#diamond fork

[cranberryspringart]

So I was watching the original twilight zone, there's an episode that's near beat for beat the part of diamond is unbreakable were mikitaka is introduced and rohan's house gets burned down.

[carnivart-core]

Been in a state where I've wanted to change my sona for a while - so new main fursona time !! (My main non-fur-sona is stuck as is for a while) I've become a pink fiend as of late so ,,, pink non-specific-lemur

[gender-euphowrya]

running across whales in gacha games is so fucked like. how am i seeing someone on nikki with a fully evolved event outfit on day 2 of the fucking event

[krshush]

Good MORNING, everyone! It is a very busy early day for me as we play catch up on several things we'd missed on account of a bad start to the year! But ALSOOO. IN AFKJ IT'S BNUUY BOY DAY AND HE ALREADY CAME HOOOOME TO MEEEEE 🎉🎉🎉

[todays-xkcd]

It's a real accomplishment to mess up a ravioli recipe badly enough that the resulting incident touches all four quadrants of the NFPA hazard diamond.

Ravioli-Shaped Objects [Explained]

[A 4x4 grid of squares. The columns are labeled: Eat with a fork, rest your head on, puncture and slurp, install in your phone. The rows are: Ravioli, throw pillow, Capri Sun, bulging lithium battery. Each row has an image of each respective item above the title, with the words “Home Sweet Home” on the throw pillow, and “Fruit” on the Capri Sun.]

Ravioli, eat with a fork: [green] [Cueball sits on a chair in front of a table with a jar of sauce on it. He is eating from a plate from ravioli.] Cueball: ''Nom Nom Nom''

Ravioli, Rest your head on: [red] [Cueball is lying down on a couch with ravioli smooshed on his head and the couch. Ravioli bits can be seen on the ground] Cueball: Eww.

Ravioli, puncture and slurp: [yellow] [Cueball is slurping from a ravioli through a straw. In front of him is table with two plates, presumably with ravioli on them.] ''Slurp''

Ravioli, Install in your phone: [red] [A phone is shown with bits of ravioli sticking out and tomato sauce is dripping out.]

Throw pillow, eat with a fork: [red] [Cueball sits on a chair in front of a table with a jar of sauce on it. He is poking with a fork at a throw pillow covered in tomato sauce.] ''Poke poke''

Throw pillow, rest your head on: [green] [Cueball is looking at his phone and is lying on a couch. His head is resting on a throw pillow.]

Throw pillow, puncture and slurp: [red] [Cueball is sucking on a straw that is inserted in a pillow.] Cueball: Aw man, this one is empty.

Throw pillow, install in your phone: [red] [A phone is shown on a throw pillow that has the words “Home Sweet Home” partially obscured.]

Capri Sun, eat with a fork: [red] [Cueball sits on a chair in front of a table with a jar of sauce on it. He has stabbed a Capri Sun on a plate and is now splattered with juice.]

Capri Sun, rest your head on: [yellow] [Cueball is looking at his phone and is lying on a couch. His head is resting on a Capri Sun.] Cueball: Honestly kind of comfortable.

Capri Sun, puncture and slurp: [green] [Cueball is drinking from a Capri Sun through a straw.] ''Sluuurp''

Capri Sun, Install in your phone: [red] [A phone is shown to be squishing a Capri Sun. Juice is trickling out.]

Bulging lithium battery, eat with a fork: [red] [An explosion bordered by 4 skull and crossbones.]

Bulging lithium battery, rest your head on: [red] [Cueball is looking at his phone and lying on his couch. His head is resting on a smoldering battery.] Cueball: This fire hazard is uncomfortable.

Bulging lithium battery, puncture and slurp: [red] [An explosion bordered by 4 skull and crossbones.]

Bulging lithium battery, install in your phone: [green] [A phone with a bulging back, presumably from the bulging lithium battery. The phone’s screen is cracked in the center.]

[solxamber]

Platonic heartslabyul with fem!Yuu who managed to memorize ALL the rules because she hyperfixated on it. It's a new universe so why not study their customs?

it ended up gender neutral, hope that's okay!

Memorizing the Queen's Rules with Heartslabyul

Ace Trappola

At first, Ace thought your ability to quote the rules on demand was a joke. Then, it became the bane of his existence.

"Hey, it’s not a big deal if I sneak just one tart out of here!" he’d say, already halfway to the door.

"Rule #142: No pastries shall leave the premises of the tea party unless explicitly authorized," you’d insist, crossing your arms and blocking his path like an unyielding wall of justice.

Ace groaned dramatically, throwing his head back. "Why do you even know that? Who memorizes all the rules?!"

"Someone who doesn’t want to end up collared for your nonsense."

He tried to get clever, testing your limits by bending obscure rules. Once, he brought a banana to a tea party.

"You realize Rule #53 bans bananas at tea parties, right?"

Ace stared, mouth agape. "That’s not real. You’re making that up."

"It’s real. Page 47 of the rulebook," you replied with a satisfied grin.

At that moment, Ace realized he could never outsmart you. Begrudgingly, he admitted, "You’re terrifying. I’m never crossing you."

Of course, that didn’t stop him from trying to prank you. But the look on his face every time you countered him with the correct rule was priceless.

Deuce Spade

Deuce was equal parts impressed and intimidated by your encyclopedic knowledge of Heartslabyul law.

"Wait, so… Rule #317 says I can’t use my left hand to pour tea unless it’s Tuesday?" he asked, staring at the teapot like it had betrayed him.

"Correct. It’s Wednesday, so put it down," you replied, barely glancing up from your notes.

Deuce’s determination to follow the rules skyrocketed thanks to you. He started coming to you for advice on everything.

"Is it okay if I use a spoon to eat this tart instead of a fork? I don’t want to mess up!"

You paused. "Technically, Rule #223 says forks are preferred, but spoons are acceptable if no forks are available."

Deuce sighed in relief. "Thanks, prefect. You’re like my personal tutor for dorm survival."

He became your staunchest supporter, often citing your knowledge to back up his own actions. When Ace tried to sneak an extra tart, Deuce would immediately shout, "Rule #142! You can’t do that!"

"Juice, no one likes a snitch," Ace grumbled.

"I like them," you said, giving Deuce a thumbs-up.

Deuce beamed.

Trey Clover

Trey found your obsession with the rules both amusing and endearing.

"You’re the first person I’ve met who rivals Riddle’s knowledge of the rulebook," he said one day as you adjusted the spacing between roses in the garden.

"Someone has to uphold the standards," you replied, squinting at a rosebush. "This one’s two centimeters too close to the other."

Trey chuckled, leaning against his spade. "You know, not even Riddle notices stuff like that."

"Then it’s a good thing I’m here," you said matter-of-factly, pulling out your measuring tape.

Trey quickly realized you were also a fantastic mediator. Whenever Riddle’s temper flared, you calmly cited rules to de-escalate the situation.

"Rule #405: forgiveness is encouraged for first offenses," you’d say, placing a hand on Riddle’s shoulder.

"Fine," Riddle would huff, storming off.

Trey gave you a knowing smile. "You’re a lifesaver."

Cater Diamond

Cater thought you were hilarious. Your ability to recite rules on command made you a walking meme in his eyes.

"So, you’re like, a human rulebook?" he asked one day, phone in hand.

"Pretty much."

"Say something rule-y for my Magicam!" he said, already recording.

You rolled your eyes but played along. "Rule #98: no singing at tea parties unless the Queen of Hearts requests it."

Cater doubled over laughing.

He constantly teased you about your rule knowledge but secretly found it impressive. Anytime he needed an excuse to get out of trouble, he’d turn to you.

"Uh, is there a rule that says I can skip cleaning duty if my phone dies?"

"No, but nice try," you replied.

Still, he loved having you around, especially when you used your rule expertise to put Ace in his place.

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle was in awe of you.

"You’ve memorized all 810 rules?" he asked, eyes wide.

"Of course," you said, shrugging. "Why wouldn’t I?"

Riddle’s respect for you skyrocketed. You became his unofficial right-hand person, often helping him enforce the rules.

"Rule #327 clearly states that tea must be brewed at exactly 96 degrees Celsius," you said during one tea party.

"Exactly!" Riddle exclaimed. "Finally, someone understands!"

You were the only one who could occasionally talk him down when he went overboard.

"Rule #512 says punishments should fit the crime," you reminded him gently.

Riddle adjusted his gloves, looking sheepish. "You’re absolutely correct. As always."

He even started consulting you for rule interpretations, trusting your judgment implicitly.

"Do you think Rule #600 applies here?"

