#without fail i'm always reminded of

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

"Selûnite rituals often involve milk, treat milk as a sacred substance, and Selûne accepts cups of milk as offerings because of its colour and her association with femininity--" Wrong. Selûne clearly wants milk so she can make the highest quality whey for her beloved buff daughter's holy protein shakes.

And in turn, we are all of us blessed (but Isobel most of all).

[violentdelightshavevioletends]

Keep calm and remember she can always reforge it

[lambilegs]

GUYSSSSS LOOK AT THE CUP MY FRIEND BOUGHT ME WHEN WE WENT OUT THIS SHIT BELONGS IN A MUSEUM LIKEEEEEE

[adore-gregor]

🫠

[sskk-manifesto]

(´；ω；｀)

[son-of-avraham]

For folks on jumblr, we have another one for the block list:

Their reblog is hidden and blocked, so the only reason I publicized this bullshit in this way was to ensure anybody who proactively blocks (which I highly encourage) does. Antisemitism in any form is inexcusable🩵

If you look at jewish people voicing their concerns about antisemitism as anything close to a "victim complex," you're just an antisemite, like... How do two THOUSAND PLUS years of antisemitism around the globe sail over your head so easily.

[odorefal]

◟♡ ˒ ʾʾ sukuna ryomen wasn’t used to feeling guilty, but the moment he saw the hurt flash in your eyes when you guys got into a pretty heated argument, he knew he had taken things too far.

the way his own sharp tongue had driven you to silence.

you made him weak. he had always thought vulnerability was pathetic, yet here he was, fists clenched as he watched you step away, regretting every sharp word he had thrown at you.

he vowed to never let those pathetic tears clouding your eyes ever again.

the sight of you curled beneath the blanket, your shoulders trembling with suppressed sobs, made him pause. sukuna’s brows drew together as he opened his mouth, but the words failed him.

his pride made it difficult, but eventually, he managed to whisper, “i didn’t mean it.” the raw sincerity in his voice was enough to make your heart ache. however, your fingers toyed with the hem of your sleeve, any excuse to ignore the weight of his presence beside you.

when you refused to look at him, he simply grabbed you and settled you into his lap, resting his chin on your head with a quiet sigh and shifted, pressing you flush against his chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat pulsed under your touch.

his fingers twitched at his sides before he hesitantly reached out, brushing a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb, his usual arrogance nowhere to be found.

finally, he muttered, “...i shouldn’t have said that,” voice low but sincere. another sighed and he leaned in, pressing a firm yet lingering kiss to your forehead. his palm remained on your waist, as though savoring the contact

sukuna didn’t say anything. he just looked at you — eyes laced with regret and a depth of emotion words could never capture.

sukuna had held many things in his life — power, destruction, fear. but this? this quiet, fragile thing between you, where silence spoke louder than words, where his grip on you felt more like an anchor than a restraint; this was something else entirely.

and for once, he didn’t know whether to embrace it or run from it. by silently saying, i don’t want to lose you.

after cupping your face and pressing a lingering kiss against your lips, sukuna’s voice dropped to a low murmur, rough yet laced with something almost uncertain.

“does this mean i'm forgiven?”

it wasn’t teasing, nor was it smug; just quiet, almost reluctant, as if he wasn’t sure he deserved it.

“no,” you replied with a cheeky grin.

“tch. brat.” his grip on your face tightened slightly; not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who you were dealing with. then, without warning, he kissed you again, deeper this time, as if daring you to say it again.

when he pulled back, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “try saying that again, darling.”

[lvl109]

you've started something of a mischievous habit.

caleb prides himself in being as useful to you as possible. reaching higher cabinets, opening tight lids, lifting heavy things around without breaking a sweat. and he expects little to nothing in return. just a smile and a puffed out chest with the words 'that's just what boyfriends do!' never failing to leave his lips when you thank him. so you begin to collect data.

kisses and hugs are more than okay. he's eager to receive as many as you're willing to give with flushed ears and sparkling eyes. sometimes it leads to a little more than planned—but when have you ever complained?

small gifts do vary. he will accept handmade ones the most, like bracelets and small charms for his bags and jackets, if you pout hard enough. snacks almost always work. anything expensive makes him kiss your cheek before gently probing you to return it, but not without stating how grateful he was for your love. he didn't need anything physical from you to prove how much you did.

'letting me help you is more than enough for me, okay? i'm supposed to be spending money on you, not the other way around.'

you can't even be mad at him. earnest and wide eyed and cute enough to eat. but what happened next isn't your fault. mostly, anyway.

a little game of sorts forms in the wake of his near refusal to accept anything from you. calling him ridiculous pet names when he does boyfriend-worthy things, ranging from cute—baby, sweetheart, lover—to gag-worthy—hot stuff, snuggle bug, and sergeant sexy—the last of which made him laugh so hard he almost cried.

you're glad he's getting a kick out of it. if finding random things to do for you just to see what awful nickname you come up with next makes him happy, then so be it. but you don't expect the next one to affect him so much.

the action was innocent. he'd noticed your laces were untied while the two of you were out shopping, dropping to his knees the same moment before you could even look down. it makes you smile, reaching down a bit to ruffle his hair a bit, and the way he leans into your touch reminds you of something.

"thank you, puppy," you tease with a laugh, running your hands through his hair before patting his head. you then look up, a snack stand catching your attention, but nearly trip over your boyfriend still rooted to the floor.

"shit, i'm so so—caleb?"

his head is lowered so you can't see his face, but you do see his ears. bright red. his shoulders are bunched up nervously as if he'd short circuited and forgotten how to stand up.

you call his name again, brows furrowed. had he hurt himself? you tentatively crouch down to his level and tilt his head upwards, only to be greeted with a flushed face and shifting eyes.

"do you really see me like that?" he murmurs, nerves radiating off of him in waves. it takes you a while to realize he's not actually upset despite the pout working around his words. "like a dog?"

ohhh. you just barely fight off a laugh and his eyes narrow in comical fashion.

"really? puppy is what got you? not even sergeant sexy?" caleb manages to turn even redder and you can't help your laugh this time, giggling as you cup his face in your hands. his cheeks are warm to the touch. cute.

"it's not a bad thing. you're very dependable and sweet and you look out for me. and you love attention." a kiss to his forehead, then his nose, then both cheeks. he emits a pleased sound, basking in the glow of your attention and immediately puckering out his lips for a kiss there. "seeeee?"

"whatever you say." caleb smiles, happy when he gets the kiss he asked for. "if being a dog lets me be closer to you for the rest of our lives then. i dunno. woof."

that gets another laugh from you, finally standing up as he follows suit. "good boy."

caleb chokes.

[solxamber]

'Elloo! :D I saw your requests open, can I request some hcs or short imagines for the first, second, and third years, separate characters?? Or you can just do it as a single scenario with all the characters. They're (Their??) reaction when they've realized the things reader/Yuu had to go through starting from the very beginning ,when they first got transported to the school. Like, the shock of not being able to go home, new environment, the fear-- just the emotional and mental turmoil reader/yuu went through starting from the beginning.

Also, as time goes by it just gets worse and worse along with all the overblots and stuff that got reader/Yuu over the edge. And now the students kind of help?? Or at least try to soothe or comfort the reader I guess??

Does this make any sense?? I dunno :'D

I want me some angst hehe >:]

But if this is kind of too much then it's okii if you wanna skip this one, I love the effort you put into your writings! <3

I kinda just wanted to ramble and yap about this idea I had hehe

Toodles!

thank you!! and i'm sorry it too so long, but i hope you like it <3

They realise what you went through - All NRC + Rollo + Neige + Grim, Staff

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle doesn’t realize the extent of your struggle until much later, likely after witnessing you reach your breaking point. The way you bottle up your emotions reminds him of himself before his own overblot, and it fills him with guilt. He prides himself on upholding order, but he feels like he failed to notice the chaos within you.

“Why didn’t you say something?” Riddle asks, voice trembling as he stands before you, his normally stern expression soft with regret. He places a hesitant hand on your shoulder, unsure if he has the right to offer comfort after overlooking your pain for so long. “I… I should have noticed. I’m sorry.”

Riddle dives into a methodical plan to ease your burdens. He takes on your academic concerns, ensuring your assignments are manageable and offering personal tutoring. When you’re overwhelmed, he insists you take breaks in Heartslabyul’s peaceful rose garden. While he’s not good at openly expressing affection, he’s steadfast, always by your side with words of encouragement and warm tea.

Trey Clover

Trey picks up on your struggles sooner than most, his observant nature allowing him to notice the small cracks in your demeanor. He doesn’t pry but stays close, offering quiet support until he realizes you’re beyond your limit. His heart aches knowing you’ve been carrying so much without asking for help.

“Hey… you don’t have to pretend everything’s fine,” Trey says softly, kneeling beside you as you sit slumped in an empty classroom. His usual calm demeanor is tinged with concern. “I’ve seen you pushing yourself too hard. You’re not alone in this, you know.”

Trey becomes your sanctuary. He’s the type to cook comforting meals for you, often sneaking you your favorite desserts. He encourages you to talk at your own pace, listening without judgment. Trey also ensures you’re surrounded by people who care, gently urging you to spend time with friends so you never feel isolated again.

Cater Diamond

Cater doesn’t fully realize how bad things are until he catches you breaking down when you think no one is watching. The sight hits him hard—he’s used to wearing masks himself, but seeing you put on a brave face while falling apart reminds him of his own struggles.

“Whoa, hey, hey…” Cater’s voice is unusually soft as he crouches in front of you, the playful lilt replaced with genuine worry. “You’ve been holding all this in, haven’t you? Man, that’s not healthy… You should’ve told me!”

Cater becomes your cheerleader, using his energy to lift your spirits. He takes you on spontaneous outings, distracting you with fun activities and selfies to remind you of life’s lighter side. When you need to vent, he’s surprisingly patient, letting you talk without interruptions. His go-to phrase becomes, “No filter, just let it out. I’m here.”

Ace Trappola

Ace is the last to understand the depth of your pain, brushing off your struggles as stress until you finally snap. Seeing you cry or lash out leaves him dumbstruck—he’s not used to serious emotions and struggles to process it at first. But beneath his awkwardness, he genuinely cares.

“Whoa… I didn’t think it was this bad.” Ace rubs the back of his neck, guilt clear in his expression. “Look, I’m sorry if I made things worse. I didn’t mean to. I just… didn’t know.”

Ace sticks close to you in his own Ace-like way. He cracks jokes to make you laugh and distracts you with playful banter, but he’s also there for the serious moments. If you’re feeling overwhelmed, he drags you outside to play a quick game of basketball or to look at the stars, insisting, “You’ve gotta clear your head, or you’ll go crazy.”

Deuce Spade

Deuce notices your struggles but doesn’t know how to approach you about them. When he finally sees you crumble, it makes him feel like he’s failed as your friend. His protective instincts kick in, and he becomes determined to help you in any way he can.

“Wait—you’ve been feeling like this the whole time?” Deuce’s voice is thick with emotion as he looks at you, his fists clenched at his sides. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve done something! I’m supposed to have your back!”

Deuce takes your well-being seriously, to the point of overcompensating at first. He insists on walking you to class, carrying your things, and defending you against anything he perceives as a threat (real or imagined). Over time, he learns to provide quiet support, sitting with you during tough moments and saying, “We’ll get through this together. I promise.”

Leona Kingscholar

Leona is a perceptive man, even if he acts otherwise, but your struggles slip under his radar for too long. It isn’t until he notices how you’ve stopped rising to his teasing or how the light in your eyes has dimmed that the gravity of your situation hits him. It reminds him of his own sense of isolation, and the guilt gnaws at him.

“Tch. You think you’re the only one who has to deal with this crap?” Leona’s voice is gruff, but there’s no malice in it. He sighs, sitting beside you under the shade of a tree. “You should’ve said something sooner, herbivore. Doesn’t mean you have to carry it all yourself.”

Leona doesn’t coddle you, but his actions speak louder than his words. He offers his presence, silently inviting you to nap in the botanical gardens with him when you need a break. If anyone dares to make your life harder, Leona handles it with a quiet, lethal efficiency. “Rest up. You’re not falling apart on my watch.”

Ruggie Bucchi

Ruggie notices your struggles quickly, but his initial reaction is to brush it off as normal stress—until he sees you genuinely hit your breaking point. It stuns him; he’s used to dealing with hardships himself but hates the idea of you enduring the same without support.

“Oi, don’t do this to yourself,” Ruggie says, his usual playful tone replaced by something softer. “You’re not alone, y’know? I don’t let my people suffer in silence. That’s not how we roll.”

Ruggie uses his resourcefulness to lighten your load however he can. He sneaks you snacks, takes care of tedious tasks for you, and even makes you laugh with his sharp wit. When you’re overwhelmed, he shares stories of his struggles to show you that it’s okay to lean on others. “You’ve got me, okay? I’ll make sure you’re okay, promise.”

Jack Howl

Jack notices the signs of your stress early on, but he hesitates to bring it up, unsure if it’s his place. When he finally realizes how deeply you’re struggling, it stirs a protective instinct in him, and he immediately resolves to do whatever it takes to help you.

“You should’ve told me,” Jack says, his voice low and filled with regret. His ears twitch as he glances away, guilt etched across his face. “I could’ve helped. You don’t have to do this on your own anymore.”

Jack becomes your steadfast support, encouraging you to exercise or go for runs to clear your mind. He’s a calming presence, offering quiet companionship when words aren’t enough. “You’re strong, but you don’t always have to be. Let me help carry the weight, okay?”

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul prides himself on noticing vulnerabilities in others, but your ability to mask your pain throws him off. When the cracks finally show, it shakes him deeply, reminding him of his own insecurities and the times he felt powerless.

“I didn’t realize…” Azul murmurs, his hands wringing nervously as he looks at you with uncharacteristic vulnerability. “I should have seen it. I’m sorry—for everything. Let me help you now.”

Azul’s approach is practical and calculated, but it’s rooted in genuine care. He offers to take over responsibilities or negotiate solutions to ease your stress. When you’re overwhelmed, he’s unexpectedly tender, sitting with you in his VIP room and reminding you, “Even the strongest need someone to lean on. You’ve been there for others; let us be here for you.”

Jade Leech

Jade notices your struggles early but refrains from intervening, assuming you’ll reach out when you’re ready. When he realizes how much you’ve been bottling up, he’s surprised and slightly guilty for not addressing it sooner.

“My, you’ve been carrying quite the burden,” Jade says, his usual calm tinged with regret. “It seems I underestimated just how much you’ve endured. Forgive my oversight.”

Jade is a master of subtlety, offering comfort in ways that feel natural and unintrusive. He invites you on quiet walks through the woods, using the serene atmosphere to help ease your mind. When words are needed, he listens attentively, his soothing voice offering reassurance. “Do not hesitate to lean on me, should you need support. I’ll always be here.”

Floyd Leech

Floyd doesn’t realize how bad things are until you completely snap, and even then, it takes him a moment to process that your outburst isn’t just a temporary mood. Seeing you so broken flips a switch in him, his usual playful demeanor replaced with a rare seriousness.

“Shrimpy, why didn’t you say anything?” Floyd’s voice is uncharacteristically quiet, his sharp eyes scanning your face. He pouts, but there’s no mischief in it—just genuine concern. “You don’t gotta handle everything alone, y’know?”

Floyd sticks to you like glue, his unpredictable nature becoming a strange source of comfort. He drags you out for spontaneous adventures, insisting that fun will help you feel better. When you’re feeling low, he’s surprisingly gentle, wrapping you in a tight hug and muttering, “I gotcha, Shrimpy. Nobody’s messin’ with you while I’m here.”

Kalim Al-Asim

Kalim is always full of energy and positivity, so it takes him a while to notice the depths of your struggles. When he does, he’s devastated, blaming himself for not seeing it sooner.

“Wait—you’ve been feeling like this?” Kalim’s eyes widen, tears threatening to spill. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve done something to help!”

Kalim does everything in his power to brighten your days. He showers you with gifts, invites you to lively parties, and insists on spending time together to lift your spirits. When he realizes that quiet support means more than grand gestures, he sits with you, holding your hand. “You’re not alone, okay? I’ll always be here for you.”

Jamil Viper

Jamil is highly observant, and while he notices your struggles early on, he assumes you’re managing on your own until he sees how much you’ve truly endured. It reminds him of his own bottled-up frustrations, and guilt eats at him for not acting sooner.

“...I should’ve known,” Jamil mutters, his voice low and filled with regret. He rubs the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze. “I’ve been through this too. I know what it’s like to feel trapped. I’m sorry I didn’t step in sooner.”

Jamil’s care comes in quiet, thoughtful gestures. He prepares your favorite meals, arranges peaceful moments away from the chaos of NRC, and ensures you never feel overwhelmed alone. “You’ve done more than enough. Let me take care of things for a while.”

Vil Schoenheit

Vil’s sharp eyes catch the signs of your struggles quickly, but he initially brushes them off, believing you’ll overcome them like any challenge. When the full weight of your burden becomes clear, he’s horrified and deeply regretful for not intervening sooner.

“I failed to notice something so glaringly obvious,” Vil says, his tone laced with self-reproach. “That’s not acceptable—not as your friend and certainly not as someone who should’ve supported you better.”

Vil approaches your comfort with precision and care, determined to help you regain your footing. He insists on self-care days, encourages you to vent your frustrations, and teaches you grounding techniques. “You’re stronger than you think, but even the strongest need rest. I’m here for you, no matter what.”

Rook Hunt

Rook is attuned to the emotions of those around him, and your pain does not escape his notice. He marvels at your resilience but is deeply saddened that you’ve been enduring so much without seeking help.

