#just thinking about the money and attention

[onsomenewsht]

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’m 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.

[jihyoruri]

❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ 𓍢 STAR A WAR kim minjeong x reader

❝If I need to start a war, I'm gon' try for you, I'll fight for it, go off for you, I’ll start a war❞

౨ৎ warnings: president x vice president, school!au, mild insults not much, swearing

the classroom was quieter than usual. the hum of idle chatter had died down, leaving just the sounds of rustling papers and the clinking of pens against desks. jimin sat in the back, her eyes fixed on yn, who was sitting in the front of the room with that perfect posture, writing something down with quick, precise movements.

yn was always like this sharp, proper, perfect. she looked like she stepped out of a magazine ad with her crisp uniform, tailored to absolute perfection. her hair was sleek and neatly parted to the side, held together by her signature expensive hair clip. everything about her screamed money, power, and control.

“how does she even do it?” jimin muttered under her breath to no one in particular, though minjeong, sitting beside her, heard her clearly.

“do what?” minjeong’s voice was quiet, almost hesitant, as if she was always careful not to draw too much attention.

“be so... obnoxious,” jimin replied, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “like, she’s the class president and she’s really good at it, but she’s so... passive aggressive about it. doesn’t even thank anyone for anything. and her whole ‘I’m too cool for you’ vibe is just... ugh.”

minjeong glanced over at yn, who was now talking with a few classmates, her tone polite but distant, like she was doing them a favor just by acknowledging their existence. 

“she’s... not that bad,” minjeong said, though it was clear from the way she looked at jimin that she wasn’t really convinced by her own words.

“oh, c’mon, minjeong. how can you even work with her?” jimin said, exasperated. “I mean, I get it, you’re vice president, but how do you stand being around her all day?”

minjeong shifted uncomfortably in her seat, eyes downcast. “yn’s... really good at her job. she gets things done and she’s not someone you want to go against.”

“I don’t care if she’s good at her job or not,” jimin shot back, shaking her head. “it’s her attitude. it's unbearable.”

minjeong sighed, clearly trying to avoid making things more complicated. but jimin had made up her mind.

“you know what? I’m running against her,” jimin suddenly declared, slamming her hand on the desk. “this whole school deserves a new class president. one with a little humility, you know?”

minjeong blinked, clearly taken aback. “jimin, I don’t think—”

“too late, I’m doing it,” jimin said with a determined look on her face. “this place needs a change. and I’m going to be the one to give it to them.”

“but—”

“no ‘buts,’ minjeong. I’m doing it, you need a new president by your side.” jimin stood up, suddenly energized, and started toward the front of the classroom where yn was gathering her things, already preparing to leave. “and you’re coming with me,” she added, grabbing minjeong’s wrist and pulling her toward yn.

“wait, jimin, no—”

before minjeong could protest any further, they were standing in front of yn’s desk. yn looked up at them slowly, her expression unreadable as she adjusted the strap of her bag over her shoulder.

“can I help you?” she asked, her voice polite but carrying an edge of disinterest.

“yeah,” jimin said, crossing her arms defiantly. “I want an election. I’m running against you.”

there was a long silence. yn blinked, looking between jimin and minjeong, who was standing awkwardly beside her, her head lowered.

“an election,” yn repeated, her voice almost too calm. “you’re challenging me?”

“yep,” jimin replied without missing a beat. “i’m done with you, yn. I’m tired of your attitude. it’s time for a new class president.”

yn’s lips curled into a small, knowing smile. she glanced over at minjeong, her eyes lingering for just a moment before she turned back to jimin. “sure,” she said, her voice cool and collected. “if you really want to waste your time.”

jimin’s brow furrowed at how effortlessly yn had agreed, as if she didn’t care at all. but yn’s eyes gleamed with a knowing look, like she was already playing some game that jimin wasn’t fully aware of.

“we’ll see how this turns out,” yn added, before walking away without another word.

the next few weeks were a blur of campaigning, speeches, and endless debates. 

jimin, with the help of aeri, yizhuo, and minjeong, worked tirelessly to build a case for her presidency. but no matter what she did, it always felt like something was off.

for every speech jimin made, there was some technical issue. for every poster she put up, they somehow disappeared. even when she thought things were going well, she could feel the shadow of yn hanging over her. it was like everything jimin did was being sabotaged from the shadows.

“this is ridiculous,” jimin groaned one afternoon, throwing her hands up as she stared at a broken microphone. “why does this always happen to me?”

aeri, who had been quietly filing her nails in the corner of the room, looked up. “maybe she’s got someone working behind the scenes. like, you know, bribing tech support or something.”

“that’s insane,” jimin muttered, rolling her eyes. “there’s no way yn’s going that far.”

“you’d be surprised,” aeri said, smirking. “she is rich, after all. she probably has a whole team working to keep her in power, she’s rich dude, just like minjeong lately.” 

minjeong, who had been quietly helping with the posters, paused for a moment, her eyes flicking to aeri. “what do you mean ?” minjeong asked, her voice almost too soft.

aeri raised an eyebrow. “I mean, come on. have you seen you? designer clothes, accessories every week... it’s not exactly a secret.”

minjeong shifted uncomfortably, her fingers tightening around the corner of a poster she was holding. “it’s just... gifts from my dad,” she said quickly.

“gifts from your dad?” yizhuo said, clearly skeptical. “your dad can afford all that?”

“yeah, he can,” minjeong replied quietly. “it’s not a big deal.”

jimin, sensing the tension, quickly changed the subject. “let’s just focus on getting this campaign going. we need a new class president.”

jimin and the others sat at their usual table, catching up and discussing their next campaign move. 

it was just another normal lunch until yn walked by. she was flanked by a couple of her loyal followers, her posture impeccable. her gaze flickered over their table, but it was her voice that made jimin’s blood boil.

"oh, look," yn said, loud enough for them to hear, "the losers are still trying to make a name for themselves. such a waste of time, not even my vice president can help.”

the words hung in the air like ice, and jimin shot a glare at her, but yn didn’t even acknowledge it as she continued walking, mary jane’s clicking against the floor.

"she’s unbearable," jimin muttered under her breath, glaring at the back of yn’s head.

"don’t let her get to you," minjeong said quietly, though it was clear she was looking at yn’s retreating figure with a complex expression.

but the damage had been done.

jimin was hanging up the campaign posters when she noticed yn standing in the hallway with a couple of her friends. yn's gaze fell on one of jimin's posters, and without missing a beat, she walked over, her steps confident. her eyes glinted with a mix of amusement and something else jimin couldn't quite place.

"oh, jimin," yn cooed, her voice dripping with faux sweetness as she stopped in front of the poster. "I see you’re trying to make a difference. too bad this is going to be a waste of time. no one here wants a class president who’s all over the place like you."

jimin clenched her fists at her sides, her jaw tight, but she held her ground. "can you shut up for once?" she shot back, her voice steady "the election is not over yet."

yn smirked, her eyes flicking to minjeong who was standing beside jimin, watching the exchange silently. "we’ll see," yn said smoothly, "but you’re really not cut out for this. it’s cute though, watching you try, just because you don’t like me.”

before jimin could retort, yn’s gaze shifted to minjeong. her smirk widened as she casually addressed her, her voice suddenly colder, sharper.

"and it’s cute that you think you can betray me, your partner, to help her," yn said

minjeong stiffened, her eyes flicking nervously between yn and jimin and she instinctively took a small step back.

yn’s eyes lingered on minjeong for a moment longer, as if daring her to speak, but minjeong remained silent. 

yn turned away with a dismissive wave, her mary jane’s clicking against the floor with each step as she walked off, leaving the air thick with unspoken tension.

jimin glared at yn’s retreating figure, but her eyes quickly darted to minjeong, who had fallen into an uneasy silence.

"min, are you okay?" jimin asked, her voice softer now, trying to gauge her friend’s reaction.

minjeong hesitated before she nodded, though the uncertainty in her eyes was unmistakable. "yeah, I’m fine," she said quietly, but there was something fragile in her tone that made jimin’s stomach churn.