"Only if you interpret it broadly," you replied.

"Brilliant," Riddle said, nodding.

To him, you were a paragon of order and discipline—a perfect addition to Heartslabyul.

Masterlist

[bi-writes]

What if 👀 what if we see when john proposes to the missus (is it too soon 😭) 🤩 they also live in my mind 24/7 you’re 🫵🏻 gonna be drowning in my asks

the key turns in the lock, nice and smooth this time. john oiled it before he left—he wanted this when he came, some sort of reminder that his hand has been here, in this house, so branded into its integrity that even the hinges no longer creak because he's made his nest here. (18+)

when he swings open the door, he doesn't recognize the sight.

you're sitting at the kitchen table with a sour expression on your face. there's a candle lit in the center, only one since the other has melted, so much so the wax is pooled underneath it next to the roast that's long since cold on its serving platter. there's glass of wine in front of you that's nearly empty, and a bottle within reach just as light.

john sucks on teeth a little as he drops his duffel bag by the door. the sound makes you flinch, and when he drops heavily into the seat across from you, he doesn't even react at the velvet box that sits on the table.

instead, he picks up his fork and starts to serve himself.

your eyes flick up to look at him, but he's too busy piling up meat and potatoes onto his plate. he takes off his hat and tosses it onto the table, and you scowl at the sight—you complain over and over again about that filthy fucking hat, and he has the nerve to set it down on the table like he's the one that's been working all day on a roast, molten chocolate lava cake, and tender mashed potatoes.

"you're late," you say. your voice croaks, hitching with your swallowed-down emotion. john takes his gloves off, tossing them beside the hat, and when he starts to undo the latches on his tact vest, you pick up your steak knife and pierce it right through the oak table. "don't you dare put that shit on my table."

"our table."

"oh, now you wanna chime in?"

john runs a few hands over his face. he looks tired. his beard is scruffy, more than usual, and the darkness under his eyes is heavy. his eyes aren't as bright as they normally are around you, and you find the tension in his shoulders to be especially wound. you don't care what he's gone through to get back to this table. maybe he fell out of a helicopter. maybe a bullet whizzed past his head and nearly splattered his brains. you don't fucking care—john price is sitting in front of you and eating the food you made and pretending like everything is just fine.

he laughs. it's humorless, but it angers you anyway. he's condescending; it's in his nature. when you question the way of things, when you try to put your foot down—you would punch him, but he'd ease out of the way, effortless, and it would annoy you greatly. then he'd probably take your wrists and pin them behind your back with one hand, and he'd smile doing it, because he's so much bigger than you, so much stronger. he kills people for less, it takes no effort to stifle the woman that shares his bed. everything is funny to him—everything is cute.

asshole.

"where'd you find tha'?" john asks. he doesn't look at it, but you know what he's talking about. you pick up the velvet box and pop it open. the ring blinds you. it must be at least three carats, a gorgeous thing, surrounded by a halo of smaller diamonds around the band. it glitters, stunning, and if you were a stupider woman, you would've been wearing it already, but you're not.

"i found it when i was going through your shit," you spit at him. you tip your glass back and swallow down the rest of your wine. it goes down hot. "packing it for you."

"we goin' on a trip?"

"you certainly are."

john clicks his tongue and tilts his head to the side. he finally brings his eyes up to meet yours, and he brings a hand up to scratch at his beard.

"not leaving."

you laugh, too, smiling, bitter.

"i wasn't asking, john. but if you don't want your stuff, whatever. i'm sure it'll burn just fine."

john shoves his plate away from him, scooting his chair back. you expect him to get up, to come towards you. you expect him to grip you by the throat and bend you over the table so he can fuck you next to the extravagant meal you've made, but instead he huffs as you hear his belt buckle clink.

"what the fuck are you doing?" you scoff. john hums, grunting low, and then you watch with parted lips as he spits into the palm of his hand and lowers it. it's only a moment before he sighs deeply, a wet slick, slick, slick following the movement of his arm. "are you fucking serious?"

"mmm..." john clenches his jaw. "'s been awhile, love." he cracks his neck as he moves it from side to side, fixing his eyes on you as he moves his arm a little quicker. your lips tremble angrily, but you can't help the way you shift in your seat. your free hand plays with the hem of your skirt, and he rolls his shoulders back, licking his lips. "show me."

"fuck you."

"in a minute, love. show me."

you're shaking with anger. it's hot in your chest, making you buzz, but it doesn't stop your hands. it doesn't stop them from feeling over the collar of your blouse before you carefully undo the top buttons. john relaxes as he watches the fabric fall loose, and he hums knowingly when you drop the blouse and unclasp your bra.

your tits fall with a bounce. you're ashamed at how easy it is, to fall right back into the place you swore you would never go again. john groans, moving his chair back further, and you squeeze your thighs together as you watch his thick hand tug at his rigid cock with more and more of a chaotic rhythm.

"come 'ere."

"no."

"come here," john mutters. he says it in that way—that way you know that he won't ask again. he won't have to.

you stand on doe legs. they wobble, and you use the table as leverage, and when you make it in front of him, john pushes you until you're sitting on the edge of the table, right next to his half-eaten plate and his dirty gear. you flinch as he stands, stepping between your thighs, and you kiss as the tip of him presses against your drooling cunt. your legs rise, knees hooking around his hips, and john licks over his teeth as he keeps stroking himself.

"we've been over this," john growls. "haven't we, sweetheart?"

"i hate you."

"this is mine," john says into your ear. "your cunt. this house. this food—it's mine, and you know tha'. you love puttin' up a bloody brawl, i know tha', love, so i take it, but you won't be rid of me until i'm dead, y'hear tha'?"

"fuck you—"

"ugh—" john hisses. "gonna make me fuckin' come, love—"

john laughs through breathy moans when he feels you're wearing no knickers. sopping, pretty pussy just waiting for him—in his house, with his girl, the one that's about to have his name.

"john—"

his grip on your thighs is bruising as he pushes into you. just the tip, just enough to drive you insane, just in time for him to spill inside of you and fill you with a dizzying amount of cum. hot, sticky, messy—john's never been very good at cleaning up his messes. he seems to like it that way. he seems to like it ruined and overstimulated and begging.

he presses his forehead to yours, grunting as he pushes further inside of you. you'll ruin the wood underneath you being so wet, but john will fix it.

"when are y'gonna learn?" john murmurs. "hmm?"

"john..."

there is no john without you. you could run, but he'd find you. you could change the locks, but it wouldn't stop him from coming home. you could throw all of his things out, burn them, shred them, bury them, but he has no real ties to anything as trivial as things. john is a fixture in the air here. he lives in the wood that makes up the house. he's in your breaths that taste like cigar smoke. he's inside of you, hot, in the bruises that line your collarbone and your thighs and your hips. john is a rigid, immutable hook that is dug so far into your fleshy insides that it would be suicide to remove him from yourself.

he's a weed you cannot rid yourself of. you pick him out by the root, but he always comes back.

he kisses you like that—tits out, cunt drooling, engagement ring tossed aside just out of reach. you think he meant for you to find it. either as a result of your morbid curiosity or your temper tantrums—john probably figured whichever came first would be good enough.

he would never propose to you. you know this.

why the fuck would he ask you about something that's already a given?

in the morning, you're alone with your thoughts, watching the ring sparkle in the early sunlight. your hand is rested on his chest, moving with the gentle rise and fall of his breaths. you turn your hand over and stare at the thing—you aren't someone who's into material things so much. you appreciate them, but something about this new reality of yours makes you stare a little harder at the diamond, question the clarity just a little. you hope it made a huge dent in that wallet of his; you hope he gritted his teeth a little when he handed over his card.

you'll make his bank account weep. you're mrs. john fucking price.

[p0orbaby]

Guy Fawkes Tesco Dissociation

summary: leah flirts with you, your sister isn’t too please by it

warnings: none

a/n: thank you to the anon who so kindly came up with this idea!

word count: 1.7k

-

You’re standing in the post-match hospitality suite trying to decide if the grey thing in the buffet tray is mushroom risotto or porridge that’s lost the will to live. The consistency is tragic. Congealed at the edges like it’s nursing trauma. Some rogue sprig of parsley sits on top, wilting like a garnish trying to convince you this sludge had aspirations once. You haven’t eaten anything that wasn’t either beige or pre-wrapped since you got here, and now you’re just holding a tiny wooden fork as if it’s a weapon. It’s one of those eco-friendly ones that splinters if you so much as look at it sideways—useless for food, perfect for passive aggression.