“Mon cher trésor, your suffering… it pains me to think I let you endure this alone,” Rook says softly, his gaze earnest. “You’ve carried a weight that no one should bear by themselves. Allow me to lighten your burden.”

Rook’s support is poetic and heartfelt, crafting moments of beauty to remind you of the world’s wonders. Whether it’s a bouquet of flowers, a handwritten letter, or a quiet moment under the stars, he ensures you feel cherished. “You are not alone in this grand stage of life, and I shall remain by your side as your steadfast ally.”

Epel Felmier

Epel is initially too caught up in his own frustrations to notice the extent of your struggles, but once he sees you falter, his protective side kicks in. It reminds him of his own insecurities about being underestimated.

“Aw, geez, why didn’t ya say somethin’?” Epel frowns, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “You’re always lookin’ out for us, but ya never let anyone do the same for you. That ain’t fair.”

Epel takes a straightforward approach, offering to help however he can. He sticks close, ensuring you never feel alone, and encourages you to vent when needed. “You’re tough as nails, but that doesn’t mean you gotta do it all by yourself. We’re a team, remember?”

Idia Shroud

Idia is slow to notice your struggles, being so wrapped up in his own world, but when he realizes the extent of your pain, it hits him hard. He sees a reflection of his own struggles in you and feels immense guilt for not seeing it sooner.

“This is my fault, isn’t it?” Idia mumbles, his voice trembling. His hair dims as he nervously fiddles with his tablet. “I should’ve… I don’t know, paid more attention. I’m sorry. I—I wanna help, if you’ll let me.”

Idia comforts you in his own awkward way, creating a safe space where you can relax without judgment. He shares his favorite games, shows, and quiet moments, offering you an escape from the chaos. “You don’t have to be ‘okay’ all the time. Just… take it easy for now. I’m here if you need me.”

Ortho Shroud

Ortho is one of the first to notice your struggles, his advanced sensors picking up on changes in your emotional and physical state. His concern is immediate, and he wastes no time in seeking to help.

“You’ve been so sad for so long, haven’t you?” Ortho’s voice is soft, as he hovers close. “I wish I could’ve made you smile sooner. I’m sorry you’ve been hurting.”

Ortho’s comfort is warm and reassuring, filled with optimism and boundless energy. He’s always ready with encouraging words, small gifts, or simply a cheerful presence to brighten your day. “You’re not alone! I’ll do everything I can to help you feel better, okay?”

Malleus Draconia

Malleus has always sensed something amiss about your emotions, his acute sensitivity to auras making it impossible for him to overlook your struggles. However, he hesitates to approach, fearing he might overstep or worsen your burdens. When he finally understands the depth of your pain, he is both heartbroken and determined to help.

“You’ve been enduring this in silence?” His deep voice is laced with regret as his green eyes soften. “If only I had been more attentive, perhaps I could have eased your pain.”

Malleus ensures you feel his unwavering support. He invites you for peaceful strolls under the stars, shares his favorite quiet spots, and reassures you with his calming presence. “You are precious to me. Whatever darkness surrounds you, I will remain by your side until the light returns.”

Lilia Vanrouge

Lilia has lived long enough to recognize the signs of emotional turmoil, and it pains him to see you suffer. While he often masks his seriousness with cheerfulness, he doesn’t hesitate to step in when he sees you reaching your breaking point.

“Oh, little one, you’ve carried such a heavy heart all this time.” His playful demeanor fades into solemnity as he places a gentle hand on your shoulder. “You shouldn’t have to face this alone.”

Lilia comforts you with wisdom and warmth, drawing on centuries of experience. He shares stories to make you laugh, cooks (albeit questionable) meals to distract you, and offers sage advice when you’re ready to talk. “Life’s trials are harsh, but you’re stronger than you know. And if you need someone to lean on, I’ll always be here.”

Silver

Silver is observant despite his drowsy nature, and he’s one of the first to notice your growing exhaustion. When he realizes the extent of your suffering, he feels deeply remorseful for not acting sooner.

“I should have seen this sooner,” Silver says quietly, his tone filled with regret. “You’ve always looked out for others… I should’ve done the same for you.”

Silver stays by your side, offering silent, steady support. He doesn’t push you to talk but is always ready to listen when you’re ready. His calm demeanor helps ground you, and he often sits quietly with you under a tree or by a calm lake. “You’re not alone. I’ll protect you—not just from danger, but from this weight you’re carrying.”

Sebek Zigvolt

Sebek’s initial reaction is frustration—not at you, but at himself for failing to notice your struggles while being so focused on Malleus. His loyalty shifts into overdrive as he becomes determined to help you.

“You’ve been struggling this much, and I didn’t see it?!” Sebek’s voice is loud, but there’s a rare softness in his expression. “That is… unacceptable. I failed you as a companion.”

Sebek’s attempts to comfort you are a bit clumsy but heartfelt. He insists on helping you with daily tasks and loudly declares his commitment to your well-being. Despite his rough edges, his sincerity shines through. “Know this: I will not allow you to suffer alone any longer. You have my loyalty, now and always.”

Rollo Flamme

Rollo’s disdain for magic only deepens when he realizes how much you’ve suffered due to the chaos and overblots of NRC. His concern for you is genuine, though it’s laced with anger toward the school and its culture.

“This place… It’s a cesspool of disorder and harm,” Rollo says, his voice cold yet trembling with suppressed emotion. “You’ve been caught in its web for too long. You deserve better.”

Rollo��s comfort is practical and protective. He tries to create a sense of normalcy for you, offering quiet, structured moments away from the chaos. His words are sharp but sincere. “You deserve a life of peace and stability. If you can’t find it here, I’ll do what I can to give it to you.”

Neige LeBlanche

Neige is quick to notice your distress, his naturally empathetic nature making him keenly aware of your struggles. He’s horrified to think of you enduring so much alone and wants to do everything in his power to make you smile again.

“Oh no… You’ve been feeling like this?” Neige’s voice is soft, his eyes brimming with concern. “You don’t deserve to carry such sadness by yourself.”

Neige’s comfort is gentle and uplifting. He sings for you, offers kind words, and encourages you to express your feelings without fear. “You’re so strong, but you don’t have to be strong all the time. It’s okay to let someone take care of you for a change.”

Grim

Grim initially doesn’t notice your struggles, his focus often on his own ambitions and mischief. When he finally realizes how much you’ve been enduring, he feels both guilt and panic.

“Hey… You’re not okay, are ya?” Grim’s ears droop as he looks up at you, his voice unusually soft. “Why didn’t ya tell me? I—I’m supposed to be your partner!”

Grim becomes fiercely protective, sticking by your side at all times. He tries to cheer you up with his antics and insists on being your “emotional support boss.” “You’re stuck with me, got it? So don’t go actin’ like you’re all alone. I won’t let ya.”

Staff:

Crowley

Crowley prides himself on being the "benevolent" headmaster, but when he realizes how much you’ve suffered under his care—or lack thereof—he’s struck by a rare pang of guilt. While he’s not one to admit fault outright, he becomes visibly uncomfortable with the weight of his oversight.

“My dear, you’ve been carrying all of this on your shoulders?” His dramatic flair falters for a moment, his usual exuberance replaced with awkward sincerity. “I… suppose I may have been a tad neglectful in ensuring your well-being.”

Crowley tries to make amends in his own roundabout way, offering resources, extended accommodations, or attempting to be more attentive (though his efforts are often misguided). “Rest assured, I shall personally oversee that you are well cared for! You have my full support—within reason, of course.”

Divus Crewel

Crewel is not one to tolerate weakness, but when he sees the toll everything has taken on you, his stern demeanor softens. He’s the type to take immediate, no-nonsense action to ensure you’re taken care of.

“You’ve let it get this bad without saying a word?” His sharp tone is laced with frustration, but his eyes betray his concern. “Pup, I thought I taught you better than to carry burdens alone.”

Crewel’s approach is practical yet caring. He insists you rest, brings you comforting meals, and ensures you know you’re valued. “You’re stronger than you think, but even the strongest need support. Lean on me, pup. I’ll make sure you’re back to full strength in no time.”

Mozus Trein

Trein is a man of wisdom and observation. He likely noticed your struggles but respected your space, waiting for the right time to step in. When he realizes the full extent of your distress, he feels deep regret for not intervening sooner.

“I should have addressed this earlier.” His voice is steady but tinged with remorse. “You’ve faced more challenges than any student should. It’s a testament to your resilience, but it shouldn’t have come to this.”

Trein offers gentle guidance, providing stability and reassurance. He shares stories of his own trials and reminds you that even the hardest times pass. “Life is fraught with difficulties, but you’ve shown remarkable courage. Allow others to help shoulder the burden—you need not face this alone.”

Ashton Vargas

Vargas isn’t the most emotionally perceptive, but when it finally clicks that you’re struggling, he’s hit with a wave of guilt. He immediately shifts gears, trading his usual boisterousness for genuine concern.

“Whoa… I had no idea it was this bad,” Vargas says, his brows furrowed in concern. “Why didn’t you say something sooner? I would’ve helped in a heartbeat!”

Vargas focuses on physical activity as a form of comfort, encouraging you to blow off steam in healthy ways. He also offers constant positive reinforcement. “You’re tough, kid, but even the toughest need a break. Let’s get some fresh air and clear your head—you’ve got this!”

Sam

Sam has always been attuned to the emotions of others, so when he realizes the depth of your struggles, he feels a pang of regret for not stepping in sooner. His usual upbeat demeanor becomes tinged with quiet sympathy.

“Well, well… Looks like someone’s been carrying more than their fair share.” His voice is soft, his usual grin replaced with a concerned expression. “You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you?”

Sam provides comfort through small but meaningful gestures, like preparing your favorite treats or giving you space to talk. He reassures you with his calming presence and wise words. “Don’t keep it bottled up, friend. Whatever you’re feeling, it’s valid. I’m here to help you through it.”

Masterlist

[vunblr]

Lush.

Pairing: Chubby!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Smut. Unprotected Sex. Some fluff. Slight Angst. Body Insecurity (Bucky). Size kink. Use of pet names. Finger sucking.

Summary: After Bucky is reminded by an offending shirt that his body isn't what it used to be, Sugarplum finds just the right way to get him out of his head.

Word Count: 4.1k.

notes: This fic can be read as a standalone, but is a filthy follow-up of Plump and Ripe.

This is one of the works I'm submitting for the @avengers-assemble-bingo Kinky Bingo. The prompt was "Finger Sucking". Plot? what plot? Card number KB-014.

Bucky hadn’t dropped a pound. Not for lack of trying, he trained harder, ran longer, even made peace with the sad green smoothies Sam brought every time they met. But his body, thanks to that failed mission that ended up with him as a Hydra guinea pig again, held on to every soft part of flesh like it was fighting him. A year into dating her, though, he found out sometimes he didn’t care as much. Not when she looked at him the way she did. Not when her house smelled like cherries and safety, and her couch had his dent from where he always sat. These days, his apartment felt more like a storage unit, and her place up the fruit shop felt like home.

He grunted softly as he tugged off his stained henley, damp with sauce. He’d gotten too invested in his cheat food again. Messy, handheld, and completely worth the ruined shirt. But now, standing in her bedroom, digging through the drawer where she kept a few of his spare clothes, his mood began to sour.

He pulled on a clean henley, only to feel it tighter than he remembered around his midsection. His brows knit together. One thing was not losing weight -he could live with that- but fattening up? After an entire month of forcing down more salads and adding another damn routine to his training? He stared at his reflection, pressing his lips into a thin, flat line.

He tugged the shirt down again, trying to smooth out the way it clung around his stomach. The fabric bunched at his sides, tighter than it had been a few weeks ago, and definitely tighter than last month. It wasn’t just the damn stain from lunch anymore. It was the way this shirt used to be loose at some places, and now clung to his body like it was afraid to let go. He sighed through his nose and padded toward the kitchen.

Three hours. In three hours, he’d have to head back to his place, grab his gear, and suit up for a long mission with Sam. He glanced at the clock and grimaced. He was already dreading the way his tactical belt would pinch. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if it would click shut this time.

The front door creaking open snapped him out of the spiral. He instinctively straightened his back, like he could somehow stretch himself leaner in the next five seconds.

She walked in, hanging up her coat, and saw his expression. “Hey, handsome.” Her voice was soft and warm, the way it always was, happy to see him.

He forced one of those weird, practiced smiles that don’t fool anyone and never quite reach his eyes. “Hey.”

Her brow furrowed immediately. “What’s wrong? Sam threw some last-minute intel at you?”

“No.” He kept the smile in place, but it wobbled under her gaze.

She didn’t buy it. Of course she didn’t. She crossed the room without hesitation and wrapped her arms around his waist. He tensed, not because he didn’t want her touch, but because he felt it. The soft give of his belly pressed right into her body, and the henley pulled tighter on him with the movement. Too tight. Obvious. Pathetic.

His jaw clenched as he tried to hide the flinch, but she felt the tension in his body. She leaned back just enough to look up at him.

“What is it, gummybear?” she asked, gently. It was affectionate, but it felt like a slap to his pride.

Gummybear. Chewy. Squishy. Sweet, maybe, but soft. He used to be called a weapon. Even “Papa-bear” carried a bit of strength or manliness to it. But gummy? Christ. He pressed his lips into a thin line, not trusting himself to speak without the shame curling up his throat.

She felt it. Subtle, but unmistakable. The way he sucked in his stomach the moment her arms closed around him. The involuntary reflex of a man trying to shrink himself, to hide his body.

So it was one of those days. She sighed softly against his chest but didn’t call him out. She never did.

Instead, she nuzzled into him, sliding her palms up his sides, slowly and deliberately, skimming over the tension in his torso until they rested on his chest. She stopped there, spreading her fingers over the firm muscle of his pecs before curling behind his neck.

“You know, Buck,” she murmured, pressing herself closer until every inch of her body molded against him, “I’m really gonna miss you these next few days.”

He stiffened a little, but did not pull away. Still stuck in his head.

She pressed a kiss to his collarbone and let her voice drop into something softer. Needier. “And I was thinking that maybe…”

Her hand slid down the curve of his back and gave a firm, affectionate squeeze to his ass. He jerked slightly, startled, a flush creeping up his neck.

“Maybe you can give me a little something as a parting gift.”

“W-what kind of gift?” his voice rasped slightly, unsure if he was supposed to laugh or groan.

“Oh, I don’t know…” She rose onto her toes, brushing the shell of his ear with her lips. “Maybe you can fuck me so stupid I’ll be thinking about it the whole time you’re gone.”

The tips of his ears were going red. She could feel the way his pulse jumped beneath her fingers, the way his hands hovered uselessly at her sides for a second before finding a place to rest, one on her lower back, the other clutching her hip.

“Shit,” he muttered. “You can’t just say things like that.”

Her smile was smug against his throat. “Sure I can. I’m your girlfriend.”

“Yeah,” he breathed, like he still couldn’t believe that was real. He leaned back just enough to look at her. His brow furrowed, that stormy look creeping back in, until she cupped his cheek.

“Don’t go inside your head,” she whispered. “Stay with me. Right here.”

That did it. His shoulders dropped slightly, and the tension drained out in a slow exhale. His thumb traced a lazy circle over her hip, rough pad dragging over the cotton of her tee.

“I don’t think I can make you stupid,” he mumbled, trying for humor and failing adorably. “But I can try to make you remember me.”

She grinned, tugging him closer by the collar of his too-tight henley. “That’s the spirit, Sarge.”

He groaned under his breath, half a laugh and half a curse, but bent to kiss her anyway, deep and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world.

Like he wanted this to last her through every single mile he had to put between them.

Her words still echoed in his ears. Fuck me so stupid. She always knew exactly how to get to him, how to twist his insecurities into afterthoughts with just a few words and the warmth of her body pressed against him.

His hands slid down her back, gripping the underside of her thighs to lift her easily, letting her legs wrap around him. He carried her to the bedroom like he’d done a hundred times before, but it still made her breath hitch every time, like she couldn’t believe the strength tucked inside him.

She tugged at the hem of his henley the second they hit the room, frantic, her mouth still hot from a kiss that never really ended. He let her pull it up and off, baring his chest to her, thick and broad, a little soft in a way that always made her mouth water.

Her hands went to his belt next, working the buckle loose.

But when they started toward his zipper, his hand caught hers.

"Uh-uh," he murmured, in a low and thick voice, the one with that edge he got when the switch flipped in his brain, when her teasing stopped being something to endure and started being something to tame.

She blinked up at him, confused for a second.

He smirked -crooked, knowing- and his voice dropped to a near-growl. "Strip for me, Sugarplum."

The command wasn’t harsh. If anything, it was warm, coaxing, but it carried certain weight. Authority. It made her shift on her feet.

He saw it happen, the way her confidence flickered into something shy, the way her gaze dipped for a heartbeat before sliding back up to meet his. It never failed to rail him, the way she could turn so soft under his attention. Not because she was unsure, but because she felt the gravity of his want.

“C’mon, sugar,” he drawled, stepping back just enough to let her move. “Wanna see you. All of you. Before I make a mess outta us both.”

Her fingers moved to the buttons of her blouse, and Bucky sat back on the edge of the bed, manspreading, hands resting on his thighs.

Waiting.

And fuck if the heat in his gaze didn’t make her feel like the most delicate, desirable thing in the damn world.

She slipped the last piece of clothing from her body, and her breath was already shallow, skin prickling under his gaze. Bucky hadn’t moved from the bed, still sitting with his thighs spread wide, eyes dark and fixed on her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

His tongue swiped across his bottom lip, slowly. “Goddamn,” he muttered, more to himself than her. “Come here.”

