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esote-rika · 3 months ago

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lose some, win some | Spencer Reid Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Category: Hurt/Comfort, Smut 18+, MDNI Summary: COLLEGE AU! When your debate team loses the national championship, you and Spencer return to your shared room and find a productive way to take out your frustrations. Content: Waldorf!Reader is a sore loser, lots of dialogue in the beginning, Sassy!Spencer, some talk of misogyny, Spencer makes up for it by being a munch (so f receiving oral), virgin!Spencer but he’s also a little shit, they are both little shits but it’s cute I swear, handjob, raw p in v but reader mentions she is on the pill, creampies, multiple orgasms for both of them (they’re frustrated and horny give them a break) Word count: 4.8k (it's porn with a plot for once) A/N: Not really frenemies or rivals, they’re just really angry young adults. Idk what Spencer’s actual age was in college, but he studied several times so for this fic, he’s on his third degree and is 21. If the debate stuff is incorrect, I'm sorry. I did do some research but there's so many different rules and styles lmfao. My friend who competes says it’s fine and understandable so :) also massive thanks to @just-call-me-by-yn @mggslover and @notlongtolove for helping me brainstorm and @wheresmacoffee because she was there JK ILY ANDY their banter during the filthy part is for you <3.

Spencer Reid doesn’t particularly care about the prestige that comes with winning. Most people crave it for the validation, or because it’s another impressive thing they can slap onto their resumes, but being a genius his entire life allows him not to worry about that. His academics speak for themselves. He doesn’t need to pad it with extracurriculars. Instead, he enjoys the skills that are honed from debate—learning to listen to arguments, finding the perfect way to rebut, memorization and reviewing with like minded individuals. The university team is a well oiled machine composed of four people— him on his third degree, two other male juniors, and you, the only woman.

Over the span of two semesters, he’s memorized the quirks of his teammates. It’s essential to building rapport, after all, and he’s eager to get something good out of this. Something less academic, and more social. Friends, perhaps. While he’s formed a bond with the other members, you have always been an enigma. Stoic and ambitious, you remind him of a statue. Cold and oh so beautiful. You’ve often kept to yourself. And after several rejected attempts at friendship, he’s learned to just observe from afar.

He knows from experience that observing allows you deep insight into people, and so he knows after two semesters that you’re perhaps the most competitive out of the entire team, the most hungry for a win. This drive, he suspects, comes from a deeply rooted desire to prove yourself, though he’s unsure why. What else do you have to prove? You have everything, as far as he’s concerned. Keenly intelligent, beautiful, with a circle of friends that adore you. You aren’t like him, who has to sink his claws deep into this debate team in order to get a dose of social interaction. No, you have a life, no matter how marblesque you may seem.

And yet, somehow it’s still not enough for you.

He thinks it’s utterly ridiculous, and absolutely fascinating.

The weekend of nationals is taxing. You’ve been fighting for the opener role since the semis, but it would require too much adjustment, which no one is willing to risk so close to nationals. Not only does he not want to give up his spot, he also knows how ruthless you can be as a rebuttal speaker. He's meek, and you have a tendency to be aggressive, it's why the original roles go so well.

Your adviser agreed, and there’s been tension ever since.

To make matters worse, hotel arrangements somehow have placed both of you in the same room. The force of your resentment is palpable even to a normally clueless guy like him. Distracting. Pages being turned in your exaggerated annoyance. He’d complain of dramatics, but he doesn’t want to start anything.

The fact that you’re rooming together also doesn’t help him. Sure, there are different beds, small twin mattresses on either side of the room, but still. Proximity to a woman his age has him anxious for reasons entirely unrelated to nationals.

So when you lose the championship, his concern for your reaction behind doors overwhelms the regret of losing.

No one is happy with the results. It is obvious from the set of his jaw, the tenseness of your shoulders. Spencer tries to calm down, accept defeat with a modicum of grace, at least in front of other people. He can tell the rest of the team is trying too, but quite unconvincingly. Onstage, accepting the medals for second place—mockingly silver, and no trophies—the team’s smiles are forced, plastic.

Back to the hotel rooms are a different story. When you slam the hotel door shut, it echoes down the hall and makes even your debate adviser flinch. It would have made Spencer flinch too, if he hadn't already expected it. He's grown accustomed to how bad of a loser you can be. Like a tornado, your anger spares no one from its destruction. It is in these moments that your stoic resolve crumbles, no longer unfeeling, but rather fully human. Hurtful. Ruthless Unfortunately for him, he's directly in your line of fire.

He catches bits and pieces of your muttered diatribes. He��s used to those too. Normally, he would have ignored them. Losing sucks the energy out of a person, regardless of how uncompetitive he is. Besides, your ranting is mostly harmless, until one sentence snags his attention.

“— knew I should have been the opening speaker —”

He is clawing at his tie, trying desperately to get it off, but the words make him stop immediately. He whirls around, brows furrowed, “What?”

You pause as well, “What?”

“What did you say about being the opening speaker?” He watches you roll your eyes. It does nothing to calm the bitterness in the back of his throat. The normal song and dance goes like this: he’d say a string of words in an attempt to soothe the fire burning in your nerves, and you'd say something so vitriolic he'd refuse to speak to you for the rest of your time together.

But today, having just lost the biggest championship after working so hard, he's a short fuse and your words are incendiary.

“I said I should have done it, like I asked—”

“Ah, as usual, you're mad that you didn't get what you wanted.”

An offended scoff. He's almost proud he managed to pull that out of you. “You take too long—”

“Nationals isn't the time to suddenly alter the roles,” he tells you, shaking his head. He manages to loosen the tie, finally, tossing it on his bed with so much aggression it misses the mattress and lands limply on the floor, “I've always been the opening speaker.”

“Yes, and one would think that after going through so many debate competitions, you would learn to be more succinct,” you snap, shoes making harsh clacks against the tiled floor, “The goal isn't to let us know you're the smartest person in the room, Spencer, it's to set up the tone and groundwork of—”

“I don't need you to lecture me about being the opening,” he interrupts, “I know what my role requires of me.”

“Do you?” Eyes flashing, you walk to him until you're almost chest to chest, “Because we still lost.”

“And you blaming me?” he hisses, leaning down. He hates doing this, stooping to your level of pettiness. Normally, he would choose to be the bigger person, refusing your verbal sparring; he likes to focus his energy on the actual debate, the opposing team, not his own teammates. But your words cut deeper than normal; it isn't the fault the team lost, that's just a flat out lie, “We advised you multiple times to memorize the statistics—”

“Something you're better at!” You look physically pained to admit his superiority, but the words spill anyway, “You'd be so much better to do the rebuttals since you have your stupid photographic memory, and I can set the tone better, but nobody on this little boys club ever listens to me!”

He's surprised at the choked tone your voice has taken. In his mind, you're a complete equal—you made it to the team through hard work and impeccable skills, like the rest of them did, after all. It didn't matter that you are a woman to him, so of course his instinct is to deny. “That’s not true.” but even his voice sounds weak.

How would he know if it’s not true? He’s never been in your shoes before, never had to reckon with what comes with being the only woman in a team of men.

“Isn’t it?” he flinches at the venom in your voice, “You all act like I'm an afterthought—I get the shittiest positions even when I know I can be more effective in a different one, no one ever asks me for strategy, hell, you never invite me to your stupid chess games.”

His mouth opens and closes foolishly, latching on to the one thing he has a full response to, “I thought you hate chess.”

A sharp laugh, petulant and bitter, “I do, but it would have been nice to be included.”

He doesn’t know what to say. You’ve turned around, yanking off your pristine maroon blazer so roughly he’s afraid it might rip. The silence that grows makes him itch, hands balling into fists as he tries to think of what to do. Social dynamics have always been a thing of mystery to him.

He wonders if he is part of this problem. He’s no stranger to feeling different and on the outs, and it pains him to think that he inadvertently caused someone else to feel that same, unpleasant exclusion.

But, no. Quickly, he recalls every single time he’s tried to include you—a museum trip that you’d declined because you had a party you wanted to attend. His extra tickets to the Nutcracker.

“That’s not true,” his voice is firm now, following you until he’s standing right behind. Lavender hits his nose and his brain registers the scent of your shampoo. Definitely too close if he can smell that, but he refuses to back away, intent on getting his point across, “That’s not true, I’ve tried to— you were always too busy.”

“What, I’m a liar now?” you spin around, pretty features twisted to somehow express both anger and hurt. He almost falters. Almost.

But he’s too worked up, even though he knows he should back off, to not trivialize your experiences in order to defend himself. He should know better than this, but the sting of your accusation spurs him on. So he pushes, eyes narrowing, “Last year, September 14, 21, and 29, I invited you to come with us for several casual chess tournaments, you declined all invitations because you claimed you hated chess. October 29th, I told you about the new exhibit they were displaying—”

“It was Halloween weekend, I already had plans—”

“December 19th, I offered you Nutcracker tickets and you said you’d already seen it—”

“I have,” your voice has grown quiet now, and if he stops speaking for a single moment to look, your features have relaxed into something gentler. But he’s on a roll, and you have always been right about things; his inability to be succinct is one of them.

“Even this year, I invited you to study multiple times, but you’ve always had prior plans,” the words are spoken with neutrality. He isn’t even angry anymore, just eager to list everything down and let you know how hard he’s tried with you. Even after the numerous rejections, he’s made an effort, but of course, you have other friends, other plans outside your nerdy debate team. He’s never held that against you, but if you wanted to point fingers, he has the means to defend himself. And sure, he wants to prove you wrong on some level too, but that’s the lesser point. “Maybe if you stopped acting like you’re better than me, and just accepted, you wouldn’t be feeling so excluded.”

“I don’t act like I’m better than you.”

“You just said you would have made a better opening speaker.”

You scoff, “Oh my god, you’re infuriating, I can’t believe I’m stuck with you!”

Spencer bristles at that, “I’m giving you the facts, it’s not my fault you can’t handle them.” he says, leaning closer, trying to make her see his point, “You’re always so closed off and the other guys have just given up trying. Maybe if you—”

“What? If I smiled more? Acted less like a bitch?” you sneer, eyes narrowed dangerously, “I thought a genius like you would know better than to use misogynistic language like that.”

“Wha— no! Don’t put words in my mouth.” Spencer replies, shaking his head. The conversation is devolving into something dangerous, the air crackling with something electric. He assumes it’s anger. They will never get anywhere, so he sighs, softening slightly, “I never said that. I’m just pointing out that you weren’t blameless in this, you know?”

You’re silent. He watches you, takes in how the resentment in your eyes have been dulled by something more contemplative.

He continues, “Listen, I’m sorry if we’ve made you feel like you were on the outs. I’m sure we have to do so much reflection as a team and as individuals about how we treat each other, but it’s unfair to say that we never include you when I have actively been making efforts to—”

Your lips are upon him.

That’s inaccurate.

You are upon him, arms flung around his neck, body pressed flush against his. He feels the entire world tilt, and he’s unsure if it’s because you’re pulling him down or because your lips are so pillowy he’s instantly eager for more. Wants it like a man starved. Needs it, needs more, but his body betrays him. Whether it’s his inexperience or surprise or a combination of both. He freezes, blinking rapidly at the sight of you. Eyes shut, and face so close to him; so, so close he can count each individual eyelash, see the tiny freckle on your eyelid that gets hidden if your eyes are open.

And then you're gone. The freckle disappears as you look at him with wide eyed mortification.

“Shit, Spencer, I—”

It’s his lips that cut you off this time, seeking out the velvety warmth of your mouth. Your lips part under his, and he registers a sound, soft and whining. It takes him a moment to realize it came from him, from the back of his throat and muffled by your lips and tongue and oh you’re both falling.

Literally. He must have leaned too far into you; you’re suddenly collapsing, forcing him down because your arms have him in a vice grip and he’s too busy chasing after your lips. The next thing he knows is he’s on top of you and you’re sprawled on the bed beneath him. Time stands still; he’s painfully aware of how cliche that is, but every sense of eloquence seems to have been expelled from his brain as he takes you in; lips swollen and wet from his kisses, pupils blown wide. Every breath you take pushes your chest up against his, and he can feel your heart thrumming against his body.

“Well, that was one way of shutting you up,” you chuckle with a cockiness that makes his heart speed up, though it isn’t borne out of embarrassment. Every single physiological effect of your body is evidence that you’re enjoying this, telling him you’re just as worked up as he is. The breathiness in your voice, the quickness of your heartbeat.

The fact that you’re pulling him down again, legs hooking around his hips. He surrenders to it, lips meeting yours once again, deeper and more desperate this time.

He closes his eyes, relishing this, kissing you, touching you, an act he had believed is reserved for attractive jocks and charismatic art nerds. Not him, quiet and lanky, shifting to avoid his angular bones from digging into you, and to place himself more comfortably on the bed. Inexperienced, ungainly, and yet here he is, his tongue pushing into your mouth in his first forays into something that his peers have experienced years ago.

Spencer Reid isn’t used to being the one behind, doing the catching up. Child prodigy, genius, the words aren’t meaningless. He’s been ahead academically—which, up until this point, has been his whole life. But feeling warm lips beneath his own has him reconsidering some of his life choices.

The kiss is messy. Sloppy from his clumsy attempts to keep up with your eagerness. You’re tugging at something, and he realizes it’s to untuck the rest of the crisp shirt you’ve donned for the debate tournament out from your skirt. His hands settle on your waist, finding smooth, heated skin from where your shirt has ridden up. Careful fingers help push it up, burying under the fabric until his palms are mapping out the slopes of your body.

Soft. So damn soft.

Not cold marble after all. He theorizes you must be soft everywhere, and he decides to test it out with his lips, laving kisses along your jaw, down the sweet, musky skin of your neck where your perfume still lingers. Instincts take over and he allows himself a taste, tongue darting out. You shudder, so he does it again, greedy for your pretty moans and gasps.

He can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips, “Thought you were mad at me?” he mumbles, trailing his kisses down the column of your throat.

You’re all mhms and ohhhs right now, so far from the usual image you present to the world, a preppy, manicured woman who wrestles for control over everything. You must hate this, he thinks, being beneath him physically, caged within his arms which are deceptively strong for how fragile he looks.

“Shut up,” you grumble.

“Make me.” His grin is dopey when he lifts his head to meet her gaze.

Something brushes against his crotch, and now he’s the one gasping, jerking in surprise at the friction. You’ve slotted your thigh between his, and his traitorous body responds by grinding down on it shamelessly. The look on your face is smug, triumphant.

“Huh,” saccharine and mocking, you blink up at him innocently, “That was easier than I thought.”

His head drops to your neck again, but he isn’t kissing you anymore. Just open mouthed breathing as he rubs himself on your thigh, hands tightening on your sides, “Mhm.”

“Are you gonna come? Spencer, I haven’t even touched you yet.”

He sinks his teeth into your flesh to fight the needy whines because yes, he’s so embarrassingly close and you’re both still fully dressed. He hears a hiss, and he backs off immediately, murmuring apologies, “Didn’t mean to—”

“‘S okay,” you tilt your head back, give him more access to your neck, ��Just don’t leave marks.”

Permission to bite. He gulps, heart beating wildly, before ducking back down. Chapped lips run over your neck, finding a soft spot to bite, forcing himself to soften the way his teeth sink into your skin. All the while rubbing himself on your thigh because it’s probably the closest thing to heaven a man such as him will ever experience.

He hears your laughter, your mocking cooes of, “You’re so fucking needy” but he can’t bring himself to care.

You’re correct, he decides, as you usually are. He’s needy, desperately so, eagerly chasing the delicious pleasure of dry humping your thigh.

“Hold on, Spencer.”

You push him back gently. A whine rips from his throat, “Mhm—why?”

He gets his answer soon enough. Your hands undo his belt and he swears this sets his whole body on fire. Nobody’s ever seen him like this. Never has another person touched him so intimately, seen him so out of control, so brainless. He’s babbling incoherently as your hand strokes up and down his length, his hips rutting into your hand. It’s out of sync. Two dancers on entirely different rhythms.

Your laughter rings in his ears, one hand tangled in his hair as the other does unspeakable, tantalizing things to his aching cock.

“Mhm, can’t— I’m gonna—” and he’s spilling into your hand, hot, viscous liquid overflowing from your hand and staining your skirt, “Ah, shit.”

He collapses against you, head on the crook of your shoulder as he tries to catch his breath. “‘M sorry, I’ll– I’ll pay for your dry cleaning.”

Your chest shakes as you laugh, “Would you? I think you owe me more than that.” The heat in your voice makes his breath catch in his throat.

Soft kisses press upon your neck as he gathers his thoughts, willing his brain to work again. Anatomy, female anatomy. Female pleasure. What does he know about this? A lot, surprisingly, though mostly from books. Mostly in theory, but that’s a start. He can put them to practice right now. His hands drag down your sides until they catch the waistband of your skirt. “May I?”

“Okay.”

He pulls gently, exposing the rest of your thighs and legs. Honey brown eyes devour the expanse of your skin, hands clutching at the softness. He marvels at the way your flesh accepts his own, bright red splotches imprinted from his fingertips.

He thinks of poetry, the uncountable amount of words and phrases written to immortalize women and love and sex, and he finds himself wishing he has the skill to compose something as beautiful, something worthy of you right now, radiant and half naked and somehow all his.

But he is no poet, so he touches his lips upon your body instead. Pretty words will escape him, but his lips can speak even without them, he’ll make sure of it. He kisses down your abdomen, making sure to pay attention to every hidden freckle and birthmark he comes across. Your reactions make him feel drunk, to the point of affecting him physically. Messier kisses. Hands tugging and nearly ripping the lace of your panties because he’s unaware of his own strength.

“So pretty,” he mumbles, “So pretty.” It’s all he can repeat, but then his tongue lands on your slick heat and suddenly words are forgotten in favor of vague groaning. Because how can he accurately describe the sensation of this? Tasting you. God how has he gone so long without this? Your nails scraping his scalp, his fingers sinking into your thighs as he keeps you still. He’s halfway off the bed, legs dangling off the edge, your thighs squeezing his face.

There’s nowhere else he would rather be.

He laps at your folds like a mad man, tongue pressed flat and dragging up slowly to get as much of you in his mouth as possible. His feet find the floor, allowing himself more stability to once again rub his growing erection against a solid object. The poor mattress is going to be ruined once they’re done.

“Faster,” you gasp, jerking your hips into his face, “Spencer— oh, yeah like that!”

Spencer Reid is a quick study, and when he hears the positive reactions, he doubles down until he feels you convulse against his tongue. You jerk so violently he has to hold you down. He pushes his tongue past your entrance experimentally, and feels you tug roughly on his hair in response, gasping his name and God’s name in slurred phrases as you ride out your high.

It’s the hottest damn thing he’s ever experienced.

“Jesus Christ,” you gasp, and he has to repeat that ridiculous sentence again, because it’s true and he feels you deserve it.

“You’re so pretty.” He fears you might be some kind of magnet, because his lips keep getting drawn back to your skin. He lets his kisses travel up your hip bone, before grinning up at you, “Even when you’re being insufferable, you’re still so beautiful.”

“Gee thanks,” you huff, pulling at his arm, “How romantic, I’m swooning.”

“Might not be swooning, but you did just come on my face.” brilliant rows of teeth flash at you as he smiles smugly.

“Asshole.”

“Is that how you say thank you?” he drags his body up lazily, draping himself over you.

“I’m not— wait, are you hard again?”

“Uh…”

“Needy, needy boy.” you pull him down to you, and he almost protests, his chin and mouth still covered with your slick. But you don’t seem to care, so he follows your lead, God at this point he would follow you anywhere at all. You’re shifting beneath him, and the next thing he knows is your legs are wrapped around his waist again, your heat completely exposed and pressing against his cock.

“Mhm,” he pulls back, eyes wide, “I—”

“What?” you whisper, lifting your head to continue giving him kisses, teeth playfully nipping at his jaw, “It’s fine, I’m on birth control.”

“It’s not that,” he can’t deny you, his body relaxing back down over you. His lips catch yours for a moment, slow and achingly tender, “I’ve just never really done this before.”

He waits for the inevitable laughter. Here he is, at 21, and somehow still the same person he had been when he first entered college at 14. But you continue to look at him with heavy lids, breathless and flushed.

“Okay,” your voice is kind, sweet, “Take it slow then.” your hand wraps around his length again, the movement slower this time, as you align him to your entrance. He hisses as the sensitive tip grazes against your folds, as he feels your entrance slowly give way to him and envelop his cock.

“Oh,” he sighs. With your help, he sinks halfway into you, one hand gripping your hip, the other bracing himself on his elbow. Eyes squeezed shut, he stills and manages to ask, “Are you okay?”

