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towabirdno1fan · 2 months ago

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EDDIE ILY MY KING!!!! VOLLRYBALL LOTTIE MY BELOVED

🏐ྀི WHS yellowjackets #5 — lottie matthews

lottie matthews volleyball player headcanons (for 🪼 <3) warnings: none

𓃢𓃦𐂂 ── .✦

general

lottie matthews, setter for the wiskayok volleyball team. tallest girl on the roster, absolutely devastating with a jump serve that looks straight out of a damn highlight reel

absurdly composed on court. never yells, never shows nerves, just gives you a death stare if you’re slacking on your rotation. she’s both feared and adored

she is an excellent setter due to height privileges, but she would’ve preferred outside hitter because she likes being on the outskirts “protecting” the rest of the team

appearance

hair always tied back in her little pigtails i love you lottie pigtails, sometimes adorned with ribbons or bows in team colors

tapes her fingers. religiously. she says it’s for grip and protection but everyone thinks it looks kinda badass and hot

as far as uniforms go, i think wiskayok would have two options, long-sleeve or short. lottie opts short. more movement, more air

volleyball things

absolutely deadly with a float serve, it’s near unreturnable by the opposing team every time

doesn’t realize her own strength, really. once spiked a ball so hard it split the seam. everyone stopped. she just went to get another ball like it was nothing

if someone is hurt or having a meltdown mid-game, she is the first person there with a calm hand on their shoulder. she’s the team’s unspoken anchor

she gets very quiet before games, to help her focus. it’s a little unnerving but go off queen

injuries. so many injuries. i don’t think lottie pays very much attention to her body when she’s playing a sport, so she’s ALWAYS getting hurt in little ways because she uses every part of herself to the full extent. definitely gets shoulder and knee injuries most often. rotator cuff and ACL tears… also sprains her ankle at least once a month

off-court

she’s the type to be somewhat averse or nervous to attend team bonding nights at first, but warms up to them after a while

drinks electrolyte water literally every second of every day. a girl is thirsty all the jumping involved in volleyball is definitely strenuous for her

studies game film. i like to think lottie is very academic / study driven because it gives her a place to focus her mind when it’s restless

wears her wiskayok letterman the same way a knight wears armor. it’s proof of community and family to her. the tight-knit nature of a smaller volleyball team would be perfect for her stepfather-ing behavior

#willowyaps #ily Eddieeee

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towabirdno1fan · 3 months ago

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giggling and being scared for my life while giggling

SOFTCORE

charlotte alden x afab!reader

request: ok how about mafia boss Charlotte Alden??? Like maybe you’re one of her workers and she’s been giving you extra attention lately. One day a deal didn’t go as planned so she’s super pissed off and takes it out on reader in a more physical way warnings: porn without plot, oral sex (c!receiving), fingering (r!receiving), moderate angst, mentions of murder lmao?? word count: 1886 author's note: i'm kissing my fingers and raising them to the sky for the freak that requested this you know exactly who you are

[ mdni, 18+ ]

𓃢𓃦𐂂 ── .✦

Charlotte Alden doesn’t yell when she’s angry.

She looks. A long, slow drag of her eyes like the cold trail of a blade’s tip. The kind of gaze that makes seasoned killers shift their weight, makes men who had put bullets through skulls apologize like chided schoolboys.

And tonight, that look is locked on you.

The deal had gone sideways. Gunfire, a briefcase of counterfeit cash, some rookie mistake that Charlotte would’ve caught if you hadn’t insisted everything was clean.

Now three of her men have bled out on asphalt and she’s pacing like a caged panther in the back room of the club, heels echoing sharp as gunshots on marble tile. The music thumps through the floorboards, muffled and irrelevant. Her voice doesn’t raise above a murmur when she finally turns.

“Come here.”

Like she’s yanked you forward by leash, you stumble, brain lagging behind your feet, all thoughts melting into the club’s setlist— unimportant, entirely outside this room.

Charlotte runs a hand through her hair– already mussed. Blood from someone else’s head smears along her hairline. In the dim violet light bleeding in from the hall, it looks like a crown. Her lipstick is weapon-grade red. Unsullied. Violence, untouched.

“You embarrassed me.”