She took a hesitant step toward him, but he was already moving, reaching for her waist and guiding her to straddle his lap. The shift was flawless, like he’d done it a hundred times in his mind. She settled over him with a small gasp, bracing her hands on his shoulders, her thighs hugging his hips.

He looked up at her, heavy-lidded, and then he moved.

In one smooth motion, he rolled them over the bed, laying her down beneath him with a soft thump against the mattress. Her breath caught in her throat as he hovered over her, his weight on her so welcome. But he didn’t stop there.

Still kneeling, he slid his arms beneath her thighs and lifted her, hauling her hips effortlessly up off the bed, spreading her legs wide, and draping them over his broad shoulders. She yelped, completely unprepared, as he manhandled her like she weighed nothing.

“Bucky-!” Her voice broke on the last syllable, arching her spine instinctively.

He chuckled, low and rough against her skin. “What, baby?” he said, kissing the soft inside of her thigh. “Forgot I’m strong?”

She couldn’t answer. Her hands scrabbled uselessly at the sheets, not knowing where to grab, overwhelmed by the sight of his face between her legs, already buried, closing his eyes.

If he could bench press a car, or lift a fucking truck by the axle… why wouldn’t he do this like it cost him nothing?

She moaned as his tongue licked a long, deliberate stripe through her already-soaked slit, slow and savoring, like he had all the time in the goddamn world.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, her whole body already shivering against him.

His grip on her ass hardened, digging his fingers just enough to still her her while he mouthed at her ravenously. No teasing. No warm-up. Just a focused, hungry, and devastating Bucky.

He didn’t give her time to catch her breath, didn’t want her to have time. His tongue worked like he meant to ruin her, dragging through her sensitive folds again and again, slick and purposeful. Every flick, every suck of his lips around her clit was ruthless.

He had her straddled on his shoulders like she was nothing, just something sweet to devour. And he was so fucking good at it.

Her thighs began to tremble where they rested against his chest and shoulders, her cries pitching higher each time his tongue slipped inside her, slow at first, then deeper, fucking into her with wet, obscene sounds that only made her slicker. She twisted in his grip, throwing back her head, fisting the sheets.

“B-Bucky- oh god- fuck-!”

His mouth never left her. He groaned into her pussy and then wrapped his lips around her clit and sucked.

Hard.

She shattered.

Her back bowed and her toes curled behind his shoulders, as a strangled sob left her lips as her climax hit like a goddamn lightingbolt. She came in his mouth with a gush, and he didn’t let up. If anything, he got greedier, lapping her up like he meant to keep her trembling.

Only when her body sagged, wrung out and slick with sweat, he finally release her.

He eased her onto the bed, still with his pants on, and the glistening mess he’d made of his mouth and chest on display. She barely had time to catch her breath before he grabbed her by the waist and flipped her like she weight nothing, dragging her hips up until she was arched, with her knees pressed under her body, ass raised for him.

He knelt behind her, fumbling with his zipper, growling under his breath. “You know what that pussy does to me?” he rasped. “Papa Bear is gonna split you open on this cock so fucking deep, you’ll feel me every time you sit down this week.”

She only whimpered, dazed and raw from the orgasm still buzzing in her veins.

He grunted as he finally got the zipper down, dragging his cock free, hard, flushed, already leaking. He lined himself up, ran the head through her soaked pussy, and then paused.

He bent over her, bringing his mouth to her ear, his voice a low, growled promise.

“I’m gonna fuck you so stupid, as you asked, that you’ll forget your own name. You want that, Sugarplum?” He gave her ass a sharp slap. “You wanna be my little mess before I go play hero again?”

She moaned helplessly, nodding frantically against the sheets.

And Bucky -still half dressed, cock in hand,- sank into her in one long, deep stroke.

“Fuck, Sarge!” she gasped when he bottomed out, arching her body into the mattress beneath the weight of his hips. His thick thighs pressed hard into the back of hers, and the stretch had her vision going white at the edges. He gave her a moment -just a moment- with a few teasing, shallow thrusts, letting her body adjust around his girth. But then, with a low grunt, he drew back and slammed forward again, setting a brutal pace that had the entire bedframe rattling.

The bronze headboard clanged against the wall with each thrust, and she could barely think, barely breathe.

“You feel that?” he growled, voice dark and feral behind her. “Fuckin’ dripping for me, so tight, squeezin’ me like you don’t wanna let me go.” His Brooklyn accent started to thicken like every time he took control.

Her mouth was open, breath catching on each thrust. He was relentless, slapping his hips against her ass, heavily and purposefully.

“Look at you, little mess under me, beggin’ to be ruined,” he rasped, slapping her ass again, then gripping it to pull her back onto his cock. “This is what you wanted, Sugar? My cock wrecking your little pussy before I’m gone?”

“Y-yeah,” she gasped, nodding frantically, body trembling from the hard cadence. “Please, Bucky- cover me. Want to feel you on top.”

That did something to him. He groaned low in his throat, the sound pure hunger, and leaned forward over her, parting her knees wider with his until her belly dipped against the sheets.

Her breath caught as his body came down on hers -warm, heavy, solid- his chest pressing against her back, the soft curve of his belly flush with her spine.

“Greedy fuckin’ sugarplum,” he muttered into her ear, a teasing smile curving his lips even as his cock plunged deeper at this new angle. “You wanted all of me? You got me.”

He braced himself with his vibranium arm planted beside her head, the whirling of servos was faint under the moan she let out. His flesh hand curled under her, palming one breast before rolling her nipple between thick fingers.

She whined, too sensitive, too close.

Then he reached higher, brushing her lips with his hand.

“Open,” he said low but firmly.

She obeyed without hesitation, parting her lips, and he pushed two thick fingers into her mouth, slow and deep, pressing the pads to her tongue.

“Suck,” he said, rough and quiet near her ear.

She did. Her lips sealed around them, hollowed her cheeks with each drag of suction, and his breath stuttered against her shoulder.

“Fuck,” he muttered, grinding his hips down. “You know what that does to me, Sugar.”

She moaned softly around his digits, and his cock twitched inside her. Her mouth was hot, slick, obedient, and seeing her like that beneath him, around him, had his restraint unraveling.

He pumped his fingers in and out of her mouth, slow at first, letting her taste the salt and heat of his skin, letting her tongue slide between the ridges of his knuckles. She kept her eyes closed, sucking him worshipfully. Intimately. Dirty in a way that made something primal pulse low in his gut.

“Goddamn, you like this, don’t you?” he rasped. “Lyin’ there droolin’ on my fingers while I’m so deep inside you.”

She whined, rocking back her hips as she sucked harder, eagerly, her moans muffled by the weight of his hand.

“That’s it,” he growled, leaning more of his body into hers. “You’re so fuckin’ good, Sugar.”

He twisted his wrist slightly, letting his fingers slide into the inside of her cheek. Her hips jerked, a high, keen sound escaping around the seal of her lips.

“You gonna cum for me like this?” he whispered, his breath hot at her nape. “Gonna cream my cock while you suck on my fingers, hm?”

Still buried deep, Bucky let his weight shift forward. The bed creaked beneath them, her thighs already parted wide by his, trembling from how hard he was working her.

His vibranium hand slid down from where he’d been braced, slowly and deliberately, gliding over the dip of her waist, down the curve of her belly. She shuddered beneath him, a gasp caught in her throat as the cool drag of metal trailed lower.

“You feel that?” he rasped against her ear, scraping her earlobe with the edge of his teeth. “So hot down here.”

Two of his cold fingers pressed into the slick mess between her legs, rubbing through the slick spread around where his cock stretched her open and he groaned.

“You made a fuckin’ mess,” he growled, dragging the metal pads, slow and teasing. “You like being this messy for me?”

She whimpered, still sucking on his fingers, hips buckling against his touch.

Then he found her clit -swollen, throbbing- and pinched it softly.

Her whole body jolted.

He grinned against her neck, watching her eyes roll back as he started circling it firmly, mercilessly. He didn’t need finesse. Just pressure. Rhythm. She was already on the edge, trembling around him, drooling down his knuckles.

“C’mon, Sugarplum. One more.” He pinched her clit again, just enough to make her twitch. “Wanna feel you lose it while my cock’s so deep you’ll still feel me tomorrow.”

She tried to moan something around his fingers, tried to beg or curse or praise, he didn’t know. Didn’t care. The wet suck of her mouth, the clench of her pussy, the twitch in her thighs, it was all he needed.

His vibranium fingers pressed harder, rubbing at one side of her clit until she broke apart, loud and wild, squeezing him in pulses that drew a low hiss from his throat.

“Fuck! Fuck-, Sugar, I was tryin’ to hold out,” he gritted, jerking his hips against her ass in an uncoordinated rhythm. “Was gonna make it last. Make you come again-”

But she was still clenching around him, trying to milk him dry, her slick mouth sucking on his fingers, the heat of her pussy gripping him like it never wanted to let go, he didn’t stand a chance.

“Shit,” he hissed, burying himself as deep as he could go, thick thighs tensed against the backs of hers. “Gonna fuckin’ cum.”

His hand let go of her clit and fisted in the sheets under her as he came -hard and long- his breath catching in his throat as he flooded her with warm, thick pulses until it spilled back around him.

“Jesus,” he choked, grinding once, twice more to push it in deeper, like he could bury every drop inside her.

He stayed like that, pressed flush against her back, heart pounding, lips parted against her shoulder as her body quivered beneath his, wrung out and stuffed full.

He didn’t speak right away; he just let his weight rest heavy and solid on her body.

Then, low against her ear: “You took me so good, sugar. Let me wreck you just right.”

He slowly eased his fingers from her mouth, dragging them lazily, then planted his hand on the mattress to lift some of his weight off her body. Still half-hard and resting against her soaked folds, he dipped his vibranium fingers back down, teasing the mess between her thighs.

“So, Sugarplum,” he murmured, his breath warm against the shell of her ear. “Did you like your parting gift? Such a mess you got here,” he added, and she could hear the smirk in his voice. Two cool fingers circled the tender rim of her entrance, stretched, swollen, and leaking. He dragged one through the creamy slick coating her folds, deliberately slow, then slipped just the tip inside, shallow and maddening.

She hummed, boneless beneath him, then shifted just enough to lift her hips and rub her ass against his pelvis. His cock twitched, pulsing with interest at the friction.

“Yeah, but I’ll still miss you, Papa Bear,” she said sleepily, her voice laced with satisfaction and mischief.

Bucky pushed himself up, and the mattress groaned beneath him as he rose to his knees. His palm caressed her hip before gliding lower, giving her ass a lazy squeeze. His fingers spread, parting her cheeks just enough to admire his handywork.

A sound halfway between a hum and a growl rumbled in his chest. “Fucking perfect,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.

She mumbled something incoherent into the pillow, too wrecked to lift her head. Something about feeling good.

He let his gaze roam over her body, heavy-lidded and full of heat, before he reached for his discarded shirt to wipe gently at her thighs, not bothering to be thorough. His other hand stayed on her, stroking slowly over the curve of her hip. His body still buzzed with the aftershock, his cock twitching but spent, for now.

Moments like this, when her skin was soft beneath his hands and her body pliant from pleasure, made it easier to forget the parts of himself he hated. The thickened waistline. The sluggish metabolism that Hydra had cursed him with their prodding. A year of clean eating and harder workouts, and still, nothing changed. If anything, he’d grown softer.

But her. She never made him feel less.

Not when she kissed his belly with the same hunger as his mouth. Not when she reached for him in the dark, whispering “Papa Bear” like it was something sacred.

And not now, lying there ruined and smiling like he’d hung the damn moon.

He sank onto the mattress with a heavy sigh, then shifted and pulled her with him like it was second nature. She let out a little squeak as he manhandled her into his chest, cradling her against him like she weighed nothing at all, again. Her warm thigh draped over his, and her cheek found the place over his heart that always seemed made for her.

“I’ll miss you so much, Bucky,” she murmured, voice muffled as she nuzzled into his skin.

His hand came up instinctively, caressing her hair before he kissed the crown of her head. “I’ll try to be in touch,” he whispered. The promise was sincere, even if he couldn’t always keep it.

She didn’t push. She just sighed, content against his skin, and let her hand drift down across his stomach until it rested at the edge of his waist, curving her palm around his soft lines. There, where he usually tensed. Where his breath always hitched.

But this time… he didn’t flinch.

This time, he reached down and covered her hand with his own, pressing it gently against the curve of his love handle. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to.

She smiled into his chest. And he stayed there, holding her close, allowing himself to feel good in his skin again.

Permanent Taglist: @civilbucky @pandaxnienke @queergalpal97 @mrsalexstan

Dividers by: @/cafekitsune

[satoruan]

THINK I WANNA HAVE YOUR BABY w/Jujutsu Kaisen

( TW ) f!Reader, Breeding kink, unprotected sex, cream pie, cum inflation, hair pulling, sex toys, overstimulation, stepdad!Toji, daddy kink, overstimulation

Featuring: Gojo Satoru, Toji Fushiguro, Geto Suguru & Choso Kamo

authors note: repost bc tumblr took it down for no reason...

☾ GOJO SATORU

“Fuck Love, you’re sucking me so good.” Satoru groans, struggling to not crash the car. During dinner, you two kept passing each other such heated looks that even your friends commented on the tension. Earlier today, you got a notification from your health app that you were ovulating. Satoru jumped on you as soon you told him, he wanted to stay in all day and fuck, but your guys’ friends blew up his phone reminding him of the promises you both made to them. After dinner you couldn't keep your hands off each other, you were desperate for his cum and Satoru was desperate to breed you. “Don’t cum ‘Toru.” You warn before sticking his cock back in your mouth. “Can’t help it Love, mouth too fuckin’ good,” he says, sighing in relief when he pulls onto your street, clicking the button in his car that opens the garage. He barely has the chance to take the keys out of the ignition before you pull him out of the car. “Don’t have time to make it up to the bed, just fuck me right here.” You demand, leaning over the car and presenting Satoru with your ass. Satoru pulls your dress up and shoves his cock into your pussy. He reaches over your hip to stimulate your clit. “‘Toru, just cum in me, I don't care ‘bout gettin’ off.” You move your ass in perfect sync with his hips. “You sure Love–” “Breed me ‘Toru!” You moan, feeling his cum fill you up. You drop your head to the still-warm hood of the car, finally able to catch your breath now that his load was deep in your cunt. “C’mon Love, let's finish this in the bedroom.” 

☾ TOJI FUSHIGURO  

You peak over the corner of the hallway, winking at Toji who was busy talking to your mother. ‘Come fuck me.’ Your mouth once you catch his attention before running back up the stairs, careful not to make any noises. You told your mom that you weren't feeling well, that during the drive back from college you must’ve caught something. In all honestly, you just wanted a chance to freely fuck your stepdad without your mother coming in and out of your room. Specifically, you wanted to be bred by him, and the best way to keep his cum in you was to use several pillows and put them under your ass so his cum didn’t spill out, hence why you didn't want your mom to barge into your room. Thank God she's a germaphobe. You strip out the Pj set you threw on and lay yourself face down, ass up. Your stepdad’s favorite position. As expected, you hear your stepdad softly shut the door a few minutes later. “Desperate now, are we?” He grips your hips. “Always desperate for you Daddy.” you mumble into the bed. “Huh,” he slaps your ass before pulling you up by the hair. “Didn’t hear you slut.” “Said ‘m always desperate for you Daddy, even prepared myself with the dildo you bought me.” You whimper. “Such a good girl,” He pulls his hard cock out of his slacks, gives it a few tugs before stuffing your cunt to the brim. “Now take this dick slut.” He pushes your head down into your lilac duvet. You try and fail to be silent when his dick hits that special spot every time he goes deep enough. “You okay in there, y/n?” You hear your mother's muffled voice through the door. You clench down on your daddy's dick in surprise, causing him to fuck you faster. “Y/n?” “Y-yes mom, I'm fine, just go away p-please.” You gasp out, throwing your head back into the bed in ecstasy when you hear her mumble and walk away. “Daddy, 'm cumming! Cum with me!” You whisper-yell. “Gonna fill this pussy, get you so full of my seed you can never leave this house again.” He grunts, slamming into you at a bruising pace. “Yes, please Daddy, fill me up!” You orgasm and Toji follows suit, filling you with so much cum it spills out.  

☾ GETO SUGURU 

“I'm so full Sugu.” You mumble, dazed. You fight the urge to close your eyes and fall back into Suguru’s big, warm chest. “Wake up sweet girl. ‘M not done yet.” He mumbles into your sweaty neck. “B-but Sugu–” “Shush Lovebug, one more time.” Suguru looks over your shoulder to see where you two are connected. He plugged you up good, but after so many loads a trickle of his cum slowly travels down his almost empty balls. “O-one more.” You grab his chin and kiss him sweetly. He rubs your noses together before grabbing your hips and moving you down the shaft of his cock. He pays close attention to not pull you over the tip of his cock. You hold onto your stomach, feeling it protrude slightly more than normal, Sugu’s cock and cum inflating you. You feel like a cum filled, flesh light as Sugu moves you to his liking. It’s hard to believe he has more cum in him. “Fuck Lovebug, you feel so warm and tight.” He mummers, giving you a few more neck kisses. You lean closer into him. Right now, you want to live in his skin. “Love you Sugu, can’t wait ta have your baby.” “I Love you too, can’t wait to see you carryin’ my child.” He grips your hips tighter at the thought.  “‘bout to fuck another load into you sweet girl, you wan’ it?” “Yes please, more than anything.” You rest your head back into his shoulder. He shrugs at your head until your mouth is close enough to kiss. He slams your hips down and cums as you two make out and whisper sweet nothings. 