You don’t speak, and so he forces his eyes to focus and look at you. The sight has him twitching inside you. Mouth agape and eyes hazy, you’re nodding up at him wordlessly as your hips rock up into his. “More.”

It’s exhilarating. He’s known you for the past year, worked alongside you but respected your need for distance. And now, here you are, not merely close, but one. Spencer sighs, and thrusts shallowly, eyes zeroed in on you and your reactions. He doesn’t want to hurt you, doesn’t want it to end too soon, so he moves slowly, dragging out his cock until only the tip rests inside you, then sliding into the hilt.

It elicits the most mellifluous sounds from you, making him smile in relief. He lets his forehead rest against yours, thrusts growing more confident, but still in that slow, almost dreamy pace. He memorizes every detail of this moment, from the way your eyes flutter closed, to the quiver of your legs as they wrap tighter around his thighs.

“So good,” he hears himself say, “God, you feel so good.”

“Mhm,” you nod, nails digging into his back, even through his clothes. In the heat of the moment, you’re both still half dressed, only getting rid of your bottom clothes in order to get what you need from each other, “More, Spencer, I need more.”

He nods, letting his thrusts grow faster, rougher. It’s an awkward angle, he’s afraid his knees will start cramping, but the feeling of being surrounded by your warmth, drowning in your moans has him reckless. “There?” he grunts, angling just so, and he can’t help the smirk on his face when he feels your walls clenching around him.

“There, there, yes!”

He’s not sure how he manages to last as long as he does. Maybe it’s the sheer desire to feel you fall apart, for his cock to be drenched in your slick that keeps his release at bay. Maybe he has too much pent up sexual energy that’s just been dying to come out. Whatever it is, he’s thankful for it, because it means he’s spending more time inside you, hips moving with so much impact he’s pushing you forward with each thrust.

“Yes, just like that.” you’re shuddering beneath him, and he moves his arm to the top of your head, creating a barrier between you and the headboard so you don’t hit it. He could stop, readjust your positions, but he doesn’t have it in him.

No, he wants to stay inside you, forever if there’s an anatomically feasible way to do it. But unless he invents it, he’ll settle for right now, settle for the heat between your bodies, and how you’re practically melting into the mattress, arching so prettily against him.

“You close?” he murmurs, one hand finding your clit, drawing gentle circles with his fingertips.

“No fair,” you whine, bucking into him, “That’s cheat— Spencer!”

You come undone in the most enthralling way, eyes squeezed shut, bottom lip bitten by your own lips. You squeeze and flutter around him, and he’s helpless to stop his own release, spilling deep inside you with a broken cry from his own mouth. Your name is whispered, over and over again, until he stills, his vision blurry as he collapses against you.

He curls around you, trying to get as close, “You—that was—wow.”

You giggle, still breathless and glassy eyed, “Are you sure that was your first time?”

“Yes,” he gives you a series of kisses along your temple, “Yes, it was. You—wow.” he carefully pulls out of you, hissing quietly when the cool air conditioned air hits his sensitive flesh. “Was that enough of an apology for not including you to our chess nights?”

“You’re making jokes now?”

“No,” he smiles, leaning away to look at you, all starry eyed and boneless, “Not a joke. Because if it’s not enough, I can do it again.” a kiss to your cheek, “And again.” one on the tip of your nose, “And again.”

When you laugh in response, he cups your cheek, “I mean it.” he says with all the seriousness he can muster.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“Does this mean you’ll accept my invitations now?” he lights up, a large smile splitting his face.

“Only if it’s a date.”

"Then it's a date."

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onsomenewsht · 1 month ago

Text

And through the clouds, I see love shine

About when, on a Wednesday in a restaurant at Barcelona, you watch it begin again

》 Alexia Putellas x Reader

》 words count: 12.8k

》 fight a losing battle [idiom]: also known as “losing game”, to try hard to do something when there is no chance that you will succeed, a failing effort or activity

Your last relationship ends so badly that you consider abstinence from everything – processed sugar, alcohol, and even people. A period of deep cleansing, as if you could purify every cell of your body, like a celebrity spiraling from rehab to full-blown identity crisis.

This emotional state explains why you find yourself on a one-way flight to Barcelona, all your things crumbled in a backpack. A rash impulse led you to declutter your belongings, a wishful attempt of turning into a completely new person just because your closet is now half what it used to be.

The decision to straight-up flee is rushed and quite terrifying, much like many of your recent choices.

Elena, your best friend since you were barely old enough to share made-up stories and Barbie-like careers, thinks you’re going mental. She nearly cries when you decide to donate your vintage Christian Lacroix jacket, but you’re convinced it’s the only way to get a new lease on life, so she mourns in silence.

The loudest reaction comes from your brother, who, if you could be mature enough to admit it, is the only voice of reason that almost resonates in your head.

Almost.

Despite your stubbornness, you accept the offer of hospitality from one of his university friends, who gives away a spare room. You don’t plan on staying in a hotel for gods know how long, and you certainly don’t have the patience to search for an apartment. You’re not completely out of mind, if they want to help, so be it.

Barcelona is brighter and feels as welcoming as you hoped, though that might just be the nicer weather and the fact you’re far from your problems. And your ex.

The first month flies by in a rush of Catalan cafeterias, art galleries, and little boutiques that refill both your closet and your spirit.

The people here are kind enough to put up with your attempts to speak the language, humoring you since you’re oh-so-sure that eleven consecutive days on a passive-aggressive app have made you fluent.

The places you visit and the ones strangers recommend are loud enough to ignore the voices of reason in your ear that start to sound a lot like your brother’s.

Still, there’s only so much one can do to avoid responsibilities and self-consciousness.

“You need a job”, Ricardo states one morning, finding you in the kitchen eating cold pizza, still in the clothes you wore two nights ago.

Your closet isn’t as limited anymore.

“I’ve saved enough money to enjoy my vacation, thanks for your concern”

“I thought that was the money saved to buy a house with your ex”

“I do not have an ex nor a house to worry about, do I?”

As soon as the pizza starts to taste like regret, you’re ready to end the conversation to sleep the rest of day away.

Ricardo means well, you know that.

He’s a nice guy and a good roommate, but, like your brother, he’s overprotective and likes to gossip a little too much. Sometimes, it’s surprising how much he knows about you. Most of the time, it’s just annoying.

“I want to say– maybe a routine could be good for you”

“I have a routine”, you retort, knowing it’s a fat lie.

You’re out of the bed before eleven only if you didn’t sleep through the night before, wandering around the city with no real destination until something, somehow, catches your attention.

It’s not a bad thing per se, but it’s not a sustainable lifestyle.

“You quit a well-paid accounting job, right?”

“Ricardo, I swear, I’m this close to reporting you for stalking”

His laugh is too loud this early in the morning, but the comfort of bantering with someone who knows you is too familiar to ignore. Even if most of his insight comes from your nosy brother.

They both need to find a hobby that doesn’t involve judging your questionable life choices.

He sips his coffee while studying you, assessing how risky it would be to keep pushing the subject.

Apparently, he feels brave enough.

“My friends’ restaurant could use some help”

You’re not sure if Ricardo downplayed it or if he’s just blissfully unaware, but his friends don’t need some help – they need a miracle.

That’s what happens when you get scammed by your bookkeeper.

Despite not being really familiar with Spanish tax laws and regulation, it’s clear as the day someone exploited every possible loophole in the profitable business run by three way-too-trusting men. The truth becomes evident as you examine their accounting ledger, your frown deepening with each passing moment.

You have been to their restaurant before, and have loved it.

The place is cosy and carefully maintained. The food is prepared by a grumpy man from Puerto Rico named Paco, who, after twenty years in Barcelona, learned just enough cursing in Catalan to run the kitchen. Local bands play live on the weekend and someone’s mom made sure everyone is nice and well mannered. The worn wooden tables are witness of countless shared meals.

Pedro and Paul, the other two owners, can only be described as a comedy duo with a really questionable sense of style and even worse jokes. But they’re nice enough, definitely good company when you have a bad day. They can turn it upside down so quickly, for the better or the worst.

However, Ricardo tells you how much the restaurant means for his friends and the local community, guilt-tripping you into helping them to fix their finances.

The truth is, you love math and numbers so much that a challenge like this excites you more than it’s appropriate to admit.

Hence, you agree to help them for far less money you could have asked anyone in the same situation.

They take it as a promise to make sure the business keeps running and organise a dinner with way too many people to celebrate your help.

“I’ve barely started looking into it, Pedro”, you complain, not used to such enthusiasm.

“¡Cállate y bebe tu sangría!”

You meet Alba that same night.

She’s nice and quick-witted, no one is safe from her clever remarks. It feels nice, the way she makes sure you’re included when everyone seems to forget you’re still learning Spanish from a green bird on your phone, and that, in most conversations, you relate more to vibes than actual words.

Flirting is a universal language, though.

If her hand brushes on your arm a couple of times you make sure to smile and get closer, and if you lean into her with the excuse of needing a translation she makes sure to whisper right into your ear. There’s a note in her voice that makes you feel at ease.

Of course, Ricardo ruins everything.

“I’m starting to think you’re running from tax collectors, not your ex”

It’s a good joke, you know it is nothing more than that. But it suddenly reminds you how messy your life is and how out of place you feel sometimes.

Not just far away from home, but also far away from everything familiar.

A job for a company you hated but paid good money; friends you didn’t see as you’d liked, but who knew damn well when to drag you out of your apartment – and out of your own head. A boyfriend who barely tolerated your love, but somehow always managed to say and do the right things at the right time.

Every morning, you wake up knowing what to wear for work, what numbers to punch into the computer to get the needed results, and how to act to be sure you’re not too much.

You’re not running away from just your ex, you’re running away from your life as known until finding out about the cheating.

“¿Todo bien?”, Alba asks, noticing how you miss the opportunity to jab Ricardo.

It takes you a moment to register her reassuring hand on your arm and the talks moving to a completely different topic.

“Yeah, sorry, just tired”

“You better get used to the Spanish nightlife”

“It’s pretty much all I’m doing so far”, you admit, slowly sipping a beer and making sure your annoying roommate doesn’t hear a word about this.

The rest of the dinner passes without too much trouble, despite not remembering most of the names and following even less of the conversations.

Alba stays close and you blame the spicy food for the way your face reddens when she bids her goodbye with three kisses and a promise to meet up with less people.

“It’s a surprise”, Ricardo comments, his grin spreading across his face as soon as you settle onto the couch to debrief the day’s events.

It’s starting to look a lot like a new routine, a tradition in the making.

“What? Something my brother didn’t mention?”

“¡Ay, claro!”

“I hate you”

“I had no idea Alba is your type”

You have to give credit where due, he displays incredible reflexes. He dodges the pillow you throw at him, your punch barely grazes his arm, and your kick misses his shin by a mile.

To be honest with yourself, you’re not really sure who is your type.

Not even getting in the mind-space to think about your ex, the past relationships you care about to recall all look pretty different. There’s no consistent pattern, not a clear preference in haircuts or any kind of colours, not a style that catches your attention more than another.

The only thing most of your exes have in common is tiring you to the bones and leaving your life making you trust less and less in others.

Maybe you do have a type.

It’s not a date, you both agree on that.

She doesn’t ask about the infamous ex, she’s good company and even a nicer distraction.

But your mind drifts and, as you recount the highlights of how that relationship crumpled in slow motion, it becomes clear as the day you shouldn’t be with someone until you’ve committed to a good therapist.

It’s not fair to anyone, but it’s definitely not fair to Alba.

You kiss her anyway, and she makes you promise to let her be your first date as soon as you’re ready to get back into the game again.

“Ricardo told me your ex is un cabrón”

If not for the possibility of blemishing your otherwise spotless record, you could have shoved Pedro down the hill you’re currently struggling to climb, losing too much dignity.

The guy looks like he had one beer too many, but he’s surprisingly in shape and apparently unaffected by the whole hike so far.

“Am I the only topic of conversation he has?”, you ask, mostly to buy a few more seconds to catch your breath.

“Creo que sí”

You raise the finger as you outpace him to keep going.

The sun has set, casting a warm, golden hue across the clear Barcelona sky. Despite Pedro knocking on your door when it was barely socially accessible to be at someone’s place, it takes the two of you more time than necessary to reach this point of the trail.

Not close enough to the top yet, but definitely too late to turn back without regrets.

It’s mostly his fault.

The view is impressive, and the Catalan knows too many fascinating details to not be amazed by the nature around.

“¿Estás bien?

“Cabrón is a nice word”

“It’s not”

“No, it’s– I mean it’s not a bad enough word to describe him”, you clarify with a faint smile as Pedro slows his pace.

Your final destination is just a few steps away.

It may be the pleasant company, a good friend you’ve discovered in an unexpected place at the most unexpected time of your life. It may be the warm rays of sunshine that tickle your skin or the ache making your legs feel alive. It may be the weight on your chest, the one that crushed good intentions and caused too many sleepless nights, now becoming smaller under a new sense of resolve.

It may be for many different reasons, but for the first time in more than you’re comfortable looking back, it feels better.

“It was a good relationship”

He gives you a moment, sitting on the slightly damp grass next to your sprawled figure.

“It was good, until it was really bad. But it’s hard to do anything about it when you’re doing such an impressive job at hiding all the signs”

“A bad relationship can’t be blamed on just one person”, he tries to reason.

“It can”

“Guapa, mira–”

“No, it can. He was controlling, aggressive, and incredibly talented at making me take all the blame and the shame”, you admit, for the first time out loud, “My only fault was pretending to ignore when I finally saw it all for what it really was”

As you gather the strength to rise to a more dignified position, you almost expect Pedro to hug you or be the over affectionate Spanish stereotype he usually is.

Instead, he’s looking somewhere away in the sky, pensive.

You feel the need to reassure him, “I’m fine now, I–”

“No, lo siento, lo siento”, he turns with a small, yet genuine smile, “We don’t know each other that well”

“You’re hurting me now, I thought we were friends”

“We are, tonta!”

Pedro raises and his large hands, marked with tiny cuts, extend to pick you up. He paves the way down the hill with no words, and for the first time since you meet the man, the silence it’s a surprise.

It’s not uncomfortable, maybe just a little unsettling.

And short-lived.

“We don’t know each well”

“You already said that”

He shoves you playfully, not impressed by your attitude, but used to it.

“Lo que quiero decir es que– you’re a good person, I can tell, even if we don’t know each other for long”

“Don’t get soft on my right now”

“You’re a good person and you love good, you have to keep loving”, he states, so casually, “Once you know love, you should never try to forget”

“At this point, I’m pretty sure you hit your head hard enough to go mental and somehow no one noticed”

“I miss you so much, Elena”

Your phone is precariously balanced on a glass of wine as you cook a recipe Paco scribbled on a piece of paper. In Catalan.

It makes less sense than his finance decisions, but you’ll take it.

Your best friend’s face is half out of frame but you can clearly point out every step of her beauty routine. It’s a grueling and painfully long process, her boyfriend is way more patient than you about it.

But tonight Ricardo is out for his bi-weekly pottery class, and you’re happy to indulge her just for the sake of spending some time together, even if it’s through a screen.

Not like there’s a slight chance you’d say it out loud.

“What are you trying to cook?”, the eyebrow in frame raises skeptically.

“No idea”, you admit, coming to the conclusion the number you’re looking at is five and there’s no way this dish needs so many onions.

“Good, now, let’s track back to your mental instability”

“And you ask why I am in different country?”

The wasp she lets out is so loud, and the silence that follows is so deafening you look at the screen to make sure the call is still on. She can be so dramatic.

“Don’t joke about it, I’m still grieving”

“I’m still alive”

“Barely”, she mutters.

Elena is a good friend, despite the theatrics.

When the world seems a little too much to handle, she turns into a safe space for you to be at peace. When you’re overthinking the stupidest choices, she always has a comforting, new point of view.

To people who don’t have the privilege to know her well enough, she may look shallow and too noisy. The truth is, you’ve never met someone so aware of herself and her life that she perfectly understands how to give due weight to even the smallest things.

And she doesn’t keep quiet, she loves loud and proud.

You learned to hold yourself back. You were forced to.

That’s the biggest lesson she’s still teaching you.

“Just saying, you’re surrounded by hot, Spanish people–”

“Happens when in Spain”

“You’re allowed to have fun!”

“I have plenty, thank you very much”

A strange smell comes out of the pan as the lid is lifted, prompting you to close it and pretend it’s not even there for the rest of the night. Not planning to call a poison center, ordering takeout is how you opt to end this cooking attempt.

If Elena thinks you paused the video to piss her off, it is on her.

When your best friend’s face pops up on the screen again it’s so serious you’re tempted to hang up for real.

“I mean it in a good way, don’t get me wrong, but taking a leave of absence and flying to Barcelona is the most selfish thing I witnessed you do in forever”

“I’m actually thinking of quitting for good and going freelance”

“See?”, she gushes, although she can’t be taken seriously with a panda-shaped face mask on, “You like to do your nerd-numbers-shit again, you’re trying new things, even if you clearly can’t be trusted in the kitchen–”

“Fuck you, that man can cook, but for sure can’t write”

“You’re making friends, not as amazing as me, but we’ll take it!”

Trying to argue could be useless and, honestly, you have no arguments.

“You’re fine, you’re doing good”, she smiles, and you miss her a little bit more.

This time you say it out loud, and she cries.

The guys are planning something.

By now, you know them well enough to sense trouble the moment you step into the restaurant.

Paco wears a grin that’s almost creepy, a beam blasted across his face, while Pedro is cleaning the tables with unnecessary vigour and his usual commitment is taken to an unusual level.

They’re clearly waiting for something to happen, lingering around as you try to explain to Paul, the musketeer you pointed as the most reliable when money is on the line, how to delay a payment reminder.

“Okay, what is wrong with them?”, you ask, trying to recall a single reason why you put up with these people’s ethics.

You only need one.

“No te entiendo”

“Tú me entiendes perfectamente”

“Your español is getting so good, ¿lo sabes?”, Pedro chimes in, and you’re sure whatever they want, you’re not going to like it.

Paul is usually the voice of reason, the emotionally adult one. Why is he looking at you like he’s about to commit the worst betrayal?

“We were thinking–”

“I’m scared when you guys think”

“We are allies, feminists, and strong supporters of women in male dominated fields, equality–”

“Please, shut up”, you interrupt as if the conversation is physically hurting you.

“Barça is playing the Copa on Saturday. We organise una fiesta every year when they come back, es una tradición”, Pedro cuts in, feeling like the best way to get to the point is to dive straight into it.

“What if they lose?”

“Ellas no pierden”, Paul’s voice is so final you don’t dare to object.

“Cool, fine, why are you acting like this party is something I’ll not like?”

“We pay for it all”

It’s nice.

It is a really nice gesture, knowing how much they care about their community and their friends and apparently the women’s side of their favourite club.

Then you remember they have a huge debt to pay up because an asshole took advantage of their kind hearts and the accounts are just starting to make sense again.

“It’s a good thing”, you admit out loud, “But–”

When Paul starts a passionate rant about the team’s season so far and how sure he is they are gonna win those trophies all over again, apparently setting a new record for the sport itself, it’s not strange to feel thrilled too.

Even Paco joins the excitement at the prospect of adding another title to the collection.

You have been in Barcelona long enough to understand football is a big deal here, and you can’t deny it’s really wonderful to see three big guys hyping up their club – women’s and men’s side alike.

Pedro looks at you like he knows you’re about to crumble.

“They better win then”, you agree, pretending it takes a lot of thinking.

They wrap you in a group hug so welcoming you don’t have the heart to tell them the restaurant can’t really afford to pay out an entire party right now, on a weekend, literally planned for a football team and their mothers.

You’ll make sure the numbers check out later.

You meet Alexia that same night.

Alba makes the introductions, and you shake her hand a moment too late and too long than socially acceptable.

You’re busy shifting your gaze back and forth.

They look alike. A lot. But somehow, they’re also so different.

You make a mental note to dig up some old pictures of a younger version of yourself and your brother.

“She’s the reason this party won’t bankrupt the guys”

“I’ve heard only good things about you”, Alexia admits.

If a slight redness tints your face it’s due to the compliments, not the feeling of her eyes on you, or the way your body seems to jolt awake.

“All lies, probably”, you try to compose yourself – get a fucking grip, “They’re just impressed ‘cus they can’t count to save their lives”

The laugh that leaves the older woman’s lips is the most melodic sound you’ve ever heard. Something in the way her face lights up and her features relax makes your chest ache with a surprisingly comfortable feeling.