"don’t listen to her," jimin said firmly. “ she’s just a bitch"

but even as they worked, jimin couldn’t shake the feeling that yn was always one step ahead. and when the election results came in, it was no surprise, yn had won.

jimin’s stomach sank as she stared at the results, feeling a bitter taste rise in her mouth. “this doesn’t make sense,” she muttered under her breath. “she sabotaged me, I swear.”

the others comforted her, but jimin could barely hold herself together. she had fought hard, but it hadn’t been enough”

“you did your best, jimin,” yizhuo said, her voice kind. “it just wasn’t meant to be.”

jimin leaned her head back, “I really wanted to get you a new partner min, yn must be unbearable to work with.”

minjeong, who had been unusually quiet, stood up. “it’s okay, I’ve been doing this for a year, this is a bad time but I’m leaving early. my dad is picking me up.”

jimin barely registered the words. “alright, you’ll call us later?” she asked,

minjeong glanced at her, then at aeri and yizhuo. “yeah, of course.”

outside, minjeong made her way to the parking lot, her thoughts a tangled mess. she didn’t want to think about the election, the tension, the constant complaints about yn.

as minjeong reached the curb, a sleek black van pulled up. the door opened, and yn was sitting inside, her face buried in her phone. when she looked up and saw minjeong, a smile tugged at her lips.

“aren’t you going to congratulate me?” yn asked, her voice playful yet laced with something else something almost predatory.

minjeong hesitated, then finally smiled. 

“congratulations,” she said, her voice soft but sincere.

yn leaned forward and kissed her, soft and lingering. “thanks, baby,” she murmured against her lips. “thanks for helping me with all of this. I don’t know what your friend thought she was doing, going up against me.”

minjeong didn’t say anything right away, her hand slowly finding yn’s. “she thinks you sabotaged her,” minjeong finally admitted.

yn laughed softly, kissing minjeong’s hand. “little did she know, her best friend was behind it all,” she said, her voice dripping with amusement.

“did you like the gift?” yn asked, nodding toward the prada keychain that now hung from minjeong’s bag.

minjeong smiled. “thank you. you don’t have to get me gifts all the time, you know.”

“I like treating my girlfriend well,” yn said, her voice light but with a hint of something more serious beneath it. “besides, I always get what I want.” she smirked. “how do you think you became vice president?”

minjeong rolled her eyes playfully. “you’re impossible.”

“yet you still almost started a war for me, all that sabotaging, who knew you were so sneaky?”

yn laughed, her fingers intertwining with minjeong’s. “I can’t believe she thought she had a chance against me,” yn continued, leaning back in her seat. “I always get what I want. always.”

minjeong’s smile softened as she watched yn rant, enjoying the rare moment when it was just the two of them. “she’s still my friend, yn,” minjeong said quietly.

“unfortunately,” yn replied, her tone teasing, though there was affection in her eyes.

“you need a new dress,” yn suddenly said, shifting in her seat. “for that family event. I’ll get you one.”

minjeong smiled as yn continued to rant about the event. in moments like this, with just the two of them in the back of the car, it felt like the world outside didn’t matter. 

just her and yn, class president and vice president, side by side.

it felt... perfect.

[devotedfem]

You're an amazing writer. If you take requests I was wondering can you make a Taehyung x reader where they are dating and they go to jeju to have some alone time but jimin and jungkook decides to tag along and when jimin and jungkook are enjoying the pool taehyung takes that as an opportunity to get his alone time

Little trip go bad - K. TH x reader

Tags: non yandere (i never thought i'd write a non-yan fic lmao), smut, Tae is frustated, jealousy, he needs attention asap, he's so whipped and horny for y/n.

Permanent taglist | patreon.

You and Taehyung have been dating for over a month after he took the courage to ask you out. You two were friends since forever, so he didn’t want to ruin your friendship, but his desire and love for you was stronger than his fear, that’s why he took the risk, and he was so glad that you returned his feelings. He felt so lucky to have you in his life, he was so infatuated with you that his friends tell him that he’s just obsessed.

But it’s not obsession, it’s adoration, you are the girl of his dreams, how could he not be head over heels for you?

Your relationship was sweet, he treated you like a princess. But he couldn’t help his urge to touch your body, to have you under him crying his name with pleasure. He adores you, but he’s also a man, and he has needs, especially with a girlfriend as beautiful as you. Every time you touch him, he has to inhale deep to not lose control, to compose himself and not scare you away.

He needed you so fucking bad.

That’s why he planned a romantic trip to Jeju to have more time alone with you, to charm you so he can fuck you the way you deserve.

He jerks off every night just thinking about you, but he wants to treat you well and take things slowly because you’re worth it. He was a traditional man after all, but it was hard to resist your body.

You jumped with excitement when he told you to pack your things to travel, kissing him with so much love. He kissed you back immediately, devouring your mouth with yearning.

But everything went down the moment Jimin and fucking Jungkook came along, uninvited. You said that you didn’t mind their company at all as the sweet girl you are, but he did mind because he want time alone with you.

The boys looked at him with mirth, they did this on purpose to piss him off, just because Taehyung has been ignoring them too occupied with his girlfriend.

Taehyung was grumpy and angry the first day of the trip, rolling his eyes every time the boys steal your attention away from him. Jealousy burned his very core when you didn’t have your pretty smile and eyes focused only on him. It wasn’t fair, he paid a really big amount of money to spend time alone with his girl.

Taehyung rent a house for three days, and the boys were enjoying themselves around the house giving you two zero privacy, driving Taehyung mad. He was about to murder them. He swears to God that cockblocking him like this should be reason enough to beat their ass up. He couldn’t even fuck you at night because you spent so much time playing PlayStation with them until dawn.

It wasn’t fair.

But then, as if God took pity on him, the morons leaved you two alone to go swimming in the pool, too busy with themselves to pay attention to you.

Taehyung stood behind you in the kitchen, leaving wet kisses on your neck and pinning your hips against the counter. You giggle telling him to stop, but he didn’t, pressing his bulge against your butt.

You were taken aback by how hard he was, gripping your body with burning desire. He sighed into your ear at the sensation of his groin pushing into your bottom, tightening his grip on your hips.

“I need you so fucking bad,” he whispered hotly against your ear, inhaling sharp when you arched your back.

You grabbed his hand, taking him towards your room.

He didn’t waste time, undressing you with desperation on his lidded eyes. He wanted to see you naked so bad it physically hurts him.

You giggle a little at his rushed and desperate movements, it wasn’t like someone would steal you away. But Taehyung didn’t think the same.

He took your sundress off, taking his time to admire your body, undoing slowly your bra without looking away from you, pulling your panties off right after.

“You’re beautiful,” he said breathless, with his dark eyes roaming your body with hunger, looking like a starve man that has finally found something to devour.

You felt shy under his intense and piercing gaze, trying to hide under the sheets. But he didn’t let you, pulling them away and leaving you bared one more time.

“Don’t you ever hide from me again,” he said between teeth, clenching his jaw and looking at you with a scowl. You nodded softly, not wanting to upset him.

He got himself naked quickly, as if he couldn’t resist one more second from fucking you against the mattress.

He kneeled between your legs, opening them widely and making you blush with embarrassment. Your heart pounded at his heavy gaze roaming your breasts and then your exposed folds. He took another peek at your breasts with hunger flashing his eyes, leaning down to play with your nipples, making you moan near his ear, that made him curse under his breath and get back on his knees.

He dragged you closer by lifting your hips up to align you with his erect cock.

“I love you,” he said flicking his dark gaze to your face before shoving his cock inside of you, making you moan his name loudly.

He didn’t waste time to prep you, ramming into you with force and splitting you open. You let out cries of pain and pleasure, and those sounds only railed him up instead of making him slow down. But you weren’t complaining, the pain felt as sweet as the pleasure.

His hands had a bruising grip on your hips, bouncing your body on his cock with raw need.

The vein of his neck popped out and his jaw clenched, the sight of his pretty face getting sweaty turned you on more. He looked so hot like that.

Your walls clenched around him, making him groan and ram into you with more force. You two were closer to your peak, that’s why Taehyung rolled his hips more frantic against you.

His tight grip on your hips turned a little bit unbearable. His face scrunch up in pleasure and his eyes closed before coming inside of you, filling you up to the brim. You came at the same time as him, whimpering and arching your back at the strong orgasm. And then you felt his lips leaving feather kisses on your skin.

Jimin and Jungkook didn’t see your faces until the very next day.