The whole lounge smells like disinfectant and faint victory—sweat, floor cleaner, and that metallic hum of a commercial fridge you’re pretty sure is struggling for life. Poor thing. It’s making that low groaning sound, like it wants to die but knows it can’t until the Lionesses are done selfie-ing with extended family.

There’s too much fluorescent lighting. That kind of overhead buzz that makes everyone look vaguely jaundiced. Too many footballers, too many PR girls in patent heels, too many conversations happening in that specific register where everyone’s pretending they’re chill but secretly vibrating with caffeine, adrenaline, and the knowledge that they’re about to be Instagram-tagged into oblivion. Everyone’s leaning too hard into the whole ‘just happy to be here’ thing. Even the champagne flutes look nervous.

You’re mostly here for moral support. And maybe a selfie. You’ve mentally drafted the caption twice—some tasteful mix of “so proud” and “she smashed it” with just enough cleavage in the frame to remind people that yes, you’re here supporting family, but no, you haven’t lost your edge. But also, selfishly, because the England women are hot. Like, disproportionately so. It’s suspicious. Someone should investigate.

“Let me guess,” a voice says behind you, low and amused. “You’re not here for the mini sausage rolls.”

You turn slowly, like a woman who’s watched enough true crime to clock tone, timbre, intent. You assess voices like others assess threats: slowly, carefully, always with an exit strategy. It’s Leah Williamson, living, breathing, taller than expected. That particular kind of tall that still manages to make you feel like you’d look better if you stood up straighter. Skin clear like she exfoliates with diamonds and filtered air. She’s wearing her England tracksuit half-zipped, no lanyard, like she doesn’t need it, like access is implicit. Hair up in a way that suggests zero effort and maximum effect. Like she got ready in two minutes and still managed to look like a Vogue cover. The kind that goes viral.

You blink. “What gave it away?”

She grins, eyes flicking down, then up. A practiced sweep. Not sleazy. Just clinical. “Your face is saying ‘get me out of here,’ but your outfit says you knew you’d be looked at.”

She’s not wrong. You’re wearing the blouse that gaps slightly when you breathe too deeply. The kind of outfit you wear when you want to seem chill but also low-key devastating. Your trousers are high-waisted and aggressive. Your earrings dangle like punctuation. Everything was intentional, even if you’ve lied to yourself about that three times already.

You sip the cava that’s slowly going flat in its flute. It tastes faintly of metal and regret. Like someone once promised it’d be champagne and then quietly backed out. “I like being looked at.”

She steps forward, just enough that you clock her scent—Le Labo Santal 33. Predictable. But still effective. Like rich girl pheromones. Every lesbian in a Soho House bathroom has worn it at least once. She wears it like it’s never been cliché. Like it was made for her skin.

“I like looking.”

You tilt your head. “Do you flirt with everyone who loiters by the catering?”

“No,” she says, completely serious. Not playing it for laughs. Just laying it out. “Only the ones who look like they’d let me.”

You laugh. You weren’t planning to. You’re not easy. You’re just—bored. Entertaining this. She’s entertaining. Her confidence is that particular brand of athlete-casual, like she knows she could outpace any awkward silence if it dared to challenge her.

She watches you, eyes flicking again to your mouth. Slow, deliberate. “You’ve got lipstick on your glass.”

“I always do. Bad habit.”

“I could help you fix it.”

Your eyebrow lifts, automatic. “Are you offering to drink from the other side or lick it clean?”

“Dealer’s choice.”

You hum. “Bit forward.”

She shrugs. One shoulder, casual. “Bit honest.”

“I’m older than you, you know.”

She grins. Not fazed. Not even slightly. “You say that like it’s not hot.”

You turn slightly, lean against the wall, tilt your head like you’re studying her for a project you don’t intend to finish. You’re playing now. Not because you want to win—just because you like the shape of the game.

“What’s your type?”

She takes a second. Bites her lip. Not nervous. Just drawing it out. Like she knows timing is half the seduction.

“Right now?” Her eyes scan, slow and obvious. “Blouse open one more button than is strictly necessary. Earrings from Mejuri. The kind of face that’s used to getting what it wants and the attitude to match.”

You glance at your reflection in the door of the fridge. She’s not wrong. You adjusted that button in the lift. Told yourself it was because it was warm. Not because you wanted attention. From someone. Anyone. Apparently, this is who you got.

She steps in closer. Not touching. Just close enough that you can feel her attention like a spotlight. “Name?”

You sip again. Don’t answer.

She tilts her head. “You’re mysterious. That’s sexy.”

“Don’t push it.”

She leans in, voice dropping just slightly. Low enough to feel like a secret. “If I pushed it, you’d know.”

You almost choke on your cava. This girl. This baby-faced, cocky, post-match swaggering captain is throwing out one-liners like she’s seducing her way through a Netflix original. You don’t even know if you’re annoyed or impressed. Possibly both. Probably both.

“Do you work in media?” she asks, suddenly, sharp as a cuticle knife.

You shake your head. “No.”

“PR? Events?”

“Closer.”

“So not here for work.”

“No.”

“Just for fun?”

You give her a slow, unreadable smile. The kind that’s been mistaken for consent, for challenge, for foreplay. “I was invited.”

There’s a flicker behind her eyes—barely anything, but you catch it. A recalibration. You’ve nudged her off script.

“Ah,” she says, tone smoothing out like a hand over a silk dress. “Important, then.”

You nod. Ambiguous. Let her fill in the blanks. You haven’t said who. You’re not planning to. Yet.

She nods towards the glass doors, out to the lower tier where discarded pints sweat on plastic ledges and the pitch glows radioactive green. “Came for the game, stayed for the overpriced alcohol and emotional turbulence?”

“I stayed for the company.”

“Oh yeah?”

You glance at her, deliberate. “Wasn’t expecting this, though.”

She smirks, something feline curling at the edge of her mouth. “Happy surprise?”

“TBD.”

She pauses. Thinking. You watch her do it. It’s almost charming—like catching a model doing Sudoku. She’s calculating the angle. How much charm. How much cheek. Whether to go full throttle or ease off the accelerator.

She chooses both.

“I could give you a better tour,” she says. “Not the literal kind. More… you and me. Somewhere less fluorescent. Less beige carpet. Better soundtrack.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Do you do this a lot?”

She shrugs, effortless. “Only when it’s worth it.”

“And I’m worth it?”

“Oh,” she says, stepping into your space with the grace of someone used to getting the last word, “I think you might be a little dangerous.”

“And that’s a good thing?”

“It’s a great thing. For a night. Maybe two.”

You’re just about to deliver a line—something glib, maybe filthy—when a voice cuts the air like a dentist’s drill against enamel.

“Leah?”

Both your heads turn. And there she is: Grace Clinton, blinking at the scene like she’s just stumbled into a deleted scene from Sex/Life.

Her face spasms into an expression somewhere between disbelief and acute spiritual distress. “What the hell is this?”

You smile. Angelic. Like you’ve been caught volunteering at an animal rescue. “Hi, Gracie.”

Leah does a visible double take. “Wait—Gracie?”

Grace’s stare ricochets between you like a hostage negotiator. “That’s my sister.”

Leah looks at you.

Then at her.

Then laughs.

Then freezes.

“Wait, what?”

Grace throws her hands up, righteous as a preacher mid-sermon. “You were hitting on her!”

Leah’s eyes widen like she’s been offered ketamine at brunch. “You didn’t say your sister was hot.”

Grace looks like she’s about to throw up. “Why would I say that? That’s revolting. Are you okay? Do you have a head injury?”

You lift your cava flute like a toast. “To be fair, she was extremely flattering.”

Leah’s still short-circuiting. “This is… not what i was expecting.”

Grace stabs a finger in her direction like she’s summoning a demon. “Stop trying to seduce my family!”

“She flirted back!”

“She flirts with everyone! She flirts with lollipop men and the guy from DPD. It’s chronic. It means nothing.”

You shrug. “Not nothing.”

Grace groans like her soul’s leaving her body. “I need to be exorcised. Or euthanised.”

Leah rubs a hand over her face, suddenly aware of the PR disaster unfolding in real time. “This is going to be so awkward at camp.”

“You think it’s going to be awkward?” Grace gestures wildly, borderline unhinged. “Imagine me, stuck in midfield, watching you eye-fuck my sister from the touchline.”

“Language, Grace,” you say gently, like you’ve said it a hundred times before. A calm, familiar reprimand. Not scolding—just reminding. A soft nudge from someone who changed her nappies and taught her to spell ‘definitely.’

Leah turns back to you, a grin twitching at her mouth like it’s trying to behave. “So… about that better tour…”

“Jesus Christ!” Grace howls.