☾ CHOSO KAMO

“Again, Baby.” Choso holds the vibrator to your clit. You arch your back and forget the fact that you have nipple clamps on. You scream when the clamps move. Your entire body is sensitive, Choso came up with the idea to simulate you to the max when you said you wanted to have his baby, that you wanted him to breed to and fill you to the brim with his cum. You readily agreed to his idea because you knew that the more orgasms you had the better chance you had to get pregnant, something about the virginal walls relaxing when women orgasm. Now though, you’re regretting it. Choso’s been holding the vibrator on your clit for the last hour and every time you think you’ve gone numb to the sensation; he finds a way to make you cum harder than the last. “N-no Choso, ‘m done down, I've cum as I can, wan’ you to fuckmenow!” You slur your words, the pleasure making you lightheaded. “One more Babygirl.” He soothes you, rubbing your stomach and imagining what you’d look like full of his cum. Beautiful, you’d look beautiful. “At least fuck me while you give me another orgasm!” You argue, staring at him with glossed-over puppy eyes. Choso gives in and situates himself between your legs, still holding the vibrator over your clit. You sigh happily when he sets the vibrator down and thrust his cock in you. You thought you were completely numb down there but the feeling of Choso thrusting into your hole that’s been contracting nothing felt godly. Adding that with the vibrator that he put back on your clit, you come immediately. “Choso!” You scream clenching around him so tight he can’t help cumming. “Fuck! ‘M filling you up so good baby!” 

[prythiansprincess]

FELIX FELICIS | a mattheo riddle fic.

"I don't see what anyone can see in anyone else but you."

word count: 4,797.

summary: once is by chance, twice is a coincidence, but three times is a pattern. when he tries and fails to ask you out for the third time, mattheo riddle becomes convinced that a little liquid luck is all he needs to succeed. after all, desperate times call for desperate measures.

author's note: happy friday my loves! i'm in a fluffy mood this week, so please accept soft and sweet and shy loverboy mattheo. I know we love it when he's a tough badboy player, but simp mattheo just hits different y'know.

♫ anyone else but you - the moldy peaches. nav. more mattheo.

Charming. 

Confident. 

Cocky.

It was widely known that Mattheo Riddle was a certified flirt. He prided himself in being smooth and suave, but when it mattered the most, Mattheo somehow transformed from arrogant playboy to lovestruck little idiot who could barely string a sentence together without stumbling all over himself in front of you. Needless to say, his recent blunders were doing an excellent job of damaging his reputation and bruising his arguably inflated ego. 

The first time it happened, Mattheo was bested by a bloody Mandrake. As usual, he was indulging in one of his favorite activities — skiving off class and keeping you company in the greenhouse. You spent most of your free time assisting Professor Sprout with the care of the magical plants housed within the castle grounds. Mattheo would never admit it out loud lest his mates take the mickey out of him, but he found it quite relaxing to listen to you spout off random facts and tidbits about the flora whilst basking in the afternoon sun. 

It fascinated him to hear how passionate you were about herbology. Though most of the knowledge went over his head, Mattheo still listened intently and smiled at your excitable nature. That Friday afternoon was no different. Mattheo sat diligently beside you, his long legs haphazardly splayed out on the rickety wooden bench as he watched you work. He adjusted the fuzzy earmuffs atop his head, a little frown tugging at the corner of his lips at the thought of it flattening his curls, which was undoubtedly one of his best features.

How was he meant to charm you under these conditions?

You chuckled softly at his pouty expression and tugged at one of his curls. “Don’t look so upset, Matty. The earmuffs are for your own good.” 

“Its hard to remember that when it feels like two Pygmy Puffs are suffocating my head.” 

“Well, you could always try, oh I don’t know…maybe actually going to class?” you teased, bumping his shoulder with a smile. 

Mattheo huffed. “Xylomancy is so boring. How are a couple of twigs meant to tell the future, anyways? The class is rubbish and Trelawney is a complete nutter.” 

You chuckled at his exasperated expression. You had half a mind to remind Mattheo that he wouldn’t be stuck in the course had he picked his electives early, but doubted that it would help his already aggrieved mood. 

“Besides,” he continued softly. “I like spending time with you.” 

“I like spending time with you too, Mattheo.” 

The erratic rhythm of the rapid beating of his heart was nearly deafening. Mattheo wiped his sweaty hands on the front of his trousers and cleared his throat, trying and failing to wipe the stupid lovesick smile off of his face. One completely innocuous declaration and he was an absolute goner. Merlin, he really needed to get his shit together. 

“Would you want to…” Mattheo swallowed the lump in his throat and forced himself to get on with it. “Would you want to go on a date with me sometime?” 

The second half of his question was abruptly interrupted and drowned out by the loud screeching sound of a Mandrake’s cry. Mattheo winced at the unpleasant wailing threatening to do his head in while simultaneously discovering a newfound appreciation for the furry atrocity protecting his ears. He watched as you repotted the plant with hardly a wince. After wiping the dirt off of your apron, you turned back to him with an apologetic smile. 

“Sorry about that. The little bugger is a screamer, even by Mandrake standards.” Mattheo licked his lips, his throat suddenly feeling dry as you directed your undivided attention towards him. “What were you saying before? I’m afraid I didn’t hear you.” 

Ask her, Mattheo reprimanded himself. Stop being a bloody coward and ask her.

Mattheo blinked, distracted by your expectant expression and sunny smile. Salazar, you were so fucking pretty. He was quite certain he was drooling. Thank Merlin for Snape partnering you up in potions all those years ago. It wasn’t even just the physical aspect that he found so appealing. You were smart and sweet and shy, but sharp and sarcastic underneath all the timidness that he had worked tiringly to uncover. It seemed that you were only really that way with him, which truly fed his delusions that you might feel a fraction of what he felt for you. 

“Matty,” your soft, lilting voice brought him out of his daydreams once more. Mattheo flushed deeply when you placed a hand on his shoulder. Gods, even that innocent touch sent his brain into overdrive. He truly needed to get a hold of himself. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” Mattheo squeaked. He scrambled to his feet and nearly sent his belongings toppling from how abruptly he rose. You only stared at him with mild amusement. “I was just saying we should head to dinner before Nott eats all the bloody cupcakes again.” 

You nodded in agreement. “Theo does love his sweets.” 

Thankfully, ribbing his best mate's greedy dessert hogging habits saved him from having to rehash the disastrous attempt, but he knew it was only a matter of time before he had to try again. Mattheo was determined to get it right. 

The second time it happened, the giant squid wrapped its stupid slimy tentacles around his perfectly crafted picnic and disastrously ruined the moment. 

In the most nonchalant manner he could muster, Mattheo proposed having lunch outside. Given that it was a rare sunny Saturday in the Scottish Highlands, you happily obliged. With Enzo’s help and promise to keep his mouth shut about the whole sordid affair, (because let’s face it, Theo would’ve pissed himself laughing had Mattheo asked him for a picnic basket) Mattheo gathered up the sandwiches and snacks for the impromptu outing at the Black Lake. 

Things were going swimmingly in the beginning. Mattheo was content watching you lay out a blanket on the dock, the tiny daisies stitched on your yellow sundress billowing in the wind and effectively distracting him from forming a coherent thought. He flushed when your fingers brushed through his as you handed him a sandwich. Crustless, just how he liked it. You remembered. 

“This was a great idea.” Mattheo smiled softly as you leaned back on your elbows and soaked up the sunshine. You opened one eye and nudged his knee, pathetically setting his skin on fire from nothing more than an innocent nudge. “We should do this more often.” 

A comfortable silence fell between you. For once, Mattheo was content to take in his surroundings. Throughout your friendship, he slowly but surely, learned how to pull himself out of his own head and just be. There was something safe and comforting about you that allowed Mattheo to let his guard down in a way that he never had with anyone else before. With you, he could just be himself without worrying about what you might think of him because he knew you would never judge him. 

“Y/N,” he started, breaking through the haziness of the breezy afternoon. “Can I ask you something?” 

You cocked your head, squinting at the brightness of the horizon. “Anything, Matty.” 

“Did you want… I mean would you be interested in,” Mattheo licked his lips, blinking away the glimpse of soft skin as your sundress rode up your bare legs. “Going on a date with me sometime?” 

Once again, his question was rudely interrupted because of course it was. You yelped as a slimy tentacle popped out from underneath the dock and snatched a crustless sandwich out of the picnic basket. 

“The giant squid,” you exclaimed, pointing at the blood red cephalopod lurking in the water. “It’s stealing our snacks!” 

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Mattheo cursed as he batted away a tentacle. “Go away, you giant menace! What’d you want a soggy sandwich for, anyways?” 

As entertaining as it was to watch Mattheo argue with the sea creature, you promptly gathered up your belongings with the aid of magic and pulled him away from the clutches of the giant squid. Mattheo scowled the entire way up the dock, but flushed deeply once he realized you were holding his hand. Breathless, you allowed Mattheo to grab the picnic basket and blanket from your hands as the two of you made the trek back up to the castle. 

“I’m so sorry, Y/N,” Mattheo apologized. “I didn’t know our picnic would be ruined by that stupid cuttlefish." 

“It’s okay, Matty,” you reassured. “It’s not every day that a girl gets robbed by the giant squid. Truly, I had a fun time.” 

“You mean it?” 

“Of course I do,” you said with a smile while squeezing his hand. “I always have fun when I’m with you.” 

Mattheo squeezed back, grinning wide and bright at your admission. Perhaps today wasn’t as much of a lost cause as he thought it was. At the very least, it served as motivation to try again at a later time. Preferably when there weren’t giant fucking calamari roaming about. 

Once was by chance, twice was by coincidence, but three times was a pattern. The third time it happened, Mattheo was thwarted not by a magical plant nor a sea creature, but by pyrotechnics at the hands of Seamus Finnegan. At least the source of the interruption was a human this time, which was an improvement given the state of things. 

Mattheo took his eye off the potion brewing beside him for one second and Seamus turned the bloody thing into a fireworks display. He barely got three words in with you before the cauldron exploded and spewed a vile green concoction all over his shirt and trousers. 

“I’m going to fucking kill you, Finnegan,” Mattheo raged at the Irish man. To his credit, Seamus looked equally as shocked that he managed to muck up something as simple as Pepper-up Potion. 

The only consolation was that you helped clean Mattheo up after class. It would’ve been easy enough to cast a quick scourgify, but you insisted on doting on him and cleaning him up the old-fashioned way with a damp cloth. As you stood between his legs and carefully wiped the remnants of the failed potion from his face, Mattheo briefly considered not killing Seamus. The way you gently fussed over him warmed his heart. 

“I’m sorry Matty, I didn’t mean to distract you earlier.” 

You always distract me, Mattheo thought. All I ever see is you.

“It was my fault,” Mattheo said instead. “I should’ve known. Only Finnegan would manage to turn a simple potion into a Molotov cocktail.” 

You chuckled as you dabbed at his cheek. “I’m just glad you weren’t hurt.”

Oh. The butterflies in his stomach lurched at your words. You were worried about him. That had to mean something, right?

Your fingers lingered on his cheekbone while your gaze dropped down to his lips. Mattheo fought the urge to grab your hips and pull you flush against his chest so he could do what he’d been dreaming of doing since the moment he met you. Merlin and Morgana, he really fucking wanted to kiss you. 

The spell broke as soon as other students started pouring out into the halls, their excited chatter ruining whatever moment you were about to have. For Salazar’s sake, could the universe give him a break for once?

“We should both get to class,” you said. Mattheo nodded and tried not to look too disappointed at another missed opportunity, but held his breath as you loomed closer. Without warning, you leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. The kiss was soft and light, barely a whisper against his skin, but it may as well have been an iron brand with the way it lit his nerves on fire. “I’ll see you later, Matty.” 

Mattheo stayed in that empty classroom long before you had gone. His fingers traced the spot where your lips had been, a smile on his face as he thought about the softness of your kiss. If he didn’t know it already, he definitely knew it now. When it came to you, Mattheo was truly and utterly fucked.

“I can’t take it anymore,” Mattheo ranted as he paced back and forth in the common room. 

Theo lounged lazily on the velvet emerald couch, utterly unbothered by the fact that his best mate was having a meltdown of epic proportions. “I take it that asking Y/N out for the —” he paused and glanced over at Enzo for confirmation. “How many times has it been again?” 

“This would be the third,” Berkshire supplied.

“Right, so that’s three failed attempts thus far,” Theo said rather unhelpfully. “I mean, truly mate, how hard could it possibly be? I’m starting to think that you’re losing your touch.” 

“What Theo means to say is,” Enzo interjected before Mattheo could lunge at the floppy haired prick he called a friend. “Maybe it’s time to switch tactics.” 

“That’s the problem!” Mattheo exclaimed. “I don’t have any tactics when it comes to Y/N. It’s like I see her and my brain short circuits. She’s so pretty and smart and funny and her hair always smells like vanilla and her lipgloss looks like it would taste like strawberries and it’s driving me fucking insane. Merlin, she kissed my cheek earlier and I nearly fainted because her lips were so soft and I couldn’t bring myself to wipe the gloss marks she left —”

“Down boy,” Theo said with a snap. “You’re drooling over Y/N again.” 

“Do you have anything to offer besides being a smug arsehole?” 

“Of course. I also have beauty, riches, and a sparkling wit to dazzle you tossers with.” 

“I swear to Salazar, I will Avada you — “

“Before you commit murder,” Theo remarked with a lazy flick of his wrist. “I think I might have a solution to your problems.” 

Death threat forgotten, Mattheo eagerly turned towards his friend. “Let’s hear it then, Nott. If it wasn’t already obvious enough, I’m getting desperate. I’ll take anything at this point.” 

Theo discretely surveyed the common room for gossipers, purposely dragging his gaze through the mostly empty room as slowly as possible just to further irk Mattheo before turning back towards his friends. Satisfied that there were no sneaky Slytherins afoot, Theo dug into the pocket of his robes and produced a small vial filled with a shimmering golden liquid. His best mate grinned deviously while carelessly swinging the potion back and forth by its chain. 

“Felix felicis,” Enzo said. “That potion takes six months to brew. Where did you even get that, Theo?” 

“I may or may not have an illegal potions lab in my closet, but that’s neither here nor there. The important question is: Is young Riddle willing to rely on a little liquid luck to fix his problems?” 

Mattheo impatiently reached for the vial. Theo quite literally dangled the potion in front of his best mate’s face before clasping his fingers around it and shaking his head. 

“It’s going to cost you.” 

“I should have bloody known,” Mattheo muttered. “What do you want, Nott?” 

“I want the dorm tomorrow night.”

Mattheo squinted at his friend, considering the proposition. He meant it when he said he was desperate, but he couldn’t very well give into the little tyrant without making him squirm first. 

“Two hours.” 

“Three.”

“Let’s be real, you’re not lasting past thirty minutes so either take it or leave it.” 

“One, that’s incredibly offensive. Two, I’ll have you know I’m up to forty now with the help of a little foreplay. Three, I would’ve happily invited you to a ménage à trois, but since you’ve gone and betrayed me by falling in love, I’ll take what I can get. Two hours it is then.” 

Enzo rubbed his temples. “You two genuinely give me a headache.”

Mattheo deigned to respond. He merely grabbed the vial from his best mate’s greedy little hands and uncorked the stopper. Enzo and Theo watched expectantly as Mattheo tipped his head back and downed the entire thing without hesitation. 

“Merlin, he’s really going for it,” Theo exclaimed with delight.

The potion tasted like a combination of ginger, honey, and lemon and thankfully went down smoothly. Mattheo felt its warmth journey down his throat and into the pit of his stomach. His two best mates observed him curiously as the liquid settled. 

“Well,” Enzo finally asked. “How do you feel?” 

Mattheo blinked as an easy smirk spread across his face. “Lucky.” 

“Atta boy,” Theo said as he clapped him on the shoulder. “Now go out there and make papa proud.” 

Mattheo nodded to his friends and promptly made his way out of the dungeons. His first stop was to Gryffindor Tower where he had a rather titillating conversation about flowers with Neville Longbottom, of all people. With a cheerful smile, he waved at the Gryffindor and thanked him for the colorful bouquet that Mattheo now carefully cradled against his chest. 

His second stop brought him to Draco’s dorm. The prat was nowhere to be found, but luckily (ha!), Mattheo knew how to maneuver his way through the wards. He went straight towards Malfoy’s nightstand where he knew for a fact the poncy little blonde hid his fancy French chocolate. Mattheo doubted his mate would miss them given the fact that his mum sent him a new package every fortnight. Spoiled brat, he thought to himself.

Finally, Mattheo found himself standing before the kitchens. Though he had visited the Hufflepuff common room countless times, he didn’t actually know how to get in without your assistance. Before he could stress over that slight hiccup, one of the house elves appeared out of thin air. 

“Hi there,” Mattheo greeted. “What’s your name?” 

“I is Winky.” The elf responded, shying away from him. 

“Pleasure to meet you, Winky. I’m Mattheo.” 

“You is not supposed to be here.” 

“I’m actually here to see a very special friend. I wanted to bring her flowers and chocolate, but I’m not sure how to get into the basement. I was hoping that you’d be willing to help me out.” 

Winky blinked as she reluctantly surveyed him. Mattheo kept his expression open, smiling at the elf. Her face softened when she glimpsed the vibrant flowers. “They is pretty flowers. The young miss will be happy. Winky will help you.” 

Mattheo thanked the elf and took her hand before they both disapparated with a crack. It took him a second to get his bearings, but recognized the familiar wooden door before him once the aftereffects of apparition subsided. 

“Thank you, Winky.” 

The elf merely bowed then disappeared in the blink of an eye, leaving him to it. Smoothing the front of his button down, Mattheo rapped his knuckles against the door three times in quick succession. The door opened slowly, then there you were. You smiled at him, sunny and bright. Mattheo tried not to buckle to his knees at such a beautiful sight.