A desire to make her laugh again.

And that is what you do all night.

The girls are way too excited – deservedly so, after another title added to their already impressive collection. The live music is loud, the food and the drinks come in flows. You’re too busy to mentally estimate the costs.

When one of Alexia’s teammates decides you’re her new favorite person in the whole restaurant, you’re perfectly fine with it. Just because she’s funny, not because she seems to have an impressive amount of stories to tease her captain with.

When Paul hands you another beer, you sip it without a care of keeping count. Just because you’re allowed to get loose, not because you noticed Alexia is making sure everyone will not regret a drink too much tomorrow.

When Alba drags you to the makeshift dance floor, you let yourself feel the music and the bodies around. Just because the party is definitely worth it, vibrant, not because her sister joins the group at the same time.

You go home, much later than intended, with an unfamiliar feeling prickling beneath your skin and a somehow familiar pair of eyes stuck in your head.

The first time you end up in the stands for a football game is purely by accident.

An unmistakable electric buzz fills the air, lingering all the way from the parking lot to the seats that seem to keep filling. Everyone is smiling and chanting, sporting just two different colours but expressing their support in an unique way.

The games you endured watching on TV to spend a few hours with your brother as a kid can’t compare to the real thing.

You never imagined finding yourself in such a place, but when in Rome. Or, well, when in Barcelona.

It’s all on the Putella sisters, to be honest.

You meet Alba in the most unusual place you could think of, or being yourself in the first place. A sports shop.

Planning to go on the hike a stranger at the restaurant pointed out, you need appropriate trekking shoes. Since the decluttering phase is officially over, you looked up one of those obnoxious places that sell overpriced sports-related shit.

Not the kind of shop you’d picture Alba willingly entering.

“Mind you, I actually like sports”, she objects.

“Do you?”

She giggles as your head tilts in a mocking way, “Vale, I like watching more than doing the sports”

“No way!”

The bags she’s dragging out of the shop are the only thing stopping her from not-so-playfully smacking you. It’s surprisingly easy to tease each other.

She reminds you of Elena, who called this morning to discuss how to act now she discovered where her boyfriend hides the ring. As if she hasn’t been snooping around for months.

Not entirely her fault, the poor guy left the jewelry’s receipt with the car keys at the entrance.

“Are you?”, the younger woman asks.

“What?”

“A sports person”

“My brother used to kick footballs at me when we were kids, the only sport I ever pretended to be remotely interest in”

Her smile dims slightly.

For some reason, that seems to have been the wrong thing to say.

“Have you been to a Barça game yet?”

“What if I’m a Madridista?”

That’s even worse, apparently, since Alba dramatically drops the bags to gasp in shock. Her acting of a heartbreak is surprisingly convincing.

A second voice chimes in out of nowhere, “Don’t even joke about it”

Alexia’s comment is dead serious, you can tell, with just the hint of a grin on her lips as a clear giveaway that she’s more than comfortable teasing a person she barely knows.

You’re definitely not going to complain.

The hat she’s wearing hides half her face, but you can see her lighting up behind it.

“What if I’m not joking?”

“Alba, you said she is a nice person”, the midfielder complains, a huff escaping her lips as she adjusts the weight of the bags she’s carrying.

Did they just raid the whole shop?

“Bold to you to assume I can’t be a nice person and a Madridista”

“Please, don’t fight her on this, she’s gonna be insufferable”, Alba complains, playfully rolling her eyes at her sister’s antics and your teasing.

“No, she needs to be educated. She’s coming to El Clásico with us”

As simple as that.

You find yourself in the home section of the stadium for one of the most anticipated games of the season.

Or that’s what Alexia is ranting about all the way to your seats, going off about the rivalry and basic football knowledge you have to thank your borther for drilling into your brain against your will.

It’s all worth it when her blush spreads across her face as she realises, in the middle of her fourth attempt to explain with yet another example, that you actually do know what offside is.

Alba watches the interaction closely, amused by how easy it is for you to tease Barcelana’s captain and how comfortable she seems to be around you, despite not having known each other for long.

A couple of minutes before kick-off, Alexia returns from wherever she went – one mission in mind. She takes her place on your side, handing you a Blaugrana jersey, “You can’t sit here without wearing the right colours”

Maybe wearing a white t-shirt was a bit too much.

You burst out laughing, opting to put in the item immediately to avoid upsetting the filled seats around you, “How’d you find your own at a men’s game?”

“I happen to be pretty beloved around here”

“Did you hear that, Alba? La Reina is bragging!”

The only reason she doesn’t retort is due to the referee’s whistle announcing the start of the game, followed by a surprisingly enjoyable night with the two sisters.

Summer in Barcelona is nothing like you pictured it.

The streets are filled with tourists, too many people crammed in too little spaces. Complaints about the crowds and the chaos drown out any excitement. You have to remind Pedro that it’s awful, but it’s good for business.

Sometimes, it’s too hot to even think of leaving the comfort of your place. Fans blow in every room because, of course, the air conditioner broke the day it was turned on.

Sometimes, it’s so loud you don’t need to ignore the voices of doubt in your head, subdued by everything that’s happening around you.

Sometimes, it’s exactly the kind of life you can see yourself living.

Your brother came to visit for a week, spending more time teasing you with Ricardo than doing anything else. You hate it, but you missed him too much to complain.

Maybe you pulled some strings to make his dream of visiting Camp Nou come true, just so you could look cool, but then what?

He’s as happy as a kid in a candy store, and all you have to do is endure an overexcited guided tour and bribe Alexia with overpriced drinks the night after. Totally manageable.

Your therapist announces her vacation like it’s not the worst news she’ll be sharing, leaving you with tasks to occupy the time. You dutifully completed them all, never quite managing to shake the nerd label off, and, quite frankly, you pay her too much to not do her homework.

Some tasks seem a little over the top, though – signing up for a dating app is definitely not how you’ll get over your ex.

You started hanging out with a group of passionate excursionists. Perhaps a bit too excited about life in general, but nice enough to follow during their hikes.

Pedro joins when he can, most of the time, someone from the Barcelona team manages to invite themselves.

Since you and María aren’t allowed to be on your own, Ingrid or Esme supervise. It may be an overreaction, but the last time you two were alone, you sprained your ankle and the defender got nasty cuts on her legs before the trip even started, so you can’t really judge them.

If you say Alexia is a better hike partner than most is just to piss María.

That summer in Barcelona makes you miss your family and friends back home a little more than usual, but it’s also the first time in months that you feel like you’re actually living your life – not just letting it flow right through you.

When the new school year starts, Irene and her wife come to the restaurant a couple of times before Paul suggests that you could be the perfect person to help their son with his math homework.

Your attempt to explain that you really are not qualified to teach in a different language goes completely ignored.

They’ve already tried different tutors, and Mateo seems to hate them all. You accept, mostly because of the kid’s puppy-dog eyes.

The two of you fell into an easy routine. Once a week, he would lend you basic grammar school manuals and children’s books to help with your Spanish, and you would explain math to him in the simplest way possible.

It goes well.

Mateo decides pretty soon you’re his new favourite person, and you basically become one of Irene’s as well.

That’s how you find yourself on the sideline during a Barça training session, reading a book about a dog that doesn’t know how to bark while Mateo is too pleased with himself, checking all the math exercises he nailed.

“Good one?”

You raise your gaze, shielding your eyes from the sun enough to point out Alexia’s silhouette.

The weather is still too warm for your comfort, making you question the girls’ mental stability for running lap after lap under such conditions with a smile on their faces.

Sports people are scary.

“You look too good to be someone who just finished training”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Derogatory”, you clarify, pushing your stuff aside so that Alexia can sit beside you on the sideline.

She’s drinking some sort of sport drink like she’s just eaten sand, and this close, she looks human. She’s grinning, enjoying the sun picking at her skin and Mateo’s passionate explanation of the math exercises he’s done all by himself.

The training session is wrapped up, she stays until Irene comes back from the changing room, washed and dressed, ready to take the little boy home.

The blonde lingers a bit longer, talking about books she loved growing up and how she takes management courses when she can. You find out Penélope Cruz is both your favourite actress, but the midfielder acts shocked when you tell her you haven’t watched her favourite film.

That night, you put it on and change the language setting, live-texting Alexia all your reactions.

Halfway through, you’re pretty sure she’s watching it too.

Almost nine months after booking that life-changing one-way ticket to Barcelona, you buy another one to go back home.

With a return ticket in hand.

It’s your mother’s birthday, so you kind of have to.

Recently, she’s been repeating a new favorite line, rambling about the uncertainty of life and the precariousness of old age. She’s barely in her 60s and has less back pain than most people of your generation, but she’s not willing to listen to reason.

You come to the conclusion you can’t lose any more points against your brother in the unspoken sibling race for your parent’s love. So you book the flight, pack a suitcase big enough, because you literally have nothing to wear left behind, and mentally prepare for the investigation your family will conduct.

The tension in your shoulder melts away the moment your brother wraps his arms around you in the airport terminal.

“You grow up so much”

And, just like that, he’s your annoying, stupid older brother again.

“I didn’t miss you at all”

“I can see you holding back tears”

“You’re literally crying!”, you accuse with a grin on your lips, lightly punching him.

“Just wait until mum sees that new tattoo”

The truth is, your mother is too busy peering deep into your soul to care about the tattoo.

It takes two days of constant reassurance that you’re working, eating, and sleeping properly; a ceramic salamander figurine – maybe overpriced, but a gift meant to make an impression; and Elena backing up your story to calm her worries.

Barely enough to get you through the rest of the week unstretched.

“She’s just worried”, your best friend tries to reason, sipping a flashy pink drink that you’re not even sure is made from real fruit.

“I moved to Barcelona, not a war zone”

“Oh, so now it’s permanent?”

The shit-eating grin spreading across her face should annoy you, but you have to admit she has a point.

At first it was just an impulsive decision, an urge to run away from everything and everyone. Then, without really realising it, the Catalan city started to feel a lot like a place to settle in, to let your wings spread wide open.

Now you almost call it home.

The waitress interrupts your flow of thoughts, saving you from Elena’s pointed gaze long enough to be properly distracted by the huge amount of food presented. He leaves with a charming smile, but you’re genuinely too focused on the salty chips to notice.

“Are you pregnant?”, you ask, looking as she almost chokes to avoid comically spilling her drink on you.

“The Spanish heat fried your brain?”

“What? You didn’t even have soft drink when we were underage”

Elena pauses for a moment, weighting if knocking over you the rest of the pink beverage could be worth it. It takes genuine pondering.

She decides to take the highest road.

“Are you dying?”

“Are you taking comedy classes in Barcelona?”

The last time your best friend was this over the edge it was because of a pregnancy scare. First year of university, and her boyfriend at time wasn’t really the guy you’d take home for Christmas. A memory that doesn’t help her case right now.

You slip under the dim lights of the bar, a classy spot where she hangs out with the women from her pilates class. A shiver runs down your back, a bad feeling overcoming deep inside you.

Then, she speaks up.

“I’ve already bought a wedding dress”, she admits, as if she’s confessing a crime, “It’s a size smaller and I have to–”

“Elena, for fuck’s sake, I thought you were actually dying!”

“It is, indeed, a tragedy”

“He hasn’t even proposed yet”

“Details”, she chugs the rest of the drink, smirking and grabbing the last chips you’re too shocked to care about.

The same waitress hovers around your table, drawn in by the loud exchange and your clear distress, “Excuse me, is everything okay?”

He’s young, charming enough for this to be just a gig while he waits and hopes for his acting career to take off. However, he looks genuinely concerned, his gaze shifting between the deep frown and your friend amused grin.

“All good, she’s just dramatic”, Elena points at you with the straw, before delivering the final blow, “And she is single”

The poor boy’s face lights up, naively thinking the commotion was a creative way to play matchmaker.

What a mistake.

You don’t even dignify her with a glance, rolling your eyes before addressing him directly, “Excuse her, she’s panicking because her long-time, overly in-love boyfriend still hasn’t popped the question”

“That’s not–”

“And I’m not interested”, you finish, kind but firm.

He leaves with a nod, cheeks slightly red.

Elena watches him disappear as you sip your own drink, studying you the way she used to when you were confused teenagers who didn’t know how to deal properly with all those feelings and real-life emotions.

“Oh”

The reason you still encourage her goes beyond your understanding.

You’re not starting to question it now, “What?”

“You like someone”

“Elena, I swear–”

“No, no, it’s just–”, her gaze softens as she looks at you, teasing and playful attitude making space for her most supportive side, “It’s good to see you, you know, welcoming back some happiness”

It doesn’t matter how she’s always capable of reading you like a book, like you’re a poem she knows by heart but she’s never tired of.

After all the years and the lessons you’ve learned together, it feels so comforting to know there’s someone out there who deeply understands you. Who truly sees you.

You don’t deny it, you don’t retort to her observation.

That's not the point right now.

You break the promise made to Alba.

Kind of.

It’s early in the morning, the sun has barely risen in the sky, but it’s the perfect time to arrive at the little market. It arrives every two weeks, with vibrant stalls full of everything – though you understand half the things the vendors say. The freshness of the fruit and the unique clothing finds you always manage to come home with are totally worth it.

Alexia is buying vegetables and, judging by the passion she shares with the old lady in front of her, discussing important geopolitical questions.

You enjoy the exchange, taking a moment before approaching.

She jokes about the fact you’re up before the clock even hits double digits, laughing at your retort about fighting with the elderly over groceries.

The footballer suggests breakfast in a cosy place not far from the market, the promise of fresh bakeries enough to convince you.

It’s not a date.

But you walk side by side, bags lightly colliding sometimes, and before you know it, you’ve arrived at the café. Alexia holds the door open, pointing out her favorite pastries. She scoffs, unamused, when she realizes your questions distracted her long enough for you to pay for both your orders.

It’s not a date, obviously.

But you sit at a table in the far corner of the café for almost three hours, talking about everything and nothing. The bubble you find yourself in bursts when Ricardo calls, complaining that you’re late for lunch, despite insisting on making a reservation.

“We should do this again”, she says as she hugs you goodbye, a smile lighting her entire face.

It’s not a date, but it definitely feels like it.

You remembered the promise you made to Alba, to save your first date for her once you feel ready, just a second after realising how badly you wish to go on a real one with her sister.

You refuse categorically to celebrate your birthday at the boys’ restaurant.

They could make a big deal out of it, insist on paying for everything, and you couldn’t let that happen. After months of knowing them and the “Barcelona way” of celebrating loved ones, you can’t let them be in charge of this.

Also, the bills are finally adding up. They can afford it, you can’t let them do it – at least, not emotionally speaking.

So you host a little party at your place – your place, because Ricardo says you basically own it as much as he does after the bathroom’s makeover.

The small kitchen quickly turns into chaos the moment Paco takes charge and ropes Ricardo into helping. Pedro shows up with decorations and a banner that was most likely used for his little sister’s. Paul, however, closes the restaurant that same afternoon, brushing off your protests and reassuring you that your birthday is more important than the evening’s earnings.

You can’t find it in yourself to fight them.

The apartment fills with laughter and a vibrant energy that eases the weight pressing on your chest when overthinking takes hold. Balloons cover nearly the entire floor, raised voices and the scent of spices travel from the kitchen.

Your friends from the hiking group arrive in waves, immediately hitting it off with some of Barcelona’s team. You’ve grown close to a few of them through your relationship with Irene’s family and the one Ingrid and Frido practically forced on you.

Some regular customers from the restaurant also show up, people you’ve grown pretty comfortable with after spending so much time there during the first weeks of taking over the accounting job.

There’s also a nice girl you met at a concert, who Elena stalks on social media to make sure she’s not a serial killer.

Alba and Alexia are the last ones to arrive.

Your life in Barcelona is full of new people, new experiences and adventures.

At your lowest point, you’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be loved out loud.

And those people are the loudest you ever met.

The noise around the apartment subsides just as most of the guests leave. The music is turned down to a minimum, because of the late hour and Pedro’s questionable taste, as he hasn’t let go of the speaker once all night.

The small group gathers around the couch, drinks in hand, still willing to celebrate with you.

“I’m just saying, I think they taste the same”

The entire room erupts in protests at Ricardo’s comment.

“Absolutely no”, Pedro chimes in, seated on the edge of the armchair with a half-drunk beer in hand, “Black olives are made to be a pizza topping, green ones are perfect for everything else”

“What do you even know about pizza topping?”, you interrupt with a grin, “You put pineapple on yours”

Somehow, the complaints grew louder, the room buzzing with indignation.

“What’s wrong with that? Pineapple is a great pizza topic, you’re just too pretentious to admit it!”

“Can we move on from the pizza argument?”

“Oh, no, let’s get into it!”, you wave your hand dismissively, “Pedro, please, tell everyone what you put on first, cheese or sauce?”

“Fuck you”

“You work in a restaurant”, Alba says, her voice laced with disbelief.

“I’m not the one cooking, am I?”

“Thank God!”

The conversation quickly turns on poor Pedro, who now finds himself defending his questionable taste and own belief.

Alexia, who’s been quietly sipping from her glass, looks at the scene with a raised eyebrow before turning to you, relaxed on the couch beside her, “Honestly, I never imagined pizza to be the thing that ends a friendship”

“I’m just happy we’re not talking about pineapple anymore, that’s a sin”

“You started this”, she points out, giggling.

Ricardo shrugs from his spot on the floor, amused but staying out of it for now.

“It’s my birthday, I can do whatever I want”

“Oh, por favor”, Alexia says with a playful roll of her eyes, nudging the paper crown still perched on your head, “This must have cut off circulation to your brain”

You gasp, your dramatic antics in full display, fueled by the time, the alcohol, and, likely, the footballer’s shoulder still brushing against yours.

“You’re just jealous you’re not the only reina in the room”

“Keep dreaming”, Alexia responds with a grin.

The proximity lingers in a way that’s not just playful. It’s comfortable, like an inside joke no one else is allowed in on.

Ricardo watches the interaction from the corner of his eye, his gaze lingering on you and the blonde for a moment longer than necessary. He notices how her cheeks redden slightly, the way you look a little different – softer, at ease.

Alba catches the moment too, still pretending to be involved in the pizza argument. She notices the quiet exchanges and private moments that have unfolded all evening. The way you and her sister have fallen into a different rhythm, a different world.

She’s seen it before.

There’s something between you two, something unspoken, but not quite hidden. She wonders how long it’s been there, how long it’s been that way.

But, like Ricardo, she keeps her thoughts to herself.

The rest of the group laughs, the debate seems to fade into a more relaxed conversation that doesn’t involve food or questionable life choices.

As the night goes on, the teasing continues, but, underneath the surface, there’s something deeper.

There’s the way you lean in a little closer to Alexia when someone says something ridiculous, how your eyes linger on her when Pedro makes a joke and you think no one is watching.

There’s the way Alexia’s knee brushes yours when you laugh, how her fingers dance on your arm simply because you’re close enough to.

There’s the exchange of gazes and smiles, quiet signs of complicity in the loud room.

Ricardo waits to the tune of three days before cornering you.

You mention being a bit homesick after your birthday and the Putellas sisters literally drag you to have dinner with them at their mom’s. Eli is the sweetest woman ever, going above and beyond to the point of making that one pie you mentioned once being your favourite.

The house is filled with memories and tender gestures, a haven of support and a desire of caring for your own that squeezes your heart with a bittersweet beauty. Spending the night there makes it clear how Alexia and Alba were raised, revealing the roots of their kindness.

“You had fun?”

It’s a miracle you don’t drop dead on the floor right there, Ricardo’s voice echoing from the middle of the couch in the dark room.

“Why are you lurking like a fucking killer?”, you shout at him when your heartbeat slows down enough to let you come up with proper words.

“I was waiting for you”

You don’t even dignify him with a response, watching how he’s sipping from a mug like a scene from the shittiest b-movie you can think of.

Crossing the room to sleep the unease away, the guy’s next words make you stop right where you are, “You need to come clean with her”

“What are you talking about–”

“You like Alexia”

It’s not a question, there’s no doubt in his voice.

There’s not a single reason to even try to fight his assumption or your own overthinking.

You reach for the seat next to him on the couch, noticing the second mug just when he offers it to you. It’s a fruity tea you enjoy hot, with way too much honey and not a drop of milk – exactly like the one in your hands.

The silence wrapping around is comforting in a way that makes sense just because it’s the two of you, sipping tea in the quiet darkness of the room.

“I do”, you admit after a while, even if you don’t need to.

“I know”

“That obvious?”

“Yeah”, your roommate confirms with a soft smile.

He doesn’t tease, he doesn’t accuse you of anything.