You grin, all cheekbone and implication. “She’s very protective.”

Leah grins back. “You’re very tempting.”

Grace’s voice goes up an octave, full banshee. “I hate both of you!”

Leah doesn’t flinch. “You gonna tell your mum?”

“Oh, I’m telling everyone.” She’s already got her phone out like she’s reporting a crime. “Group chat’s open. You’re getting dragged.”

Leah leans in, low voice, warm breath. “Still time to sneak out the fire exit.”

You drain the last of your cava and smirk. “I’ll drive.”

And somewhere behind you, Grace wails.

Perfect.

[urcoolgf]

good morning

pairing. husband¡rafe && reader

content. fluff

summary. your husband, rafe, loves spoiling you in the morning (and, of course, every other second of the day)

you roll over with a quiet groan, reaching your hand out in attempt to pull your husband closer, but instead you felt only the soft sheets. you open your eyes to find his side of the bed empty, and the quiet melody of My Girl by The Temptations playing from the kitchen. leaving the warmth of your bed made you realize you were only wearing a t-shirt and panties.

quietly, you walk out of your shared bedroom towards the kitchen as the song's volume becomes louder with the proximity. with a soft smile, you peak around the corner of the kitchen wall to find your husband cooking something delicious smelling while softly humming along to the tune of the song playing from his phone that sat on the island.

rafe looks up from his pan as if he sensed your eyes on him, and his smile widens. his bright blue eyes staring right into yours like they held the key to everything.

“good morning, beautiful. sleep well?,” he asked before looking back to his pan to make sure whatever he was cooking didn’t burn.

“mhmm,” you reply as you walk over to him and wrap your arms around his torso from behind him. you stand on your tiptoes to press a gentle kiss on his neck. he turns his head and gives you a quick kiss on the top of your head, taking in the scent of your dark curls.

“m i like this song,” you say as you release your hold on him, and sit yourself on the island counter next to some fruit in a bowl that you’re assuming is part of breakfast.

“whatcha making?,” you ask before popping a grape into your mouth, looking back at him.

“french toast,” he turned his head to smile at you.

"my favorite!," your smile softened. you looked down, playing with the diamond and pearl that adorned your ring finger, wondering how you got so lucky.

"mhm, only the best for my girl," he replied, quickly flipping the bread in the pan to reveal the other side which was the perfect golden brown color.

"has anyone ever told you you're the best husband in the world, rafe cameron?," you asked jokingly.

"my wife has told me once or twice, but y’know i'll always welcome more," he smiled and you rolled your eyes– those eyes that drove him crazy in the best way possible. he swore he could stare into your eyes for the rest of his life and be content.

the next song comes on in shuffle, Those Eyes by New West. very fitting Rafe thought to himself. as he placed the last piece of french toast on the serving plate, he turned the stove off, and set the plate on the island next to you and the fruit. he then spread your thighs to stand right between them and give you a more proper good morning.

he placed his hands on your bare hips as he leaned in and whispered against your lips.

"God this just landed right in my lap didn't it?," he smirked, and finally your lips connected. the kiss was passionate and slow, as if he had to savor every second in fear this was a dream and he would never get to feel your lips against his ever again. your fingers ran through his short, soft hair. the hair he immediately buzzed off after you commented (just once) on buzzcuts being “hot”. he pulled away ever so slightly to admire you again. your pupils were blown, and your lips were wet and slightly puffy. rafe looked down your body. his hands eventually finding their way to the hem of your panties, just playing with them. he had no further intentions right now– he just wanted to look at you.

"what is it?," you asked with a playful smile, your warm breath brushing against his face.

"my perfect wife. can't believe i'm yours 'n you're mine," he said before kissing you again. this kiss was soft and full of love, and over way too soon you thought. rafe gently picked you up off the island to set your feet on the tile. he moved away for a moment, grabbing two plates from the cabinet and forks from the drawer. he handed you one of each before pouring you a cup of coffee, and adding milk and sugar just how you liked.

he poured his own black coffee and set both the mugs on the table as you grabbed what you wanted from the spread on the island and headed to the table. you sipped on your coffee, made perfectly you thought, while you waited for him to grab his food and sit down.

"let's eat baby," he said with a smile. he watched you take the first bite of your french toast– his chin rested on the backside of his hands propped up by his elbows on the table, his blue eyes went wide, hoping he did a good job for you.

"it's perfect, rafe," you smiled.

"yeah? you're perfect," he replied quietly, smiling to himself as he began to eat, wondering how life could get any better.

JOIN MY TAGLIST

© 𝐔𝐑𝐂𝐎𝐎𝐋𝐆𝐅. est. 2025

[kirbmey]

— s1!jayvik headcanons (＞×＜)

synopsis: viktor and jayce need the help of a new investor to keep up with their research and fall in love with his daughter <3

tw: suggestive, reader is an spoiled brat, established!jayvik, not canon obv, jayce’s lowk pathetic, reader calls her father “daddy”, viktor takes the lead, choking mention if u squint, etc.

s1!jayvik who, with sky’s help, managed to find an aristocrat in piltover who was willing to meet with them and talk about hextech.

s1!jayvik who attend to your maybe-too-big mansion to discuss terms with your father while having dinner, and you were there too (๑╹ᆺ╹)

s1!jayvik who were known all over topside for being a pair of handsome inventors and curiosity peeked trough you, fixated on meeting them.

s1!jayvik who expected your father and your father alone, jayce shy at your presence and viktor already staging ways to approach you later.

s1!jayvik who, while dinner occurs, don’t fail to notice your cute curls and your lipstick a beautiful shade of crimson, you just playing a fool even though you knew you caught their eye the first second they stepped inside your house.

s1!jayce who’s mesmerized in the way your lips wrap around the fork to take a bite, on how you push your long hair aside while drinking, maybe even how your necklace decorated your throat, thinking his hand would look better (ʃᵕ̩̩ ᵕ̩̩⑅)

s1!jayce who feels the real shame every time he has to excuse himself to your father because he didn’t really paid attention to what he said. such a silly boy :(

s1!viktor who’s a lot better at hiding his lustful gazes, having the investment a priority; after getting the accord, he can worry about how he’ll get under your garments.

s1!viktor who actually listens and actually eats something at the dinner.

s1!viktor who notices deeper details about you, the moles all over your skin, the number of little diamonds your ring had, the way one of your eyebrows was thinner than the other (how your breast almost spilled out of your white dress), you know, deeper details ♡￫ܫ￩♡

“so, I need to make sure my money is sent to smart hands, gentlemen, can you show me anything about this hextech thing?” your dad spoke in a deep voice that echoed the grand dining room, contrasting with the soft violin playing on the background.

“of course! we brought tons of sketches and studies and analysis and—” jayce implied excited, always happy to talk about the project of his life, being interrupted by viktor’s skinny hand on his shoulder while the other one passed a notebook to your father.

“that’s all you’re actually interested in, sir.” he declared with a thick accent, it made you curious to know where it belonged to.

s1!jayce who anxiously plays with viktor’s brace under the table, tracing its shape while shaking his leg, looking adorably concerned.

s1!viktor who caresses the big hand that toyed with the metal around his calf and knee, circling motions over his knuckles to calm his partner down.

your father didn’t seem to really trust the idea brought to the table, the implication of magic clashing with his ideals. therefore you leaned closer to him, head against his shoulder as you read the notebook as well, noticing viktor’s neat handwriting.

“oh, daddy, isn’t this just so so so interesting?” you voiced with a honey sweet tone, locking his arm with your own.

“look, portals to quickly travel between regions? imagine all the money piltover would make, all thanks to you investing in ‘em.” you murmured now, locking eyes with viktor, who was smirking at you subtly, jayce too nervous to even hear what you said (◕︿◕✿)

“hmm, still, darling, magic?” your father questioned with a slight disgust in his voice, putting the papers down and sighing while massaging his mustache.

“wasn’t piltover the city of progress? this really seems like progress to me…” you looked at him with a pout plastered on your juicy lips. “i think leaving old stigmas and taboos behind is really… progressy.”

s1!jayvik who watch you leave towards the gardens after making your father deal with them a crazy amount of money with just some puppy eyes and sultry voice.

s1!jayvik who catch a glimpse of your white nightgown covering the grass of said garden while you sat down, playing around with a stray cat, it almost seemed like you were waiting for them.

s1!jayvik who approach you after viktor insisted, to thank you, and maybe have an intimate conversation with you, too.