“Hi, Matty. What brings you here?” 

Mattheo cleared his throat and presented the flowers and chocolate. “I brought these for you.” 

“Oh, these are lovely,” you exclaimed, taking the bouquet from his hands. “Sunflowers are — “

“Your favorite,” Mattheo finished. “I know. As are these chocolates. Full disclosure though, I did steal them from Malfoy. I’m afraid I didn’t have much time to get them imported from Paris.” 

You chuckled. “This is very sweet, Mattheo. But you know my birthday isn’t for another month, right?” 

“This isn’t for your birthday.” Mattheo straightened, steeling himself to ask you the question. This time, there were no Mandrakes or Giant Squids or Highly-Flammable Irishmen to stop him. “I got these for you because I wanted to ask you out on a date.” 

The flush on your cheeks made Mattheo smile. You blushed so prettily for him. In fact, you did everything prettily. It was really quite unfair. “I’d love to go on a date with you, Matty.”

“You would?” Mattheo asked in disbelief. You chuckled in response as he attempted to collect himself. “I mean, yes, great. Are you free right now? For a date. With me. Obviously.” 

Had it not been for the liquid luck coursing through his veins, Mattheo might have grimaced at his idiotic rambling, but he didn’t have it in him to feel embarrassed as you bit back a smile. 

“You want to go on a date? With me? Right now?” 

I want to go on a date with you every single day of the rest of my life, Mattheo thought.

“Yes, I really would.” 

You smiled again and it hit him like a ray of light. “Meet me in the courtyard in ten?” 

Mattheo would have met you in Paris, in China, in bloody Australia, but sure the courtyard was fine. He paced under the willow tree, quietly contemplating in awe that the Felix Felicis Nott brewed had actually worked. When he wasn’t being an insufferable prat, Theo truly proved himself useful. 

Exactly ten minutes later, you came strolling out into the courtyard with a sunflower in your hair and a smile on your face. A gentle breeze blew through your soft waves and rippled against the skirt of your sunflower patterned sundress, matching the bouquet he had given you earlier. If it weren’t for the willow tree against his back, Mattheo might have toppled over in awe and surprise. There was no denying it. He was absolutely head over heels for you. 

“You look…” Mattheo trailed off, his voice choked with emotion. “You look beautiful, Y/N.” 

Your eyes crinkled with joy, a pretty pink blush warming your cheeks. “You don’t look so bad yourself, Matty.” Mattheo grinned as you picked a nonexistent piece of lint off of his shirt. “Very handsome.” 

“Thank you.” He tried not to melt at the compliment and instead distracted himself by offering you his arm. “Are you ready?” 

You nodded before shyly grabbing hold of his arm. “Lead the way.” 

The walk took you outside of the castle where the sunset painted the grounds in pink, orange, and gold hues. It was a pleasantly cool afternoon and the trees swayed gently in the breeze as the two of you headed down a familiar path. Mattheo led you to the greenhouse, its interior transformed with a little help from his friends. As the sun descended further into the horizon, the bright twinkly lights that Pansy insisted on hanging up glimmered from the roof. 

In the center, a small area had been cleared for a padded cushion covered with woven blankets and fluffy pillows. Atop a low wooden table sat two plates of lemon garlic chicken pasta and white wine, which were both your favorite. Soft music played in the background as you took your surroundings in. 

“This looks amazing,” you exclaimed. “Did you do all of this by yourself?” 

Mattheo grinned. “I had a little help, but I was told I was a bit of a tyrant about it.” 

You chuckled in response. “You’ll hear no complaints from me. It’s perfect.” 

He watched you settle into the cushions, a fond smile on his face as you looked around in awe and wonder. In all honesty, Mattheo had been a little tyrannical setting the whole thing up. Blaise even threatened to hex him for questioning his interior design expertise. In Mattheo’s defense, he had been planning this for nearly a year and he wanted everything to be perfect. To hear it from you made it all worth it.

Mattheo hardly had time to enjoy the pasta and wine since he spent the entire date stealing glances and coaxing smiles out of you. Things had always been easy between you, but this felt different. Mattheo felt a sense of belonging. The effortless ease in which the conversation flowed, the shy smiles hidden behind wine glasses, and the flirty banter flowing from both ends just felt right. Mattheo belonged right here, right now, right beside you. 

“Do you ever feel like…” You started, taking a light sip of wine before meeting his gaze. “Do you ever feel like, your friends, your family, they really only know a portion of you, but then someone comes into your life and they make you feel seen and known in a way that you never knew you could be seen and known.” 

Only every time I’m with you, Mattheo thought.

The crinkles in your eyes told him that he hadn’t kept that comment to himself like he intended, but he didn’t retract the statement.

“You make me feel like that,” Mattheo said softly. “Like you see who I was and who I am and who I will be. I read somewhere once, probably in one of those ridiculous romance novels I’m always reading over your shoulder,” you laughed heartily, eyes shining with emotion as you continued gazing at him in that unwavering way of yours. “That to be loved is to be known and I feel like no one knows me better than you do.” 

You reached for his hand across the table and Mattheo smiled. “I’d call you my best friend, but you’re truly so much more than that. You see every part of me, like I see every part of you. You’re like the sunrise, Mattheo. You came into my life slowly, surely, then all at once.” 

“I want to be your everything,” Mattheo murmured softly as he brought your hand up to his mouth and pressed soft kisses against your knuckles. Hope sparkled in those big brown eyes of his in a way that rendered you speechless. “But maybe I can start by being your boyfriend?” 

The grin on your face took his breath away. “Boyfriend it is.” 

Mattheo wasted no time in pulling you into him and sealing the deal with a kiss. His lips were soft and gentle against yours, full of tenderness and care for this tentative thing forming between you. This inevitable pull that had tugged and tugged that string taut until it brought you to this moment. It felt fated almost — inescapable, inexorable, and ineluctable. 

You wouldn’t have had it any other way. 

The sweet kiss was broken by the sound of glass clinking against concrete. You looked curiously at the small empty vial that had seemingly fallen out of Mattheo’s pocket. Your boyfriend — gods, would you ever get used to saying that? — turned bright red as you held the vial up. Scrawled on the front in barely legible writing was Felix Felicis. 

“I can explain,” Mattheo started. “After trying and failing to ask you out for the third time, I got a little desperate. That’s when Theo offered me the potion. I figured a little liquid luck wouldn’t hurt my chances.” He looked sheepish as he continued explaining. “I understand if you’re mad, but I was just so bloody nervous and I’ve been waiting for this for so long except I kept making a fool out of myself every time I opened my mouth — “

“Matty,” you interrupted. “I’m not mad. I think it’s really cute and endearing that you felt the need to take it in the first place. But I do have some bad news for you,” Mattheo tensed as you sniffed the vial. “This isn’t Felix Felicis.” 

“It isn’t?” Mattheo asked in surprise. “Then what in the bloody hell did Theo give me?” 

You swiped a drop from the vial with your fingertip and tasted the offending potion. Once the sweet residue rested on your tongue, you broke out into a fit of giggles. “This is just sugar water.” 

“What?!” Mattheo exclaimed, looking absolutely bewildered. “Then how did our date go so well?” 

He was going to kill Theo. Mattheo would ensure that it was a slow and agonizing death. He would employ methods of torture against his floppy haired smart arse gelato loving friend that would make even the most depraved Death Eater clutch their pearls. 

But oh, you were kissing him again. Soft, sweet, giggly little kisses peppered all over his face that quelled his rage into a bubbly sort of giddiness until the plot to kill his best mate dissolved entirely. 

“You never needed luck, Matty,” you murmured against his lips. “I adore you just as you are.” 

“Say it again,” he whispered. "Please."

Those big brown eyes were irresistible. You would've done anything he asked under the influence of that puppy dog gaze. You pulled away and brushed the curls out of his eyes. “I adore you, Mattheo Riddle.” 

The sentence barely left your mouth before Mattheo pounced, his kisses more passionate and determined this time as you melted against him. You giggled in delight, kissing him back with as much affection and devotion that he poured into you.

Even without the Felix Felicis, Mattheo still felt like the luckiest wizard alive. 

[randombush3]

caught in a landslide

alexia putellas x reader

summary: you hide in Barcelona to delay the inevitable and, well, the footballer is just too enticing

words: 9041

content warnings: mentions of drugs (very lightly) and some morally-grey behaviour

notes: so one day I just thought about this and so I wrote it idk

it's inspired by Bohemian Rhapsody and Mamma Mia (the song and the film, respectively). I'm not sure if the resemblance to the former is there but who tf cares hehe

I think there'll be a second part...

Initially, your fiancé gives you one week to delay the inevitable. 

He’s a nice guy, you suppose. Richard. Goes by ‘Rich’, or ‘Fez’ to his old boarding school roommates. 

He works with your dad. Or, rather, for your dad. 

He gets on with your brothers. All three of them – even the rogue drug-addict who refuses to acknowledge that the family business does in fact lend to him a certain sort of privilege. 

“He’s quite dreamy,” your best friend argues, just as she has been doing since the day the medieval betrothal was announced. “Handsome. Successful. He goes to the gym.” 

“Saskia.” Her smile is tight-lipped and failing to be sincere. “He drinks blended eggs and probably takes steroids.” 

“At least he’s clever.” She looks pretty in the light of the early evening, with September slowly fading into a golden autumn and the garden of your parent’s house descending into a gentle chill. It doesn’t surprise you, the glow of her skin and the shine of her hair – she’s always been like this. You’ve always been like this. 

Perfect. Put-together. Poised and ready to be moved as a pawn on the chessboard, only given one direction. 

“It’s hardly difficult to get into Oxford when your chief master is best friends with the professors,” you say, because you don’t want him to have good qualities. And it is also true. 

Saskia’s eyes — bluer than the Italian mosaic of the floor — narrow. “I thought your mum said you didn’t have to marry him if you hated him. Didn’t she hate your dad at first anyway?” 

You sigh, twisting the engagement ring around your finger with enough force to suggest you want the diamond to come loose. It won’t, of course, because it’s a family heirloom on his side and has lasted through generations of uncomfortable yet practical marriages. “Yes. But the implication didn’t match what she said and it was right before reminding me that hate is just passion without direction.”

Saskia snorts into her peppermint tea. “She’s a romantic.” 

“She’s insane,” you mutter, eyes flicking towards the back of the garden. Some poor stablehand has been tasked with weeding the flower beds. He looks awfully uncomfortable without his horses nearby. “She gave me a list of ‘acceptable names for a child’ yesterday. And a bump of coke.” 

Saskia laughs properly now. “At least we know where you get it from.” 

You allow yourself a crooked smile. “I’m not my brother.” 

“No, but you value your life just as little as he does.”

The smile drops.

“Do you think I’m being ridiculous?” you ask, voice quieter now. The doubt feels like a betrayal, but you can’t help shrinking under her narrowing gaze. 

She doesn’t answer right away. Saskia examines you, perceptive and scrutinising. Unafraid to tell you the truth, yet hesitant with how she phrases it. You know she is treading lightly because she leans forwards, over the metal bistro table and her mug, and her mouth is pressed into something gentle, but not without heat. 

“I think you’re in love with being miserable.” 

You blink. “Wow.” 

“I’m not saying Richard is your soulmate,” she rushes to clarify. “Personally, I think he’s a walking-talking concoction of protein shakes and cigars, humming to the tune of his glory days on the rugby pitch. But he’s not confining you to his bed, nor is he forcing you to spend more time with him than you have to.” She’s not wrong in that respect, though it is a terrible observation to have to make. “You’re choosing to be dragged, really.” 

You scoff, but it’s half-hearted. 

She continues. “You don’t love him, sure. But you haven’t told him no. You haven’t even told your parents no. You just keep waiting, hoping someone else will cause the explosion for you.”

It would be ignorant to pretend the passivity is not self-inflicted. You showed no interest in anyone at university nor at school nor when you were granted entry into the family business. Every man you slept with, tried to eat breakfast with, and then failed to love has blended into a blur of mundanity and beige. 

A fire first needs a spark. 

You sit back, suddenly exhausted. A silence grows between you, its net familiar and safe, yet somehow still suffocating. 

Saskia’s shoulders drop as she finishes the last of her tea, resisting the urge to suck on the teabag in case the housekeeper, who is always hovering in your house, appears and disapproves. She softens at the despairing contortion your face has moulded itself into. 

“Richard agreed to a week. One week before you start planning the wedding.” She exhales, as if she has no more advice left to give. You stare at her hopefully. “Do something with it.” 

You nod. 

Then, a beat. 

“I don’t want to be her, you know.” 

“Who?” she asks. 

“My mother. Trapped in a life she has convinced herself she loves.” 

Saskia reaches for your hand. “Okay,” she says. “Don’t be.” 

The stablehand cries out as he picks up a handful of nettles without his gloves on. You both watch for a moment as he scrambles to find a dock leaf. And then, without another word, you stand up and walk inside the house.

You hear the restrained urgency of Saskia’s footsteps as she follows you through the winding corridor that leads to your room. She makes no move to interrupt the journey, but she’s present and she’s willing to entertain it for the time being. 

She watches as you pull out a suitcase from underneath your bed.

You start with counting pairs of knickers. Socks, next. 

And you’re halfway through packing before you tell her where you’re going. 

…

You like Barcelona as a city. History is crammed into every paving stone and brick. The people are similar. Everything is kissed with the sun and holds the rays in its heart with cosmic secrecy. 

There’s no need to book a hotel. An old friend – Carlota – lives in one of those flats only parents could gift. She’s welcoming. Says only ‘congratulations’ with the right balance of sincerity and sarcasm. Gets it. 

“I’m here for a week,” you tell her firmly. 

She nods like she doesn’t believe you. 

Her older sister was just named the most influential woman in this financial year. She probably says similar things to you. 

“So,” Carlota says when you have smoothed the creases in your linens and joined her for a glass of wine on her balcony, “he seems pretty accommodating. Enamoured?” 

You laugh. Red wine drips down the glass, falling on white trousers. It won’t come out. You don’t want it to.

“I don’t want to get married yet.” 

Carlota loved poetry at school, taught you that you needn’t try too hard if you read her annotations over her shoulder and copied them into essays. She loved art and perspective and reading into things. She purses her lips as you sit before her now: “Why do you elongate your sentences?” 

You push her shoulder. She holds onto the balcony rail for balance, grinning like she’s glad she ripped off the scab. 

Later, she takes you to her studio. Carlota lives a fantastical life too, but she plays the part well. It’s a room in a warehouse in Poblenou. Trendy, apparently. From where you’re standing, among canvases and paint splatters, it seems to be nothing but a mess. 

Out of politeness, you refrain from pinching your nose at the overwhelming smell. 

Carlota explains that she’s exploring representations of the female body. Curves, muscles, hard lines, soft fat. The difference between Aphrodite and today’s supermodels. The lens of love or hatred or jealousy. 

Her art is uncomfortable, like it is shouting at you to look inwards and correct yourself. You suspect Carlota has grown tired of the life she was born to lead. 

In the corner, away from the collection of outspoken women crafted to criticise, is a smaller, more intimate series of canvases. A woman, again, but the same face in each painting. You can feel the emotion seeping out of the dried bursts of colour and you almost don’t have to ask who she is. You do, just in case. 

“Is that your girlfriend?” 

Carlota holds her breath, as if you’re not supposed to know that. Her eyes meet yours for a moment, deep and earnest, before she exhales – the only sound in the room. She looks at the canvas currently set on the easel: laughter, a head that’s tipped back and immortalised in happiness. 

“She’s in LA,” she says eventually. “Working on a new project. We’re trying long-distance.” 

The steadiness in her voice surprises you. Carlota has always been stoic, grounded, but this is… different. You catch the hint of defensiveness like the swift flick of a blade to the throat. 

“It’s good, actually,” she continues, a small smile tugging at the edges of her lips. “Hard, but good. And it’s mine. She’s mine.” 

This is not a performance. This is a choice. 

Carlota doesn’t mean to do this to you, but she has and she cannot take it back. 

You clear your throat, finding it suddenly raw and scratchy. “What did your parents say?” 

She shrugs. Playful, though. “Mamá sends her the headlines and talks about them over dinner. Papá calls her my amiga especial, but he’s stopped looking like he’s choking as he gets the words out. It’s… coming together.” 

You think about what your parents would say about Carlota if they heard this. “Oh, they’re so much wilder in Spain,” your mother would laugh. “And Carlota has always been one to rebel.” 

She’d wave it off and continue to wait for a wedding invitation with forenames and surnames that match her idea of marriage. 

Carlota no longer looks afraid. 

“That’s nice,” you decide, happy for her. 

“It is.” She’s grinning.

You move to the corner of the studio, brushing your fingers lightly along the edge of one of the canvases. The woman is beautiful, not just in the way she has been depicted. Your fingers tingle at the passion in the paintings. You blush. 

“Do you love her?” 

Calota nods. “Madly.” Her mouth opens, but she pauses before continuing. Perhaps she is about to deliver a blow. “I want to marry her.” 

It strikes you deep in the stomach. 

“I desperately want to marry her.” 

You know what Carlota is doing. You know why she feels she has to. 

“You don’t have to marry him if you don’t want to.”

She wants to save you. You’re not sure if she will ever admit that she can’t.  

…

This engagement party really sucks. The lights are too warm, too cosy. The drinks are too weak. It’s getting too late. 

Alexia, for all these reasons and more, is hiding in the corner, arms folded across her chest as some aunt from her mother’s side guns for the nosiest-woman-of-the-year award. She’s all, “what happened to that friend of yours?” and “when will you get married?”. Every question is a grain of sand dropping into a growing pile. Alexia shrugs off the feeling of time running out. 

