese-merchant]

DRAGON UPDATE DRAGON UPDATE DRAGON UPDAAAAAAAATE (FOAMS AT THE MOUTH AND FALLS OVER) WHAT ARE WE LOOKING FORWARD TO BESTIES?? GINGERBRAVE GOING SUPER SAIYAN AND SOLOING LONGAN? LET'S FUCKING GOOOOOO

DRAGON UPDATE DRAGON UPDATE DRAGON UPDATE DRAGON UPDATE DRAGON UPDATE DRAGON UPDATE DRAGON UPDATE DRAGON UPDATE-

I waited 3000 years for this moment... Never kill yourself

I will say I'm disappointed that they're using the same Title Event style as usual. BUT! I appreciate that they tried to spice it up by adding a Hard Mode with new maps included. Plus, next update will see a return to rhe Labyrinth style event (like in Dessert Paradise), which will be such a relief. I miss the fuck out of the old main events, man. They were all so fun and unique. I genuinely don't know why they changed it to the exact same boring coin collecting shit. But at least they're trying to listen to player feedback this time, I suppose. Hopefully the trend continues

But that new Breakout episode looks FIRE. Running on Longan's back? It's peak, I'm afraid. And speaking of peak

OUGH MY HEART THEY'RE SO BEAUTIFUL AAAAAGJVKSGAKEAHWHDHSKANAHEH I don't know which costume I like more, honestly. Ovenbreak art team killing it once again (I do like Longan's lobby a bit more than Lychee's though. I'm a big sucker for Asian-inspired architecture and visuals)

As for what I want to happen in the story... My big bad wish has always been this: I want Longan Dragon to surrender. I've wanted this for ages. I think it would be a lot more thematically powerful if Longan chose to stand down and cease his machinations of his own accord. Not because he's suddenly gained any love or empathy for mortals, but because he can't bring himself to destroy the other dragons. Those 4 are his family. They are the only ones who ever meant anything to him. You can tell, underneath his cold personality, that Longan genuinely does care about them, in his own way. It would be more meaningful if Longan decided to put them and their wants first, like family is supposed to do for one another, and let them win. There's no change of heart, there's no sudden realization of the value of life or acceptance of change or anything. Longan just can't (or he can, but he won't) get rid of his family in order to achieve his goal. They're all he has left. In the end, he's doing all of this for them; because he thinks it's what they need most (and because he's a stone-faced tyrant with a disdain for any life that exists outside the sphere of his absolute control, of course). He thinks he's doing them a favor. A service. Just this one time, I want Longan to place THEIR wishes above his own. Maybe it's a silly idea but idk. I like themes about family and sacrifice. It's certainly more interesting than just "everyone bands together and defeats Longan with the power of friendship" lol

Also Gingerbrave better not actually do anything. I'm honestly tired of him being there lol. I'm tired of him being everywhere tbh. He somehow pops up in every story even though it has nothing to do with him really. Go away kid, not everything is about you