It’s so typically Ricardo that you feel a surge of affection, a need to embrace him and accepting the support of someone who, in a twisted and brotherly way, looks out for you – and your heart. So you do just that, jumping into his arms without a care of your reputation or of the almost-empty mugs.

The man, despite the surprise of your reaction, is ready to hold you for how long you need.

Turns out, you need it a lot.

“Sorry, sorry”, you say after a couple of minute, trying to pull yourself together, “I didn’t see it coming”

“Me being so observant and clever or you falling in love with Alexia?”

“I’m not in love with Alexia”

“Yet”

He’s lucky the tea is not hot anymore.

“I’m not in love with Alexia”, you repeat.

Not yet, resonates in your head – your own mind betraying you.

Yes, Alexia is beautiful. Yes, you two apparently clicked perfectly right the moment you met. Yes, recently the time together doubled the time spent with anyone else. You can admit you like Alexia, the therapy is worth the commitment and the money put into it.

But being in love?

It’s a good feeling, the one that makes her cheeks flush crimson when your smile catches her gazing. Even better, the one that fills you with pride when Alexia’s laugh resonates in the room because of something you say or do.

It’s an exciting force, the one that unsettles your stomach when she reaches for you just for the sake of touching – of feeling you close. Even better, the one that makes you two sure of finding the other in a room full of people just when needed.

It’s so terrifying close to love, what it’s blossoming.

You want to fall in love with Alexia.

Ricardo raises from the couch, taking the mugs and putting them on the sink to be dealt with tomorrow. An annoying habit you’re sure he keeps up with just to annoy you.

He returns a minute later, “Are you going to do something about it?”

You don’t miss a bit, “Yes”

“Let Alba know first”, he says with a serious note in his voice, “She liked you”

The stadium buzzes with the loud roaring of fans and the sharp, clean scent of freshly cut grass under the rain. Barcelona dominates the pitch, their control of the midfield a suffocating grip as the opponents scramble, desperate for a counterattack.

Between miscalculated slides and short passes, Alexia weaves through defenders in a blur of motion and focused energy. She’s calm when the ball is glued on her feet, sparkling to light, her presence igniting the pitch, as soon as her teammates take over.

Patri finds her captain just outside the box and you lean forward, smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

You may be new to the whole thing, new in the Blaugrana’s home stands, but you learn quickly and you know exactly what Alexia’s movement means.

The shot curves perfectly, the stadium exhales a collective gasp as the goalkeeper’s fingertips fail to reach it. The ball hits the bar loudly, the sound echoing before it flies out of the pitch.

Beside you, Alba lets out a whoop, clapping her hands with a grin stretching across her face, “She’s out for blood”

You laugh, not like anyone could disagree.

Barça is winning by three goals, outrunning the defence and shooting as if they need to score at least three more to sleep peacefully tonight.

The poor goalkeeper will have nightmares for sure.

“She really want to take home that ball”

“She’s playing to impress”, Alba points out, not so subtly.

You chuckle, her remark flying over your head, “She’s just– good, I guess”

“Good? ¡Por favor!”, the younger Putellas scoffs, rolling her eyes, “She’s acting like a ballet dancer out there, doing pirouettes and running around like she has two sets of lungs”

As to prove her sister’s point, Alexia nutmegs another midfielder and executes another perfect movement, clearing the field for Aitana to set up Vicky for a chip goal.

The crowd erupts, but Alba’s attention remains fixed on you.

“¡Mirala!”, she says, pointing at the pitch where the team is hugging and celebrating, “That was another ‘look at me, soy la Reina’ moment!”

“Your sister is the most competitive person I’ve ever met”

“Competitive? Chica, she’s showing off! And don’t even get me started on the way she keeps looking up here, fixing her hair between plays– It’s ridiculous”

You watch as Barcelona’s bubble dissipates and they get back at their positions, Alexia waves towards your seats, her face illuminated by a radiant grin.

Your cheeks flush slightly, a mixture of amusement and something else.

The game keeps on with the same level of excitement, and even more shots on target. They win narrowly, unconcerned by their soaked clothes, lingering happily in the rain to sign autographs and chat with supporters.

Alexia immediately seeks out you and Alba, trying to embrace you both despite your not-so-playful protests. The damp material of her kit clings, accentuating her defined muscles, and your thoughts stray to less innocent territories.

Alba sends her sister to the changing room, accepting the kiss landed on her forehead and watching as you nod like an idiot when she leaves with the promise to be back in no time, her hand lingering on your arm.

“¡Ay, esto es increíble!”, she interrupts your thought flow, tilting her umbrella just enough for a stream of rain to drop on your face.

“Alba!”

“You’re not exactly subtle either, ¿sabes?”

The stadium noises fade into a distant hum. The air between you thickens, the playful banter morphing into something more charged and intentional. Your fingers fidget with the edge of your jacket, avoiding the younger woman’s gaze.

“How long have you known?”, you ask.

“The moment I introduced the two of you, idiota!”, she says, her voice teasing, “But I knew for sure at your birthday’s party”

“Nothing happened between us”

Alba’s smile softens, a gentle understanding dawning in her eyes, “I’m not blind and I know my sister pretty well. And honestly? I think it’s cute, you two glow when you’re together. She likes you. A lot. And you like her too"

Your shoulders relax, “I do. I really like her, Alba”

The wave of relief that washes over you is comforting.

You don’t owe her anything, and Alba definitely doesn’t owe you anything. But it’s good to know this love growing between you and Alexia is real, people around you see it too. People you care about support it.

Your smile spreads naturally on your face when you spot Barcelona’s captain approaching, hair still wet but changed in warm clothes.

Alba doesn’t miss it, nudging you with her elbow just before her sister’s close enough to hear, “It’s good you feel ready to date again, and I’m happy it’s her”

“I’m going to say it just once, so listen carefully”, you stop in the middle of the road with a stoic face, “Please, don’t make me regret our entire friendship”

The grin on Elena’s lips tells you everything you need to know, but you give her the benefit of the doubt. Because she’s your best friend, because she knows how to behave.

But she’s your best friend, and she’s not going to behave.

Her visit is not unpleasant, just unexpected.

It’s barely six in the morning when loud bangs on the front door wake you up and almost scare Ricardo to death. He takes it well enough, greeting Elena and going back to sleep the shock away. You, on the other hand, think of leaving her waiting outside until it’s socially acceptable to show up. Her immediate embrace is a clever attempt to smooth your annoyance.

She booked a red-eye flight for a hit and run, so you take her around Barcelona all day and agree to a late night out in a club Alba suggested you join with some of her friends.

“Relax”, she says, skipping steps like a kid as you approach the place.

“Elena, I’m serious”

“Why are you so stressed? Oh– oh, I know!”

She turns around in her heels, too graciously for someone with shoes so high and such low alcohol tolerance – you two may not be in your early 20s anymore, but you figured pregame was necessary this time around.

Her good resolution of not drinking alcohol crumbled as soundly as it started.

“Is she here too?”

“I don’t know what–”

“This mysterious woman you can’t shut up about, who is so great you have heart-shaped eyes but I can’t know her name”, she interrupts, grabbing you by the shoulder as you approach the club’s entrance.

It’s not like you’re hiding Alexia, or your feelings for her.

She’s a frequent topic of conversation with your best friend, you’re comfortable sharing the moments between the two of you and the way your heart beats at a completely different rhythm around the Barcelona’s captain.

But Elena can be protective, and curious.

All she needs is a name, and she’s going to find out if Alexia has ever got a bad grade in primary school. The teasing for liking a football player? You aren’t ready for that either.

“Yes, she’s here and I need you to–”

“This is the best day of my life!”, she doesn’t even let you finish, leaves you right there, flashing the bodyguard at the entrance a huge smile and sweet talking her way in – even though they have your names as vip guests.

“This is going to be the worst day of mine”, you mutter to yourself, following after her.

The energy in the club is charged with a dangerous combination of freewill and alcohol. The place is packed and colored lights go on and off with the music, bright enough to see who’s in front of you, but not enough to make your decision clear. Not tonight.

Alba sees you first, waving her hand to catch your attention so you join them in a secluded table in a corner of the place.

You don’t even ask how Elena is already seated in the cool leather booth, talking animatedly.

“She’s funny”, Alba comments after greeting you with a hug.

“Don’t believe a word she says”

The younger girl’s laugh mixes with your best friend’s, and you know your fate is sealed when a guy hands her a drink.

You look around the table, noticing some people from Alba’s close circle and some you met in passing at the restaurant or at a Barcelona’s game.

“She’s in the bathroom”

Your body betrays you before a coherent thought can leave your brain, your cheeks redding to the tips of your ears.

“Told you, you’re not subtle”, Alba comments, too amused at your reaction.

As if she knows you’re talking about her, as if a magnetic energy forces your body to get closer and closer, Alexia’s gaze locks with yours as she approaches the table, followed by a vaguely familiar face.

She greets you with a dimpled smile and a welcoming hug, it may look like months passed but it’s been a matter of days. The black top she’s wearing emphasizes her toned stomach, and your fingers itch to trace the subtle sheen of sweat crossing her back – a sign she’s been dancing for a while now.

You’re fashionably late, regardless of the time Alba suggested you to be here. Spanish people are stragglers, you have learned it at your own expense.

“Are you ready?”, the footballer asks.

“For what?”

“You owe me a dance”

“Absolutely not!”, you protest, trying to escape her hug.

“Oh, yes”, she smile, her arm around your waist dragging you even closer, “You made fun of my dancing moves, now you have to prove yours”

Next time, you will think twice before sending the blonde every single comment you found online about a TikTok video one of her teammates posted after a huge win. In your defence, you find it very cute.

The dance floor is filled with people, dancing in fluid movements like you learned Spaniard are comfortable with. A sea of arms fling around, bodies smoothly moving to feel each other. The music vibrates with a bass so deep that your ribs pulses at the same rhythm.

Alexia guides you in a less crowded section, far enough from the table so Alba and Elena can study every single movement, but out of earshot.

You try to ignore the thought of your best friend gossiping with Alba.

Thinking, however, is the last thing you do when Alexia’s hand finds the small of your back, skin waking up by the slight hint of touch.

It doesn’t really matter how you managed to get this close, how the music runs through your bodies with an unmistakable energy and desire to get even closer. Your arms rise to frame the blonde’s face, her grin growing as soon as she notices your reaction.

It’s not like either of you is hiding the attraction, the pulsing needs to be together. To talk, to touch, to be around one another. It’s always been there, you just never acted on it.

“Are they like that all the time?”, Elena asks, still studying the way you seem to speak a different language with Alexia.

“I’m thinking about locking them somewhere until they kiss or whatever”

The disbelief is clear in Elena’s voice, “Are you sure they haven’t kissed yet?”

“If I know my sister, she must be really fucking scared”

“If I know my best friend, she must be really fucking stupid”

The two nod before bursting in a loud laugh, clicking their glasses.

Almost an half an hour later, you find them like that, giggling and talking as if they have known each other for years and not just met. Alexia raises an eyebrow, silently questioning if she needs to hold back Alba’s enthusiasm – Elena is matching it without a problem, and that’s what really worries you.

“And that’s how she ended up with the sister of her blind date”

“That’s not how it happened, at all”, you complain, hitting your best friend’s arm as she decide telling the worst stories possible is the best way to spend the night.

“Must have been a great date”, someone jokes.

“I’m a fantastic date, thank you so much”

“I can confirm”, Alba says with a teasing grin, raising her empty glass as you flip her off with an equally open smile on your lips.

Alexia, on the other hand, straightens up a bit at the exchange, switches her gaze between the two of you, almost taken aback, “You two dated?”

“I told you”, the younger girl retorts.

“I thought you were messing with me”

The change in her posture is subtle, but you’re close enough to feel it. Close enough to notice the way she moves her knee, breaking contact with yours, her fingers toying with the ring on her pinky.

Alba is a bit too drunk to pay attention to the footballer’s dampened mood, not affected anymore by that one date with you so long ago.

She told her sister about it when she first clocked in her interest for you, hoping to clear the way for her to do something about it – a sort of blessing.

Turns out, Alexia’s so sure she was teasing her, lying about it just to annoy her.

Thankfully, your best friend reads in your face the panic and drifts the conversation on a completely different topic.

The rest of the night passes in a blur of laughs, questionable drinking choices, and more dancing.

Every single attempt of catching Alexia’s eyes fails miserably. She’s not ignoring you, she doesn’t leave her seat next to you, and her touch is light but grounding. Your mind, however, spirals in a way it hasn’t in months.

It’s late when the group decides to call it a day, stumbling out into the cool, damp air of Barcelona. No one is sober enough to even think of driving, the decision to summon taxis rather than risk the roads is unanimous.

A strange intimacy settled inside the car. You and Alexia sit in the back, while Alba, in the middle, sleeps on the older woman’s shoulder with soft snores. Elena is deep in conversation with the Catalan driver, despite not speaking a word of the language. The city lights flash outside, blurred by a light drizzle that you trace with a finger against the window.

Upon reaching Alexia’s apartment, you insist on helping her carry her sister inside, ignoring her half-hearted protests. Your best friend, armed with a winning smile and a ‘thank me later’ attitude, somehow manages to convince the driver to wait for you outside.

The place is quiet when you enter, amplifying the tension that crackled between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s never uncomfortable.

You and Alexia carefully settle Alba onto the bed, the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting long shadows across the guest room. Each gentle adjustment of her sister’s blanket, each soft whisper to ensure her comfort, stretched out the delicate balance.

It’s minutes later, right by the front door, that something snaps.

Before you can reach the handle on the way out, the footballer’s fingers wrap around your wrist.

There’s urgency in the way her body feels stirred by an electric discharge all of a sudden, her voice low, “You dated?”

“What?”, your confusion is mostly prompted by Alexia’s distressed tone.

“You dated my sister?”

“No, we– I mean, we went out like one time and I was, clearly, still fucked up by my ex– It’s not like we actually dated or something”

“She said–”

“She was joking”, your hands cupping the blonde’s face seems to do wonder at calming her, but you still feel the need to clarify the situation, “I kissed her, once, then found a good therapist and said to her I wasn’t interested like that”

“Are you interested like that?”

“Alexia, I just said–”

“No, no”, she interrupts shyly, never dropping her gaze, “Are you interested in me like that?”

Despite the voices still filling doubts in your head, kissing her is the easiest, most natural thing to do at that moment.

Her lips are soft, warm, and taste faintly of sweet drinks. Her breath mingled with yours, a shared rhythm in the quiet intimacy of the kiss.

A current of interest, desire, and care pulls you closer. There’s complicity and belonging, mingling with curiosity, and the thrill of uncharted territory.

And there’s Alexia, right in front of you, vulnerable and exposed and trusting enough to lay her emotions in your hands. Making you feel so safe that you don’t even have to think about doing the same.

So you kiss again, trying to convey how sure you are about your feelings. Because the insecurities and the questioning silence when Alexia’s heartbeat syncs with yours and her hand caresses your face.

The sharp honk coming from the taxi outside is the only reason why you separate.

The late afternoon sun drapes over the Barcelona streets as you and Alexia stroll, fingers laced together.

It’s a familiar feeling now, holding hands after a date.

You have explored hidden hikes, shared tapas after her games, and even attended a couple of flamenco lessons. Nothing too different from what you’ve already experienced.

Except, of course, for the kissing.

And there’s been a lot of that.

Your phone buzzes, interrupting Alexia’s recall of Vicky’s last attempt of convincing her to do another stupid trend. You drop her hand, your fingers flying across the screen, muttering in concentration.

The footballer raises an eyebrow, complaining playfully, “Am I annoying you?”

“It’s this stupid bird!”

“Still fighting with ser y estar?”

“I’m sorry, my Spanish teacher is a tease and gets distracted five minutes after promising to help me study”

“She sounds like an incredible teacher”, she counters, too pleased with herself as she hints at your last private tutoring.

Despite your best effort, the other woman had other plans. The sentences she whispered right at your ear, with a raspy voice and a note of teasing in every single movement of her lips, made your resolution crumble in a matter of minutes. The books, not even opened, fell off the bed with a kick of her foot.

You do, however, learn some new words.

Your cheeks flush at the memory, “Shut up!”

“I said nothing”

You ignore her grin, still welcoming her embrace as she pulls you closer to help with the lesson.

“This app is useless! Why do those Spanish animals always do weird things? It’s making me questioning my entire existence”

“Tan dramática”, Alexia snorts, nudging you with her hip, “Why are you even using that thing? You can learn everything you need from me”

“I’m trying to actually learn something here”, you retort, faking annoyance, “Besides, you’re not always available for Spanish lessons. I want to get better, impress the locals”

“After more than a year?”

“Never too late”, you grin, “Just wait, I’ll be ordering in flawless Catalan in less time than it took you to ask me out”

Alexia stops in her tracks at your teasing, taken aback by your admission and by way of calling her out for the stalling after the first kiss you shared. She may have needed a little push then, trying to find the best moment to ask you for a real date to just blur it out in the rush of a late game night you attended.

You continue walking, too focused on the lesson to acknowledge the blonde’s momentary pause.

“Wait, I thought you were taking Spanish lessons”

“Yes, from you and the stupid bird, but I have an actually tutor for Catalan”

“You’re learning Catalan?”

“I live in Barcelona”, you say, matter of factly, but the flush creeping up on your cheeks betrays you.

The truth hangs in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken. It isn’t about fitting in, not anymore. It’s about her.

To understand her better, wrapping deeply into the fabric of her world. It’s commitment, to the city and to a future that you can’t picture without her in. It’s a promise, somehow, to bridge any gap and to learn her culture, her soul.

Alexia’s gaze lingers, the weight of your growing feelings both exhilarating and inevitable.

She told herself she set a pace comfortable for you, respecting your need to get better with loving yourself and trusting others.

But you’ve been ready for this love for quite some time now.

The way you open up with her, hold her after a long day, and gently kiss the creases around her lips when she smiles. The way you not just proudly wear your heart on your sleeve, but you hand out your emotions to be seen. The way you make her feel safe enough to be vulnerable, to be taken care of.

The way you’re learning to love her by learning to love everything that makes her who she is.

A nervous flutter, like trapped butterflies, stirred in your stomach as Alexia catches up to you. You could feel the energy radiating from her, the subtle scent of her perfume, a mix of wood and something undeniably her.

“Estic enamorada de tu”, she confesses, cheeks slightly tinted but her voice so firm, so sure.

“I know what that means”

A smile, genuine and carefree, grows on both your lips. You study her face for a moment, finding nothing but pure care and a force that feels like arms keeping you safe and warm.

Nothing but love.

The way you kiss her is almost too intense for a late afternoon in the streets of Barcelona, but barely enough to convey all the emotions that you discovered and learned to welcome in your life again.

You may not be ready to say out loud you’re falling in love with her too, not yet. But the firmness of your hands on her face, the happiness lightning in your eyes, the resolution conveyed by your kiss.

She knows.

On the day you declare the restaurant officially debt free, Paco lifts you up off the ground, spins you around with ease and plants a loud kiss on your forehead.

Paul’s reaction is a bit tamed, even if he declares he’s going to name his firstborn after you. Still single and hopeless romantic, you’re not sure how much to read into his words.

Pedro cries, of course he does, but he also hugs you in a way that conveys almost too much not to shed a few tears yourself.

It’s not difficult for you to admit you own them more than they own you.

Taking care of the restaurant’s ledger and the guys’ enthusiastic opinion about your accounting job opened a lot of small businesses’ doors. The idea of opening your own office never even crosses your mind, not planning on entangling yourself in a structured system anytime soon. The new apartment you rent has a small room that works just fine as a study.

You will still keep an eye on them, though, not sure enough your finance lessons really drilled in their heads.

“So, you’re finally letting us treat you with dinner?”, Paul asks, serving you up with way too many pleasantries.

“I already have someone who pays for me”, you retort, playful smirk on your lips.

“¡Ay, I thought you were taking me out tonight!”, Alexia complains next to you, keeping up with the joke as she pretends to not be interested in the food anymore. She can be such a dork.

“Wait, am I crushing a date?”, Alba intercepts from the other side of the table.

“You’ve been crushing our dates since the day we met!”

The laughs that erupt are loud enough to catch the attention of the other patrons, thankfully not really annoyed by the chaos. The truth is that, despite being a menace of a group, it is not like you can drag your friends in any other place without the risk of getting banned forever.

It’s a familiar scene. The restaurant feels like a second home now, one that you built on your own around people that truly see you, support you and never miss a chance to tease you.

So you shake your head at Ricardo’s antics and glare at Alexia when she keeps teasing her sister, effortlessly distracting her with light movements of your fingers on her knee.