Taglist:

@demonshauntingthedoves @pynkgothicka @deluluisdasolulu @uniquecutie-puffs @Marrylouise @livingformintyoongi @captainhoook @asillysimp @devilzliaison @zephyrdawn @kvstjwonnie @yoongilovescats @bammbi-jeon127 @jerdafuck

[seat-safety-switch]

They say an apple a day keeps the doctor away, but for my money, if you want to prevent medical professionals from gaining access to your compound, the best way is fences. Landmines, sure, but the hoity-toity, poofy-doof governments of the world think that's a "war crime," even if they're entirely on your property and you work really hard not to step on any of them when you're out gardening.

For years, and nobody has been able to keep my attention span for long enough to explain it to me, doctors have been able to break into houses whenever they want. It's for your health, I assume, though whenever I am awoken by a strange noise at 3 in the morning, only to find a swarm of oncologists rooting through my trash, I don't feel particularly great afterward.

Perhaps you are also afflicted by this strange phenomenon. I think that we can band together, as a community, and tell doctors to keep this shit only to their offices. Or at least the daytime hours only. Of course, there is the risk that they will withdraw their medical services entirely, and we'll all start dropping dead of commonly-curable illnesses like scurvy and complex too-much-poopitis. So maybe we need to find a negotiator.

So, if any of you know how to make a rope trap that can catch a negotiator, come on by my place. We're going to meet out front, though, just in case you're actually a doctor. You'll have to pass my test in order to gain access to the secret group chat, at the very least. We'll show you a picture of a Porsche Boxster, and you have to not have any weird opinions about how the 911 is a better car.

[holylulusworld]

Play your cards (Prologue)

Summary: You played your cards well…so far…

Pairing: Mobster!Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Warnings: mafia au, grumpy/cocky reader, banter, mentions of gambling/counting cards

A/N: This is the twin-series to Roll the dice.

Play your cards masterlist

You played your cards well. No one is suspecting you. Tonight, you made a good amount of money. Not as much as you’ll need to fulfill your dreams, but you cannot risk getting caught.

Casinos will try anything to stop people from counting cards and winning. You know they’ll break more than your hands if you steal from them.

It’s not illegal to count cards if you’re not using any external devices. However, casinos and their owners do not like it when people have an advantage over the house.

That’s why you never go to the same casino more than two times.

Most of the people counting cards get greedy; you don’t. Knowing your limit and how to not draw attention to you is essential. Especially if you want to make money and stay alive in this broken town full of shady people.

Your goal is to make a certain amount of money per night. Never the same amount. In and out within two or three hours. You take your time and never get impatient.

It’s your game, and you play it well. You even lose half of the time you’re playing. Only small amounts, but enough to not make anyone suspicious.

You’re good at your game. The best.

“Another one,” you say, and smile sweetly at the hostess. You’re two thousand dollars away from your goal, but you will lose this round.

Two hundred bucks won’t hurt if the money secures your image of a lonely, heartbroken girl seeking shelter in gambling and drinks.

People at the table awed loudly as you lost this round. You hide a smirk because you are playing your role well.

While you sip on your drink, your tongue playing with the straw, a pair of blue eyes is following your every move.

Unbeknownst to you, your game didn’t go unnoticed tonight.

He had other plans tonight. Plans someone crossed. James Buchanan Barnes wanted to have fun and enjoy a party.

He didn’t expect to find his date going at it with some other guy. Bucky doesn’t care about that woman getting some from another guy. He simply won’t allow anyone to cross his plans.

The waitresses hurriedly walk past Bucky. His brooding, intense expression tells them to not ask questions.

He leans against a wall, keeping an eye on you. Just like he did over the last hours. His dark hair is slicked back, and he's wearing a perfectly fitting, tailored suit with a bowtie.  

You giggle at something one of the other players at your table said. It wasn’t funny at all, but it allowed you to quickly look around the room.

Bucky’s eyes meet yours for a split second, and you know he knows.

You turn your head toward the player at your table, acting all girly as you ask for another card. Bust. Five hundred bucks are lost, but you cannot win again.

Tonight, you won’t make the money you wanted to add to the pile you’re hiding.

“The bank wins,” the hostess declares, and you fake a sigh.

“What a pity,” you say before downing the rest of your drink. “I guess I’ll try with the slot machines now.” You get up without a hurry.

Bucky watches you make a show of ordering another drink at the bar close to his position. He didn’t move or even blink since you left the table.

“Thank you,” you slur, and wink at the bartender. “If I weren’t heartbroken, I’d take you home.”

“You know,” the bartender replies, “the only way to get over a guy is to get under another.”

You sneer at his words and throw the drink in his face. Crap. Bucky pushes off the wall to walk right up to you. He stands next to you, glancing at your empty glass.

“She gets a free refill,” he says, eyes trained on your face. Bucky smirks. He can see right through your façade. Not because your game isn’t well played, but he’s simply better at it. Years of watching people count cards to make more money than they deserve.

“I think I should go,” you slur and wobble a little to make it believable. “Thank you, sir.”

“Sir?” Bucky laughs. “Doll, you have to try harder to trick me. So, how much money did you steal from my friend?”

[sourcherrybites]

Legally Binding affairs; vol I

.☘︎ ݁˖ Character: Jason Todd x DA! Reader

.☘︎ ݁˖ Disclaimers: Idk, swearing? Reader has a lot of mean thoughts and some misogynistic beliefs. Guns. OH, and reader is a smoker.

.☘︎ ݁˖ a/n: Tell me if you'd like to be in a taglist or something

.☘︎ ݁˖ Word count: 1,883

➜ Prologue | Part 1 | Part 2

Masterlist

There had been a few minutes of silence between you two, even after Jason put back his gun, his jaw was clenched so hard you thought he'd break a tooth and you had to explain a lot.

First of all, how did you keep tabs on them, That one was easy. You had informants in various criminal rings, primarily out of favours you had collected over your journey on sex crimes. You cared about your victims, and they returned with some dirt. One of the first dancers you met had told you once, "Men spill all their secrets after doing it," so all your main sources were pillow talks, and women loved complaining about said talks.

You know, it's kind of funny when you think about it. Why did you have tabs on them in the first place? It's simple, really— you just never trusted those billionaires! So, you started keeping an eye on the Wayne family and, honestly, every other wealthy family in Gotham, too. It's like a little hobby, don't you think? Just keeping tabs on the elite while sipping coffee and taking down their secret source of income in the courthouse, watching them struggle and squirm behind those practised smiles and ironed suits when they are forced to interact with you in social settings.

"So, what do you plan on doing with this information?" Jason sighed finally, biting the inner wall of his cheek. He had been doing that for quite a while now, chewing on his cheek or lip to the point it bled. "You plan on... what, blackmailing the man?" That made you chuckle, but you answered truthfully with the most relaxed grin you were capable of producing. "Honestly, I have no idea what to do." That takes him aback. You did the impossible and uncovered the most well-kept secret in modern times, and you didn’t plan to do anything? He finds himself on the verge of asking before you speak again. "I thought it'd be harder if we're being honest. I mean, it's The Batman, you know?" Jason rubbed his temples and sighed. "Guess so..."

"You're not gonna tell anyone, right?" He inquires. "What do you offer?" You rest your elbow on the back of the couch and tilt your head. "What do I- Do you even know who you're talking to?" He exclaims, baffled that someone who looks like the epitome of righteousness would suggest that. "The guy who panicked so much he broke into my home? I'm asking you what do you offer." You push again with the same relaxed grin. You are pushing his buttons, and he knows it, you know it— so you ask.

"Wanna work with me?"

"Fuck You!"

You just laugh, it's so funny how he fumbles with his words and tries to act all tough, but for him it's not, it's not funny the way your eyes sparkle like that, filled with mischief, or how your laugh makes him want to shut you up, or how you handle him like a plaything, did you casually forget he is The Red Hood? The crime lord who broke into your apartment armed? Like, with a gun? He has a freaking gun within arm's reach!

"I don't tell anyone, and you help me bring down a few bad guys, competition if you may. It sounds pretty reasonable to me," you insist, and each word you spew sounds more insane to him. "So either I join you or you expose me and my family." His voice sounded restrained, like he was holding back from just breaking your nose, "I have some friends in the US attorney's office; maybe I can take care of a certain clown and company... but I'd need your help."