And they flock like pigeons on telephone wires. A chorus of prodding and poking. 

It’s Tia Martina who says, “it’s about time you settled down. You should let us help you!” 

Tia Anna nods enthusiastically. She’s a valiant drainer of the bar – she’s actually managed to get herself drunk. “I have a friend, whose friend’s daughter is a lesbian.” She pauses, humming. “No, no. She’s – what are they? Bisexual? That’ll do, no?” 

Alexia shifts her weight, feet aching from wearing new boots at training. The lights are still too soft, and the cava Tia Montse (who has left her swaying husband in favour of the gaggle of gossipers) hands her is flat. She’s backed herself into a corner here. If she had thought this would make her invisible, she was unfortunately wrong. 

“Nena,” coos another one, blinking at her with that squint that means the probe is incoming. “What happened to that pretty one who was older than you? Your teammate?” 

Alexia exhales through her nose. “She moved teams.” 

“You can still be together though, no?” Tia Anna says, confused as Alexia shakes her head. She doesn’t need to know about the fights and the screaming and the tears that slowly killed them. “Shame.” And it’s like Jenni no longer has purpose to her. 

Another one swoops in. Briefly, Alexia curses her cousin’s pursuit of marriage with all the hatred she can muster within. “You’re not getting younger, and football won’t warm your bed when you’re fifty.” 

“It might,” Alexia says, dry as her throat at the thought of the future. “The Champions League trophy is quite large.” 

Laughter prickles nearby: Alba, eavesdropping from behind a tower of croquetas. But the women are undeterred, as if fighting a second revolution. They carry the resilience of women with a cause. Bold. Unrelenting. 

“It’s about time you settled down,” Tia Martina repeats. “You should let us help you.” 

Alexia raises an eyebrow. “Help me to do what, exactly?” 

“I have a different friend,” Tia Anna offers, expecting gratitude and receiving none. “Her niece works in Girona. Or is it Granollers?” The women around her laugh, all finding this fun and amusing and charity work that really does bring a sense of satisfaction. “She plays padel! She’s got strong legs. You like that, don’t you?” 

The sip of flat cava that Alexia takes does nothing to improve the situation. 

“She’s bisexual as well,” Tia Anna adds. “That is close enough, no?” 

Alexia pinches the bridge of her nose. “Not how that works.” 

“Oh, but she’s lovely! And she follows you on that app. Instant-gram.”

“Brilliant,” Alexia mutters. “I’ll pick a wife out of my DMs.” 

They don’t know what that means. 

Tia Martina leans in, lipstick on her teeth and breath tainted with tobacco. “Just think about it. A nice Catalan girl. Local, easy. A family we know. None of this jet-setting to Paris and Rome and London–” 

“It’s part of my job.”

Everyone else shrugs, as if that is a ridiculous statement and far from justification. 

“All that travelling… no wonder you haven’t settled!” 

Alexia’s jaw tenses. She loves her family. She does. 

They want her to be happy. Even if they assume that means ignoring her clear signals for them to fuck off right now. 

Alexia drains the rest of the cava just to give her hands something to do. The glass is now warm, her fingers damp with condensation. She wants to throw it. She knows she won’t. 

“Do you know what would help?” The sharpness of her voice cuts through the conspiring. Her aunts listen eagerly. She grins, but she is not about to tell a joke. “If you all stopped trying to auction me off like livestock at the village fair.” 

There’s a pause. A twitch of silence. 

Then, from an aunt she doesn’t even remember being part of the conversation, the first volley of offence: “We just want you to be happy, petita.” 

“I am happy.” 

It comes firmly. A few of them blink and shuffle their drinks in nervous hands. 

From the corner of her eye, Alexia catches Alba raising her own glass of cava towards her older sister. A salute. Everyone’s been here before. 

Only Tia Anna dares to go in again. “You always say that, Alex. But look at you. You’re so alone.” 

Inhaling deeply through her nose, Alexia restrains herself. She’s had hours of media training. She knows how to mould herself into composure. 

“I’m not alone,” she says with as much diplomacy as possible. “And I’m not interested in being paraded around like a prized pig.” 

“Alexia!” someone gasps, scandalised by the word ‘pig’ more so than the implication behind it. 

To her relief, Alba appears beside her then, sliding in like a shield. The escape is on. 

Alexia will remember to stick with her uncles next time. They can talk about football. Something simpler, with less controversy. Something she knows and can deal with. 

Love is not what she’s looking for. It doesn’t shine? It doesn’t help her career, and it certainly isn’t important on her journey to merge her being with football until her name and the sport become synonymous. 

She craves victory. 

Everyone else will always come second. 

…

You’re covered in paint, laughing at Carlota’s stupid jokes, when your phone rings. She’s adding white paint to the last of her installations, claiming it is the most important part. Your phone case gets smudged with red as you pick up the device. 

“Rich, hi.”  

“Hello.” He sounds surprised you’ve answered. “I hear you’re in Barcelona.” 

“Saskia,” you mutter, half a confession. 

“In all fairness, I did say ‘pretty please’.” 

You smile tightly, rubbing green paint off your thumb with the edge of your t-shirt. In front of you lies a bad imitation of a daisy that Carlota calls ‘abstract’. “She worries.” 

“Naturally.” He’s rather dismissive. “Anyway, no problem. I called to ask you if we’re still on for March. The caterer’s asking. Also, your mother’s suggesting orchids. That’s fine, right?” 

You blink at the ease with which he barrels through the call. Efficient. Another task on a busy to-do list, you presume.

“I’ve not spared a thought for flowers.” It’s a petulant response but you don’t care. Carlota hides her smirk behind a comically large paintbrush.

“I’ll tell her to run with it, then.” He clicks his tongue as though he is waiting for an opportunity to wrap this up. 

“You do know I haven’t agreed to marry you yet,” you point out, hoping you don’t sound too afraid of the prospect. “Before you finalise anything.” 

“Yes, I’m aware. That’s why you have, what? Three days left? Get it out of your system.” Saskia had said, before it became apparent that Richard was to be your husband, that he was sleeping with his secretary. A northern girl. Manchester, maybe. Fake blonde with long eyelashes and longer nails. All the boys do it. “Oh, and, darling, you can’t ignore the wedding planner. I’m too busy to be her first port of call.” 

You sigh. “What’s her name again?” 

“Gosh, no idea.” 

“Richard,” you groan. “I’m supposed to have a week.” 

“Three days.” 

“Carlota’s asked me to organise her latest exhibition.” You hear her laugh, shaking her head. It’s a lie, but you assume that’s why she was eager to bring you into the studio anyway. It’s like a passion project. “I’ll need at least a month.” 

“Just get plane tickets on the Amex.” 

To him, that seems to settle it. A month, a week, three days – time doesn’t exist when it can be charged to a card and buried under ‘miscellaneous expenses’. 

Your scoff is not entirely fair. “You’re serious?” 

“Of course I’m serious. That’s what it’s for. Christ.” He sighs as though you have overstepped. You suppose you already know how this works; playing dumb simply brings a temporary tingle of satisfaction. “Your mother’s already moved the florist and bumped the dress fitting. She’s having the time of her life. There’s so much talk that Vogue are interested – the tacky bastards.” 

Carlota snorts. You stifle a grin, imagining your mother’s face when she receives that email. 

“I mean, fine. I’m just throwing money at it at this point.” 

“How deeply caring of you,” you drawl, hypocritical but with a valid point. 

“Oh, darling, I care.” He doesn’t. “It’s just that this whole thing’s turned into a spectacle. Not what I agreed to, but whatever. Apparently that’s the vibe now.” 

You bite your tongue. He’s using air quotes, you can hear it.

“Have I reiterated my point sufficiently?” 

Richard is as obnoxious as he has been cultivated to be. 

“I’m supposed to have a week,” you say again. 

He groans. In all fairness, you’re discounting the time spiralling in England. And not mentioning the additional weeks needed to plan Carlota’s show. “You do know it’s Barcelona, not a spiritual retreat. Do your tapas, wear linen, whatever. But let’s not drag this out. You’ve got to be here so that I can, you know, work.” Or make the most of his last fucks with the secretary. But that goes unsaid. 

“I did say Carlota’s collection will need a month.” 

You feel Carlota freeze behind you, then quickly resume humming. Her parents are good friends with Richard’s, which had initially slipped your mind. There’s pressure on all sides here. 

“Right, well, that sounds terribly artistic. Just please don’t forget the RSVP deadline for the meat options.” 

You close your eyes. “I still haven’t said yes.” 

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Sure, but you will.” You hold your breath. “Anyway, I’ve got to go. Your father’s calling a board meeting and, well, as the newest member…” 

“Bye, Richard,” you sigh. 

“Yeah, bye, darling.” 

There’s a retching sound echoing through the room once the call is finally finished. Carlota’s shameless about it, laughing as she goes, hoping to make you smile too. All you can think about is how you will have to spend the rest of your life with him. 

“When we were little,” she says as she resumes painting, prompting you to follow suit, “he would let me paint his nails and do his makeup. Until the shooting came, and with that, the fatherly voice of elitism. He’s a good man.” 

“Are you convincing me?” you ask, eyebrows raised. 

She shakes her head, lips pressed against each other in conflict. Maybe she means: don’t torture him, don’t make him suffer. Maybe she just said it, because she’s Carlota and she is unpredictable and wild and too creative for the confines of this world. She doesn’t seek to elaborate, and you’re not sure you want her to. The only thing that Carlota must grill you on now is this: “So how are you going to curate the exhibition, señorita?” 

With no answer just yet, you watch as Carlota’s brush makes one last satisfied flick against the canvas. She leans back, stretching in her (unintentionally) colourful apron, staring at her work with the satisfaction of someone who is done. 

You blink at the chaos around you – canvases leaning against the walls, some still glistening with wet varnish, others already sun-dried and cracked. They fill the room, and now this is your circus, so you better at least ask properly about her project.

“This is the whole collection?” 

“All of her.” 

You tilt your head. “Her?” 

“The body. Mine, yours, the woman across the street wearing polka dots. Fuck me if I know. But her.” She gestures broadly with a roll of her eyes, then points to a large canvas propped near the back wall. It’s striking: deep blue saturated with bloody crimson, each wrinkle of a rolled-up shirt painted to precision, each line of the skin equally as vivid. She bears no face but her power is unmistakable. 

“That’s a footballer,” Carlota says, already half-distracted, digging through a pile of tangled wires and paintbrushes for a misplaced lighter. “From here. Barcelona. You wouldn’t know her, but the whole country does. Stares at her. Marvels at her. Stuff you see in documentaries.” 

You step closer. Her body is rendered with aching precision, muscles sinewy with strength and endurance. Elegant. Controlled. Reverent in the way Carlota’s brush has captured the angle of the spine, the bulge of her quadriceps. The posture of a victor.  

“She trains nearby?” you ask. 

Carlota shrugs. She was asked to attend a match but she doesn’t remember much. “I saw her play,” she settles on, sparing misconstrued details. You don’t even like football. “She’s… captivating. The world holds its breath.” 

You stare. You’re no better than the rest of them, scrutinising each divot in the stomach, qualifying her physique. The thought stings your throat with ridiculous guilt. 

You move on. Carlota has more interesting paintings, anyway.

…

Alexia doesn’t know how she feels about the news her agent has just given her. 

She understands fans: edits, drawings, posters. People look up to her like that, because she’s successful and she has been cleverly marketed into being the face of Barça Femení. And it’s no surprise that people do analyse her – she knows she’s not ugly, she knows that the muscles she obtains for work have superficial benefits too. 

But an actual artist – a well-known artist – painting her? Adding her into a collection titled Cuerpa that explores the female body to a level of intellectualism she gets imposter syndrome just imagining?

“Well, Ale, you’re going to have to see it in person.” When Alexia hired this agency, made for stars not footballers, she knew it was because there was too much fame for Josep to handle. Sharron understands these big things, like being hung in a gallery and immortalised in an art collection estimated to be worth quite a lot. “The artist herself has invited you.” 

“Who is the artist?” The tips of her ears go red as she hopes she at least knows their name. 

“Carlota de Montcada.” 

The name means nothing and everything. “As in the family that invested in the club?” 

Sharron nods. “But their daughter is an artist in her own right, and a good one at that. The exhibition is nearly finished, curated by another… you know. Very prestigious, if not because of nepotism.” 

“She painted me without telling me?” Alexia says, blinking. “Why would she even want to paint me?” 

Sharron doesn’t answer right away. She’s used to this: an athlete out of her depth, using resistance to mask the insecurity of attending anything that isn’t strictly earned through training, matches, and sweat. Although she does wish Alexia’s tunnel vision would widen so that she could understand that this is all part of her success. 

“It’s a compliment, you know,” she says lightly, when Alexia has frowned enough to stretch out her face. “You’re compelling. Visually. Culturally. You’re an icon, whether you like it or not.” 

Alexia scoffs, pushing her hand through her hair, damp from the shower she had after training. “Compelling? I’m not a… ballerina. Or a politician. I kick a ball around and lift weights until something breaks, and then I do it again. That has nothing to do with her fancy little intellectual body collection.”

“Cuerpa,” comes Sharron’s fast correction. 

Alexia’s aching feet hit the wooden floorboards with relentless panic-anxiety-confusion. “And I’m supposed to visit this stranger and… thank her for it? Where does that fit into my schedule?” 

Sharron looks down at her phone, already with Alexia’s calendar open. “You have a sizable gap tomorrow afternoon.” 

The pacing stops. “No, I don’t.” 

God, please don’t let her. 

“Yes, you do,” Sharron says, voice light with amusement. “You’ve got recovery in the morning, and the rest of the day is clear unless you want me to rebook that call with Hellman’s you cancelled on last week.” She raises an eyebrow. “You’ve got time, Alexia.”

Alexia exhales sharply, folding her arms. “I didn’t sign up for this.” 

“Technically, you did. There’s a likeness contract with your signature on it. Digital.” Sharron knows Alexia never bothered to read that, getting her lawyers to summarise while she focused on whatever important match she had next. 

Her glare has no real heat behind it. “She’s from that family. The Montcadas.” 

“Yes,” says Sharron, neutrally frustrated with the prolonged duration of this chat. 

“The ones who invested in the club.” A redeeming factor, at least. 

“Yes.” Sharron is growing bored of this conversation and Alexia is growing tired of having her agent in her kitchen when all she really wants to do is rewatch the footage from last season. 

“She must have seen me before.” 

“Like the rest of Spain.” 

Alexia stares at the floor for a long beat, jaw clenched. Then, finally: “what if I don’t like it?” 

“Then you don’t like it. But you’ll still be in it, and that will mean something.” 

Alexia’s quiet again, head swirling somewhere between irritation and curiosity. She doesn’t like the feeling of being seen without permission, but there’s also a part of her – hidden, sharp – that wants to see what Carlota saw. What she thought was worth immortalising. 

She huffs. “Fine. But I get to bring my sister.” Alba likes this kind of stuff. 

Sharron’s smirk is of satisfaction – the kind that the owner has deemed inevitable. “Good. I’ll message you the address.” 

They end up trekking up two flights of concrete stairs in Poblenou, until they reach a floor with a small plaque (carlota de montcada, it read in lowercase) by the door and a doorbell that looks like it is often pressed and ignored. 

“This is so cool,” Alba murmurs, trailing behind as Alexia knocks, half-hearted. She chooses not to touch the paint-stained button. 

Inside, it smells like chemicals, varnish, coffee, and faint incense. The space is tall and open, with large windows that let the autumn sun flood the room before it hides for winter. The floor is a mess of footprints and old paint spills. Everything feels like it breathes.

And then: “you’re early.” 

Carlota de Montcada appears from behind a freestanding canvas. She’s wearing wide-leg trousers splattered with what looks like ink, and a thin black tank top. Her hair is clipped up in that haphazard elegance she of course carries. 

Instinctively, Alexia sizes her up. She’s cool. Very obviously knows she’s cool. There’s something even theatrical about it, and Alexia already knows, without question, that Carlota and her exist in different worlds. 

“Hi,” Carlota says, stepping forwards. “It’s lovely to meet you, Alexia.” Carlota glances at Alba. “And you must be Alba?” 

Alba beams like she’s been personally invited to Versaille at its peak. “Hi. This place is amazing.”

Carlota shrugs modestly, then turns to Alexia with an expression that sits somewhere between curiosity and professional detachment. “Want to see it?”

Alexia nods. She doesn’t really want to talk to Carlota. The intensity of her annoyance is stuck in purgatory. 

The painting is propped near the centre of the room, still uncovered. It’s bigger than she expected. Technically, it’s a portrait – that much Alexia does know – but it’s not stiff or traditional. It’s a captured movement: a turn, sweat rolling down her stomach as she pulls up the hem of her shirt. And it’s faceless. 

Alba lets out a breath. 

“You’ve never met me.” Alexia, unlike her sister, is quite sceptical about this. 

Carlota’s head tilts slightly. “I watched you. Last season.” 

“You like football?” 

Although Carlota would like to say she was in search of a muse, the truth is far more routine and boring: “I was with my father.” 

Alexia nods with a triumphant hum. She doesn’t know what game she’s playing, but she is sure that she is currently winning. 

Her eyes are caught by the painting once more. Power strikes her – the power of her stance, her body. The boldness of the colour. The brilliance of the hand with which it was painted. 

But she bites her lip, uncomfortable with this notion. Not provoked, definitely not complimented, but not exactly wanting to look away. 

It is then that Alba clears the tension. A quick, “Carlota, is that your girlfriend?” and all heads are turned to the corner of the room. “She works in film, no?”