The conversation flows between shared memories and inside jokes, carrying the night away until your table is the only one left. Not planning on leaving the place anytime soon. And as you sit there, surrounded by your friends, questionable recalling of stories, and the magnetic pull of Alexia’s presence, you just know that this is it.

This is your life, your love, your chosen family.

Then Pedro has to ruin the moment, persuading everyone you have to make a toast for whatever reason. You try to fight it, embarrassed and quite frankly taken aback by the respect and genuine admiration this people seems to feel for you.

A subtle nod of your girlfriend’s head, her hand finding yours beneath the table, is all you need to indulge with their antics.

“To us”, you say, raising a glass, “To finally getting our shit together!”

Laughter and cheers fill the restaurant, everyone congratulating each other for the most random things and joking around as if life could always be this simple.

Alexia’s hold tightens, her eyes meeting yours. Her face lights up in a way that never fails to make your own heart grow.

“T’estimo”, you whisper, just for her to hear.

Your love is usually so loud. A love that grows unexpectedly, but burns with a fierce and tender flame. But your promises are quiet. A silent acknowledgment of commitment that goes beyond, that stretches confidently into the future.

Together.

#woso x reader #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas #woso #woso imagine #woso fanfics #woso community #ap11 #woso world #my wo(rd)so

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honey-bitch · 2 months ago

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Mercury in the Ascendant Persona Chart - Signs ☿

Where Mercury is placed in the persona chart can give you more information on how your voice comes across and how your intelligence is expressed. This is part 5 of my ascendant persona chart series and you can see mercury in the house in the ascendant chart here.

For 0°- it doesn't have a delegated sign and therefore it will take the qualities of the sign it's in.

Aries (1,13,25°) - This brings a quick, direct, and assertive communication style. Native are likely to be spontaneous, enthusiastic, and straightforward in their approach to thoughts and ideas. Their thinking is fast, an so is their tongue. You may unfortunately offend others, because of how brash you tongue is. They may not have much patience for details or subtlety, preferring to get straight to the point. Their persona may come across as energetic, confident, and ready to engage in action.

Taurus (2,14,26°) - Natives with this placement tend to think carefully and may take their time to process information before speaking. They value stability and reliability in their thoughts and words, often communicating in a steady, calm manner. This can make the person appear patient, methodical, and cautious. They may enjoy conversations about material wealth, security, and the tangible aspects of life.

Gemini (3,15,27°) - People with this placement tend to have a sharp mind, are quick-witted, and can absorb information rapidly. Their communication style is versatile, curious, and highly adaptable. They often excel in conversation, writing, and learning, and their persona may be seen as lively, engaging, and intellectually dynamic. They enjoy variety in their thoughts and ideas and may be naturally skilled at multitasking.

Cancer (4,16,28°) - These natives may express their thoughts through feelings, intuition, and personal experiences. They may speak in a way that is nurturing, empathetic, and protective. They are often highly sensitive to the needs of others and may prefer to communicate in private or familiar settings. They may come across as warm, caring, and emotionally intelligent, often prioritising family, home, and emotional bonds in their communications

Leo (5,17,29°) - This gives a dramatic and confident way of thinking and speaking. People with this placement may enjoy being the centre of attention when communicating and may communicate in a story telling way. Their persona may seem charismatic, authoritative, and expressive. They may communicate with enthusiasm and pride, often preferring to take the lead in discussions. They may have a strong desire to be recognized for their ideas and intellect.

Virgo (6,18°) - This placement gives a highly analytical, detail-oriented, and organised way of thinking and communicating. Natives are often precise, practical, and focused on efficiency. They may express themselves in a methodical and clear manner, paying attention to the finer details of information. They may come across as intelligent, critical, and efficient, often displaying a deep concern for correctness and improvement.

Libra (7,19°) - Very sweet , diplomatic, balanced, and focused on fairness and harmony. People with this placement tend to express themselves thoughtfully, seeking to avoid conflict and promoting peaceful, harmonious conversations. They often have a talent for seeing both sides of an issue and may be skilled at negotiation and mediation. They may come across as charming and tactful, with a preference for collaboration and cooperation over confrontation.

Scorpio (8,20°) - Natives with this placement may have an investigative mind and a knack for uncovering hidden truths. Their thinking is often sharp, penetrating, and insightful, and they may enjoy discussing topics related to psychology, power dynamics, or the occult. They may not easily share their thoughts openly, preferring to keep things private or strategic.

Saggitarius (9,21°) - Worldly, expansive, optimistic, vibrant and philosophical.. must I go on. These individuals are likely to have a broad outlook on life, with an interest in ideas that are big, adventurous, and filled with potential. They enjoy discussing philosophical, spiritual, or ethical topics and may express themselves in an open and sometimes blunt manner.

Capricorn (10,22°) - A more serious, practical, and structured way of thinking and communicating. Very straightforward and to the point Individuals with this placement often express themselves in a methodical, disciplined manner, focusing on realistic goals, responsibility, and long-term planning. They may prefer to stick to the facts and may have a no-nonsense approach to discussions.

Aquarius ( 11,23°) - These natives tend to think outside the box, focusing on unconventional ideas, social progress, and future possibilities. They may express themselves in a detached or objective manner, often valuing logic over emotion. They may be seen as eccentric, forward-thinking, and highly open-minded, with a strong interest in technology, human rights, and group dynamics.

Pisces (12,24°) - Very silly but imaginative energy. Natives with this placement may express their thoughts in an emotional, artistic, or mystical way, often drawing on their creativity and sensitivity. They may have a natural talent for storytelling, poetry, or other artistic forms of communication. They may come across as compassionate, empathetic, and imaginative, with a tendency to focus on emotional or spiritual connections. Which in other terms they are prone to be seen as a bit of a waffler.

DISCLAIMER: this post is a great generalisation and may not resonate with you. I would recommend buying a reading from a professional astrologer (or me) to get more insight

If you want me to analyse your ascendant persona chart Dm for Paid Readings

#astrology #astrology community #astro notes #astro observations #astro tumblr #astro community #astrology readings #astrology reading #honey-bitch #ascendant persona chart #mercury in ascendant persona chart

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reidmotif · 11 months ago

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Check Your Window (He's At Your Window)

Summary: Reader discovers her window faces into the apartment of her very attractive building neighbor, Spencer. She's willing to do anything for his attention. He's willing to reward her for her efforts.

Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Category: Smut

Content Warning: voyeurism, lingerie, masturbation, slight dubcon (but for like 5 seconds i swear), nipple play, penetrative sex, apartment break-in.

Word Count: 3.9 k

Masterlist

It’s natural to believe you’re safe in your place of residency. You’re given locks, blinds, a security gate- all measures designed to invoke a false illusion of privacy. Of course, there are defects that no one can plan for that have the ability to shatter this illusion.

Mine happened to be a badly placed window.

Finding this apartment felt akin to love at first sight. It sounds dramatic, but I’m serious. Do you know how horrific real estate is these days? But when my eyes came upon piano oak flooring, the soft light of the day streaming onto a marble island, and of course, an in-home washer/dryer system, I was sold.

Due to my inherent awkwardness around meeting strangers, and lack of overt charm, I’d never been one to initiate introductions with my neighbors. I moved in quietly, packing up my life into neat little boxes and dispersing them throughout the emptiness of my new space. It was only then, when I realized a strangely placed window that seemed to fall exactly where I’d wanted my bed to be.

And while examining my outlandish situation, I saw him.

I didn’t want to assume he’d been watching me. I wasn’t paranoid like that. Nevertheless, I didn’t want to give off the aura of, for lack of better words, a creep, so the quick aversion of my eyes from his gaze felt instinctual. Curiosity won over me a millisecond later, though, and against my better judgment, I quietly peered into the window again, wondering if the man in the glass had slipped away, or had looked away from where our eyes met last.

What I hadn’t anticipated, however, was to be met with the unflinching stare of his eyes, far from concerned with how he came off, holding his gaze with an almost disconcerting and defiant presence.

He gave me a subtle nod, before walking away, disappearing from view. I was left feeling.. unsettled. But also strangely thrilled. There was a certain peculiarity in knowing you were susceptible to an audience at any given moment. I vaguely recalled social facilitation as a possible explanation as to why the concept roused me the way it did, but whatever it was, I didn’t feel compelled to attach curtains or any kind of barrier to avoid the phenomenon.

While my thoughts occasionally drifted to the man, I didn’t actually know anything about him. He lived in the building beside mine, so we didn’t even share so much as a landlord. I truly never expected to gain any insight on him besides the location of his domicile in relation to mine, and the thought didn’t bother me by any means. I was completely fine with letting our connection stay as severed as it was.

Fate, on the other hand, had other ideas.

I found myself a few weeks later, struggling with an overstuffed grocery bag in front of my building, and in a terrible game of mismanaged weight and the flimsiness of grocery-store plastic, my bag gave way, scattering the contents of it across the ground. Further misfortune plagued me, as the bag in question had been holding a good pound of lemons, that rolled quite far from where I’d been standing. I immediately dropped to the ground, trying to gather up the ones by my feet in my arms, and noticed a presence nearby doing the same and bringing the runaway citrus to me. I was thankful, and was ready to express my gratitude to the helpful samaritan, until I saw a flash of recognition collectively pass over our faces as we made eye contact.

Him. The man in the window.

“You dropped these.” He says, his voice a little quieter than I’d expected from him, and I nod.

“Yeah, no. It’s these bags. Not really equipped to hold a pound of lemons.” I say, trying to gather the rest to my chest, our eyes still trained on the other.

“Can I ask why a pound of lemons?” He asks, a sort of playful lilt in his voice.

“Lemonade.” I say, almost immediately.

There’s a bit of confusion that flashes over his face. “Are you making a joke?” He replies, furrowing his brows a bit.

I realize that my response might’ve come off as too deadpan, and I shake my head to correct his misconception. “Oh, no. I’m serious.” I say, offering a grin. “I love lemonade. There’s a work party I’m attending, and I offered to make some for the office. Hence, the lemons.” I continued, gesturing at the aforementioned fruit, and feeling myself ramble slightly, but it didn’t seem to offend the recipient.

“That.. is a surprisingly normal response, given the situation.” The man says, nodding. “I love lemonade too.” He adds.

There’s a bit of silence as we both picked up lemons together, the man more focused than I on the task. I took the oppurtuinity within the lull of our conversation to truly examine the man, finally no longer separated by a pane of glass, and my observations all seemed to point towards one glaringly obvious conclusion.

The man in the window was hot.

He appeared older than me, yet his age did nothing to diminish the beauty of his features. His doe-like eyes seemed to shine with the same curiosity that I felt towards him. His hair was a bit longer than I’d expect from a man his age, but it suited him. The smooth slope of his nose had a certain charm to it, and his cheekbones were impossibly sharp. I wanted to run my thumb over the bone, and kiss him senseless until we could barely remember our own names.

“I’m (Y/N). You’re free to come over.” I say, a little more rushed than I’d wanted to. “For the lemonade, of course.” I add, trying to not drop the ball when it came to inviting this gorgeous man over to my apartment.

“Spencer.” He replies, offering his name to me. “I'll keep it in mind.” He says, smoothly. He flashes me a kind smile as he places the last of the lemons into my other bags or directly into my hands.

I’d hoped “I’ll keep it in mind” meant “within the next few days or so” but waiting seemed futile after a certain amount of time had passed. He never came, and I even stopped seeing him as often through the window in passing. In hindsight, it was rather naive to genuinely expect a near-stranger to come to my apartment, on account of an invitation that could have been interpreted as a thinly-veiled proposition.

It felt a bit dull, his lack of interest. I’d had a taste of his attention, and for some reason, I was hooked. It was irrational, and illogical, but I couldn’t help the desire I felt simply at the thought of this man. And in a mixture of perversion, desperation and pure brainlessness, I tried to use the one thing that had rarely failed me in the past. Sex.

I reasoned by telling myself it wasn’t like it was guaranteed he’d see me.

And it wasn’t as if I was standing directly by the window, exposing myself for his pleasure, and his pleasure only. So hey, if he saw my figure adorned in lacy lingerie in passing, and felt compelled to act on that in any way he chose, well. No harm, no foul, right?

So that’s exactly what I did. To my benefit, it was one of the hottest summers D.C had ever had, so the lack of clothing worked in my favor. I’d always felt quite confident in my own skin, so lounging around in bras, panties, barely-there cover-ups around my apartment didn’t strike me as the oddest thing to do. I felt comfortable, and in turn, possibly seducing the man in the window. Win-win.

And “win” I did, in some way at least, because I noticed the arrival of lingerie correlated in a sudden uptick in the times I’d see Spencer taking a longer-than-normal glimpse into my apartment. It was fucking exhilirating, to have his regard in this strange, taboo way. I’d find myself imagining him, surrounded by a sea of sheets and pillows slowly stroking his cock to the images of my scantily-clad body. I had no real way of verifying if this was the actual case, but the fantasy was enough to bring heat to my cheeks and an ache in my panties.

It started to drive me a little crazy, however, when after a week of this, literally no tangible reward came from the fruits of my labor. While I’d enjoyed his eyes on my form, that seemed to be all he was capable of. He seemed completely at ease with just watching (to my utter dismay) and it seemed the action I wanted him to take was sorely out of reach.

Reflecting on his shy, soft demeanor from the one time we’d spoken, I concluded that he might not be as forward as I am. It made sense; he never seemed to have visitors in his apartment and, seeming to be in his 40s without a stable partner, he probably wasn't accustomed to a woman's attention in this way. He didn’t exactly exude “womanizer” anyway from what I knew about him, and I began to connect his lack of initiative to these points.

It didn't deter me from continuing my attempts though. At best, I was at least providing a lonely middle-aged man some sorely needed imagery in the meantime. I’d always been a giver, anyhow.

It’s reasonable to assume there’d be some payoff down the road, right?

Wrong. I continued to wear increasingly revealing lingerie, going as far as just walking around naked once in a while. Nothing. I was a fucking saint at this point for continuing this for him.

It didn’t help that my mind insisted on taunting me with what I couldn’t have, as a moment of spare time in my day would constantly be preoccupied with thoughts of him in my bed, pinning my hands down and kissing up and down my neck. I’d imagine him pounding into me, or bouncing up and down on his cock, bringing us both to the throes of pleasure. I couldn’t halt the depravity of my thoughts, no matter how hard I tried.

What I also couldn’t stop, was the slow descent of my fingers into my panties one night, finding a delectable mess within them, signifying my deep arousal associated with the man. It’d been a long few weeks, the smell of summer and heat encasing my apartment, and a profound craving I couldn’t resist. I breathed out a sigh of relief as I began rubbing the small nub, alternating between up and down motions, and then a slow, circular rub. Little moans poured out my lips, before I quickly shed my panties entirely, watching a string of arousal stuck to them, kicking them haphazardly to the side, wanting more access to my clit.

My eyes naturally closed as I found myself lazing towards the precipice of release. Soft sighs and moans filled my apartment as I let my fingers rub a bit more desperately. I could see flashes of him again behind my eyes, his hand on me, instead of my own, mirroring the actions I was performing. A gasp of his name came tumbling out of me as the image became clearer and clear, my eyes opening almost frantically as I felt myself closer and closer.

That’s when I got the strangest sensation, and felt a pair of eyes on me. I jolted my head to the left, and saw Spencer, who was clearly watching at this point. His gaze was entirely trained on me, and similar to the first time he saw me, our eye contact didn’t deter him from his observation.

I refused to let it either, and kept my gaze trained on him. I was entirely exposed. I wouldn’t have been able to stop my actions if I’d had a gun to my head. It just felt too fucking good. A moment more of eye contact from him, and I felt the familiar clench and release from my body, waves of pleasure wracking my body. I let out another moan, but not once did my eyes leave his, as my back arched against my sheets, a silent plea on my part being conveyed.

Come here. What could you possibly be waiting for?

I watched him disappear from the window as I finished, both literally and figuratively, and panted, wondering if finally, finally, my prayers and fervent supplications would be answered.

After about 30 minutes, my anticipation was replaced with severe disappointment when I realized even after then, he wasn’t coming. I could no longer see him in the window, and at this point it seemed a little silly and pathetic to continue expecting him to come.

Maybe he was just entirely sexually inadept. That could be a possibility, right? How much more explicit could I get than this? I’d masturbated in front of him! Albeit, through a window, but masturbation regardless! Was this seriously all he was willing to do?

I roll my eyes at the thought. I came to accept that maybe, truly, there was nothing I could do to get this man to fuck me the way I deserved. Fine.

As I closed my eyes to get some necessary rest after my endeavors, I made up my mind that I’d buy curtains tomorrow. Fuck Spencer Reid, and his absolute inability to take any action in his goddamn life. Fuck this apartment. Fuck everything.

Was I dramatic? Yes. Was I still right? Also yes.

Despite the sour mood I’d taken to bed with me that evening, my dreams were anything but. The idea of Spencer Reid holding me down, whispering sweet and dirty nothings alike were all still incredibly tantalizing to my subconscious. I could hear his voice in my ear, soft pink lips brushing against the shell of my ear, a deep pressure imprinted onto my body, keeping me in my bed.

“Wake up, sweetheart.” He murmured, beckoning me out of the peaceful cocoon of sleep.

I felt a few more wet and warm kisses trailing up and down my neck, the sweetest sensation of pleasure being granted to me with every touch he gave.

“Need you to wake up, pretty girl.” He mumbles. “You really are so pretty up close.” His voice is slightly patronizing, and it does nothing to help the excitation that was steadily growing inside of me.

Suddenly, I became incredibly aware that the stimuli I was receiving didn’t appear to be a byproduct of my psyche, but rather- he was here? My eyes opened slowly to realize I wasn’t at all mistaken, the soft brush of his brown hair against my neck slightly tickling me as I came to.

“Atta girl.” He mumbles, his lips still mapping out every inch of my skin. Out of pure instinct, a slightly alarmed moan came from me, still unsure if I was dreaming or not. Surely I had to be dreaming. I had to be, because how the fuck did Spencer Reid get into my apartment? Into my bed?

“You want this, yeah?” He murmurs, taking a second to gaze down at me. I realized he’d been on top of me this whole time, and the pressure I’d felt in my dream was his skin on mine, trapping me in between his strong chest and the soft sheets adorning my mattress. “I know you do. Saw your little show and everything.” He breathes out, desperately, almost.

I know I should’ve thought about it. Perhaps I should’ve pondered on the idea of letting a man who’d just broken into my apartment full access to my body as he pleased, but there was no time. He was here, and how could I have ever said no to that?

There’s an equally as desperate and breathy, “yes” that escapes my lips, and before I can finish saying the word, he dives down, meeting my lips with his, absolutely devouring me with no hesitation whatsoever. If I'd thought his previous ministrations were delightful, this was absolutely heavenly.

I moan softly into his mouth, wanting to tangle my hands in his hair, or latch them onto his shoulders and sink my nails deep into the skin that resided there- anything to show even a semblance of control in this situation, but it seemed Spencer had already thought of that, pinning my hands against the mattress so tightly, I couldn’t have moved if I’d exerted every last bit of strength into it.

“God, the first time- first time I saw you.” He mumbles in between kisses. “With those lemons. I knew they’d fall. Saw you through the window across the street and practically ran. Wanted to meet you so badly.”

A small whimper escapes me, and I can’t help but get wetter at the thought. I knew he’d been watching me through the window, but the idea that I captured his attention, outside of my apartment, in the most mundane of situations only served to heighten the arousal I felt, my thighs rubbing together for any kind of relief.

He notices the movement and grins, planting one last kiss on my lips before slipping down. His hands cup the backs of my knees, forcing me to spread my previously shut legs.

“You had the prettiest voice.” He breathes out, examining my glistening heat. “Fuck. Couldn’t stop thinking about how you’d sound, screaming my name.” He leans forward, planting a chaste kiss on my clit that caused an incredibly breathtaking jolt through my body.

“Spencer-” I moan, my head rolling back as I felt it, my back arching slightly.

“Yeah, just like that.” He mumbles, clearly pleased. “Good girl.”

His hands traveled upward from where he’d been situated between my legs and squeezed my breast blindly. It didn’t feel like it was for my pleasure, but rather that he was desperate to touch anywhere he possibly could. Anyone else, and I might’ve been annoyed with the incessant touching, but with him?

It was so fucking hot.

“That goddamned lingerie.” He mumbles. “The things I wanted to do to you. Did you know that?”

I looked at him through hooded lids, unsure what he meant, and he took my diversion of attention to quickly tweak one of my nipples, eliciting another surprised moan from my mouth.