“thank you for interfering, my lady, if it wasn’t for you we would’ve left empty handed.” viktor confessed while siting down on the stone bench under the white pergola where you sat, the moonlight highlighting your angel-like features, leaving his cane on top of said surface.

jayce sat down in front of you in the floor with some distance, legs crossed and arms propped behind him, tilting his head to the side when he noticed how you scooted closer to him and blushing to this right after.

“well, it wasn’t charity, you know.” you murmur in a sweet tone, curling your hair around your manicured finger as you stood on your knees, taking support from jayce’s thick thigh to end up facing viktor from above, as if you were worshipping him.

the skinnier man scoffed at this, noticing how your cheek rested now against his inner thigh, how your hair fell down your exposed back as jayce held your hand to take place in the empty space next to you, mimicking how you rested your head to stare at you, viktor caressing his now not so put together hair in a way he seemed to be accustomed already.

“then, what is it that you desire from us in exchange, little angel?” he questioned with that accent that you started to fall in love with, his thin fingers coming down to hold your chin, making you look up to him.

“mmm, i dunno…” you feigned hesitation, reaching jayce’s handsome face to scratch behind his ear slowly, noticing how he didn’t comply, such a puppy. “maybe take me to your laboratory and show me your advances from time to time.” you pouted when you felt his thumb smudge some of your expensive lipstick away.

“wouldn’t want you two forgetting about me.” you confessed before taking said thumb between your lips, looking up to him. jayce took your smaller hand between his, inhaling your cherry scented hand cream before peppering kisses all over it.

“we would never forget about you, bunny.” he said softly against your skin, caressing your cheek while you kept on sucking viktor’s finger, adverting your gaze to him now. “you can come over anytime, maybe we can make you find science more interesting.”

viktor chuckled before emptying your mouth and leaving jayce’s hair be, gaining a whine from both of you. “so it is settled, we’ll see you tomorrow at the academy, correct?” he asked while taking his cane to stand up from where he sat, motioning his hand to order jayce to do the same.

you imitate their actions, tidying your hair before grabbing their holding hands with yours, standing on your tippy toes to leave a noisy smooch against their cheeks, decorating them with the granate of your lips. “you most definitely will, gentlemen.”

s1!jayvik who don’t notice how your father stared at the whole play from the beginning, shaking his head on disappointment at you; always playing around with men.

s1!jayvik who walk towards their ride in silence, jayce still inhaling your lingering scent and the soft of you lips against his cheeks, viktor trying to not think too much about the growing boner you gave him (*_ _)

a/n: i’m obsessed with this setting, part 2 maybe? (*^ω^)

— masterlist.

[prettygirl-gabi]

Title: “Sealed with a Ring”

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 1,267

Fandom: UConn Women’s Basketball

Summary: After secretly eloping a year ago, Paige and Reader have kept their marriage under wraps, but anniversaries and memories are to good not to share...

Paige and I had never been the type to do things traditionally.

Our love story started in a way that felt effortless, like the universe had been waiting for us to finally meet. Four years together and a year secretly married, we were as solid as ever, even if the rest of the world didn’t know.

And honestly? We liked it that way.

Our elopement had been quiet, intimate, and perfect—just us, a small ceremony with our closest friends and family, and matching simple bands that had symbolized our commitment long before we’d made it official.

But of course, Paige being Paige, she had still surprised me months later with a stunning diamond ring.

“For when you want something a little flashier,” she’d said, slipping it onto my finger before I had a chance to argue.

I had worn it, but never in the traditional way. It was either looped onto a delicate gold chain around my neck or sitting comfortably on my left middle finger. It kept people from asking too many questions, and since no one suspected we were already married, it was easier that way.

Still, Paige was patient. She never pushed, never questioned why I wasn’t ready to show off what was already ours.

Until today.

It was our first wedding anniversary.

Four years together, one year of marriage, and not a single regret.

Paige had planned a perfect day—brunch at our favorite spot, a cozy afternoon at home watching old highlights of each other’s games, and now, a quiet dinner just the two of us.

“You’re staring,” I teased, setting down my fork as Paige’s eyes lingered on me.

She smirked, twirling her wine glass between her fingers. “Can’t help it. My wife is beautiful.”

Heat rushed to my cheeks, even after all this time. “You’ve been calling me your wife all day.”

“Because you are,” she said simply, reaching for my hand across the table. “And I think it’s time the rest of the world knows it too.”

I knew what she meant before she even said it.

She wanted us to finally share our rings. To stop hiding.

To be seen.

I swallowed, glancing at my hand where my band rested snugly against my skin. I wasn’t afraid of people knowing. It was just… ours. Private.

But when I looked up at Paige, her expression soft and patient, I realized something.

I wasn’t scared of sharing.

I just needed the right moment.

And what better time than now?

“Okay,” I said finally, squeezing her hand. “Let’s do it.”

Her eyes lit up, and before I knew it, she was pulling out her phone.

The Instagram story went up within minutes.

It was a simple photo—our hands intertwined, matching wedding bands gleaming under the dim lighting of the restaurant. The caption?

One year married, four years of love.💕

We didn’t think much of it.

But the internet did.

By the time we got home, social media was in shambles.

TikTok was exploding.

Fan edits popped up within minutes, clips of us laughing on the court, walking together on campus, sharing subtle touches during interviews—all set to emotional background music.

One video had nearly 500k views already, with the caption:

PAIGE AND Y/N WERE MARRIED THIS WHOLE TIME?!??

The comments were even wilder:

• “THEY’RE WIVES? NO ONE TALK TO ME.”

• “I KNEW THOSE MATCHING BANDS MEANT SOMETHING.”

• “This is the greatest plot twist in UConn history.”

Instagram and X weren’t much better.

Our post was reshared thousands of times, with people dissecting every little detail. Theories ran wild—how long had we been married? Who knew? Did Coach Geno officiate the wedding? (Spoiler: No, but the idea was hilarious.)

Even the WNBA’s official account got in on the fun, commenting:

Well, well, well… look who decided to tell us. Congrats, you two.

Paige was lying on the couch, scrolling through her phone with a giant grin while I sat cross-legged on the floor, watching the chaos unfold.

“This is insane,” I muttered, watching another TikTok fly past my screen.

Paige chuckled. “You’re the one who agreed to post it.”

I sighed dramatically, flopping against her legs. “Yeah, yeah. I just didn’t expect people to react like this.”

Her fingers ran through my hair, soothing. “Do you regret it?”

I turned my head to look up at her, taking in the way her blue eyes softened.

“No,” I admitted. “I think I like it.”

She beamed. “Good, because there’s no going back now.”

The next morning, the media frenzy had only intensified.

Even our teammates were clowning us in the group chat.

Icey B: Y’ALL REALLY JUST DROPPED THAT AND WENT TO BED????

Hey Arnold: I BEEN KNEW but I’m still screaming.

Z²: Not y’all making it sound like a press release 😭 “one year married, four years of love” lmao.

Sar bear: Geno is gonna have QUESTIONS.

P boogs: 🤷🏼‍♀️

I laughed, tossing my phone onto the bed. “Our teammates are so dramatic.”

Paige flopped onto the mattress beside me, her arm draping over my waist. “They love us. The fans love us.” She kissed my temple. “And I love you.”

I sighed happily, turning to bury my face in her neck. “Love you too, Mrs. Bueckers.”

She hummed. “Say that again.”

“Mrs. Bueckers,” I teased.

Paige grinned, tightening her hold on me. “Best thing I’ve ever heard, Mrs. Bueckers.”

And just like that, the whole world knew.

But at the end of the day, it didn’t change a thing.

Paige was mine.

I was hers.

And that was all that mattered.

---

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

-Thank You For Reading!🩵🩶

-prettygirl-gabi🎀✨️

[slavdollz4mangione]

from sicily to forever - luigi mangione x reader

based on a hc request i got but i couldn’t help myself i had to turn it into a fic! i hope you enjoy it anon because i was giggling and kicking my feet while writing this! <333

the decision came over a bottle of chianti and a plate of spaghetti al pomodoro, the kind of meal that made you both feel like you were already in italy. luigi twirled his fork lazily, his hazel eyes glinting with mischief as he leaned across the table. “what if we just… don’t do it?” he said, his voice low and teasing.

you raised an eyebrow, pausing mid-bite. “don’t do what? eat this pasta? because that’s sacrilege, and i’ll fight you.”

he laughed, the sound warm and rich, like the wine swirling in your glass. “no, amore. the wedding. the big, expensive, stressful wedding. what if we just… run away? just the two of us. no guest list, no seating chart, no aunt maria complaining about the canapés.”

you tilted your head, considering. “run away where?”

a slow grin spread across his face, the kind that always made your stomach flip. “sicily. where my grandparents are from. we’ll get married there, just us, the sea, and maybe a priest who doesn’t mind bending the rules for a couple of crazy lovers.”

you couldn’t help but laugh, the idea already taking root in your mind. “and then what?”