The words fall like silk drawn over steel, soft and glinting with something frigid beneath. Something that could gut you if you leaned too close. Charlotte peels off her gloves, one finger at a time, with surgical precision. Not rushed. Not flustered. Like she’s undressing a lover, or preparing to slit a throat.

When she tosses them at your chest, you don’t flinch. But you should. You really, really should.

She closes the distance like gravity, slow and inescapable. Her breath ghosts across your jaw, warm and spiced with that heady, dark perfume she wears.

“You guaranteed me clean hands,” she murmurs, voice never rising above a whisper. “And now I’ve got to burn a building to the ground to cover up your mess.”

She tips your chin up between two fingers. Not harsh. There’s no slap, no raised voice. Charlotte Alden doesn’t do tantrums.

The nails of her other hand drag down the front of your shirt, slow enough to sting through the fabric, setting sparks crawling down your spine. You can’t breathe the right way.

“You want to make it up to me?”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes. No excuse, no apology. Just a yes snagging in your throat like it’s caught on her gaze.

She’s at your belt now. Working it open with steady hands, each motion calm and unhurried. The buckle clinks open. Leather slides free. She lets it drop behind you with a soft thud that feels louder than the bass pounding under the floorboards.

Then she steps back, just enough to look at you. Really look at you.

“Strip.”

It’s spoken the way she might say pour me a drink. An order born not of anger, but of ownership.

Your fingers move without thought. Buttons slip, fabric parts. Air hits skin and brings goosebumps with it, and all the while, Charlotte watches– arms folded, jaw tight, the muscle twitching near her temple the only hint of temper left unspent.

She doesn’t stop you until you’re bare. Then she tilts her head.

“On your knees.”

You drop.

She steps forward again, and this time, she lets her hand settle at the back of your neck. Her thumb brushes behind your ear, gentle despite her eyes saying the opposite is true.

She unfastens the slit in her skirt with one smooth motion. A slit you hadn't noticed before. She hikes it just high enough to rest one thigh over your shoulder, pinning you in place.

Her hand pushes your face between them, and every thought melts into the wet heat you’re presented with– already bare.

“Go ahead,” Charlotte murmurs. “You know what to do.”

The pressure at the back of your skull increases until your lips part instinctively. She doesn’t guide, not exactly. Charlotte never begs, never instructs. She commands through implication.

The taste of her hits you slow, soaked through. She shifts minutely, letting you explore, her breath hitching just barely– just enough to make your pulse pound harder. Then her fingers curl tighter, nails grazing your scalp.

“Don’t hold back,” she says, coolly. “You owe me.”

Your tongue flattens, dragging up, and she exhales a curse, one hand braced on the table behind her for leverage. Her hips grind forward just once. That practiced composure she always wears starts to slip, just at the edges. Her thigh quivers faintly where it rests on your shoulder. Her grip in your hair loosens. Not all the way, but enough for her thumb to brush soothingly over your temple.

“Just like that,” she murmurs, quieter now. “Fuck– don’t stop.”

The bite in her voice softens into something breathy, desperate. She rocks against your mouth again, slower this time, more needy than commanding. Her head tips back, dark curls cascading down her shoulder.

For a moment– just a moment– Charlotte doesn’t look like the woman who’s had men executed over late payments. She looks flushed and trembling, her lips parted, her brow tight– like the pleasure almost hurts.

It’s the most she’s let herself need anyone in weeks. Months, maybe. She never tells you what keeps her up at night or who she still dreams about from the old days, before. But sometimes you find what she doesn’t say in her silence after. How she lingers too long, how her hands hover like she doesn’t know how to ask for closeness without turning it into control.

“You make it so hard to stay mad at you,” she mutters, fingers threading deeper into your hair. Not yanking, not dragging– just holding. There’s a little moan that slips out of her, high and quiet, and her hips stutter when your tongue flicks a little faster. You feel her thighs tense, feel her shudder against your mouth, and she gasps sharply, the sound punching out of her.

You blink when she pushes your head away with a breathy sigh, letting her skirt fall again.

You think about teasing her. Something about not lasting long. But your tongue is too busy tasting for the last of her. So you say nothing.