“I’m so much stronger than this, usually.” His large hands continue to squeeze and grope at my breasts. “But you.” He whispers, a hint of a growl making its way into his tone. “Had to push the limits. Practically begging me to come here and take you.”

I let out a gasp as I felt his hands trail down my stomach, the cool touch of his fingertips causing the muscles to tense up there.

“I’m gonna do it.” He whispers, his face only illuminated by the moonlight streaming through the open window, but I could still see the dangerous glint in his eye, thrilling me even further. “Fuck you exactly how you want it.”

Before I’m able to react to the sentiment, he’s grabbing onto my hips and turning me over, a yelp drawn out from me.

“Hands and knees.” He says, in an authoritative tone that doesn’t leave any room for any disagreement. I comply quickly, much to his elation.

“You’re so good for me, yeah? Gonna ruin you. Just how you want.”

There’s a hint in condescension in his tone, like he’s making fun of me for wanting to be fucked this badly, but I can barely pay any mind about it, especially when I feel his cock slotting itself betweet my folds, separated only by his boxers, a shaky moan coming from Spencer.

I can feel his hands leaving my hips and the slight lean away as he quickly shucks off the fabric, and within the next second, he’s pushing into me, providing me with a stretch and fulfillment that was so much better than I could’ve ever imagined. It doesn’t take him long to set a fast pace, the sound of our skin slapping and the smell of sex permeating the room.

“Fuck, you feel so good.” He moans out, and I let out similar noises in tandem.

I can barely find it in me to stay coherent. I want to scream how good he feels, how big his cock feels in me, how close I was- but instead the only thing I could manage was the borderline scream of his name and loud sobs of pleasure, fully at the mercy of the man behind me. I can feel the way I clamp down on him, absolutely imploring him for as much as he could give me.

“Gonna come for me, yeah?” He says, feeling the clench of my walls on his cock. “Come on, pretty girl. Give me what I want.” He murmurs lowly, leaning down closer to my ear. His hand shoots out a moment later, beginning to rub my clit, similar to how I had been doing a few hours earlier as he watched me, and the memory and sensation of it is enough to hurl me off the edge, my walls tightening around his cock as waves of pleasure wracked through my body.

It seemed that was enough for him as well. I felt his hips still, and a sudden warmth at my deepest point. He let out a groan of relief as he thrusted once, twice more, and then pulled out, his cum slipping down my thighs as he plopped down next to me. I’d already collapsed the second he pulled out, panting as I came down from the orgasm.

“You good?” He mumbles, wearily, and I can feel him moving aside my hair to kiss at my shoulder.

“Mhm.” I murmur back, a small sigh of relief escaping me. There’s a beat of silence, before he breaks it.

“Tomorrow.” He murmurs. “Wanna go out with me?”

I raise an eyebrow, turning at him with a playful expression- as playful as I could get in this state anyway. “Where to?”

“Target.” He mumbles, still stroking my back lazily, his eyes shining with something less intense than lust now, but still enough to turn my stomach over with butterflies.

“Target?” I say, squinting my eyes. “Why Target?”

“We’re buying you some curtains.” He says, a small grin appearing on his face. “And maybe a stronger lock.”

I giggle at that, rolling my eyes a bit. “But then you don’t get to see me anymore. I kind of liked what we had going on.”

“I did too.” He whispers, his tone slightly vulnerable now. “But I like this a lot more.”

A small smile plasters itself to my face as I nod.

“Me too.” I whisper back, biting my lip.

A mutual understanding passed through the both of us as we smiled at each other in the dark, and for a split second, I imagined myself possibly loving this more someday.

All in good time. Right now, I was going to sleep, protected by his soft, strong arms. That was enough for now. We’d finally gotten what we wanted.

woah!! trying to finally get back into writing semi regularly i see. i hope this was enjoyable. this is one of those pieces i'm kind of unsure about, so please, please interact if you liked it! likes, comments, reblogs, anything! or let me know if you didn't! i live for feedback of any kind. thank you for reading anyhow, i am very grateful for it <3

also lol if it wasn’t obvious i listened to “she” for fic inspo lol. linked below

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cece693 · 2 months ago

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Personal Bodyguard

pairing: tony stark x male reader tags: you can't tell me Tony isn't bi or at least experimented in his youth, you become his personal bodyguard after the cave fiasco and iron man revelation, enemies-to-friends-to lovers, Tony really needs a hug, reader is set to become his friend (and more), military background

You’re used to working in tense environments. The military taught you that complacency is death and that vigilance is survival. You’ve seen your fair share of conflict, learned to read people and situations at a glance. That’s probably why Pepper Potts sought you out after Tony Stark’s dramatic return from Afghanistan. She looked you up and down with calculating eyes, recognized a bit of herself in your “don’t mess with me” attitude, and decided on the spot—you were the best candidate to protect Tony Stark from himself, and from the new, dangerous world he was plunging into.

Tony’s penthouse overlooks the Malibu coastline, the sun reflecting off the ocean waves and onto polished floors. There he stands—fresh from the workshop, grease on his tank top and that lopsided grin that only half-masks the shadows under his eyes. He spots you, sizes you up, and crosses his arms. “Pep, this is the solution you found?” Tony gestures at you dismissively. “A glorified babysitter?”

Pepper forces a polite smile. “A bodyguard, Tony.” You don’t rise to his bait. The best reaction here is none at all—just a stony expression. Let him get it out of his system. He cocks an eyebrow at your silence, clearly expecting some snark in return.

“Fine,” he says, turning on his heel. “Follow me. Or don’t. Whatever." Pepper shakes her head apologetically as she goes to leave. Before she goes, she places a hand on your shoulder, giving you an unspoken good luck. You already know you’ll need it.

Tony tries his best to make your life difficult. He’ll disappear from his home at odd hours, use his snark to try and aggravate you, or do something reckless like attempt a suit flight test above the Malibu cliffs. However, you're never that far behind and your patience is endless. One night, he’s just touched down too hard in the Mark II, crashing through his garage and damaging several of his expensive cars. You rush in, weapon at the ready, scanning for threats.

“Relax,” Tony says, struggling to peel off the broken armor. “It’s just me doing some, uh, routine test improvements.” You exhale slowly, then calmly dismantle your sidearm. No threats—except the one Tony poses to himself.

“You know,” you say eventually, picking up a piece of the shattered gauntlet, “if you keep messing around with these half-finished upgrades, eventually I won’t just be your bodyguard. I’ll be the one scraping you off the ground.”

Tony stares at you, momentarily struck by the genuine concern in your voice, before clearing his throat. “Point taken,” he mutters, but for the first time, he seems less antagonistic—and almost thankful.

The slow thaw between you and Tony continues. He starts sharing details of the Iron Man suit, half to show off and half because he’s realized you’re more at ease when you know everything that’s going on. You learn that behind the smug exterior, Tony is propelled by guilt, determination, and a heart that aches to do genuine good. And for your part, despite your initial refusal to get personally involved, you find yourself caring about him—protecting him matters, but so does understanding him.

Late nights often find the two of you in the workshop. Tony’s hyper-focused on some new repulser tech while you stand guard, occasionally offering your own insight to whatever he was working on. You’d never guess Tony would be the type to listen, but he does, especially when your suggestions keep him from blowing up half the lab. He’ll acknowledge your tips with a half-smile, or a nod that says more than words.

Pepper noticed the shift. She’d smile at you in passing, relief evident in her eyes. She once patted your shoulder and said, “You’re good for him. He trusts you, and that’s not something I say lightly.” Rhodey, Tony’s closest friend, warmed up to you fast. He appreciated having another military mind around. When Tony got lost in his own arrogance, Rhodey and you would share an exasperated look.

Then everything changes again when Tony becomes an Avenger. Suddenly, it’s not just small-scale threats or paparazzi you have to worry about—it’s cosmic forces, alien invasions, global catastrophes. You do your best to keep Tony safe in these new, unpredictable situations, but it’s a challenge.

The Avengers team is a powder keg of personalities. Steve Rogers, Captain America himself, openly clashes with Tony over leadership and moral ideals. You see how the tension weighs on Tony; he deflects with sarcasm, but you’ve come to know the signs of when he’s hurting.

One night at the tower, you’re standing off to the side while Tony and Steve butt heads—again. "Take away the armor," Steve says, voice steely, "and what are you?" The words hang in the air. Tony’s jaw tightens, and you can practically see his heart sink. It’s a cheap shot. And it’s wrong. You step forward before Tony can snap back with a trademark insult. There’s a calm coolness in your voice, the kind that hushes even the Captain.

“Tony Stark is the mind that built that suit,” you say evenly. “He’s the one who sees solutions where everyone else sees dead ends. If you take away the armor, you’ve still got the man who pulled himself out of a cave and saved his own life with scrap metal—because that’s who he is. He’s more than the suit, Rogers, and you know it.”

Steve meets your gaze and steps forward, but you aren’t intimidated. There were lines you simply wouldn’t let him cross, not tonight, not after he delivered that cheap shot at Tony without even knowing him. You can see Tony stiffen beside you, as if ready to jump in—or bolt. But you’re not about to let Steve’s words cut him down.

“Think very carefully about what you say next, Rogers,” you warn, voice low and steady. “Because none of you would be here—Avengers, Stark Tower, anything—if it weren’t for this man. Armor or no armor.”

For a split second, you can feel everyone’s eyes on you. Clint shifts uneasily near the back, Natasha straightens from her casual lean against the wall, and even Bruce lifts his head from the tablet he’s been absorbed in. Steve’s jaw tightens; he clearly didn’t expect you to stand your ground so bluntly—and you don’t care. Your top priority is Tony’s well-being, not theirs. With nothing more to say, you turn on your heel and head for the workshop.

By the time you reach the corridor leading to Tony’s private workspace, the echo of your own footsteps has become a steady, reassuring beat. Only then do you register the soft tread following behind you. He’s close—but conspicuously silent, which is out of character for a man who thrives on quips and banter.

“Sir, you have arrived at the workshop,” Jarvis’s polite voice chimes overhead, and the door slides open with a hiss.

You step inside and finally turn around. Tony lingers just past the threshold, his eyes lowered. His silence seems almost heavy, like he’s struggling to find the right words. “I never asked you to defend me,” he murmurs. “But you…you did. Why?” The workshop’s lights glow softly, illuminating half-built armor pieces and scattered blueprints. You let the sound of humming machinery fill the short gap before you speak.

“Because you needed someone to,” you say simply, though your voice carries an undercurrent of heat—residual frustration from your confrontation with Steve. “And because I wanted to.”

Tony’s gaze flickers upward—he looks uncertain, almost disarmed. “I can handle myself,” he says, though he doesn’t quite meet your eyes. It’s a weak protest, more habit than conviction.

You exhale, crossing your arms. “I know you can. Doesn’t mean you have to face it alone. Especially when the hits are coming from the people supposed to have your back.”

“You caught me off guard,” he admits, voice low, “standing up for me like that. Especially in front of the team.”

You stand your ground, letting the seriousness of the moment settle in. “You act like I never stand up for you.”

A wry huff of laughter escapes him. “Not the same way. Usually, you’re telling me not to blow up half my lab or reminding me to eat something other than coffee. This time you had my back when it counted.”

“Isn’t that why I’m here?” you ask, tilting your head. “I’m your bodyguard, Mr. Stark. That means I protect you—against outside threats and inside threats too. Even if that threat’s a super soldier with a knack for colorful speeches.”

“So that’s it?” he asks, a thin note of vulnerability in his tone. “You did it because it’s your job?” You take in his tense posture—shoulders rigid, hand flexing at his side. Tony’s never been good at showing his more vulnerable edges. Carefully, you move closer, letting your voice soften.

“Let’s get one thing straight. Defending you isn’t just me ‘clocking in.’ I do it because I care. Because I know you’re more than just the suit, no matter what Steve says.” Tony looks up at you in surprise, but you're not done yet. "If this was just part of my job, I wouldn't be spending all my free time down here with you. I would've jumped at the chance to quit when you offered it on a silver platter."

Tony cracks a half-smile, remembering when he outright tried to bribe you to quit, and you surprisingly rejected his offer. The money could've set you for life, supported you and a family if you so desired, but you simply shook your head and informed him about a meeting he had in the morning.

Tony moves closer, so close you can count the faint freckles along his cheekbones. “I hated the idea of having a bodyguard,” Tony admits, voice low. “But I’ve come to realize how much I needed you.” Your heart stutters, unsure of how to respond. Tony swallows thickly, looking uncharacteristically unsure. There’s no witty remark, no deflecting sarcasm. It’s just him, raw and honest, baring feelings you never thought he’d share.

“You’ve become one of the closest people in my life,” he continues. “I trust you in ways I don’t trust anyone else. Hell, Pepper might be the only other person who gets me anywhere close to this.” He hesitates, eyes flicking to your lips before returning to your gaze. “And…I’ve been trying to figure out how to say I might—well—I feel something for you.”

Your stomach flips, warmth blooming in your chest. There’s something surreal about this: Tony Stark, the man who refused to even acknowledge your presence at first, now openly admitting he cares—that he wants something more than just having you as security detail.

A ghost of a smile curves your lips. “I might feel something for you, too.” Tony’s grin is immediate—relief and mischief dancing in his eyes. He leans in, and for a moment, the rest of the world fades.

“Do I have to make an appointment to kiss my bodyguard,” he murmurs, “or is this—” You cut him off by closing the distance, your lips finding his in a slow, tentative kiss.

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oidingus · 7 days ago

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(unsolicited feedback re: disability, feel free to ignore /gen) you’ve made some really charming animations but i unfollowed around the time of the bloody one because of how often you make Viktor collapse and separate him from his mobility aid made me uncomfortable as a disabled person. coming across your recent tender animation reminded me of this discomfort and thought i’d idk let you know in good faith in case it’s helpful. for context, my disability makes me esp. prone to falls but they’re almost never a surprise and i’ve lived with it so long it almost never happens because even when i’m not taking care of myself as well as i should, adjusting my behavior to prevent them is a crucial part of symptom management and just like getting shit done. i know Viktor’s a fictional character but to me it feels infantilizing. i also see it so much in fics (despite it never happening in the show, certainly not under normal circumstances as an adult) that it gets a little frustrating. like Viktor, my condition is also getting progressively worse but you generally get better at managing it with age. certainly being on your deathbeds could contribute to worsening symptoms but when you’ve been doing it your whole life you’ll literally be in a condition that would send others to the ER, faceplant, then be right back at it ASAP—no blink, no acknowledgement besides maybe needing to get shit back in place/occasionally take a breather. obviously idk your background—maybe you’re disabled too and you’re pulling from your own experiences—but just in case not i wanted to share as honest, well-intentioned food for thought, esp. b/c ableism is the default and so incredibly baked into (esp. US) culture that even many otherwise very progressive people literally hold views closer to eugenicists than those guided by equity/disability justice. oh and re: canes admittedly there are days i might not use it to go a couple steps in my own house but others attention/concern (even from people you love) can be tiring, so unless it’s very early in their partnership when Viktor is more stable/sucking it up more because he still believes he can overcome prejudice by projecting a good enough image, Viktor ain’t going anywhere without that cane/crutch. frankly he needs a powered wheelchair BUT ANYWAY if you chose to read all the way through i genuinely appreciate your time and hope it’s helpful food for thought.

That was actually very helpful and thank you so much for taking the time to write it! Yes i focus mostly on the earlier years of their knowing each other, but still. And to anyone reading it: I would really appreciate any insights on how to approach Vik's disability better, feel free to dm me if you can help me with the factchecking

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loopimay · 23 days ago

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Why I Ship ReflectiveDetective (and why you should too!)

DISCLAIMER:

This post does NOT insist that ReflectiveDetective is canon, nor does it insist you have to ship it. It exists solely as an appreciation and explanation post. Also, Glisten and Rodger are both canonically NON-RELATED ADULTS as confirmed by Qwel. Thank you.

PART 1: Interactions

Glisten and Rodger currently have two elevator interactions. In the first one, Glisten comments on Rodger's smudged glass.

In the second one, Rodger checks in on Glisten to make sure he's doing okay.

Though seemingly incidental, there's lots here to discuss:

Starting with the first, we're told Glisten cares enough about Rodger to notice something as small as the smudges on his face. This may come across as trivial, especially for someone obsessed with appearance, but it's pretty out of character for him to notice something so small! From his interactions with Cosmo, Shelly, and Yatta, we can infer that Glisten is actually really *bad* at noticing things about others. He forgets Cosmo's stars are a part of his appearance, writes Yatta's circus troupe off as "clown stuff," and even mispronounces Shelly's name. These aren't little details he just missed, they're basic facts about toons he lives with. He should've picked up on these things ages ago, yet they seem to slip his mind.

But Rodger's smudges? He comments on them immediately (and often enough for Rodger to know it's coming.)

"But maybe the smudges are really obvious!"

Maybe, but if so, wouldn't Tisha have said something about them? In the singular interaction she has with Rodger, she makes no note of his glass, and from what we know about Tisha, she *would* point something like that out. She's very adamant when it comes to cleanliness, sometimes to the dismay of others. It's practically her job to be.

This is what makes Glisten's comment so interesting. If he's noticing details that Tisha is missing, that means he's been paying *very* close attention to Rodger's face. Hmm... suspcious.

Interaction two gives us more insight into Rodger's feelings towards Glisten. He's one of the only toons he checks up on, and of them, he's the one that Rodger is the most worried about. The other two, Boxten and Brightney, get far less personal questions about their well-being.

It says a lot that Rodger will tell Boxten to count if he's feeling nervous, but he'll tell Glisten not to forget his "keen eye," implying that he's keeping watch over him specifically.

The obvious conclusion being: the two both give each other attention that they don't give to other toons.

But it doesn't stop there! Glisten's interactions with Toodles also give us some extra layers to his and Rodger's relationship.

The first one isn't much, but it is noteworthy that Glisten gets along so well with Rodger's daughter.

The second one, however…

What Toodles says here is extremely significant. Though easy to brush off Glisten "crying and complaining to Rodger" as a funny comment, it holds a LOT of weight! Glisten NEVER tells toons about his problems or insecurities. The mere implication of imperfect makes him deflect.

He won't let Astro discuss his concerning dreams in public. He panics when Sprout suggests his mirror is cracked. He won't even tell Tisha his morning routine.

But according to Toodles, Glisten has a habit of going to Rodger (and only Rodger) with his problems. Sure, these could be very superficial issues he's getting off his chest, but even the most shallow of problems are ones Glisten does not want others to know about. He has an image to maintain, after all! Yet Rodger is the exception...

...This goes both ways, which brings me to:

PART 2: Implications

Returning to Rodger and Tisha's interaction, there is definite proof that Glisten is one of the "trusted friends" Rodger is referring to. For starters, I've already covered the close bond the two share. But is Glisten also disorganized? YES!

Compare Glisten's room to Goob and Scraps', one canonically considered dirty. They're a very similar amount of messy. Crumpled-up papers, mismatched carpets, food lying around the place... none of that reads "organized."

Speaking of Glisten's room, there exists a particular note in which Glisten details an encounter he had with Rodger where he helped him carry files into the elevator.

Not only does this prove that Glisten is willing to help him, but also that Rodger would otherwise trust him to. This note also tells us Rodger gives Glisten the validation he craves from the other toons. Why else would he end it off with "I should spend time with [Rodger] more" if he wasn't flattered by his compliment?

So we have the dynamic, but what can be done with it? Let us discuss:

PART THREE: Potential

This part will mainly consist of how I interpret Glisten and Rodger's relationship. It will focus less on canon itself and more on the fun ways you can build off of it.

Glisten yearns for attention; it says so on his title card:

And Rodger is someone who can give him not just the attention he wants, but also the attention he needs. In multiple ways, whether it be through compliments or concerns, Rodger makes Glisten feel seen. His praise means enough to Glisten for him to journal about it, and though he brushes off Rodger's regards for his safety in their elevator interaction, he'll still go to him to "cry and complain." Besides, Rodger is a detective. It's his job to see through facades. He'd know when Glisten is putting up a front of perfection and be able to look past it to see the real him. What else is that keen eye for, right?

And what of Glisten's part in their relationship? Considering how unpopular Rodger is with the other toons, particularly the mains, having someone like Glisten to help with carrying files and bantering about smudged glass is a lot. Even if it is "part of the job" as a detective, nobody enjoys being disliked or dismissed by others, especially former friends. Yet despite Rodger's reputation, Glisten is in his corner.

There is more I could discuss, but that will have to be saved for a continuation. This post is already long enough! But I hope this shines some light on ReflectiveDetective's charm. It's one of my favorite pairings and I hope to share it with more people. Thank you for reading!