Now that catches his attention, so you take a deep breath, trying to rein in your frustration. "Look, The Joker has a whole set of godfairies backing him up. Too many people are either too scared to act or are making money off his chaos. Think about it— construction companies, security firms. They wouldn’t hesitate to pay off a judge or two to keep him locked up in Arkham just long enough for him to make his next escape, even help monetarily by giving a little incentive to the city not to invest in better security. It's all business, you know? A very lucrative one." You run your hands through your hair, feeling the tension loosen up as you continue, for once you can rant and be heard. "And don’t even get me started on the state. They don't even want to do anything because they see it as a waste of resources, and since he doesn't cross state lines most the time, the federal government ain't much more helpful."

"You want to get him the death penalty." He nods. "Though I don't like to trust the government with the power of killing civilians, but the man's gotta go, end of story." You shrug, and he presses his lips together. "We need a way to communicate without being caught." He murmurs, making you grin and raise four fingers. "Pre-paid phones, fake names, scheduled meetings and no secrets." He thinks about it for a few seconds and speaks, "I pay for the phones, in cash, the meetings are at my safehouse..." and that's when he smiles, "And I pick your name, deal?" he offers his hand. "Deal."

"How's your mornin', Golum?" He chuckles through the phone, the name rolling off his tongue with amusement. Two days after your last conversation, you received a cheap phone with an expensive-looking case through the mail with only one contact registered: 'Pookie', with an eye-catching pink heart next to it. You, of course, demanded an explanation, to which he said, "It'd be less suspicious that you called a boyfriend rather than some deep, poetic nickname," but Pookie? Pookie? It was completely humiliating and absolutely out of character for you, and it was petty, a little payback for all those stressful nights you had made him have. And he also called you Golum because why tf not, your fault for having an entire shelf dedicated to Lord of the Rings and a bigass Gollum figurine.

"It's fine, Pookie." You replied, faking a lovey-dovey voice as you walked out the back of the courtroom's office, a dark building that looked like it was closer to falling apart than being stood up, with chirping pillars, the main door that hadn't been painted probably since the building was first inaugurated and filled with obscenities graffitied on the walls.

You bit the inside of your cheek and groaned, rubbing your forehead in frustration. "Any reason for you to call me at this hour?" You asked, listening to his rough chuckle on the other side. "Or did you just miss my voice, Pooks?" Jason laughed even harder, a deep, dark sound that should be bothering you more, before taking a few shaky breaths and answering, "Look, we need to talk again—in person—to set up some things, alright?" You leaned against the wall, pinching the bridge of your nose, trying to suppress the irritation bubbling up your chest. "When?" He thinks about it, you can hear the soft hum of his voice through the line, pissing you off. "Friday? Say you gotta meet 'Pooks.'" You bit out a terse "Fine" before hanging up and shoving your phone into your pocket, feeling more bothered than ever.

You had a few seconds of silence, which you took advantage of by pulling out a cigarette and lighting up as you tapped your boot against the broken, dark concrete, trying to drown out the low hum of the place. "Uhm, Judge McGregor is looking for you..." The voice of one of the clerks called out behind you. Eve was her name, right? Not like it mattered to you either way. A short, sickly-looking young woman, barely reaching your shoulder, and probably not even 30. Her short, perfectly defined blond locks and bright, sapphire blue irises felt jarringly out of place in this grim, professional setting. You couldn't help but not like her; it was cringe-worthy how she seemed to play into that fragile persona, trying to provoke sympathy from the big, lumbering men of the courthouse. Those men, who looked like they had walked out of a low-budget crime drama, were somehow both repulsive and pathetic, and she seemed to bask in the attention by being so defenceless and frail.

It made your skin crawl.

You hated people like that, always the victim who couldn't do anything wrong and always had something or someone against them. But she was just a clerk; you were the freaking DA of the violent crimes bureau, and you were kind to her; better not get enemies; she may cause you trouble if you don't. "Sure, sweetie. I'll be there in a minute," you smiled kindly, dropping your cigarette on the ground, and you snuffed out the cigarette with your foot.

Friday night came sooner than later, and you soon found yourself in front of a building that looked almost as frail as your coworker, dressed in the plainest looking clothes you had in your closet: a black hoodie and loose jeans. You approached the structure with slow steps.

"Hey there, Gollum? I thought you wouldn't show up." His hands were wrapped around the barrel of one of his rifles, moving rhythmically as he cleaned it with a small cloth. "Remind me again why you picked that name?" you murmured, pushing back the hat of the hoodie. "You're... short... and annoying, and you like Lord of the Rings." he shrugged. "I would've preferred if you called me Frodo or Sam. I eat as much as a hobbit. And of course I'm short compared to you; you're a freaking mountain!" Jason whistled, his eyebrows raising with amusement as he leaned back in his chair. "No need to hold back; you can curse all you want in this humble home of mine. "Can you close your fucking legs, please?" you smiled

He set the gun aside, pointing at one of the chairs nearby as he stood up and walked towards what you assumed was the kitchen. You hesitated, glancing at the assault rifle before reluctantly sitting on the chair. Jason came back a few minutes later with two cups of coffee, steam flowing and curling like a Van Gogh painting, his eyes studying your reaction before settling into the opposite chair with a calculated calmness

"So?" you questioned, sniffing the coffee. You weren't stupid; only god knew what he could've gotten into your drink. "Where are you from?" You blinked twice, completely taken aback by his question. "You know everything about me, and I don't know anything boutcha, so do tell." He leaned over with a smirk. "If we're to be allies, let's stop being strangers, hm?" he tilted his head, and the soft green of his eyes filled with honesty, though a spark of suspicion remained, but you... Did you lose anything by trying?

"Okay..."

The next evening, you got a box of malboros and black coffee on your doorstep.

©sourcherrybites 2025

[grison-in-space]

So this isn't necessarily true, and upon a considered pass over American history, I think this is actually a really bad talking point. It is absolutely possible to recover our infrastructure way, way faster than that, because we did it once before. We can do it again.

IF WE RECAPTURE CONGRESS. WHICH MEANS FUCK 2028. WE NEED TO TACKLE 2026 FIRST.

This thing where left leaning folks ignore midterms in favor of the presidency must end now. There isn't even a chance of any of this good shit unless you have control of both houses of Congress (achievable but very hard) as well as the presidency and you hold that long enough to really impose some consequences on bad faith actors. If you can do this, we can actually fix things pretty quick. It would help if we can get someone charismatic to openly campaign on doing so, which is a large part of what worked the first time. I'm speaking here of FDR's New Deal.

It's a good idea to talk in detail about the timeline that the New Deal actually took, because a lot of it is much faster than I expected before I went to take a look. The first 100 days of FDR's administration were every bit the whirlwind this one is—except his priorities were "getting Americans back to work, protecting their savings and creating prosperity, providing relief for the sick and elderly, and getting industry and agriculture back on their feet." And he didn't use executive orders to do it, which creates unacceptable weaknesses in the fabric of our structure of separate powers. Doesn't that sound nice?

The key is that the electorate—that's us, folks—came in clutch and got him Congress to work with. That does not start in 2028. It starts right the fuck now, building towards 2026. So you don't need any damn notes telling you to dream smaller! Let's talk about how he did it.

Here's the story. FDR is first elected in 1932, right in the midst of the Great Depression (started in '29). (That one lasted almost a decade, folks, and we are absolutely gearing up for another one as a result of these fucking tariffs.) He wins in a landslide: Hoover didn't want to interfere while almost everyone was suffering, but Roosevelt's plans were at least supposed to do SOMETHING, and at the very least he wasn't the other guy who led us straight into Black Tuesday. Importantly, while his popular vote margin isn't that tight, his appeal is broad after so much suffering, and his election comes with landslide changes in Congress. In the House, Dems pick up 101 new seats*, giving him control of slightly more than 75% of the House. In the Senate, he picks up 28 of a total of 34 races, giving the Dems a 59 to 41 majority.

That is what a mandate looks like, folks! It's not what poor Obama got saddled with, it comes with Congressional power. Because of this, FDR is able to move just about as hard and fast with his executive orders as Trump did this cycle. The first hundred days of his first term are a whirlwind: he calls Congress to attention in a special three month session with no recess, and he presents to his party (who quickly pass) 15 bills that:

Dedicate 500 million dollars to relief for the poor in the form of schools, soup kitchens, blankets, and employment schemes. For the record, that's $12 billion in today's money. We actually can pay that without blinking if we empower the IRS, though, and it would be one hell of a stimulation to the economy: poor people who suddenly aren't as poor buy things. They don't have the luxury of shoving money into savings accounts. And that means more money for everyone. (By the way, that legislation invented a brand spanking new Federal Emergency Relief Administration to implement these programs. In 1935, that agency split into the Works Progress Administration and the Social Security Administration. The WPA was wound down in the forties to help funnel labor into the war effort, but the SSA was until recently considered the Golden Cow of the American budget and, as of my writing on March 29 2025, continues to exist.)