“and then,” he said, reaching for your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, “we see the world. six months. just you and me. no plan, no schedule, just us.”

the way he said it, the way his eyes held yours, made your heart race. “you’re serious?”

“dead serious,” he said, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “but only if you promise to wear that white dress you tried on last week. the one that makes you look like a goddess. because if we’re doing this, i want to remember every second of it.”

you grinned, squeezing his hand. “only if you promise to wear that suit. the one that makes you look like you stepped out of a fellini film.”

“deal,” he said, sealing it with a kiss that tasted like wine and possibility.

──── ୨୧ ────

two weeks later, you stood on a sun drenched cliff in taormina, sicily, the mediterranean sparkling below like a sea of diamonds. luigi looked devastatingly handsome in his tailored suit, his hair slightly tousled by the warm breeze. you wore the dress, the one he’d begged you to bring, and the way his eyes darkened when he saw you made your cheeks flush.

the ceremony was simple, just the two of you, the priest, and a handful of locals who clapped and cheered when luigi dipped you in a kiss so passionate it made the priest clear his throat and mutter something about “young love.”

afterward, you wandered the cobblestone streets, hand in hand, stealing kisses and gelato in equal measure. “so,” you said, licking a stray drop of pistachio from your lip, “where to next, mr. mangione?”

he grinned, pulling you close. “wherever you want, mrs. mangione.”

──── ୨୧ ────

the days after your sicilian elopement were a blur of laughter, exploration, and the kind of intimacy that comes from knowing you’ve chosen each other, completely and without reservation. you spent your first week as newlyweds wandering the narrow streets of taormina, eating your weight in cannoli and arancini, and stealing kisses under the shadow of mount etna. luigi had a way of making even the simplest moments feel magical, like when he insisted on feeding you a bite of his gelato, only to pull it away at the last second and replace it with his lips.

“you’re impossible,” you said, laughing as he licked a stray drop of chocolate from your chin.

“you love it,” he replied sassily.

“i do,” you said, and the way his eyes softened at those words made your heart skip a beat.

──── ୨୧ ────

the streets of taormina were quiet as you made your way back to the hotel, the moon casting a silvery glow over the cobblestones. luigi’s hand was warm in yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a way that sent little sparks up your arm. the air was thick with the scent of jasmine and the sea, and the faint sound of waves crashing against the cliffs below followed you like a lullaby.

“i think i could get used to this” luigi said, his voice cheeky and teasing.

“to what?” you asked, glancing up at him. the moonlight caught the curve of his smile, and your stomach did a little flip.

“to having you all to myself,” he said, his eyes twinkling as they met yours. “no distractions, no interruptions. just us.”

you laughed softly, bumping his shoulder with yours. “you’re such a romantic.”

“only for you,” he said, his voice dropping to a murmur.

when you reached the hotel, he held the door open for you, his hand resting lightly on the small of your back as you stepped inside. the lobby was empty, the only sound coming from the soft hum of the elevator as it carried you up to your room. luigi’s fingers trailed up your spine, sending a shiver through you, and you shot him a look.

“you’re being awfully handsy,” you said, trying to sound stern but failing miserably.

“can you blame me?” he said, his grin unapologetic. “i just married the most beautiful woman in the world, i think i’m allowed to be a little handsy.”

the elevator doors opened, and he followed you down the hallway, his steps slow and deliberate, like he was savoring every moment. when you reached your room, he unlocked the door and stepped inside, pulling you with him. the room was bathed in soft moonlight, the balcony doors open to let in the warm night air. luigi kicked the door shut behind him, his eyes never leaving yours.

“so,” he said, his voice rough around the edges, “how does it feel to be mrs. mangione?”

you pretended to think about it, tapping your chin. “hmm. so far, so good. though i think i need a little more convincing.”

he laughed, a deep, rich sound that made your knees weak. “oh, you need convincing, do you?” he said, stepping closer. “what kind of convincing?”

you shrugged, trying to keep a straight face. “i don’t know. you’re the one who’s supposed to be good at this.”

“good at what?” he said, his hands sliding around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

“at… making me forget my own name,” you said, your voice faltering as his lips brushed the shell of your ear.

“is that so?” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. “well, i suppose i’ll have to try harder.”

his lips found yours then, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring the taste of you. you melted into him, your hands sliding up his chest to tangle in his hair. he groaned softly, his grip on your waist tightening as he deepened the kiss, his tongue brushing against yours in a way that made your head spin.

when he finally pulled away, you were both breathless, your foreheads resting together. “how’s that for convincing?” he said, his voice rough.

“not bad,” you said, trying to sound casual despite the way your heart was racing. “but i think you might need to try a little harder.”

he laughed, the sound low and warm, and then he was kissing you again, his hands sliding under the hem of your dress to trace patterns on the back of your thighs. “you’re relentless,” he muttered against your lips.

“you love it,” you shot back, your voice barely above a whisper.

“i do,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “more than anything.”

he backed you toward the bed, his lips never leaving yours, and when the backs of your knees hit the edge, he gently pushed you down, following you until he was hovering above you. his eyes searched yours, dark and full of heat, and you reached up to brush a strand of hair from his forehead.

“i love you,” you whispered, your voice soft but sure.

he smiled, that same slow, heart stopping smile that had made you fall for him in the first place. “i love you too,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “more than words can express”

and then he was kissing you again, his hands and lips leaving a trail of fire wherever they touched. his fingers found the zipper of your dress, pulling it down slowly, his lips following the path of his hands as he kissed his way down your neck, your collarbone, your shoulder. you arched into him, your breath hitching as his mouth found the sensitive spot just below your ear.

“luigi,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“say it again,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your skin.

“luigi,” you said, louder this time, and the way he groaned sent a shiver down your spine.

he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and full of promise. “you’re mine,” he said, his voice rough. “all mine.”

“yours,” you agreed, your hands sliding under his linen shirt to feel the warmth of his skin. “always yours.”

as luigi kissed you once more, his touch ignited a fire that burned brighter with every passing moment. the world outside faded away, leaving only the two of you, lost in each other and the promise of forever.

──── ୨୧ ────

from sicily, you flew to rome, where luigi insisted on renting a vespa. “it’s the only way to see the city,” he said, handing you a helmet as you raised an eyebrow. “you just want an excuse to hold me close.”

“guilty,” he said, grinning softly as you climbed on behind him. the wind whipped through your hair as you zipped past the colosseum and the roman forum, your arms wrapped tightly around his waist. when you stopped for drinks at a tiny café, he leaned over and whispered, “i could get used to this.”

“to what?” you asked, sipping your coffee.

“to having you hold onto me like that,” he said, his voice dropping to a murmur. “it’s… motivating.”

you rolled your eyes, but the flush on your cheeks gave you away.

──── ୨୧ ────

in paris, you stayed in a charming little hotel in montmartre, where the windows opened to a view of the sacré-cœur basilica. one evening, after a day of exploring the louvre and the seine, you found yourselves on the balcony, a bottle of wine between you. the city sparkled below, and luigi reached for your hand, his thumb tracing over your wedding ring.

“you know,” he said, his voice thoughtful, “i think paris suits you.”

“oh?” you said, tilting your head. “why’s that?”

“because you’re just as beautiful, just as enchanting,” he said, his eyes locking with yours. “and just as impossible to resist.”

you laughed, shaking your head. “you’re such a flirt.”

“only with you,” he said, pulling you into a kiss that left you breathless.

──── ୨୧ ────

from paris, you flew to barcelona, where the energy of the city was infectious. you spent hours wandering the gothic quarter, marveling at gaudí’s architecture, and dancing in a tiny flamenco bar until your feet ached. one night, after a particularly lively performance, luigi pulled you into a shadowy corner, his hands resting on your hips.

“bellissima,” he said, his voice low and rough, “you’re driving me crazy.”

“oh?” you said, feigning innocence. “how so?”

“the way you move,” he said, his eyes darkening. “it’s really distracting.”

you smirked, leaning closer. “good.”

he groaned, pulling you into a kiss that was all heat and hunger. “you’re trouble,” he muttered against your lips.

“trouble you married,” you reminded him, and the way he laughed sent a shiver down your spine.