#dandys world #dandy's world #glisten x rodger #rodger x glisten #reflective detective #mirrormystery #mirrorcase #dandys world ship #dandy’s world glisten #glisten dandys world #rodger dandys world #dandys world rodger

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n0tamused · 5 days ago

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⋆.˚ ★—Anaxa x Reader

Contents: How does Anaxa comfort you, and how does he react to you comforting him?

A/n: Good luck on your pulls!! Words:539

Masterlist ✦ Rules ✦ Ko-Fi

˚☽˚.⋆Comforting you

-Anaxa doesn't look like he knows how to comfort, probably comes off as too blunt, too harsh, too cold, too this or that, too logical in a field that needs tact and sentiment. However, that is not wholly true. He does understand when someone need a gentler hand, or a shoulder to lean on

-Perhaps it can go without saying, but, he doesn't ever go out of his way to really harass/insult anyone, he doesn’t have the time to go on witch hunts and only gets confrontational when met with ignorance or clear disrespect, and so when he's in a relationship with someone he loves all his otherwise snappy qualities turn into heavy attempts at being more empathetic or at least more warm

-He does prefer when you come to him with problems that can be solved or on which he can give his insight on from a more logical perspective, at least that way he can help you best. But with emotional issues he goes more quiet, simply listening to you talk and vent and rant, sometimes offering a few words if you seem to be looking for a quick input, but largely he stays quiet until you're done. Then he does his best to find some common ground between logic and emotion

-He's not clueless, just trying to be gentle with you. He'd also offer to have your head in his lap and run his fingers through your hair, like you do to him. He also rubs your shoulders while you're there

-Makes you tea or if you're feeling particularly rough and visibility crumbling, he throws in some stronger medicine to help you relax

˚☽˚.⋆You comforting him

-Anaxa is shit at receiving comfort as his first habit when he's distressed is to run to his work or to his room and isolate until he has found the solution himself. He buries himself in his work 90% of the time, and the other, rare, 10% is when he's around his grave or under the shade of Cerce’s great shade, pondering about the future and what ifs in silence

-He's stiff as a plank when you offer comfort, he does feel rather weak and vulnerable when he knows you noticed his shift in demeanor, which truth be told - it is not that hard to tell apart when he’s simply frustrated or when he’s genuinely feeling down

-Although that doesn't mean he doesn't grow to really appreciate your concern and often does try to ease your mind, by at least sharing a room while you both work at your own work. He doesn't want to neglect his time with you either, yet it is hard for him to wholly accept it too

-He does prefer more subtle approaches at comforting him, simple questions or gestures like you making him a lunch box and sliding it to him for example, or simply giving him that knowing look of yours. Nothing over the top but enough to let him know he's loved and cared for, he's not alone and if he pushes this away he'd only be hurting someone, someone he loves, and he doesn’t want that. He can’t lose you due to his selfishness and neglect. He won’t

#Anaxa #Anaxagoras #Anaxa x reader #anaxa x you #anaxa fluff #anaxa imagine #anaxagoras x you #anaxagoras x reader #hsr x reader #hsr anaxa #hsr x you #hsr fluff #hsr imagine #honkai star rail imagine #honkai star rail x you #honkai star rail x reader #hsr

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novaursa · 8 months ago

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Where Dragons Dare (3/3)

- Summary: Years later, Vaemond Velaryon petitions for his rightful claim to Driftmark. And a broken family must mend wounds that were inflicted long ago.

- Pairing: male!targ reader/Alicent Hightower

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is twin brother of Rhaenyra and is bonded with a dragon. If you want to read more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 7 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @literaturedog

- A/N: this was requested by @witch-of-letters. I hope you enjoy this conclusion to the story. 🙂

- Previous chapter: 2

- Bonus part: Lost Chapters

You sit beside Alicent in your private chambers, the golden light of the late afternoon filtering through the high windows of the Red Keep. The day had been long, burdened by the weight of ruling in your father’s stead, and yet the discussion you’re having with your wife weighs heavier still. Rhaenyra’s impending visit to King’s Landing brings back memories—some bittersweet, some festering like old wounds—and it’s all been cast into sharper focus by Corlys Velaryon’s grievous injury. Now, with Vaemond Velaryon’s petition to claim Driftmark, the political storm brewing could tear apart the fragile peace you've fought to maintain.

Alicent’s eyes are fixed on you, concern mixed with resolve in those familiar dark depths. She’s changed over the years, just as you have; she’s no longer the uncertain girl manipulated by her father, but a woman of keen insight and strength—your equal and partner in every sense.

“It’s clear why Vaemond is pressing his claim,” she says quietly, her voice laced with tension. “He isn’t wrong to seek what he believes is his by rights. Driftmark belongs to the Velaryons, and the boys… well, it’s plain they’re not Laenor’s blood.”

Your eyes snap to hers, a flicker of warning there. “You shouldn’t speak of such things aloud, Alicent. Not with the walls of the Red Keep so eager to whisper.”

“It’s true, Y/N,” she replies firmly, her gaze unyielding. “Everyone knows it, even if they pretend not to. Viserys decreed them legitimate, but we all see the truth. The danger is in the pretense, in clinging to a lie for the sake of peace. But what peace is this, really? Vaemond’s words hold merit. Driftmark’s true heirs are being passed over for a fabricated legacy.”

A heavy silence hangs between you, the air thick with unspoken tensions that have lingered since the day of Laena’s funeral. Your thoughts drift, unbidden, to that dreadful night when everything unraveled—when Aemond claimed Vhagar and lost his eye for it. The memory of his pained screams still haunts you, a knife twisting in your heart each time you recall it. He bore it bravely, far braver than you expected from a boy his age, but the scars left behind were not just physical.

You let out a weary sigh, leaning back against the cushioned seat as your gaze falls to the intricate patterns on the stone floor. “I demanded justice for Aemond,” you murmur, bitterness seeping into your tone. “Luke should’ve been punished, but Father protected Rhaenyra as he always does. Her children are his blind spot, even now. She never truly acknowledged her son’s fault, not really, and from that moment on… everything between us was strained. We’re twins, yet she became a stranger after that day.”

Alicent’s fingers brush against yours, a silent comfort in her touch. “I’ve never forgotten what happened. I never will. It’s easy for Rhaenyra to speak of unity and family, but the truth is her actions always served her ambitions. She’s isolated herself on Dragonstone with Daemon, as if that distance absolves her from the mess she’s left behind.”

Your frown deepens. You love your sister, you do—but those love-blind affections have long been clouded by bitter reality. The bond you once shared feels frayed, worn thin by years of conflict and choices that placed her interests above everything else. Her sons—Jace, Luke, and little Joffrey—hold a place in your heart, but even that affection is tainted by the lies everyone is forced to maintain. You cannot forget how easily your own pleas for justice were disregarded, how Viserys himself demanded silence when you spoke of the truth.

“Viserys is clinging to a fantasy,” you say after a moment, your voice hard. “He wants to die believing that everything he’s built will remain intact, that the realm will carry on in harmony with Rhaenyra and her children. But there’s rot beneath the surface, and the realm won’t turn a blind eye forever.”

Alicent watches you carefully, her expression unreadable for a moment before softening. “It’s not only you who sees it. The lords whisper, the court shifts uneasily. And now Vaemond has brought that truth into the open, no longer content to pretend. The coming days will test the loyalty of those who have only remained silent out of fear.”

A silence falls once more, only broken by the distant cries of gulls and the muffled sounds of the capital below. The sun has dipped lower in the sky, casting sundown shadows across the room, but you can’t bring yourself to end this conversation, not when it feels as though so much is at stake.

“I don’t know what Viserys will do when Rhaenyra arrives,” you admit quietly. “He’s always favored her, always turned a blind eye when it comes to her and her children. If he sides with her again, if he dismisses Vaemond… it will spark something we may not be able to contain.”

Alicent shifts closer, her hand finding yours once more. “Then we must be ready for what comes. You are Prince Regent, Y/N. You have the authority to act, to protect the realm as you see fit. I know where my loyalties lie.”

You look at her, seeing the determination in her eyes, the quiet devotion that’s never wavered. She’s your wife, the mother of your children, and the one person who has stood beside you through all of it. The bitterness that lingers between you and Rhaenyra doesn’t extend here; with Alicent, there’s no pretense, no lies hidden behind strained smiles.

As night finally creeps over the capital, the light outside fading into a deep indigo, the two of you remain locked in conversation. You speak of the future, of what may come when Rhaenyra and Daemon set foot in the Red Keep, of the lines that may be drawn in the sand.

The fire crackles softly in the hearth as the night deepens, emitting warm flickers of light across your private chambers. The weight of the day’s troubles has lessened, replaced by the comfort of Alicent’s presence. The two of you remain close, sharing lingering touches and quiet words. As you move behind her, your hands begin to wander, gliding across the soft fabric of her gown. You hold her close, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her breath beneath your fingertips. Your lips brush against her ear as you murmur, “I think I must confess my sins before the gods, though I fear they are far too many.”

Alicent turns her head slightly, raising an eyebrow at your words. There’s a moment where she appears to take your confession seriously, but then her expression shifts, lips twitching as she fails to suppress a laugh. “That was horrible,” she chuckles, shaking her head, her laughter lightening the mood.

You grin, enjoying the way her laughter sounds, how it brightens the shadows of the evening. “Perhaps, but I’m not sure the gods would easily forgive me if they knew the true extent of my sins,” you jest, voice low and teasing as your hands tighten around her waist.

Her laughter softens into something more intimate as she turns fully toward you, her gaze lingering on your lips before she closes the distance. The kiss is slow at first, a familiar dance of lips and breath, but it quickly deepens as passion flares between you. Her fingers thread through your hair, pulling you closer, and the world outside the chambers fades away. It’s just the two of you—no titles, no crowns, only the warmth of her body pressed against yours.

In the growing heat of the moment, clothing becomes a hindrance, something to be discarded in favor of the closeness you both crave. Your hands make quick work of her gown, letting it slip from her shoulders, pooling at her feet. She helps you shed your attire just as quickly until bare skin meets bare skin. There’s a moment of silence, the air thick with anticipation, before Alicent pushes you back onto the bed with a determined glint in her eye.

You watch as she climbs atop you, her every movement measured and deliberate. The sight of her like this—confident and in control—ignites something in you, a hunger that’s always been there but now roars to life. “You look like a queen,” you whisper, voice husky, your hands finding her hips as she guides you into her. “My heart, my love.”

Alicent gasps softly, closing her eyes as she sinks onto you, the slow, steady rhythm she sets sending shivers through you both. The pleasure builds gradually, each movement deliberate and teasing. You can see the mischief in her eyes as she reaches for a nearby candle, tipping it just enough to let drops of warm wax fall onto your chest. The heat is a sharp contrast against your skin, but it only spurs your desire further.

“To raise the dragon with fire,” she whispers, her voice low and filled with a playful edge as the wax continues to drip.

You chuckle darkly, gripping her hips more firmly as you thrust upward. “The dragon is already raised, my love.” Your words send a thrill through her, and the pace quickens as she moves above you, her moans mingling with your own.

The candles forgotten, they clatter to the floor as her movements become more intense, both of you teetering on the edge of release. But just as you feel yourself ready to fall over that precipice, Alicent suddenly stops, lifting herself away from you. The absence leaves you throbbing with frustration, your desire only heightened by the way she watches you, a knowing smile curving her lips.

“What are you doing?” you groan, the teasing ache almost too much to bear.

She leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, sensual kiss that only stokes the fire in your blood. “Patience, my love,” she whispers against your lips, her voice dripping with teasing amusement. But patience has never been your strong suit, not when it comes to her.

With a growl of determination, you flip her beneath you, your body pressing hers into the soft sheets. You position her on her stomach, her back arched as you take hold of her hips and guide yourself back into her. She moans your name, the sound sending a rush of satisfaction through you as you begin to move with renewed urgency, your rhythm rough and intense, driven by the need to claim her fully.

Alicent’s fingers clutch at the sheets as each thrust draws another cry of pleasure from her lips. You lean down, your mouth brushing against her ear as you whisper praises between ragged breaths, telling her how beautiful she is, how perfect, how she belongs to you as much as you belong to her. The words seem to drive her wild, her voice trembling as she reaches for that peak again.

The pace grows frantic as you both reach the edge together, your bodies locked in perfect harmony. With one final thrust, you feel the tension snap, sending you both spiraling into a shared high that leaves you breathless, your minds lost in the euphoria of your union.

When the last waves of pleasure fade, you collapse beside her, gathering her into your arms as you both catch your breath. The night is quiet now, only the distant hum of the city outside breaking the stillness. You press a kiss to her temple, your heart still pounding in your chest.

For now, in this moment, everything else can wait.

The corridors of the Red Keep echo softly with your footfalls as you walk side by side with your eldest son, Aegon. The council meeting had been more taxing than usual, and you could see the strain in the boy’s eyes, though he hides it behind a practiced indifference. You glance at him, noting how he chews the inside of his cheek—a habit he’s never quite grown out of.

“Father, I—” Aegon starts, his voice tense, betraying the anxiety that simmers beneath his confident exterior. “I didn’t mean to sound insolent when I questioned Lord Lyman, I just—”

You stop, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. “You did well, Aegon,” you say, cutting through his worry. “There was no fault in what you said. You spoke with strength and clarity, and you asked the right questions. We must be clear in our decisions, especially when others are too hesitant to say what needs to be said.”

Aegon blinks, the tension easing from his brow. He nods slowly, his expression softening. “Thank you, Father.” His voice is quieter now, laced with gratitude, and as the two of you continue walking, his steps seem lighter. The bond between you is often tested by his impulsiveness and uncertainty, but moments like this remind you that beneath the bravado, Aegon seeks your approval, your guidance.

You approach the sunroom, where a midday meal awaits. The bright sunlight streams through the windows, bathing the space in warmth. Already seated are Aemond, Helaena, and Daeron, each engaged in their own conversations. Helaena’s face lights up the moment she sees you, her smile wide and genuine.

“Father! I finished my collection,” she announces excitedly, almost bouncing in her seat. Her gaze sparkles with the kind of innocent joy you’ve always cherished in her.

You smile back, a rare softness in your eyes. “That’s wonderful, Helaena. I promise I’ll come by later and see it. I’m sure it’s even more impressive than the last one.”

She beams at your words, her contentment visible, before returning her focus to the small assortment of insect jars she’s arranged on the table.

Aemond and Daeron, standing nearby, approach you as well. Aemond, ever the observant one, nods in greeting. “Father, it seems preparations for tonight’s feast are nearly complete. Mother mentioned that Rhaenyra’s arrival will likely set tongues wagging.” His tone is measured, hiding a touch of wariness behind his composed demeanor.

“Let them wag,” Daeron adds with a grin, his youthful energy apparent. “We’ll hold our own, as we always do.”

You can’t help but feel a sense of pride swell in your chest at how they’ve grown—each of them distinct in temperament, but unified by the bonds of family. “We will,” you agree, placing a reassuring hand on Daeron’s shoulder.

Before the conversation can continue, the door to the sunroom opens, and Alicent steps inside. Her eyes sweep across the room before settling on you. A subtle crease forms between her brows as she notices the slight grimace on your face—a telltale sign of discomfort you’ve never been able to fully mask from her. She moves toward you, concern evident in her expression.

“Y/N, is your leg bothering you again?” she asks, her voice laced with worry.

Before you can answer, Helaena, ever attuned to things others overlook, speaks up from her seat. “It’s the weather. The clouds are moving in. His leg hurts when the air changes like that.”

Alicent’s alarm deepens. “Should I summon Grand Maester Orwyle to examine it? Perhaps there’s something he can do.”

You shake your head, offering her a comforting smile. “It’s nothing to worry over, Alicent. Just an old pain from that fall off Dallax years ago. It comes and goes with the weather, as Helaena said. I’ll be fine.”

Though she nods, you can see that she’s not fully reassured, her fingers brushing lightly against your arm, a silent expression of her lingering concern.

The moment is broken by a knock at the door, and one of the guards steps inside, bowing slightly. “Your Grace, the Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon have arrived with their children. Princess Rhaenys and Lord Vaemond are with them as well.”

A heavy sigh escapes you, the weight of the situation pressing down like an iron mantle. “Of course they have,” you mutter under your breath, straightening your posture. Turning back to Alicent, you catch her worried gaze, knowing she senses the unease that tightens in your chest. This reunion has all the makings of a volatile confrontation, and the old wounds that have never fully healed threaten to bleed anew.

“I must go and welcome them,” you say, your voice measured but weary. The obligations of duty pull you forward, even when your heart longs to stay here with your family in this fleeting moment of peace.

Alicent steps closer, her fingers brushing against your sleeve in a silent gesture of support. “We’ll be by your side.”

You nod, grateful for her presence, and glance back at your children, who watch you with varying degrees of concern and curiosity. Even now, they look to you for strength, for guidance, and you cannot fail them. Not today. Not ever.

With one last glance at the warm sunlit room—a sanctuary from the political storm outside—you prepare yourself for the inevitable tension that awaits in the great hall. The time for peace and warmth has passed; now, you must step back into the fray.

The throne room is heavy with the weight of history, the distant clang of armor and murmured whispers echoing through the vast chamber. You stand at the base of the Iron Throne, the twisted swords looming behind you like the sharp shadows of past decisions. This place has always felt suffocating—the power it represents, the burden it imposes—but today, it seems even more so. The air is filled with anticipation, with all the words left unspoken over the years, words that now hover like ghosts between you and your sister.

The grand doors creak open, and in walks Rhaenyra, flanked by Daemon and her children. The entourage is impressive in its own right. But your eyes meet Rhaenyra’s first, a mixture of affection and lingering resentment flickering in her gaze. Daemon’s expression is inscrutable as ever, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips, as if he’s already prepared for whatever battle this day might bring.

“Brother,” Rhaenyra greets, her voice formal but laced with a warmth she struggles to fully suppress. The distance between you isn’t just measured by the steps she takes toward you but by the years of strained silences and fractured trust. “It’s been too long.”

“Too long indeed,” you reply, giving her a nod. “Though I wish it were under different circumstances.”

She glances back at her children—Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey—who linger closer to their stepfather. It’s a small, subtle act, but one that doesn’t escape your notice. The lines have already been drawn, loyalties established, even within family. Your eyes shift momentarily to Lucerys, who shifts uncomfortably under your gaze. The memory of that night, when Aemond lost his eye, still lingers in the corners of your mind like a festering wound.

Daemon steps forward, offering you a mocking half-bow. “Prince Regent,” he drawls, the title rolling off his tongue with a hint of amusement. “I trust King’s Landing hasn’t dulled your edge in all this politicking?”

“King’s Landing has taught me that sharper edges are often hidden behind polished words,” you counter, meeting his smirk with one of your own. “But some things remain constant, no matter how much time has passed.”

There’s a flicker of something in Daemon’s eyes—approval, perhaps—but he gives nothing more than a faint nod. The moment stretches as if both of you are waiting for the other to strike first, but the tension is cut by the sound of more footsteps entering the throne room.

Alicent appears, resplendent in her green gown, with Aegon and Aemond trailing just behind her. They take their places beside you, Alicent’s presence a quiet assurance amidst the charged atmosphere. Her eyes briefly meet Rhaenyra’s—a mixture of cordiality and something more guarded passing between them.

Rhaenyra’s gaze shifts back to you, her expression tight. “All this—Vaemond’s petition, this charade in court—is unnecessary. Corlys has already named Luke as his heir. This is nothing more than a farce driven by Vaemond’s ambition and desperation.”

You hold her gaze steadily, the words she speaks true, but there’s a bitterness beneath the surface that neither of you can quite hide. “Rhaenyra, you know as well as I do that perception is as powerful as truth in the eyes of the court. Vaemond’s claims are not without support among those who see blood over words. He’s leveraged the uncertainty surrounding Corlys’s health to rally those who resent the decree Viserys made years ago.”

“Resentment or ambition, it hardly matters,” Rhaenyra counters, her voice hardening. “Luke is Corlys’s chosen heir. This is nothing more than a blatant attempt to undermine our family, to sow discord in favor of personal gain.”

Before you can respond, Aemond’s cool voice cuts through the tension. “And yet, the matter has been brought before the court. The Driftwood Throne is more than just a seat; it represents the stability of our alliances and the power of the Velaryon fleet. Vaemond knows this well.”

Aegon shifts beside his brother, clearly eager to speak, but there’s an undercurrent of caution in his posture. “Let them debate the bloodlines and the claims. It’s all they seem to care about. But it’s our family’s unity that hangs in the balance.”