Stabilized the banks: declared a national four-day bank holiday to prevent runs on banks, created a system of banking insurance to depositors so that if the bank got robbed or failed you don't lose your money, and then delivered the first fireside chat over radio to personally explain this to the American people. This is generally seen as ending the runs on banks to withdraw money in a terror of loss that created the Great Depression.

Ended Prohibition by immediately federally legalizing the sale of wine and beer with alcohol content no greater than 3.2%, contingent on states adding their own legal approval for the sale of these beverages into their state law. This was the equivalent of declaring marijuana an unscheduled drug would be today and wasn't just super popular with drunks: it served to immediately undercut the black market in alcohol and organized crime that had been bubbling since 1919 and Prohibition hit. It also fixed a public health crisis as adulterated alcohol designed to repel illegal use had actually been large-scale poisoning and often killing or disabling Americans who drank the alcohol anyway. (For more on that, Deborah Blum's The Poisoner's Handbook is excellent.)

Established the Civilian Conservation Corps, an agency designed to both create useful infrastructure for all Americans and also provide jobs and job training for young men in particular (although there was eventually a women's version) who had had difficulty finding jobs. Most famously, the CCC built a huge swathe of our current infrastructure and roads. It was an enormous morale builder that helped bring dignity and pride in the nation for the approximately three million people who were part of it during the nine years it was in action. Like the WPA, it was later wound down during the buildup to the war effort of WWII.

Implemented the Agricultural Adjustment Act, which subsidized farmers and also paid some to not plant on parts of their land--allowing crop prices to rise and keeping farmers in work. This also helped to boost the economy by keeping farmers able to farm while making a living and preventing grain prices from tanking if there was a surplus. This was another major factor in the Great Depression that was related to widespread hunger and collapsing crop prices: if no one can afford to farm, food availability actually shrinks.

Revitalized the particularly impoverished Tennessee River Valley by creating a Tennessee Valley Authority that (you may be sensing a theme) hired many people in a particularly ravaged part of the country and set them building a giant electrical utility that would be a powerful source of, well, power in the area. This one is still running today and providing power to folks in the southeast.

Created the Farm Credit Administration to provide a network of "friendly credit" that farmers could use to lean on in the event of economic or ecological disaster. This had also been an enormous problem prior to this, with bank foreclosures frequently disrupting or closing farms, leaving the farmers destitute.

Ended "gold clauses" in contracts, which largely serve to communicate distrust in federal currency because they specify that signatories can pay in gold or gold equivalent rather than in dollars. These have now returned, but distrust of the dollar hasn't--this was a bid to shore up trust in the economy, which had been badly tattered.

Invented the fucking SEC, which is designed to reduce corporate corruption and in particular discourage the kinds of bullshit corruption practices that keep fucking over the economy.

Instituted the National Industry Recovery Act, which--sorry, I'm getting tired--created two more bodies of workers where the government was paying people to build industry and training new workers in various industries again. This created the WPA --another major source of investment in the American worker -- which served to create jobs to invest in American infrastructure -- and the NRA, which was a new agency designed to create regulatory standards for American industries, with an eye to creating a better class of product.

Again, he did this all in 100 days. That's what you could expect with a solid Senate and House to back up an effective Democratic president. You can solve a lot of problems by throwing money at them, it turns out!

(Vote in the fucking midterms. I am not saying this again. And to be clear, I am expecting levels of voter suppression that we really have never seen outside of African-American communities and indigenous American communities. Now is a great time to start sharing and reviving those stories, especially about the fights for civil rights in the 60s because we still have some veterans of those in our midst to ask. It's going to be very bad. But we did this once before, and this time there are more of us. Listen to our BIPOC leaders, here.)

Here is the thing. We can do this again. In terms of turnout, Biden saw higher turnout in 2020 than any other election after women received the vote in 1919. (I'm using that cutoff because it's harder to hit very high numbers with universal suffrage, since the more people who can vote, the harder it is to get everyone to the polls.) Even 2024 actually had higher turnout than any other post-theoretically-universal-suffrage election. And in terms of actual numbers of humans showing up to the polls, both elections saw about 15 to 20 million more people voting than ever before.

The trick is getting up the collective momentum to do it. And for that to work, we can't be pre-emptively telling people to dream smaller. Dreaming smaller is the thing that is tempting to Democrats because the Democratic Party was badly traumatized in 1984 over Adlai Stevenson and has never recovered its confidence. Well, it's time for the party to suck it the fuck up and learn, because I am thirty five goddamn years old and that happened before I was born, and we could use some fucking demagogues that give a shit about the little guy.

But we can't do that if you are pre-emptively telling people to lower their standards. We have to promise people something to get excited about. And if we can get Congress, we could actually achieve something to get excited about. Why cede ground in advance?

*I am counting the Farmer-Labor Party, a small socialist party from the Midwest who exists today in the form of Minnesota's Democratic Farmer Labor Party, as Dems. They're like Bernie Sanders: technically independent, functionally they caucus with Dems. They picked up four of those seats from their initial one federal seat.

Hey. Look at me. Please leave yourself a note somewhere you'll see it later that says "it is going to take years if not decades to get the United States government to the level of functionality it had in November of 2024." If we elect a democrat in 2028, we are not going to be up and running by 2032.

Please make sure you have a reminder in your phone reminding you to not look at 2028/32/36 Democratic candidates and say "why are they not promising/delivering Cool Shit?" because you are going to understand that to get Cool Shit we must have competent people running a decently funded government, and we are not going to have that.

We are not getting UBI. We are not getting single payer healthcare. We are not getting free college or free preschool. We are not redistributing wealth on a large scale. We are not getting free internet. We are not getting ranked choice voting.

If we are lucky, we are going to get an IRS that can collect taxes, qualified schoolteachers, research grants, Social Security, and a government that thinks maybe it should be a priority for people around the worlds to not have AIDS, malaria or TB.

[erisv7]

✾ SERIES.

𝖬𝖸 𝖲𝖤𝖵𝖤𝖭 𝖡𝖮𝖸𝖥𝖱𝖨𝖤𝖭𝖣𝖲 || P1

✾ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ/s : ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ᴊᴜᴊᴜᴛsᴜ ᴋᴀɪsᴇɴ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

✾ ᴘʟᴏᴛ : You dated several men at the same time, each seeing you as a tool for their own benefit. They manipulated you for their gain, knowing that as long as the money kept coming, your obsession with them would never fade.

The screen of your phone cast a dim glow on your face as you scrolled through the app—Girlfriend for Hire (GFH). The concept was simple: people could hire temporary girlfriends for dates, social events, or just companionship. It was all transactional. No strings attached.

And you? You were just here for the money.

You let out a small hum as you scrolled through requests, eyeing the most lucrative ones. Then, a particular name caught your attention: Nanami Kento.

A professor? That was rare. Most of your clients were businessmen, socialites, or the occasional celebrity. You clicked on his profile, curiosity piqued.

- Reason for hire: Workplace expectations

- Duration: Ongoing contract

- Conditions: No unnecessary public affection. Keep it professional.

A no-nonsense type. You smirked.

Interesting.

---

The first time you met him, it was at a quiet coffee shop near his university. He was punctual, arriving exactly at the agreed time. Dressed in a crisp suit with his blond hair neatly styled, he exuded an air of strict professionalism.

"You must be Nanami-san." You offered your hand with a practiced smile.

He hesitated briefly before shaking it. "Miss [Y/N]. Thank you for meeting me."

The handshake was firm but impersonal. You noted the way he observed you, as if assessing whether you were worth the investment.

"I like to set expectations early," he began, adjusting his cuffs. "This arrangement is not romantic. It is purely practical. My colleagues assume I have no social life. Having a girlfriend—real or otherwise—would put an end to unnecessary speculation."

You nodded, resting your chin on your hand. "Understood. And what exactly do you need from me? Dates? Dinners? Meeting colleagues?"

"All of the above," he confirmed. "But I have conditions. No excessive public displays of affection. No dramatics. And absolutely no real attachment."

You let out a soft chuckle. "You make it sound like I’d actually fall for you."