“Yeah.” Carlota says it slowly, as though she isn’t clear of Alba’s intentions. Her sister isn’t either, and Alexia catches herself wondering if Alba has been influenced by her aunts. 

An alarm goes off silently that tells everyone: don’t talk about Carlota’s private life! Alexia remembers that Carlota is far more important than she is. She thinks. She’s not sure. 

Carlota turns to her again, after she parries any further questions. “You don’t like it.” The statement lacks disappointment. 

“I didn’t say that.” It comes out with indignation. 

“You didn’t need to.” 

Alexia shrugs. “I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do with it.” 

A voice interrupts before anyone can break the moment further. 

“Carlota, your bloody front door’s impossible.” 

The sisters exchange glances at the whiplash the accent gives them. Carlota mutters something under her breath, smiles in the way that preludes an apology for changing the language, and holds her hand up in surrender. 

You walk in barely looking up from your phone, mid-text, scowl so deeply set that you’re certain it will leave a mark. The cable-knit you’re wearing is too warm for the atmosphere of Carlota’s studio, and Alexia notes that white linens may not be the safest here. She decides very quickly that you are not a fellow artist. 

“I swear to God, if I have to talk to Richard once more about flights home, I will fake my own death.”

Carlota hums. “Perfect timing.”

“I know.” You finally glance up, freezing when you see two strange women staring at you like you just screamed Hala Madrid in the middle of Las Ramblas (oh, yes, you are true catalan now after one month of inhabitance). “Ah.” 

“Meet Alexia Putellas.” Carlota is wearing a smirk that you cannot place, but you know that she is conspiring. “And her sister, Alba.” 

You hold out your hand for Alexia to shake, but she seems positively puzzled at your appearance. Her sister gladly grips on to save you from total embarrassment. 

“Those—” Carlota points at the defined muscles on the canvas. “Belong to her.” 

“Football,” you mutter, but it’s not a question. Just exhaled air. A sound. 

Alexia nods, stiffly. Unsure of how to look at you, unsure of how you look at her. Your eyes are penetrating, like a bird of prey scanning for its next kill, and you hardly seem impressed by her job title. That’s not something Alexia is used to. She doesn’t like it – doesn’t think it’s fair. 

“Carlota did a marvellous job. I’m having it right in the middle with a comfortable bench in front of it.” It sounds like an insult. “Very left-wing. An exploration of hard-working women.” 

“Foreign concept?” Carlota chimes in, grinning as you swat her shoulder. 

“Anywho. I must dash. Do you have that folder I left in here? I’ve got to take it to the gallery.” 

“Where is the exhibition being held?” Alba asks, looking at Carlota and hoping she will translate. Or, perhaps, know herself. 

“MACBA,” you answer. “The opening is in two weeks. You should have been invited.” 

“I haven’t asked my agent,” Alexia explains, feeling the need to. That must annoy you, because your smile disappears and something else replaces it. “I’ll be there.” 

You pause. Something ignites with the words — you’re almost excited for it. The reminder of the exhibition is a reminder of purpose and hard work. 

You can add something else to your name that doesn’t connect to your family or your idiot fiancé. 

You can slide pearls around your neck like armour and ride into battle. Be thrilled by it. 

You can see what footballers look like when they are out of their depth. When they’re not arrogant and uninterested and glorified chiselled statues. When she won’t carry the cockiness that makes your fingers tingle.  

“Good.” You regain control of yourself and your musings. The time will come, and Alexia will be there for you to enjoy. “You’re the main event.” 

The artist, whose artwork actually should be the main event, clears her throat: a very obvious reminder to back out of the conversation and save the intensity for the meeting you are about to be late for. 

You rush off before Carlota can whine in your ear. You feel the footballer’s gaze linger on your back. You try to force your mind to think about flight times. 

…

The first thing that goes through your mind when Carlota’s father dictates that both of you appear at the Barcelona women’s team Champions League match is that you don’t want to go. Never have you ever wanted to go. 

Granted, you went to your boyfriend’s matches at school, back when you’d be on exeat and the Westminster boys insisted on kicking balls around, losing to the creators of the sport consistently and embarrassingly. 

But. 

Well, that was different. 

Now you’re in a seat that is far from comfortable, surrounded by businessmen and Carlota’s family, being subjected to watching athletic women run around for an hour and a half. 

And her girlfriend is here. Carlota’s girlfriend.

Hannah. 

An American, which she admits with a grim smile as you glance at your friend and wonder how she did it. 

“You know,” says Carlota, sipping a lemonade contentedly as the second half begins, Barça comfortable in their five-goal lead. “Hannah played football for Harvard.”

“Charming.” 

“You just have to give it a chance,” Hannah says, fingers intertwining with Carlota’s as though to prove something else. You glance at their hands and roll your eyes. Fuck them both. 

For once, when Richard calls you, you don’t delay in picking up. 

“Darling,” he says with a laugh, already amused. “What’s this I hear about a football match? Hardly you.” He doesn’t really know you, but you bite your tongue. “And a women’s match. Full of lesbos, isn’t it?” 

“I’m with Carlota and her girlfriend.” 

Richard is out — you can hear the raucous rabble of his mates from university, the echoes of ‘Fez is pussy-whipped’ resounding on the other end of the line. You grit your teeth. He chuckles. “No need to be so… PA. Lota’s one of my best friends. But don’t you start with it.” 

Carlota’s interest suddenly grows, alerted by the nickname and the voice that said it. 

“Dickie!” She grasps the phone out of your house. “What’s this about lesbians and football matches?” 

“Don’t turn my fiancée into a—” And you’ve stopped listening by then. 

 Carlota has him now, tangled in some biting rebuke about misogyny and laziness and the ignorance it takes to be unable to distinguish between a team of elite athletes and a Pride parade. You let her have him. She’s good at making men flinch. 

You turn your face back to the pitch. The fans are screaming. They chant a name you know. The one name you know. 

She wears the number eleven. You wonder if there’s a reason for it, or if she closed her eyes once and the digits stuck. 

The light has shifted, an early evening chill seeping in through the bodies. Alexia turns to shout at a teammate. The captain’s armband rides high on her bicep, stretched over muscle that tightens every time she moves. 

And she moves like she’s solving something. Like football is a puzzle to her — one that she has already worked out. It’s full of instinct: the way she runs and tracks back and controls the game. It’s full of blood and work. 

Early mornings, late nights. Passion. Dedication. Grace. 

You don’t even like football. You don’t know why you’re watching her. You don’t know why you can’t stop, either. 

It’s captivating. So you don’t even care when Hannah leans over to her girlfriend and murmurs, “I don’t think it’s us he should be wary of.” 

…

Hammarby are utterly destroyed by the end of the match. Alexia still doesn’t feel satisfied. 

She had come off in the seventy-seventh minute. She could’ve at least gotten a brace, but the opportunity had vanished. 

But she doesn’t yet class her mood as annoyed. 

Until Kika bounds over with a grin on her face. A grin that means mischief. A grin that Alexia is too defeated to cope with.

“You’ve just become a trophy wife.” 

The crowd hasn’t disappeared yet and they are still standing on the pitch, yet no amount of publicity training can school the expression in Alexia’s face. 

“What?” 

Kika pats her captain on the back and then the guilty hand raises until Alexia sees three women in the stands; two of them familiar. 

“Isn’t she the daughter of that guy we had to kiss up to?” Kika’s index points at dark hair pulled back into a messy bun — the best way to identify Carlota from afar. 

“Carlota de Montcada,” Alexia supplies, wearily.

“Mm-hm. And that,” Kika says as she now lands on the woman beside Carlota. She’s wearing dark aviators even though it isn’t sunny and she’s holding Alexia’s favourite artist’s hand. “That must be her girlfriend. The one who Jana kept talking about — that American who was wearing a senyera when she collected her Academy award.” 

Alexia shrugs. She has heard of Carlota de Montcada’s girlfriend (Alba made sure of that), but it’s really none of her business. She has more important things to worry about: footage, a new technical drill, maintaining her reputation as the best footballer in the game.  

“So…” Kika turns to Alexia. “Who is the third one? The one who was staring at you like she wanted to eat you?” 

Oh, Alexia thinks with disappointment. It’s the curator.

You’re talking to a man in a suit. His arms gesticulate wildly as though congratulating you, though Alexia isn’t convinced you’ve done much to be praised for. 

“Carlota de Montcada. Her girlfriend. And then her,” Kika prompts impatiently. 

“Carlota’s friend.” 

Kika raises her eyebrows, bouncing gleefully on the balls of her feet. “You’ve met?” 

“That’s a strong word for it.” A beat passes and Alexia feels the need to justify her exit from this conversation. “Don’t get too excited, anyway. She’s not interested in people like us.” 

“People with abs and thighs that she has been politely drooling over for the entire second half? I mean, you’re enough to make anyone squeeze their legs together and blush. Especially on the pitch.” 

“Can you name three Picasso paintings?” Kika shakes her head. Alexia’s point is proven. “And, in case you still don’t get it, she’s straight. Probably dating Carlota’s cousin.” 

Venom drips from her words, sliding down her throat and pouring out of her mouth, so overwhelming that Kika’s playfulness fades until she is scrutinising the pure disgust in her captain’s tone. It’s not clear why this conversation has bothered Alexia so, but the line was crossed and Kika is eager to rectify it. Alexia’s always been touchy about relationships. She should have known better. For her next sentence, it doesn’t matter which language she speaks it in, because Alexia will always understand. 

“Let’s bask in our victory.” 

Bask they do. Even if Alexia is convinced that the best reward is more time spent in the gym, because that will make her stronger and better and keep the rush of winning going. And she finds a new personal coach who’s insistent on her solely training on her right foot. 

She’s sweaty and she’s busy and she’s happy like this. 

Obviously, Sharron ruins when she brings her the dress she needs to wear for tonight’s gallery opening, the jade satin sliding over her skin like a very fashionable chain. “I was sorry to hear about Alba’s food poisoning,” says Sharron as her accompanying message.

This is a big betrayal on her sister’s part. 

“You’ll be fine on your own,” she continues. No one is convinced. “Just stick to football. Stuff you know. People you know.” 

“Will there be people I know?” It drips with sarcasm. 

“You know Carlota. And the curator.” 

Two bullets fired that wound Alexia further. 

She traipses into the event with faux enthusiasm that is only believable the bluntest tools in the shed. Even if she looks good. Even if she knows they want her to be here. 

Champagne flutes clink against inherited rings, laughter full of a certain quality that money cannot buy. There are lots of people here, each selected for their own unique purpose, just as elite as the next. The chatter they make, often ‘oohing’ at each installation as they go, is accompanied by a string quartet (all women, of course). Alexia doesn’t remember the last time she heard music that wasn’t to encourage her body to move; to dance with her mother, to train, to celebrate a win. 

The jade satin catches the gallery lights and refuses to let go – it clings, cuts across her back, reminds her of every time someone has called her beautiful when they had meant to say marketable. She knows how to own a pitch, how to own a moment, but this isn’t familiar. This is something else. 

Cuerpa consists of a number of canvases, varying in size and medium. She recognises a charcoal pair of breasts, darkly shaded in and etched with streaks of red oil pastel. 

Mitjanit, that one’s called. 

It has a crowd around it. Or rather, around Carlota, who is thriving and laughing and holding the hand of her girlfriend as though no one here cares. Her presence cuts through the crowd like a knife, slicing clean lines of attention. The girlfriend is prettier in person, which Alexia finds interesting, and she kisses Carlota’s cheek like she’s whispering a threat. 

Alexia tries not to stare. 

And then there’s a hand on her shoulder. Manicured. Unadorned. 

“They’re sickening.” 

It’s you. 

Why are you talking to her? Why are you not busy in that same crowd, drinking in that same praise? 

Why are you not walking around with a man on your arm, regaling family-friends with details for your boutique wedding?

“You were at the match,” is all Alexia can think to say, realising her accusation only when you sharply retract your hand from her shoulder. As your hands clasp together, she notices your engagement ring. “You don’t like football.” 

“It wasn’t my choice.” 

“Why stay?” 

“It’s the polite thing to do,” you reply with a smile that doesn’t reach earnestness. Her eyes narrow but you don’t seem to wither in your desire to bother her. “Did you not want me there?” 

Alexia considers it for a moment. “I don’t think about things like that when I’m playing.” 

It seems to amuse you, and you laugh, taking her hand and leading her further into the gallery. 

She doesn’t ask. She doesn’t expect to receive an answer. 

You reach a bench – a comfortable bench, as you’d promised – that is not yet occupied but the old and frail who have tired of playing at liberalism in Carlota’s company. You tell her to sit. She complies. 

“You don’t like the painting,” you point out as Alexia feels herself frown upon realising where you have brought her. “Too humble?” 

“Has anyone ever painted you?” she retorts, along the lines of ‘you will never understand me’. 

She soon understands the error of her ways when you laugh again. A note that belongs in tonight’s key signature, perfectly harmonising with the noise around you.

“Of course they have. Never as flattering as this.” 

You sit beside her, neatly pressing your legs together with the sort of elegant indifference that belongs to people who have never had to look at a bill or sell a car or worry about tomorrow. You look like you have never once been unsure of what to do with your hands. 

Alexia can’t decide if she hates you or just wants to work you out. 

You lean back, glancing sideways at her with a smile she doesn’t trust. It’s one that has betrayed her before. “Do you want to play a game?” 

“No,” she says, immediately. 

“Good. It’s called twenty questions.” 

“I don’t—” 

“First question.” You ignore her. “Do you believe in love at first sight?” 

Her scoff is automatic. “No.” 

“Too sensible,” you say with a nod, like you’re taking an emotional inventory. “Do you believe in fate?”

“No.” 

“Ah, you wouldn’t. Someone who has to fight for everything.” 

Alexia turns to look at you properly now. You’re not smirking, not yet, but you’re definitely enjoying yourself. There’s something behind your gaze that doesn’t belong here. Curiosity, maybe. Or maybe it’s something worse. 

You continue, undeterred. “Do you prefer early morning or late nights?” 

She shrugs. “Mornings. A question of discipline.” 

“Naturally.” It doesn’t seem like an agreement. “Do you believe people can change?” 

This one makes her pause. 

“Yes,” she says finally. “But most won’t. Don’t. Can’t.” 

You nod again, almost thoughtfully. “Favourite place in the world?”

This game seems very unfair. 

“The pitch,” Alexia answers, wishing she were there right now. 

“Place, not concept,” you answer with a shake of your head. 

“It is a place.” 

She watches as your lips twitch. “Five questions in and already you’re evasive.” 

“You're asking me ridiculous questions.”

“You wanted to play a game.” 

She’s about to point out that she didn’t – doesn’t. That you had coerced her here with some kind of intoxicating mysteriousness and she really should be talking to one of the Barça board members that she has just spotted in the corner of the room. That she’s not sure you’re supposed to be talking to her, anyway. 

But you don’t give her a chance. 

You turn slightly to face her. “Here’s one: are you happy?” 

She blinks. 

You can’t ask this. “It’s none of your business.” 

“Wrong. Everything is my business when I’m interested.” 

Alexia’s mouth tightens, frustrated. Who the fuck do you think you are, really? She should square her shoulders and point at the massive painting herself opposite the two of you. She should say, “that’s me. I’m important. I mean something.” Put passion behind the words – make it worth it, because she’d be winning then. 

But she doesn’t say any of that and you don’t stop. “Have you ever been in love?” is what you next fire out at her, seemingly uninterested in her answers and achieving in being perceived as a total narcissist. 

“Yes.” It’s an honest answer. 

“How many times?” 

She thinks back to Jenni and the girls that came between. Hates that you’ve made her look inwards in the middle of a sophisticated gallery opening that she isn’t meant to have attended. She definitely regrets coming now. 

“One and a half.” 

That makes you laugh again. “How delightfully cryptic.” 

“It wasn’t supposed to be,” she replies, frowning. 

You nod, once. “Does it scare you? The idea of being seen. Not by fans or cameras or the analysis they have on those boring shows. By a person who knows you; who understands you.” 

Alexia takes a long time to answer. 

She searches for it, eyes flitting to where you have placed your hand between the two of you, engagement ring gleaming but not sitting as proudly as it should. She looks at your face; the crinkle of your brow, the blurred line between amusement and boredom. The mask that it all is. 

Maybe it’s a self-indulgent question, she thinks. Maybe you are projecting.

And she feels a glimpse of pity. 

Whatever has drawn you here to her – she pities you for it. 

“Yes, it does.” 

The air shifts.

You glance at the floor for a second. Then you look back up with a smaller smile, one that feels like it has been earned. It makes Alexia smile too. “You’re very good at this game.” 

She laughs incredulously. “I haven’t asked you any questions.” 

“Exactly.”

Alexia tilts her head, studying you, drowning out the sounds of the other guests making their way to her painting, treating it with the same awe and bemusement of the smudged boobs in charcoal. 

“Why me?” 

You look away for a moment, giving a polite smile to a woman with a severe string of pearls and an even more severe expression. 

“What do you mean?” you ask her. Truthfully. 

“You know so many people in this room. You have your friends, Carlota, her girlfriend, whoever you’re engaged to.” Her eyes flick to the ring at the same time as yours. “Why are you sitting here?” 

You seem surprised she’s asked. As if it hadn’t occurred to you she might turn it around. Really, it hadn’t, because you had assumed the footballer would tolerate your taunts in lieu of actually socialising, probably finding it easier to suffer at the hands of one of you than multiple. It had felt a bit like a favour – more so an experiment. You think she’d prefer that you tell her it was an experiment. A less sympathetic response, perhaps. 

“I want to see what it would take to make someone like you uncomfortable.” 

She sees no cruelty in it. For the moment. 