She’s re-fastening the slit in her skirt now, fingers deft despite the flush painting her cheeks and the strands of dark hair sweat-plastered to her throat like caramel lace. She’s trying for composed, but the slight rise and fall of her chest gives her away– like her body’s still caught mid-climax even if her mind’s already snapping back to business.

“Sit. Edge of the table. Legs open,” she says flatly, not sparing you a glance. Her hand ghosts across the polished surface for a whiskey glass beaded with condensation, the drink long-forgotten. She downs what’s left in a single, practiced tilt, no wince, no pause. She doesn’t even wipe her mouth, lets the amber drip collect in the creases of her lips.

You haul yourself up, legs shaky, breath shallow. You barely have time to brace yourself before she’s between your thighs again, suddenly and certainly, palms dragging up your calves to settle firm on your knees.

Then she leans in and kisses you. Not the Charlotte you know. Not the one with guarded eyes, always a knife hidden up her sleeve. This kiss is slow and intimate. Her tongue parts the seam of your lips, finds yours and shares the ghost of Lagavulin that’s clinging to hers, smoky and sharp. You taste it, taste her, like she’s melting herself into you molecule by molecule.

Her fingers are still curled around your knees, but her thumbs start to trace idle circles just above the bone, gentle, coaxing. And when she exhales against your mouth, there’s no command in it. Just a soft, fractured sound, llike she’s trying to say something but can’t find the words in any language she knows.

And then her hand slides between your thighs. Slow, with intent. She ghosts her touch along the inside, trailing up with just the backs of her knuckles, and your whole body tenses with the anticipation of contact that never quite lands.

She smirks crooked– and finally lets her fingers find where you’re already wet for her.

“Look at you,” Charlotte murmurs, thumb dragging slow circles with infuriating laziness. “Fucking trembling. And I haven’t even started.”

You shift under her touch, breath catching, and she leans in again, pressing her forehead to yours for one suspended second of quiet.

And then her fingers slide in deep, two at once, her palm flush against you. Your hips jerk instinctively, the table creaking under you, but she doesn’t let up. Doesn’t speed up either. She’s got her rhythm and she’s keeping it, like she’s wringing something out with every thrust– frustration, anger, something else she’s too proud to name.

Her other hand moves to your chest, splayed over your sternum like she’s pinning you there, needing to feel your heartbeat steadily rising. Down below, her palm grinds where you need it most, heel pressing in soft, relentless circles.

You try to speak, but your mouth won’t work right. Only breath and broken vowels come out, heat coiling low. Her thumb starts working again, this time with purpose, and your head falls back, hips grinding helplessly into her hand as your lips part around a whine.

“Keep making that sound,” she breathes, voice fraying at the edges now, her hand slipping under your shirt, spreading flat over your ribs.

It hits you like a wave breaking. No warning, no buildup you can hold onto, just Charlotte’s fingers locked inside you, her thumb dragging one last circle, and your whole body tightens, convulses, shudders around her hand. A whimper tears out of you and her mouth is right there, catching it like a secret.

She holds you through it. Doesn’t move. Just keeps her fingers inside you, buried and still, anchoring you while your body trembles itself empty against her. Her other hand glides down your stomach, burning like a brand.

But the second your breathing starts to even out, just as the aftershocks start to fade and you melt into her warmth, she pulls away. Fast. Clean. Practiced.

Her fingers slide free in one smooth motion, wet and glistening, and without a word she plucks a handkerchief from the pocket of her skirt (yet again, gone unnoticed by you), wiping herself down with clinical detachment.

Like none of it meant anything. Like she didn’t just unravel you with a fucking whisper in your ear and a hand between your thighs.

“Messy,” she mutters, smoothing her skirt down again, spine straightening. “I’ll need to have someone clean the table.”

You sit there, still panting, skin glowing, every inch of you too exposed. She doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t touch you again.

“Be here at the same time tomorrow,” Charlotte says, turning toward the door, her voice all clean lines and polished marble again. “If you’re late, I’ll assume you’re trying to piss me off again.”

She pauses with her back to you. Lets silence settle for just a second too long.

Then, over her shoulder, with the ghost of a smirk tugging at her lips–

“Don’t wear underwear.”

#CHARLOTTE ALDEN GUYS ITS CHARLOTTE ALDEN

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