For the first time, a flicker of something crossed his face—amusement? Annoyance? You couldn't tell.

"People tend to blur the lines," he said simply. "I’d rather avoid complications."

---

Nanami was a man of structure. He set up a schedule for your meetings, sending you calendar invites like it was a business transaction.

At first, your outings were stiff, routine-like. You played your part well—attentive, supportive, but never too eager.

But then you started acting obsessed.

It started small. Lingering stares, soft sighs, subtle touches. You tilted your head whenever he spoke, smiling just a little too dreamily. You would occasionally mumble things under your breath like, "Nanami-kun, you’re so reliable… so strong…"

One evening, as you both sat in a quiet restaurant, you reached across the table, gently brushing your fingers against his wrist.

"Kento" you said softly, "I think about you all the time."

He froze mid-bite. Slowly, he set his utensils down, eyes narrowing slightly. "[Y/N]. This is a hired service."

You tilted your head, lips curling. "Is it? Because it doesn’t feel like that to me."

He exhaled sharply, as if composing himself. "I told you from the beginning—"

"I know," you interrupted, eyes shining. "But I can’t help it. You’re just… everything to me."

A muscle in his jaw twitched. He didn’t respond immediately, instead taking a slow sip of his drink.

You could tell he was trying to convince himself this was still just a business deal.

---

Nanami’s tolerance for your affection wavered over time. He never encouraged it, but he also never truly rejected it.

"You’re staring again," he muttered one afternoon as you sat in his office.

You rested your chin on your hands. "Can’t help it. You’re so handsome when you’re working."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "This wasn’t part of the agreement."

"Neither was taking me to that fancy gala last week," you pointed out. "Or calling me when you were sick."

He sighed. "That was for practical reasons."

"Mmhmm," you hummed, watching as his ears turned slightly pink.

---

Nanami took you to a formal gathering—some kind of graduation ceremony for his students. You had expected to stick by his side, but the moment you arrived, you were swarmed by his colleagues.

"Oh, so this is your girlfriend, Nanami?" one of them asked, raising an eyebrow.

Nanami gave a simple nod before immediately turning to discuss something with another professor, leaving you stranded.

You smiled politely, but as the minutes ticked by, frustration bubbled beneath the surface. The entire event felt like a dull networking meeting, with Nanami barely acknowledging your presence.

When you finally managed to catch his sleeve, he merely glanced at you. "I’ll find you later. Stay here."

And just like that, he was gone again.

All alone.

---

You simply stopped answering his calls.

You weren't doing it out of spite. You simply just found another boy-toy. Your contract was fulfilled. You had no reason to continue.

So, you blocked him.

For a while, nothing happened.

And then, the messages started.

Nanami: "You’re late. We had dinner planned."

Nanami: "I assume this is some sort of joke. Answer me."

Nanami: "Are you mad at me because I left you all alone?"

Nanami: "This is unprofessional."

A week passed. Then another.

One evening, as you left your apartment, you found him waiting near your building.

"You blocked me." His tone was calm, but there was something beneath it—something tight, controlled.

You smiled. "Didn’t you say no real attachment?"

His jaw clenched. "That was before."

You tilted your head. "Before what?"

He didn’t answer.

Because he didn’t know. Because somewhere along the way, he had blurred the lines himself.

And now, he realized too late—you were no longer playing the game.

---

The first time you saw his name on the GFF app, you almost thought it was a prank.

Gojo Satoru.

The strongest sorcerer in the modern era. The one people whispered about in awe and fear. What was someone like him doing on a girlfriend-for-hire app?

Curiosity got the better of you. You accepted the request.

---

Gojo wasn’t one to settle down. His entire clan knew that. But traditions weighed heavily on the Gojo name, and lately, the pressure to accept an arranged marriage had been suffocating him.

So, he came up with a plan. A fake girlfriend, someone convincing enough to make his elders believe he was already in a committed relationship.

That’s where you came in.

- REASON FOR HIRE: Arrange marriage contracts

- DURATION: Three months, or more.

- CONDITION: No attachments, I know you would probably fall in love with me. But I also need other women.

“That’s all I need. You play the role, and in return, you get the easiest paycheck of your life.”

You arched a brow. “And what exactly does ‘playing the role’ entail?”

“Attend events with me. Hold my hand. Gaze at me like I’m the only man in the world.” He replied to the call, voice dropping into something softer. “Make them believe I’m in love.”

“Anything else?”

He smirked. “Just don’t actually fall for me.”

You laughed. If only he knew.

---

The moment you walked into the café, he was already waiting for you, sunglasses perched on his nose, spinning his phone between his fingers.

Satoru: "You’re cuter than I thought."

Y/N: "You actually expected something?"

Satoru: "Touché. So, you ready to be the best fake girlfriend the Gojo clan has ever seen?"

Y/N: "Of course. But first, let’s talk boundaries."

Satoru: "Ooh, so professional. Alright, let’s hear it."

Y/N: "After the contract, you can't hire me again."

Satoru: "Boring, but fair. Anything else?"

Y/N: "I get full payment regardless of how things end. No cutting the contract short."

Satoru: "Fair, fair. And in return, you have to be convincing. The clan is annoying, but they’re not stupid."

Y/N: "Don’t worry, ‘Toru. I’ll make them believe you’re completely, hopelessly in love with me."

Satoru: "‘Toru?"

---

You didn’t expect the Gojo elders to actually like you.

You had assumed they would scoff at your presence, but instead, they welcomed you with open arms. They praised your manners, your background, your poise. You were the perfect choice.

Satoru: "You’re ruining my plan, you know."

Y/N: "How?"

Satoru: "They actually want me to marry you now. You’re supposed to be the worst."

Y/N: "Sorry, I can’t help being lovable."

Satoru: "I should’ve picked someone more scandalous."

Reader: "You love it."

And maybe, at some point, he actually did.

---

At first, you kept things professional. You played the role of a devoted girlfriend, the one Gojo’s clan would adore. You smiled at his elders, held his hand at gatherings, and laughed at his dumb jokes.

Then, you started acting obsessed. You just needed him to push you away so you can get to your next boy-toy.

You clung to him, whispered sweet nothings, sent long messages about how much you missed him. You looked at him like he was your whole world.

Satoru: "You’re really selling this, huh?"

Y/N: "Is it so wrong that I adore you, ‘Toru?"

Something flickered in his expression, but he smirked.

Satoru: "Not at all. In fact, I love it."

---

Gojo was never subtle about his flings.

He would leave you alone at events, winking at you before disappearing with a girl on his arm. He would make sure you saw the lipstick stains on his collar, the lingering perfumes that weren’t yours.

One evening, as you sat next to him at a gathering, he leaned down to whisper—

Satoru: "You’re not actually mad, are you?"

Y/N: "Why would I be?"

He raised an eyebrow. "I mean, we’re dating."

Y/N: "No, we’re pretending to date."

That was the first time he looked annoyed.

---

Gojo assumed you would always be around, looking at him with stars in your eyes. But then, you started pulling away. Your replies became shorter. The next time he texted to bring you to an event, you declined.

Satoru: "You busy?"

Y/N: "Yeah, I have plans."

Plans with another client. Someone who paid better.

And that was when Gojo started to notice.

---

At first, he laughed.

Satoru: "You’re just playing hard to get, aren’t you? Alright, I’ll bite. You win. Now come back."

Then, he got more desperate.

Satoru: "You’re not really mad, right? C’mon, I was just having fun."

Satoru: "Tell me you still love me."

Satoru: "Don’t ignore me."

By the end of the second week, his messages were erratic. Calls that went straight to voicemail. Texts left on read. He even tried tracking you down, but you had changed your routine.

And that’s when it hit him—

You weren’t coming back.

For the first time in his life, Gojo Satoru felt something he never had before. A gnawing, suffocating panic. Because you had been his, hadn’t you?

And yet, you were gone. Just like that.

But if he had anything to say about it…

You wouldn’t be gone for long.

--

The first time Y/N saw Geto Suguru’s name on the GFF app, she hesitated.

Unlike other clients, he wasn’t someone who needed a girlfriend in the traditional sense. He didn’t have a family pressuring him into an arranged marriage, nor did he need to convince colleagues he was taken.

So why did he hire her?

---

Suguru needed to maintain a certain image.