──── ୨୧ ────

in marrakech, the vibrant colors and intoxicating scents of the souks were a feast for the senses. you haggled over spices and silk scarves, laughing as luigi tried to charm the shopkeepers with his broken italian. “you know they speak arabic here, right?” you teased, and he shrugged. “it’s the thought that counts.”

one evening, you stayed in a riad with a rooftop terrace overlooking the city. the stars were impossibly bright, and the air was warm and fragrant with the scent of orange blossoms. luigi poured you a glass of mint tea, his fingers brushing yours as he handed it to you.

“you know what babe,” he said, his voice soft, “i think this might be my favorite place so far.”

“why’s that?” you asked, sipping the tea.

“because it feels like we’re the only two people in the world,” he said, his eyes searching yours. “and i kind of like it that way.”

you smiled, setting the tea aside and leaning into him. “me too.”

──── ୨୧ ────

in kyoto, you stayed in a traditional ryokan, where the sliding paper doors opened to a serene garden. the quiet beauty of the city was a stark contrast to the bustling energy of marrakech, and you found yourselves slowing down, savoring each moment. one night, after a soak in the private onsen, you wrapped yourself in a yukata and joined luigi on the tatami mat. he reached for you, pulling you into his arms.

“gorgeous,” he said, his voice husky, “you look incredible in that.”

“it’s just a robe,” you said, laughing.

“on you, it’s a masterpiece,” he said, his hands sliding under the fabric to rest on your waist. “but then again, everything looks good on you.”

you rolled your eyes, but the way he was looking at you made your breath catch. “you’re such a charmer.”

“only for you,” he said, his lips brushing yours. “always for you.”

──── ୨୧ ────

in santorini, the whitewashed buildings and turquoise waters were like something out of a dream. you spent your days exploring the island, swimming in the aegean sea, and watching the sunsets from your terrace. one evening, as the sky turned shades of pink and gold, luigi pulled you into his arms, his chin resting on your shoulder.

“remember when we said we’d do this?” he said, his voice soft. “just us, seeing the world?”

you turned to him, your heart full. “best decision we ever made.”

he kissed you then, slow and sweet, his hands tangling in your hair. “not the best decision,” he murmured. “marrying you was.”

you laughed, swatting his chest. “cheesy.”

“you love it.”

“i love you,” you said, and the way he looked at you made you feel like the most beautiful woman in the world.

──── ୨୧ ────

as the six months came to an end, you found yourselves back in sicily, standing on the same cliff where it all began. the sun was setting, casting the sea in hues of orange and purple. luigi pulled you close, his lips brushing your temple. “so,” he said, his voice teasing, “what’s next?”

you smiled, leaning into him. “whatever we want.”

he grinned, that same mischievous grin that had started it all. “i like the sound of that.”

and as the waves crashed below, you knew this was only the beginning of your greatest adventure.

i need this man SO BADLY okay bye happy reading <3

[vigilante-3073]

Diamonds

Carlisle Cullen x Human Female Reader

Summary: Carlisle and his significant other take a final trip together before her transformation.

TW: Mentions of illness and death.

Y/N and Carlisle sat across from eachother at a table on the Trocadéro platform in Paris. They had been in Paris for almost a month and it was their last night before returning to Forks. Y/N sat back in her chair, taking a sip from her wine glass before her eyes shifted to the Eiffel tower. The lights of the tower began to twinkle, lighting up the structure and bringing a soft smile to Y/N's face.

She looked over at Carlisle, cheeks flushing when she noticed that he was already looking at her. Y/N set her wine glass on the table, Carlisle picked up the bottle and wordlessly refilled her glass.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say that you were trying to get me drunk, Carlisle," Y/N said with a teasing smile.

"You should take the opportunity to enjoy every part of being human, especially fine food and drink," Carlisle said, setting the bottle back down on the table.

"Very well said," Y/N nodded, sliding the glass closer to herself.

Carlisle watched her for a moment, "How are you feeling?" He asked, her smile fell, "I thought we weren't going to talk about that tonight," Y/N said softly.

"We should," Carlisle replied.

Y/N sighed, "Well, I have a brain tumor that over 30 oncologists and specialists have told me is going to kill me within two years... But aside from that, I feel fine," She stated.

"Are you worried about what will happen when we return to Forks?" Carlisle asked, searching her face for any sign of uncertainty.

Carlisle knew that losing her would destroy him, but he still offered her the choice of whether or not she changed into a vampire.

Carlisle left the decision up to her and tried his best to keep his own feelings out of equation. He explained to her what the transformation would feel like, how long it could take and what life could be like as a newborn.

The decision was an easy one for Y/N.

The couple had decided to get away from Forks for a bit to enjoy some time together before she was turned. The Paris trip was coming to an end and Carlisle knew that the time to change her was coming up fast.

They would return to Forks and the family would help her through the transformation as they had done for Bella. The werewolves were aware of the situation and agreed to allow the Cullens to add another vampire to their coven.

"I'm not worried at all, Carlisle... I'm excited to live out the rest of my very long life with you," Y/N said.

Carlisle smiled softly, "On the topic of our future," Carlisle began, reaching into the pocket of his coat.

Y/N straightened up in her seat when he pulled out a small velvet box. Carlisle stood from his chair and moved over to her side of the table, lowering himself down onto one knee beside her chair. He flipped open the lid of the box, holding it up for her to see. The engagement ring glittered underneath the soft lighting of the restaurant.

"Y/N, you mean absolutely everything to me. Every day that I have spent with you makes me long for more and I couldn't imagine my life without you in it. All of my love belongs to you and it always will... So, will you marry me?" He asked.

"Yes," Y/N said, tears gathering in her eyes, "Yes, I'll marry you," Y/N said shakily.

Carlisle smiled, plucking the ring from the box and sliding it onto her finger. Y/N cupped his cheeks, pressing her lips to his in a passionate kiss.

"I love you so much," She mumbled against his lips before pulling him back in for another kiss.

....

Y/N and Carlisle returned to Forks the next day. That night Carlisle held her in his arms and told her how much he loved her before sinking his teeth into the soft skin of her neck.

Carlisle's venom coursed through her bloodstream, igniting every nerve with white-hot pain. Carlisle stayed by her side throughout the transformation, holding her close to himself as she writhed in pain.

Seeing her go through the transformation was awful and knowing that he was responsible for causing her that pain made it so much worse.

Her transformation took almost two days before she woke up with bright red eyes.

The hardest part of living as a vampire was coping was the sudden bloodlust, especially with Renesmee in the house. It took a while for Y/N to adjust to being a vampire, but the Cullen family was there to support her through every challenge.

After Y/N learned to control her thirst, she and Carlisle were able to look into planning their wedding. Y/N couldn't care less about having a big wedding, she only needed her family and Carlisle.

Luckily for them, Alice had been planning the wedding from the minute she discovered that Carlisle was going to propose. The only adjustment made by the Y/N and Carlisle was a decrease in the amount of attendees.

They were married in the backyard of the Cullen house as Edward and Bella had. It was an intimate affair meant to celebrate the love that they fought so hard for.

...

Y/N stood on the balcony of the Cullen house, staring out into the woods. The air was cold, morning dew shimmering on the dark green foliage of the forest in the soft morning sunlight. The door to the balcony opened as Carlisle moved outside to join his mate.

He stepped up behind her, his hands resting on her hips as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head, "What are you thinking about?" He asked softly.

"It's been three years since you changed me," Y/N stated.

"It has," Carlisle nodded, staring down at her as he waited for her to continue.

"I would be dead right now if you hadn't saved me," Y/N said.

Carlisle frowned, "Can I ask why you're bringing this up, darling?" He questioned.

"After I got my diagnosis, I just stopped living my life... I never planned a future for myself because I didn't think I would have one. Now there is just endless possibilities and I don't even know what to think," Y/N said.

"It's a normal response to feel overwhelmed after a sudden change. Is there anything I can do to help you adjust?" Carlisle asked.

Y/N turned to face him, "I don't know, but having you with me definitely helps," She said, sliding her arms around him and pressing her body against his chest.

Carlisle smiled, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her closer to himself. He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, "I think we should get away from Forks for a bit, just you and me," He said.

"Where would you want to go?" Y/N asked, tilting her head to look up at him.

"Wherever you'd like. We've got all the time in the world," He smiled, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to her lips.

[kovir]

DRAGON AGE: THE VEILGUARD (2024) dev. Bioware      Upon opening the door, he became distracted by a chip in the wardrobe’s decorative carvings. Viago was sure it hadn’t been there before—he had an eye for imperfections.      Someone’s been here.      Viago reached inside for the black box containing his gloves. Instead of cool metal, his fingers brushed against a line of scales. A forked tongue flicked against his wrist. Viago wrenched back just as a flat, diamond-shaped head lunged through layers of indigo.      The Crow was quick. The adder was quicker.      Cazza, he thought, unceremoniously.           Eight Little Talons by Courtney Woods

[rose24207]

Family Business

Summary: An evening where Lando and his wife recognise themselves in their children.