Alicent’s hand subtly rests on Aegon’s arm, a silent encouragement to temper his words. You can feel her worry radiating beside you, though she remains composed. “We cannot afford to be careless,” she adds, her voice steady. “The lords and ladies of the court are watching closely, each with their own interests at heart. We must tread carefully, especially with those like Vaemond, who are prepared to exploit any perceived weakness.”

Rhaenyra’s expression softens only slightly, the strain of years apart visible in the lines around her eyes. “I don’t want this to tear us further apart, brother. The realm needs stability, not more division. But it feels as though every step I take, every decision I make, is met with suspicion.”

You take a breath, weighing your words carefully. “Rhaenyra, I never wished for distance between us, nor did I want our paths to diverge as they have. But the choices we make carry consequences—sometimes ones we never intend. I want to believe that we can still find a way forward, even with everything that stands between us.”

Daemon’s eyes narrow slightly, watching you with a calculating gaze. He’s never been one to shy away from conflict, but even he seems to recognize that this moment is a delicate one.

Before anything further can be said, Alicent’s attention shifts as she catches sight of movement near the entrance. “It seems our guests have arrived.”

The doors swing open again, and in walk Princess Rhaenys and Lord Vaemond Velaryon, their presence commanding attention. Vaemond’s expression is one of grim determination, while Rhaenys’s gaze remains neutral, though there’s an underlying tension in the way she holds herself.

You sigh inwardly, the weight of what’s to come pressing heavily on your shoulders. “I must welcome them,” you say quietly, though the words feel more like a duty than a choice.

With a final glance at Alicent and your children, you steel yourself, ready to face whatever storm this day may bring.

The throne room is filled with an air of tension so thick it nearly suffocates, a place where every word and glance carries the weight of the realm’s future. You sit in front of the Iron Throne, flanked by your family—Alicent at your side, with Aegon, Aemond, Helaena, and Daeron standing proudly beside you. Otto stands as a silent sentinel to your left, his expression carefully neutral but his calculating mind undoubtedly working behind those cold eyes.

This is your trial to preside over, not his.

Vaemond Velaryon stands before the court, his expression carved from stone, his voice carrying the authority of a man with righteous conviction. “I speak plainly because this matter is not one of politics, but of truth! The Driftwood Throne is a legacy that cannot be tainted by a lie. Lucerys Velaryon is no true Velaryon. He carries no blood of our house—he is not the son of Laenor Velaryon!”

Murmurs ripple through the gathered lords and ladies, some leaning in, eager to witness the drama unfold. Vaemond’s words are like daggers thrown across the room, aimed directly at Rhaenyra and her children. You can see the steel in her eyes, her lips pressed into a thin line as she holds her composure. Daemon stands beside her, eyes narrowing at the offense, but he remains still, his calculating mind no doubt waiting for the right moment to strike.

You raise a hand to silence the room, your voice calm but firm. “Lord Vaemond, you’ve made your case. But it is not solely yours to decide. Princess Rhaenys, as the wife of Lord Corlys and the one who has stood by his side through every battle and storm, you have the most voice in this matter. Speak now, for the realm listens.”

Rhaenys steps forward, her presence commanding respect. Dressed in the deep blacks and reds of her house, she carries the pride of House Velaryon on her shoulders, yet her expression remains inscrutable. You watch her closely, knowing that her words will determine more than just the fate of Driftmark—they will shape alliances and define loyalties.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she begins, her voice clear and unwavering. “It is true that my lord husband is gravely injured and unable to speak for himself. But before he took ill, he made his wishes clear. He named Lucerys as his heir. My husband’s word is law on Driftmark, and I intend to honor it.”

Vaemond shifts uncomfortably, but remains silent for now.

Rhaenys continues, her gaze moving to Rhaenyra before settling on you. “Furthermore, Princess Rhaenyra has proposed a union—one that would not only preserve the legacy of House Velaryon but strengthen it. She has offered her son, Lucerys, to wed my granddaughter, Rhaena. A match I wholeheartedly support.”

The court stirs at this revelation. You feel the weight of Rhaenys’s decision pressing against your chest. Her words do more than just confirm Lucerys’s claim—they solidify Rhaenyra’s position in this fight. The offer to wed Rhaena to Lucerys would ensure that Driftmark remains in Velaryon hands, through Laena’s trueborn daughter. It’s a maneuver as brilliant as it is decisive. Rhaenys has thrown her support behind Rhaenyra in a way that cannot be easily countered.

You pause, considering the ramifications. Your eyes briefly meet Rhaenyra’s, searching for some sign of what she’s truly feeling beneath her stoic mask. She knows the significance of Rhaenys’s declaration; it’s more than just the inheritance of Driftmark—it’s a public alignment of houses, a strengthening of her line.

Just as you’re about to speak, Vaemond’s voice rises again, sharper now, with barely concealed fury. “This is an insult! A mockery of our house! You may support these... false heirs, but I will not allow Driftmark to be handed over to bastards!”

The word hangs in the air, searing through the room like a brand. A cold silence falls, eyes darting between you and Vaemond. Even Otto’s composed mask slips slightly, his eyes narrowing at the brazenness of Vaemond’s outburst. You feel a ripple of anger stir within you, a flame that you must keep controlled, for it would be too easy to let it consume you here.

Daemon steps forward, his smile a dangerous thing as he drawls, “Say it again, Vaemond. Go on.” His hand rests casually on the hilt of his blade, the invitation clear.

You rise from your seat, your gaze locking onto Vaemond with the weight of a dragon’s stare. The silence that follows is heavy, the tension crackling like lightning in the air. The audacity of his words echoes through the chamber—bastards. A line has been crossed, and everyone knows it.

“Enough,” you command, your voice low but resonant, silencing the whispers that had begun to stir among the lords and ladies. “You forget yourself, Lord Vaemond.”

Vaemond’s face twists with fury, but he stands defiant, unwilling to yield. “Your Grace, I only speak the truth that everyone here knows but dares not voice! Driftmark is the seat of House Velaryon, a house built on blood and salt. That blood should flow true, and Lucerys Velaryon carries none of it! The realm cannot be governed by lies and pretenses.”

You take a step forward, your presence a shadow over the defiant lord. “You speak of truth, but your truth is tainted by ambition and grievance. Driftmark’s future is a matter for Lord Corlys’s bloodline, and it has been decided by the one who holds that legacy. Princess Rhaenys has spoken clearly on her husband’s wishes and on the betrothal that will secure Driftmark’s future.”

Rhaenys’s head lifts, her expression one of quiet strength. It is a rare thing for the ‘Queen Who Never Was’ to publicly choose a side so explicitly, and in doing so, she has thrown the full weight of House Velaryon behind Rhaenyra and her children.

But Vaemond is not done. His eyes blaze with a dangerous mix of pride and desperation. “And you would have us swallow this pretense, this farce? I will not see my house’s name sullied for the sake of politics!”

Rhaenyra’s expression is a careful mask, but you know her well enough to see the tension coiled beneath the surface. Her sons stand rigid, their youth apparent in how they strain to keep composed, particularly Lucerys, whose gaze keeps darting toward you as if searching for some semblance of reassurance. You can feel Alicent’s eyes on you as well, a silent plea for this matter to end without bloodshed.

You straighten, feeling the weight of the crown’s authority settle around your shoulders. “This is not about what you will or will not see, Lord Vaemond. The decision is not yours to make.” You look to the gathered lords and ladies, letting your words carry across the room. “House Velaryon’s seat belongs to Lucerys Velaryon, named by Lord Corlys and affirmed by his lady wife. This court upholds that decision.”

There’s a murmur of agreement among some of the gathered lords, though others shift uncomfortably, clearly aligning themselves more with Vaemond’s view, whether they dare voice it or not. Vaemond’s defiance hardens into something bitter, his eyes flicking briefly toward Daemon, who remains a silent sentinel, the edge of his smile dangerous.

“Lucerys Velaryon is not a true Velaryon,” Vaemond growls, his voice rising with barely-contained rage. “He is—”

“Say it,” Daemon’s voice slices through the air like a dagger, his smile cold, daring Vaemond to cross that final line for the last time.

For a moment, it looks as if Vaemond might take the bait, the word trembling on his lips, but the air is thick with unspoken threats. You can see the flicker of fear in his eyes, a recognition that his next words could cost him more than just this claim. He hesitates, but the anger does not fade.

“The truth is plain,” Vaemond finally says, quieter now but no less venomous. “You can wrap it in silks and gold, but it remains a lie.”

Your patience wears thin. “Your passion is noted, Lord Vaemond, but you would do well to remember where you stand and who you address.” You glance at Rhaenyra, who remains poised despite the insults cast her way, then back at Vaemond. “This court has rendered its judgment. The matter is settled.”

The finality in your tone leaves no room for further argument. Vaemond clenches his jaw, his fists trembling at his sides, but he knows he’s lost. His pride is wounded, and though he has supporters among the court, none will openly defy the crown’s decision. He gives you a look filled with loathing, and for a heartbeat, you think he might lash out.

Before anything can escalate, Alicent steps forward, her presence bringing a calming effect, if only briefly. “This matter is closed,” she says with cool authority, echoing your decree. “The realm must look forward, not cling to the past.”

You nod, turning your attention back to the court. “The feast tonight will be held in honor of family and unity. I expect all to attend.” You emphasize the word family, knowing it holds different meanings for those gathered. Your gaze lingers on Rhaenyra and her children, then back to Vaemond, whose seething gaze is impossible to ignore.

Vaemond’s face is twisted with barely-restrained fury, but he bows stiffly. “As you command, Your Grace.”

The lords and ladies begin to disperse, the unrest easing as conversations shift to safer topics. But the undercurrents of unease remain. Alliances have been made clearer, but new fissures have formed as well.

As the court disperses, you catch Rhaenyra’s gaze. There’s a gratitude there, mingled with sadness, a recognition of the unspoken rift that still lies between you. “Thank you, brother,” she says softly when she approaches, her voice tinged with a mixture of relief and weariness.

You nod, offering a small, strained smile. “For now, let us put aside the politics and remember that we are family.”

Rhaenyra inclines her head, and though the words are spoken with good intent, there’s a heaviness that neither of you can ignore. The politics of blood, inheritance, and loyalty remain like shadows between you.

As Rhaenyra and Daemon leave the throne room with their children, you feel Alicent’s hand lightly rest on your arm. “You did well,” she says softly, her gaze searching yours for any trace of what you’re truly feeling.

You give a faint nod, but the weariness of the day weighs heavily on your mind. “Perhaps. But this is only the beginning. There are storms yet to come.”

Alicent’s eyes flicker with concern, but she remains composed. “Then we will face them together, as we always have.”

With that, you steel yourself for the next gathering—the feast, where smiles will hide sharpened knives and toasts will be laced with hidden meanings.

The Great Hall is aglow with the warmth of countless candles, their light reflecting off the polished silver goblets and rich tapestries lining the walls. The air is thick with the aromas of roasted meats, spiced wine, and the subtle sweetness of honeyed fruits. At the head of the table, King Viserys sits, smiling broadly, the years of weariness lifted, if only for tonight. His eyes, though dulled by age and illness, sparkle with the joy of seeing his family gathered together—just as he has always dreamed.

You sit to his right, with Alicent beside you, her presence a quiet, steadying force. Your children—Aegon, Aemond, Helaena, and Daeron—are arranged around you, each reflecting the shared Targaryen and Hightower legacies. Across the table, Rhaenyra sits with Daemon, their children—Jacaerys, Lucerys, Joffrey, Baela, and Rhaena—filling the seats beside them. For once, the invisible line that has divided you all seems to blur, softened by the promise of reconciliation that hangs in the air.

Viserys raises his goblet, his voice trembling but rich with emotion. “To family,” he declares, looking first at you, then at Rhaenyra, his gaze lingering with unspoken hope. “We have all weathered many storms, but tonight, let us put aside our differences and remember the ties that bind us. Blood is what unites us, and that is stronger than any quarrel.”

You lift your goblet, meeting Rhaenyra’s gaze from across the table. There’s a flicker of warmth in her eyes, a reflection of the shared memories from when you were younger—before ambition and politics built walls between you. “To family,” you echo, letting your voice carry across the hall.

“To family,” Rhaenyra agrees, her voice softer, but sincere. The tension that usually clings to her words is absent, replaced by a genuine desire to find common ground. Daemon follows suit with a small nod, raising his goblet, though his eyes never lose their sharpness.

The others join in the toast, and for the first time in a long while, there’s a shared sense of unity at the table. The feast begins, and conversation flows more easily than you had expected. Laughter echoes, and even some of the past hurts seem to fade as old stories are shared, tales from when you and Rhaenyra were children, and the world was simpler.

Aegon, emboldened by the good cheer, leans toward Jacaerys with a grin. “So, cousin, when do we finally see if your swordplay has improved? Or are you still hiding behind the idea of ‘diplomacy’?” There’s a teasing lilt to his words, but it’s free of malice.

Jacaerys chuckles, accepting the challenge with grace. “Any time you wish, Aegon. Perhaps tomorrow, in the yard? I could use the exercise.”

Aegon laughs, and for once, it’s genuine. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Nearby, Helaena leans close to Rhaena, showing her a small, delicate beetle she’s been keeping. “This one’s new. I found it in the gardens this morning. It’s beautiful, don’t you think?”

Rhaena’s face lights up with interest. “It is! You’ll have to show me where you find them. Perhaps we can look together tomorrow?”

Aemond, ever observant, listens as Daemon regales Daeron with stories of old Valyria, his tone as dramatic as ever. “You mustn’t rely only on strength, young prince,” Daemon advises with a sly smile. “There’s more power in a sharp mind than a sharp blade, though it’s best to wield both.”

As the night progresses, the atmosphere becomes lighter, laughter filling the hall. You notice Rhaenyra watching you, and when your eyes meet, she offers a tentative smile. There’s a pause, a moment where neither of you speaks, but the silence is full of unspoken words—regret, apology, and perhaps most importantly, a desire to heal what’s been broken.

“Brother,” she finally says, her voice tinged with emotion. “I’ve missed this—us, being together. I know there have been… difficulties, but I hope we can start anew.”

You take a deep breath, feeling the sincerity in her words. The distance between you hasn’t been easy, and the weight of your past grievances still lingers, but you find yourself nodding. “I’ve missed it too, Rhaenyra. We’ve both made mistakes, but we’re stronger together. Let’s try to move forward—for our family, for our father.”

Viserys beams at this exchange, his hand trembling as he lifts it to wipe away a tear. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. For all of us to be united, to leave behind the bitterness of the past.”

Alicent watches this with a soft smile, her hand slipping into yours beneath the table. “This is what he’s longed for,” she whispers. “You’ve given him peace, if only for tonight.”

As the meal continues, the tension that once plagued these gatherings begins to dissipate. Rhaenyra and Alicent exchange kind words, complimenting each other’s children. Daemon, though still carrying his usual edge, seems content to keep his barbs light, focusing more on keeping the mood lifted than on stirring the pot. Even Aemond, usually so guarded, appears more at ease, his exchanges with Jacaerys and Lucerys devoid of the usual undercurrents of rivalry.

At one point, Rhaenyra lifts her goblet again, a more private toast this time. “To new beginnings,” she says, looking at you with hope.

You smile, raising your own goblet in kind. “To new beginnings.”

The night stretches on, and for once, it feels as though the past might truly be put behind you. The bonds of family, strained though they’ve been, begin to mend. The ghosts of old wounds fade into the background as laughter, warmth, and shared memories take center stage.

Viserys, exhausted but happy, leans back in his chair, his hand resting on yours as he closes his eyes, a contented smile on his lips. “This… this is how it should always be,” he murmurs.

And for that night, at least, it is. Family, love, and unity win out, and the weight of the crown feels a little lighter.

From the Chronicles of King Y/N Targaryen I, The Reign of the Unified Flame

From “Fire and Blood: A History of House Targaryen” by Archmaester Melys:

Upon the passing of King Viserys I in the year 129 AC, the realm held its breath, fearing that the simmering tensions within House Targaryen would ignite into the civil war prophesied by many. But where the histories might have diverged into bloodshed and ruin, they instead tell a tale of unity and wise rule under King Y/N Targaryen, the Heir of Dragonstone, who ascended the Iron Throne as Y/N I, known to later generations as “Y/N the Peacemaker” and “The King of Balance.”

Though many lords whispered of conflict, it was King Y/N’s first decree that set the tone for his reign. Gathering his family—Queen Alicent, Princess Rhaenyra, and their respective children—he held council not in the Red Keep, but atop Dragonstone, the ancient seat of House Targaryen. There, in the shadow of their ancestors and the elder dragons, they swore an oath of unity before gods and men. It is said that Prince Daemon himself, ever the rogue, was the first to lay down his blade, pledging his loyalty to his nephew. With that, the seeds of war were quelled, and the Dance of Dragons was averted.

High Speton Eustace credits King Y/N’s wisdom and firm hand for this peace, stating, “His Majesty’s reign was marked by clarity of vision and an understanding that compromise is often the sharpest weapon.” Mushroom, in his typically bawdy accounts, attributes the peace to the deep affection between the King and Queen Alicent, jesting that, “It was her gentle whispers at night and not the threats of swords that kept the realm from tearing itself apart.”

Under King Y/N’s rule, Westeros saw another golden era of peace and prosperity. His approach to governance combined the fiery decisiveness of his Targaryen blood with a measured balance that many compared to his mother, Queen Aemma Arryn. The king’s court was diverse and inclusive; Princess Rhaenyra was granted full authority over the small council alongside her brother, with the Velaryons remaining staunch allies after the successful betrothal of Lucerys Velaryon to Rhaena Targaryen. Driftmark’s legacy was secured without further bloodshed, ensuring that the sea lanes of Westeros remained open and secure.

King Y/N’s family played a crucial role in his reign. His children with Queen Alicent grew into respected figures in their own right. Aegon, though restless in his youth, became a trusted commander, leading the royal navy in expeditions to Essos that solidified trade routes. Aemond, despite the loss of his eye, was known as “The Iron Shield,” a prince famed for his discipline and loyalty, who often served as Hand of the King when his father took to Dragonstone for respite. Helaena’s prophecies, often dismissed in earlier years, became valued by the court, guiding many decisions with a wisdom that bordered on the mystical. Daeron, the youngest, was known as the people’s prince, a bridge between nobility and common folk, fostering goodwill in the Reach and beyond.

The reign of King Y/N I was not without its trials. The Ironborn rose in rebellion more than once, but swift action by Aemond and Daemon in a rare alliance quickly subdued the threat. The Riverlands also saw unrest when Lord Grover Tully’s ambitions threatened to spill into open conflict, but the King’s deft diplomacy resolved the dispute before it could escalate.

Even so, the unity within House Targaryen remained the cornerstone of Y/N’s reign. It is said that Rhaenyra and Queen Alicent, once rivals after their marriages, grew back into a friendship they shared in their youth, sharing their roles as matriarchs to an ever-growing brood of dragonlords. Mushroom—never one to miss an opportunity for scandal—claims that their peace was ensured by shared interests in a secretive cabal of noblewomen, but wiser heads discount this as the jester’s usual mischief.

King Y/N’s dragons also played a vital role in securing his legacy. His bond with Dallax, the Night Fury, became legendary. Dallax, with his black scales and green eyes, was a fearsome sight in battle, but it was his presence at royal negotiations that often quelled rebellious lords before blood could be spilled. The dragon’s reputation as both guardian and enforcer of the realm added to the mystique of King Y/N’s rule.

In 143 AC, King Y/N I presided over the Grand Council at Harrenhal, where matters of succession and law were codified, ensuring stability for generations to come. It was there that his wisdom was most evident; by balancing the interests of all regions and houses, he secured peace in the realm without resorting to brute force. When the Maester's Conclave reviewed the royal lineage in later years, it was agreed by many that King Y/N’s efforts had preserved not just the peace but the very legacy of House Targaryen.

Mushroom’s final words on the reign of King Y/N are perhaps the most fitting. “In an age where dragons danced upon the edge of war, it took not just a dragonrider, but a man who saw the value in holding back the flame, to keep the realm whole. Where others would have chosen fire and blood, he chose balance, and in doing so, left behind a reign that many would envy.”

King Y/N Targaryen I passed away in the year 150 AC, leaving behind a legacy of unity, prosperity, and a realm spared the horrors of civil war. His children carried forth his wisdom, and under their guidance, Westeros thrived in an era known as the “Second Golden Age.” And thus, the realm’s history turned, not on a dance of dragons, but on a single king’s steadfast resolve to keep his family—and his realm—united.

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