To his followers, he was their leader, their savior. But beneath that, there were whispers. Doubts. Some believed he had become too detached, too consumed by his hatred for non-sorcerers. If he wanted to maintain their faith in him, he had to show that he was still human. Capable of love.

“A girlfriend makes me seem more grounded,” he had explained over tea. “Less of a fanatic, more of a man with a vision.”

Y/N sipped her drink, meeting his gaze. “So, you want me to make you seem… normal?”

He smiled. “Something like that.”

---

They met at a quiet, traditional-style teahouse. He was polite, almost unsettlingly so, speaking in a calm, measured voice.

“You look more refined than I expected,” he noted.

“And you look less unhinged than I expected.”

Suguru chuckled. “I like you already.”

Y/N leaned forward. “So, what are the conditions?”

“Public appearances, mostly. Attend a few gatherings, meet some of my followers, make them believe I still care about trivial things like romance.”

“And in private?” she asked.

His smile didn’t waver. “No obligations, unless you want there to be.”

---

At first, their interactions were formal. He treated her with the same distant politeness he gave everyone. But after a few weeks, something shifted.

He started lingering after meetings, inviting her to private dinners. He listened intently when she spoke, his golden eyes never straying.

“You’re quite good at this,” he murmured one evening.

“Faking love?” she teased.

“No. Making me believe it’s real.”

---

You played the role perfectly. In public, you clung to him, whispered sweet nothings into his ear, looked at him as if he was your entire world.

His followers noticed. They began to believe it, murmuring among themselves about how their leader had finally found someone who could anchor him.

And Geto, against his better judgment, started to believe it too.

“Do you ever think about leaving?” he asked one night.

“Why would I?” Y/N smiled. “You’re perfect.”

His expression was unreadable. “...I see.”

---

He never saw the shift happening. Not until it was too late.

Your messages became less frequent. You stopped attending gatherings unless necessary. You no longer looked at him with that same breathless admiration.

“You’re distracted lately,” he remarked.

“I have other clients,” you replied simply.

He paused. “I see.”

For the first time, something unpleasant coiled in his chest. He had always known this was temporary. And yet—

Why did the thought of you leaving make his hands clench into fists?

---

One day, you simply stopped responding.

At first, he told himself it was fine. You had served her purpose. He no longer needed to prove himself to anyone.

But then the silence stretched on. Days turned into a week. Then two.

“Did I miscalculate?” he muttered to himself.

He reached out once. Then twice. By the third time, he realized you had blocked him.

And for the first time in years, Geto Suguru felt something dangerously close to desperation.

Because you had become a part of his image. His control.

And now, without warning, she was gone.

He exhaled slowly, eyes dark with something unreadable. “I underestimated you.”

But he knows, Y/N wouldn’t stay gone forever.

---

Come back for part 2! This is just an introduction to my new series.

ᴄʀᴇᴅɪᴛs : You know how there's some fan fictions on tiktok without part 2/or you have to pay to read it? I got inspired on one of them LOL.

@tinna.blue241 is the account! On tiktok

[mushroomsneedystuff]

Streamer!Gamer!Kenma x MakeupInfluencer!Reader

CW: fem!reader, fingering, oral, nsfw, smut, kenma calls reader dumb/stupid, unprotected (pls wrap it up yall), AGED UP KENMA AND READER (early/mid 20s, but age isn't mentioned)

'Kodzuken was live' is the notification that came up on your phone right as you had heard your boyfriend, Kenma, raging at his computer. You were editing one of your makeup tutorial videos, stifling a laugh at the curses that fill the room next to yours.

Luckily, you both have your own spaces. You live together, sure, but you both made enough money to get a 4 bedroom house. Two bedrooms were used as each of your "offices", one was a guest room (Kuroo or Shoyo's room depending on who was staying the night), and then your shared bedroom.

Hearing Kenna's voice, raising slightly at what you could assume was his teammates for whatever game he was playing now, was always both entertaining yet slightly annoying when you were trying to work.

The same could be said for him though, when he's filming some short videos for his sponsorships and social medias, he can commonly hear you filming your 'get ready with me' videos or streaming.

It ended very commonly with his fingers under your outfit, teasing you relentlessly for "trying to get his attention" (he really just wanted your attention).

Like right now. He just finished his stream, and he didn't bother with knocking before his arms were wrapping around you from behind, his hand sneaking down under your little pajama shorts.

"Kept being so loud. You want all our fans to know we're together?" He says with a small huff, clearly just slightly irritated over losing just a bit more than usual tonight. That would be forgotten soon, he had his perfect little trophy, his cute little girlfriend, being completely molded to his liking by his hands.

He had you whining and melting, begging him "Ken please? Kenma, 'm sorry". You'd don't even know what you were begging for, you just wanted something, anything more than just his fingers.

He drags you off of your desk, tugging you into your shared bedroom, and laying you down neatly on the queen bed.

"I should just put a ring on your finger, huh? It'll get you to shut up and stop interrupting my streams?" He teases lowly, half serious as he drags down your shorts and soft or ties together in a fluid motion. He doesn't give you a chance to even think about what he just said, what he had hinted at, his tongue was already dragging along your folds and clit. Within seconds, you were writhing out in pleasure and whining quietly.

Kenma always knew exactly what to do to get you where he wanted, whether that be overstimulated and begging him to slow down, edged and sensitive beyond reason, flushed out and breathless; you were his statue and he was the sculptor.

Right now? He wanted you absolutely flushed with pleasure, moans leaving your mouth instead of the giggles and talking that had been picked up by his mic while he was streaming.

"There you go... getting even stupider just with my tongue?" He grumbles out against your pussy, lapping lazily at your folds and clit with motions that had your back arching and thighs trembling.

He pulls away right before you could cum on his mouth, leaving one harsh flick of his tongue along your folds. He had his pants pulled down slightly, just enough with his boxers for his hard cock to jump out.

His thrusts are slow and deep, drawn out to make you whimper and beg for more. If it weren't for the insults being groaned into your ear, it might've felt like he was making love to you (he was. in his own, pent up way).

He doesn't allow you to cum, forcing your chin up to look at him through your half-lidded eyes full of tears. "Are you crying already? So dumb on my cock, huh?" He muffles a groan with a scoff, starting to pound into you faster when he feels your cunt clench around him at his words. "You like being my good, dumb girl?"

He lets out a breathless curse under his breath when your walls flutter around his cock, his eyes glaring down into yours. "Hold it. You couldn't hold back that loud voice of yours when I was streaming, so now you don't get to cum". His words are mean, forcing you to try your best to hold back the orgasm that seems to be getting closer and closer to crashing down on you as his hips fuck into your tight pretty hole.

It doesn't take long for Kenma to get to his own orgasm, his forehead leaning down onto yours as he finally presses a searing kiss to your lips. He borderline whines into your mouth, trying his best to hold back his own orgasm

"Such a good girl... listening to be so well..." He gasps out quietly, shushing your whines and begs to be able to cum. "Go ahead... cum for me as i fill up my pretty pussy"

Your orgasm hits you hard, and your cunt is squeezing around Kenma so tightly that it's almost painful. He thrusts harshly a few more times inside you before slamming into you harshly and stilling his hips. Large waves of his own cum shoot deep inside you, filling up your womb and pussy perfectly while he groans. He's insulting and complimenting you all at once, somewhat pussy drunk on the feeling of your pussy clenching and fluttering around him so tightly, milking him for his sperm and seed. He rolls his hips slowly just a few more times, drawing out both of your orgasms before slowly pulling back and laying next to you.

You're both panting, catching your breath as you hide your smile into his chest. You both calm down for a few moments before he's pecking your forehead before leaving to go grab a towel to clean you up.

[bluebutterflytattooed]

Loser Lesbian Ellie Williams x Mean Girl Reader

CHAPTER SIX

The sight of the text makes you stop breathing. Not really, but that’s what it feels like. Surely that it’s just because Ellie texted you and you weren’t expecting it. Not because you’ve been thinking about seeing her again all the time and now you finally are getting your chance, and it’s 7 PM on a Saturday. What would the two of you even do? You have almost nothing in common. Correction, you have absolutely nothing in common at all. You and Ellie are like night and day, winter and summer, chocolate and vanilla, cats and dogs.

However, opposites do attract. Like magnets. There’s an undeniable pull between you two, whether that’s a pull of hatred, attraction, or just platonic friendship. You don’t know which one you want it to be. On one hand, you’ve tormented and teased her for years. On the other hand, she is unfortunately so attractive with her freckles and strong arms and biceps. But she probably is not at all interested in you, and you can’t possibly be interested in Ellie Williams, which means friendship is the only other outcome of these recent constant thoughts of the girl.