Genre: Mafia!Dad!Lando, fluff

TW: None

A/N: I have like so many stories in my drafts and just post them because why not? English is not my first language! I hope you enjoy it though! Requests are open and welcome!

Should I make a series out of this?

Masterlist

The grand villa was alive with laughter and warmth, an unusual sight for a house belonging to one of the most feared mafia families in Europe.

Lando Norris, heir to the Norris empire, sat at the head of the massive dining table, a glass of red wine in hand. The glow of the chandelier above reflected in his sharp eyes, but there was a softness to him tonight.

To his left sat you, his wife, the polar opposite of his ruthless world.

Where he ruled with strategy and precision, you led with compassion and kindness. You had a unique ability to bring light to the dark corners of his life, and tonight was no exception.

You were serving dessert yourself, much to the dismay of the staff.

“Madam, please,” Maria, the head of the kitchen, protested. “This is our job.”

“Oh, nonsense,” you said with a warm smile, placing a plate of chocolate cake in front of one of the guards. “You all work so hard. Let me treat you for once.”

Lando watched you with a mixture of amusement and adoration. The hardened men who feared his orders like gospel melted under your kindness, mumbling grateful thanks as you handed out plates.

Across the table, your children were mid-debate.

“No, no, you don’t get it,” Amelia, your ten-year-old daughter, argued, her small hands slamming the table for emphasis. “Papa’s the coolest. He’s strong, and smart, and everyone listens to him. I’m gonna be just like him!”

Lando smirked at that, leaning back in his chair. “Is that so, Amelia?”

“Yup!” She nodded confidently, her dark curls bouncing. “I’ll run the family business one day. Better than you, even.”

“Ambitious,” Lando said, raising his glass in mock salute. “I like it.”

Your eight-year-old son, Jacob, rolled his eyes. “You’re all so dramatic. Mama’s the best. She’s nice to everyone, and she doesn’t yell like Papa.”

Lando raised an eyebrow, feigning offense. “I don’t yell.”

“You yelled at Uncle Carlos last week,” Jacob pointed out.

“That was a strategic discussion,” Lando replied, struggling to keep a straight face.

You laughed, shaking your head as you returned to your seat. “Jacob’s right. You do yell.”

Amelia crossed her arms, glaring at her brother. “You’re too soft, Jacob. How are you supposed to run the business if you can’t even scare anyone?”

“I don’t want to run the business,” Jacob said matter-of-factly, stabbing his fork into his cake. “I’m going to be a veterinarian.”

“A vet?” Amelia wrinkled her nose. “That’s boring.”

“Amelia,” you chided gently. “It’s not boring if it’s what Jacob wants. Besides, being kind is just as important as being strong.”

Amelia huffed, but your words sank in.

Lando observed the exchange quietly, marveling at the balance you brought to their lives.

Later that evening, after the kids had gone to bed, you and Lando sat on the terrace overlooking the gardens. The night air was cool, and the stars were scattered across the sky like diamonds.

“She’s got your fire, that one,” you said, leaning against Lando’s shoulder.

“And he’s got your heart,” Lando replied, lacing his fingers with yours. “We’re raising a mini us, you know.”

You laughed softly. “Is that a good thing?”

Lando kissed the top of your head. “The best thing.”

For a moment, the world outside the villa—his world of deals, betrayals, and shadows—felt far away.

Here, with you, with his children, he was simply Lando. A man who had everything he’d ever wanted, and more than he thought he deserved.

As the staff cleared the dining room below, they whispered among themselves, as they always did.

About how Mr. Norris was terrifying, yes, but also fiercely devoted to his wife.

About how Madam Norris made their lives better with her warmth and generosity.

About how the children were growing into reflections of their parents—Amelia, bold and determined, and Jacob, gentle and kind.

It wasn’t a typical mafia family, no. But it was theirs. And that was more than enough.

Thank you for reading!

[nininikki]

divorced-ish — n. kento

content warnings: ex-husband!nanami, delusional!nanami (he’s cute tho)

author’s note: sigh i need him

ex-husband!nanami who just couldn’t stay away from you if he tried

ex-husband!nanami who you’d originally separated from on account of his work seeming to hold more priority over you, and then your newborn daughter.

ex-husband!nanami who still keeps a photo of you and the baby on his desk at his job (which, ironically, was the thing that ultimately led to his marriage failing). when asked by his nosey secretary why he still kept the photo, he only responded, “it’s my family. why wouldn’t i?”

ex-husband!nanami who had yet to actually finalize the divorce. but really, it wasn’t his fault. he just hadn’t gotten around to sending the papers over (or having them printed up at all), what with all those crazy shifts at work. oh, well, it didn’t matter. he would do it at some point.

ex-husband!nanami who had left you virtually everything in the not-so-finalized-divorce. the four bedroom, four bathroom house, your diamond 6 carat engagement ring, your wedding china, the aston martin db9 he had gifted you for your birthday, the park avenue apartment, the country house in monaco—all of it.

ex-husband!nanami who you had never been able to turn down whenever he stayed over just a little later after dropping the baby back off with you. the two of you would sit on the couch and catch up over a glass of wine. then one glass turned to two, then two to three. and for a minute it would almost feel as if you were still married.

nanami never ended up leaving until the late hours of the night. by which point you began to wonder where he’d gotten all the free time he couldn’t seem to find when you were actually married.

ex-husband!nanami who internally scoffed whenever you mentioned going on a date with another man.

“do you think you could watch her on saturday? i’ve got a date i really don’t wanna miss.” you’d asked at the tail end of an already too long (thirty minute) phone call.

nanami breathed a recognizable, pensive sigh on the other end, chewing through what he’d earlier told you was tempura, but considering how long it was taking him to answer, it may as well have been your nerves.

“you know i will, but, uh,” you heard him swallow. “a date?”

although your ex-husband didn’t exactly sound like he was joking, you couldn’t help the giggle that vibrated through your body. glancing at the clock on your nightstand that read eight-thirty and the baby sleeping soundly in the crib next to your bed, you propped the house phone between your ear and shoulder. what was the harm in killing another thirty minutes?

“yes, kento, a date. his name is scott. he’s an art dealer. i think you’d like him.”

“does scott know you’re still married?”

“separated,” you corrected him. “and no, he doesn’t. do you tell every woman who asks you out that you’re married?”

nanami hesitated for a second before answering, “yes, i do.”

ex-husband!nanami who came to your house with flowers and a store bought pumpkin pie for thanksgiving. more than you’d like to admit, you liked having him around for the holidays. he was so good with the baby, and so attentive to everything else. cleaning up all the leftovers and stray baby toys as the night came to an end.

it was nearing ten o’clock when he had successfully put the baby to sleep, and then came down to help you tidy up the downstairs. “y’know you didn’t have to buy a pie, right?” you told him after you’d discovered it hidden amongst the array of leftover pots and aluminum pans. “i know it’s your favorite. i’d have made you some.”

nanami brought his task at hand (loading the dishwasher) to a stiff halt and joined you at the island countertop. “but hey,” you added, tearing the lid off the pie. “we could see if it’s as good as the real thing.”

your ex-husband, usually the most well-spoken man you knew, could only stiffly nod in your direction while you retrieved a pair of shiny silver forks, still in the drawer they’d always been in. “and i got some whipped cream if you want.” you added as you gave him a fork, now taken aback by his sudden lack of speech. seriously, he hadn’t spoken this little since the year leading up to your separation.

what you didn’t know was that nanami couldn’t speak if he wanted to. he needed this. the three of you hadn’t had a real holiday together since last halloween, and even that was admittedly very bleak. “i miss you,” nanami blurted.

and he did. he missed your desserts for every holiday—savory pumpkin pie for thanksgiving, sweet apple pie for christmas, strawberry eclairs for valentine’s day. he missed opening his eyes every morning to the sight of your face smushed into a pillow, or a bit of drool gathering at the corner of your mouth. he missed coming home from work to the sight of you and the baby sound asleep on the couch. he missed being your husband, and even more knowing you were his wife.

ex-husband!nanami who spent the night fucking his ex-wife into the couch as though they were still married. wrapping you in his strong arms, while murmuring promises of change and betterment. “i’ll never go to work again, swear,” he said, shuddering between deep thrusts. “please just take me back, baby.”