“And?” 

“Not much,” you admit. “But also… not in the way I’d expected.” Less brute force and more emotional intelligence, is what had gone down in your mental research journal. 

Alexia frowns nevertheless, not fond of being a test subject. She feels control slipping from her grasp and grieves it. With piercing eyes and piercing questions, you have opened her chest and stared – studied – and she is not glad to be at your mercy. 

Your hand twitches on the bench. Moves closer to her dress, but not near enough to touch. “Can I ask you something I shouldn’t?” 

“No.” 

You lean in anyway. “When did you decide you wanted to fuck me?” 

Alexia doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink. 

But her breath pulls tighter in her chest, and she feels the way your words settle into her skin; bruises buds bursting to bloom. 

You’re waiting, frozen too. She’s trapped but she hasn’t bitten. It’s an aching moment between two inevitable events. 

“Who’s your fiancé?” 

Your face falls. Only briefly, but she is scrutinising you so she catches it. Of course she catches it. 

“His name is Richard. He is very wealthy and very darling, but I don’t love him and I’m afraid he doesn’t love me back. We’re to be married in March.” It comes out rather impatiently – an obstacle in a path that is still clear and easily found. 

“Spring,” Alexia states like an idiot, too confused by the situation to absorb anything else. It’s not spring yet.

“New beginnings.”

Alexia laughs. It’s a surrender. She waves the white flag. She falls for it. She should never have come. 

“You’re an awful person,” she says, which she means with her whole being. But she knows that she is playing a game, and the only way to lose is to sit back and let it pass her by. It’s no secret that the winner has been clear from the start, but that doesn’t quite deter her. She answers your question instead – her next move. “One hour ago.” 

“Oh,” you reply, your teeth capturing your bottom lip and ruining its perfect shading. “Good.”

[arwkeo]

CAN'T CONTROL IT

pairing: Franco Colapinto x Fem! Driver! Reader

word count: 739

just something a little short and sweet for franco colapinto. also i think the can't control their mouth and can't control their face would suit him well?! idk bro

The F1 social media team had a new favorite hobby: catching YN's reactions to everything Franco Colapinto did.

It started during pre-season testing in Bahrain. Franco, fresh in his Williams racing suit, had spun on his installation lap – a rookie mistake that had the paddock chuckling. The TV director, whether by instinct or divine intervention, cut immediately to YN in the Alpine garage.

Her expression was poetry in motion: eyes rolling skyward, lips pressed together to suppress a smile, followed by a head shake that somehow conveyed both "I can't believe this" and "that's my idiot" in one fluid movement.

The clip went viral within hours.

"Have you seen this?" Franco bounded into the Alpine hospitality area, phone already extended. "'Every Time YN Dies Inside Watching Franco Colapinto: Testing Edition' – they even put sad violin music over your faces!"

YN didn't need to look. She'd already seen the compilation – a masterfully edited collection of her various reactions to Franco's testing adventures. Her personal favorite was the slow-motion zoom on her face when he'd described his first F1 car as "spicy."

"I'm starting to think you do these things on purpose," she muttered, but her treacherous face was already softening at his enthusiasm.

"Maybe I just like seeing your reactions," he winked, dropping into the seat beside her. "Remember in F3 when you said your face wasn't that expressive?"

"Remember in F2 when you said you'd learned to think before speaking?"

His laugh echoed through the hospitality area. "Some things never change, no?"

The Australian GP brought new material for the ever-growing collection of "YN Can't Control Her Face" content. As Alpine's reserve driver, she was in the garage when Franco scored his first F1 points – a remarkable P8 in a chaotic race.

His radio message was pure, unfiltered Franco: "P8! P8! YN, are you watching? Better than that time in F2 when you said I'd never score points because I was too busy talking!"

The cameras found her instantly: pride blooming across her features before she could school them into professional neutrality.

"Every time they show your face, the comments explode," Esteban teased later. "I think you've got more screen time than some of the actual drivers."

YN groaned. "Don't remind me. Someone made a TikTok trend out of my different 'Franco Reactions.'"

"At least you're not 'Can't Control His Mouth' Colapinto," Pierre chimed in. "Did you hear him in the press pen? He spent five minutes explaining how you once bet him he couldn't qualify top 10 without talking on team radio."

"Did he mention he lost that bet?"

"No, but your face when they asked you about it said everything."

Monaco was where things reached new heights. Franco, running in P6 during practice, had been providing commentary that somehow always circled back to YN:

"YN's watching, no? Tell her this is how you take the hairpin properly—" Franco spoke through team radio confidently before scraping through the hairpin.  "Ah. Maybe not like that."

The camera cuts to YN's perfect face-palm, followed by a head shake that somehow conveyed both "I knew it" and "why am I even surprised" in one swift motion.

The resulting clip went viral on Tiktok and became F1's most-watched social media post of the weekend.

"You know what I think?" Franco asked one evening, as they shared takeaway in the quiet of the paddock after everyone else had left. The cameras were finally off, but YN's face was as expressive as ever in the dim light.

"That's a dangerous start to any conversation with you."

He grinned, nudging her shoulder. "I think you like that I can't control my mouth."

"And what makes you say that?" she asked, trying and failing to keep her expression neutral.

"Because every time I talk about you, you make this face – like you're trying not to smile but can't help it. It's my favorite one."

"I do not have a special face for when you talk about me."

"Si, you do! You're making it right now!"

She threw a napkin at him, but her smile – soft and genuine and completely uncontrolled – gave her away.

The next day, during the drivers' briefing, Alex caught Franco staring at YN with an expression that mirrored all of hers – soft and fond and entirely unguarded.

The photo went viral with the caption: "Looks like neither of them can control anything anymore 💕"

[redeemingvillains]

─ .✦ overprotective & possessive boyfriend mattheo

Mattheo genuinely never wanted anything as badly as he wanted you, and he put in the work to make you his.

(Let's be honest, you fell for him almost immediately).

But he knew never to get complacent with you, he couldn't, not with the way that you drew the attention of nearly everyone around you; you were stunningly beautiful with a pure heart and a kind soul.

And he's the Dark Lord's son, and a willing death eater, he knows how much danger that puts you in; his devotion to his father, and his overwhelming adoration of you constantly in conflict.

But you're determined to see the good in him no matter what.

And he's determined to do everything in his power to keep you, to protect you.

He loves you fiercely, hungrily, unceasingly. And you adore him for it.

He can be scarily intense, and you're just heart eyes for him no matter what.

Frankly, if looks could kill, there would be a path of bodies in his wake.

He always has to be close enough to touch you, a hand on your thigh, on your lower back, in the back pocket of your jeans, it's his way of reminding himself that you're with him, that you're safe.

He grasps you tightly in large crowds, tugging you into him.

"Hold my hand" (It's a demand, not a request).

You're always on his lap, your arms around his broad shoulders and he loves it just as much for himself as to let everyone else around him know what's what.

King of excessive PDA™️

If he sees another guy looking at you, he'll pull you into him and kiss you full on, no matter where you are.

You love the attention and the way he kisses you, completely oblivious to the way he shoots daggers over your head, the way he's essentially marking his territory.

He loves anything that marks you as his. He buys you a 14k gold "M" necklace, and a forever bracelet with his initials, enamored with the idea that you can never take it off.

His friends adore you and love having you around because he's noticeably chiller and happier with you there

They are also extremely protective over you, sometimes it feels like you have five boyfriends.

Behind closed doors, Mattheo is a mush.

He loves to lay his head on your lap and wrap his arms around your waist, to feel your fingers card through his curls, he swears it's heaven.

He has to physically restrain himself with you, unaware sometimes of his own strength, leaving strong fingerprint bruises on your hips and thighs that he'll feel awful about and will spend the night kissing.

The only exception is hickies which he'll unapologetically adorn your neck with at every opportunity.

Has a mouth on him and no filter whatsoever.

A guy comes up to you while you're sitting next to him? "Fuck off mate" without even looking at him.

You're at the Three Broomsticks and he thinks someone's getting a little too close to you? "Back the fuck off of her before I make you."

Once you're shopping and he catches a guy checking you out. You're completely unaware until you feel him leave your side, and suddenly he's grabbing the guy by the front of his shirt, pinning him to the wall. "That's my fucking wife and you don't fuckin' look at my wife like that or she'll be the last thing you ever see."

You are low-key high-key so embarrassed and confused?!? Like? You’re not married???

"I'm sorry, wife?!" you ask as he's pulling you out of the store with him.

His dark eyes shoot to you and his lip twitches, fighting the rage pulsing through him and the look on your face, your flushed cheeks.

"I don't see a ring!" you say, flashing your hand at him.

He stops. "You want a ring? I'll get you a ring." And he's dead serious.

Now you're just standing there with your mouth slightly agape, not expecting this in the slightest.

He closes the distance between you taking the same hands that were just cutting off that guy's air supply to gently cup your face. "No part of that should be a surprise, gorgeous. You're mine, and you're always going to be mine."

Without fail, he has a Riddle family signet ring made for you, the cool metal of which he'll love feeling as he twines his fingers in yours, biding time to give you the 4k diamond and emerald ring he's had since your first date.

@kenjikishimotoswifey @mattiesgf @sleepiibunniiii @darlingshecried @girllblogging777 @foivetimesacharm @clar2aa @broadwaybaby123 @slytherinscreamqueen @chelawrites

[wileys-russo]

(Ik it’s not a player but I love them) Solfresa “I could just take a tiny nap?”

oc x oc from my filling the void universe and @girlgenius1111 family line series

world class II fresa putellas + solstråle engen

"sol, no mi amor you cannot sleep now." fresa returned to the bedroom and noticed the norweigan starting to drift off, shaking her ankle as she groaned and opened her eyes.

"why?" the brunette sighed deeply, rubbing her face and crossing her arms over her chest with a small scowl, fresa pausing the nature documentary her girlfriend had been falling asleep to.

"the point of the schedule is to train your sleep pattern so you are well rested at all times, so you are fit to work once you start nights. which means no naps and only sleeping at the times you are supposed to mi amor." the younger girl smiled sympathetically as the norweigan groaned louder.

it had been a long grueling process for the tattooed firefighter to become qualified as so, one that the spaniard currently shaking her awake had not always been supportive of.

solstråle had failed fitness testing twice, both her sister and girlfriend trying to talk her into what they deemed a much less dangerous career path.

but solstråle had never wavered, only spending more hours in the gym and less time talking to those who she didn't think were helping her along the way.

so with a wall of silence in response to the pushback, and the lack of belief only driving solstråle harder into her training and to start developing some unhealthier habits, fresa and ingrid changed tune.

both had come around to helping solstråle instead of wasting time trying to change her mind, but the help wasn't without constant reminders that she needed to be at her most prepared as to avoid any sort of injury while on the job.

so now with fitness testing complete and all of her training finally starting to feel as if it was paying off, the girl was set to swap over from shadow shifts to a real roster, which included staying two nights a week at the station on call.

"fres, baby i could just take a tiny nap? then i will still sleep early on time tonight!" solstråle tried to bargain, pinching her thumb and pointer finger together to make a minuscule gap as fresa firmly shook her head. "not part of the plan amor." fresa smiled in amusement at the girls persistence, gesturing for her to sit up.

"you are no fun today putellas. first you have to study and i have to sit here alone to watch my show because i 'distract you'. now you come back and i am tired but you will not let me sleep?" solstråle huffed with a deepened scowl as the younger girl shook your head.

"you might not think i am fun engen, but is it fun cleaning the big trucks all day because your sister or your chief hears you are too tired to be cleared for the real work?" fresa warned lightly quirking an eyebrow and crossing her arms, solstråle's eyes widening a little in response.

"you wouldn't!" the norweigan sat up properly now with a scoff. "i would, if it meant you did not get hurt bebé." fresa promised softly, her girlfriend sighing and running a hand through her hair.

"snitches get stitches." solstråle mumbled grumpily, laying back down as her eyes began to once again feel heavy. "well you are great company today. go to sleep then, i do not care!" fresa rolled her eyes, knowing just how stubborn her girlfriend could be but not having the patience for it today, turning to leave as a hand quickly grabbed the back of her top.

"sorry! i'm just tired, and i missed you. i hate when you have exams and you have to ignore me." solstråle huffed, pulling fresa down onto the bed with her and trapping the shorter girl in between her arms and legs in a tight bear hug.

"i do not ignore you solstråle, i answered all your texts today amor, and there was a lot of them!" fresa laughed at the sudden switch in attitude from the girl, twisting her neck to sweetly peck her lips which were grumbling some sort of moody comment in norweigan.

"will you play fifa with me? i thought i was good but they have a tournament going at the station, and i haven't won a single game!" the brunette huffed, forever hotheaded and fiercely competitive as much as she could also be the softest sappy pile of mush at times too.

"do we have to? i do not have a clue how to play. in fact you and alexia told me no more playing because it was...what did you say? eh 'too hard to watch' remember?" fresa narrowed her eyes as a guilty smile curled into her girlfriends features.

one of the rare times her eldest sister actually spent any time with sol was playing fifa after a family dinner, granted that was silent bonding as alexia still refused to say more than a few words in response to solstråle's chatter.

"fresa that was ancient history, i am a much more patient woman now." solstråle grinned as the spaniard in her arms let out a loud sarcastic bark of laughter and tapped at her forearms to be let up.

"it was last week engen." fresa sat up and hovered over her girlfriend with a shake of her head, suddenly pulling back as sol tried to sit up and connect their mouths. "hey! give me a kiss." the norweigan demanded impatiently, tapping her puckered lips expectantly.

"no." fresa smiled sweetly, standing and heading out of the bedroom to make some food, not at all surprised at the sound of footsteps hurrying after her, her mami on an evening shift at work meaning the pair of them had the house to themselves for a couple more hours at least.

"solstråle!" the younger girl squealed as a body barrelled into her, almost taking her down to the floor before the well built norweigan grabbed her girlfriends hand, spinning and dipping fresa, holding her up just from falling to the floor as her heart raced.

"don't do that! its not funny." fresa hit at her girlfriends hoodie covered chest with a loud smack as she only laughed and the youngest putellas merely scowled.

trying to move past her before fresa could take another step a mouth was pressed against hers, feeling the firefighter to be smile into the kiss when fresa made no move to push her away

"you are a child sometimes. tonta!" fresa finally broke away and bonked her girlfriend on the head with a magazine that was handy within reach on the counter, only causing solstråle to smile wider, clearly proud of herself.

"food can wait, one game? it will help keep me awake." the norwegian tugged fresa gently away from the pantry with her best puppy dog eyes as fresa sighed.

"if you are turning down food, it must be serious." "please?" "fine. one game engen!"

~

"joder! how do you defend? i forget the controls!" fresa cursed in annoyance, only having had possession for about two seconds this entire half as her girlfriend knocked in goal after goal.

"solstråle!" she protested as the norweigan made her player do a backflip after another goal and cheered loudly in fresa's ear, kissing her cheek apologetically from where fresa lay between her legs, elbows resting on her knees and her back pressed to solstråles front.

"you said this would be easy." fresa complained as the game stopped for half time. "no, babe i said i would put the match settings on easy." her girlfriend corrected as fresa pinched her thigh unimpressed with the answer.

"amor you are winning 8-0 you can give me five fucking minutes to show the controls again?" fresa demanded before sol could click to resume play. "i like when you swear in english." her girlfriend mumbled, a lazy kiss pressed to her jaw as sol dropped her remote and her hands settled over fresa's.

"when you attack you click this to pass, this one to sprint. you click this one for a head pass or a short ball, and this to shoot." solstråle explained slowly, pointing out the different buttons as fresa nodded, eyebrows furrowed with concentration.

"when you defend it is this one to chase, this one to tackle, this one to slide tackle, this one to clear. then when it goes to your goalkeeper, just click this or this." the taller girl explained as again fresa nodded, doing her best to follow along but she'd already forgotten half of what was said, making a mental note to just button mash and hope.

"so does this mean you will let me have a pity goal mi vida?" fresa asked hopefully as the girl pressed behind her grabbed her own control and chuckled.

"not a chance elskling." sol stole a kiss and clicked play again before fresa could bite back with a remark, eyes widening as she hurried to rapidly click at any buttons she could reach on the controller much to her girlfriends amusement.

the second half fresa played a little better, but still failed to score and conceded another five goals making it so solstråle won with a whopping 13-0, the final whistle blowing meaning she let out a war cry of victory.

"eso fue humillante!" fresa scowled tossing the remote to the side onto the lounge and rolling her eyes, arms crossed and shoulders slumped.

"that is life no? you win some, you lose some. i feel a lot better about my games at the station now! thank you baby." the norweigans large hands settled either side of fresas face and tilted her head back so she could press kisses across the flushed skin.

"you are welcome." fresa rolled your eyes, gently tugging her hands away and sitting up, glancing to the screen only for a moment as her head snapped back to it and she frowned.

"world class? you said you put it on beginner sol!" fresa turned to glare at her girlfriend who shrugged, quickly turning off the tv and sitting up on her knees.

"did i? guess i must have clicked the wrong one babe, sorry." the norweigan grinned, pushing the shorter girl to lay down again as her smug face hovered over her girlfriends, not an ounce of remorse in her eyes.

"mentirosa! i cannot believe i like you." fresa grumbled with a scowl, solstråle pressing her face into her neck, lips scattering kisses across the warm skin.

"only like?" the norweigan whispered teasingly, tugging on fresa's earlobe with her teeth as her fingers danced across bare skin where her shirt had rode up.

"barely tolerate." fresa mumbled but all of the fire had dissapeared from her tone making solstråle smile against her neck.

"oh now what happened to love?" "maybe if you were not a dirty tramposa, you might get some engen."