But…Hearts don’t speed up at the idea of hanging out with their friend, much less the nerd you make fun of. Breath doesn't get stuck in lungs because of friendship, and cheeks don’t get pink because of friendships.

You have to come to terms with it, you know you do.

There’s a very distinct possibility that you have feelings for Ellie Williams.

You don’t really know how this has happened. There haven’t been any signs of it before, other than your very deep obsession with her that you’ve had for years. But that wasn’t an obsession of attraction, it was one of distaste for her. She’s always been so fucking nerdy and so focused on her weird interests, someone that never in a million years would you be attracted to. Sure, you’ve noticed everything about her. Her stupid t-shirts, her favorite one being a Tears for Fears shirt (not that you have it memorized or anything), the dumb waistbands of her boxers that peek above her pants (again, not that you pay attention), the way sunlight or tears make her blue eyes extra shiny, sometimes looking greenish in direct light, or the way she nibbles on her bottom lip and runs her tongue over her piercing when she’s nervous. But those are all things you’ve made fun of in the past, not things that have made her appear… beautiful.

But, you still find your thumbs flying over your keyboard, your heart beating almost painfully fast, as you send a reply to her text:

You: I’ll be there in an hour tops

Well fuck. Now you have to go.

You scramble to take a shower, wash away the week of pilates and hanging out with your junkie mom. Your cherry almond conditioner and vanilla body wash filled shower is followed by a quick blow dry and clean-looking minimal makeup, pulling it all together with Brandy Melville sweatpants and a dark blue t-shirt that slouches off your shoulders. You’re praying that it looks as if you didn’t make an effort, but it’s cute nonetheless.

What does Ellie think of you? Why could she ever want you at her house after years of torture? These are the thoughts that plague your mind as you ride your bike to her house, your legs pumping so fast that they’ll be sore after this. You’ve tied your hair back with a claw clip, a gold one decorated with a butterfly that you got from Target, so that the wind doesn’t tangle your hair and you won’t end up at Ellie’s with ugly hair. Your silky hair is one of your personal favorite features, and you put time and money into maintaining it. The wind will not mess that up. Ellie’s ranch is a twenty minute bike ride from the trailer park, which gives you plenty of time to chew on the inside of your cheeks and stress out from the overwhelming confusion of why Ellie wants you to come over. She has no reason to, unless her friends are there and they’re going to work on the film. Filming sounds good, it sounds less scary than sitting next to Ellie wondering what the hell there is for the two of you to talk about.

Maybe we won’t talk at all, you find yourself thinking. Maybe there will be more hands and lips involved than words-

You scold yourself for thinking something like that; of course that won’t happen. You’ve been much too cruel to the poor girl for her to want anything like that to happen between the two of you.

The long, gravel driveway of the ranch appears ahead of you, and you hop off your bicycle to avoid a bumpy ride full of pebbles flying up and hitting you in the face. A dog runs up to you, a golden retriever full of bouncy energy, and follows you along the rest of the path. You lean down to pet his head a few times, and crouch down with him for at least a couple of minutes once you get to the house in order to avoid going inside. Why would you agree to come here if you’re too scared to go in and see Ellie? Maybe you shouldn’t knock on the door at all, just turn around and go back home, pretend like you got caught up with something-

But you don’t have to knock at all. Ellie opens the front door, staring at you as you play with her dog, a bright smile across your face. She’s never seen you smile like that before. Maybe because whenever you see her, your mouth is twisted into a scowl.

“Y/N,” her voice rings out from the porch, and you jerk your head in the direction of her low, smooth tone, looking up at her. “I, uh, I see you met muffin.” She says, flushing as she makes eye contact with you.

The smile stretches across your face again. “Muffin?” You sound like you’re teasing, but in a friendly way.

“Um!” Ellie squeaks “Yep! His full name is Blueberry Muffin, cause my dad makes them and- I don’t know why I’m telling you this, s’ so dumb.” Her face just gets redder and redder, which you find entertaining. And somewhat endearing. That’s what’s stupid here, the way you find her blushing at her own word vomit endearing.

“No, I like it. It’s a cute name,” You shrug, giving Muffin another pat on the head, standing up and pretending as if you weren’t just so anxious about seeing Ellie that your head was swimming. She lets you through the threshold and shuts the door behind you. Today, she’s wearing Minecraft socks, which makes you laugh under your breath. ”Should I take my shoes off?” You ask her.

“It’s fine, you don’t have to,” She says, but you take them off anyway.

“So why’d you ask me to come over, Ellie?” You ask her, raising an eyebrow. She seethes with jealousy; she can’t raise a single eyebrow. She can only raise both at the same time.

“I was, um, wondering if you wanted to do some scenes for the film? Cause we need to start getting those, and I’m pretty good with cameras and stuff. And I thought you might be nervous filming around Dina and Riley, so they’re not here. It’s just us. And my dad’s out of town too,” She says, all the words coming out in a rush. So you’re alone with Ellie. In her house. At almost 8:00 pm.

You swallow, knowing that you must look nervous now. “I… yeah, that sounds good. How should we start?”

She cocks her head to the side, thinking, as you follow her to her bedroom for the second time in your life. “We could do some shots out in the field. Like it’s the beginning of the apocalypse, and you’re just figuring out, like, how to navigate the world. And also, you probably can’t wear those clothes… they’re not accurate to what you’d be wearing in an apocalypse.” The passion she feels about this topic is evident in her voice, which you find…

“Cute,” You meant to only think the words, but they fall from your lips anyways. You slap a hand over your mouth.

“Hm?” Ellie didn’t hear you completely.

“Nothing! Just, what should I wear then? I didn’t bring other clothes,” You say quickly, breathing a sigh of relief when you realize that she didn’t hear what you said.

“Y-you can wear mine!” She stutters miserably throughout the short sentence, her face flushing again, even darker this time. She scratches the back of neck, below her bun that she always has tied up. “I have some that aren’t too ugly, but you’d look good in, um, in everything. So.” Her face is burning red and her tongue flicks out to play with her lip piercing, the whole movement followed by your eyes.

“Thanks,” You murmur. “Show me the clothes so we can get this filming over with.” You don’t really want to be on camera and pretend to be another person that you’re not, but Ellie seems so eager and excited, so of course you’ll do it.

How far you’ve fallen from being someone who would barely look at her to a girl gazing at her lip piercing as you enter her bedroom.

She digs through her extremely messy dresser. The clutter doesn’t surprise you, it suddenly makes sense why all her clothes are wrinkled. Apparently, the girl doesn’t know how to fold. Your lips curl up into a smile, which Ellie notices as she turns back around, the blush returning to her face. At this point, the pink hue on her skin is a permanent addition to her freckled cheeks. She sticks her hands out, holding a pile of clothes.

“There’s a t-shirt, and a hoodie, and, um, some jeans,” She says, staring at the floor. “I’ll leave the room while you change.”

“Thanks,” you say softly, taking the wrinkled pile and waiting for her to leave the room before you start stripping off your own clothing, shivering as the cold air of Ellie’s bedroom hits your skin. The farm house is old, and lacking in a heating system. Ellie just sleeps with a lot of blankets (most of them patterned with sharks or horses or dinosaurs) to make up for the lack of heat.

Ellie, standing outside her bedroom door with her heart beating a mile a minute, tries her absolute hardest to resist her very strong urge to peek through her door, which is slightly cracked open. Oh, she tries to resist what her little one-track lesbian brain tells her to do, repeatedly telling that urge that it’s wrong to want to do that, but… the lesbian brain wins. She moves to the side a bit, peering through the gap between the door and its frame. She watches, eyes wide and unblinking, mouth slightly open, practically drooling, as she sees you slip your shirt over your head, dropping your pants to the floor, to reveal a matching pink bra-and-panty set, purchased from Victoria’s Secret. Almost immediately, she can feel her boxers start to get sticky. Fuck. Her breathing becomes shallow as you dress yourself in her clothes. You are in her bedroom, putting her clothes on, and it's the most attractive thing Ellie has ever seen. She almost pouts when you’re done, once all your skin has been covered up, but she quickly recovers at the sight of you in her clothes.

“Ellie, I’m done.” You call to her, looking down at the clothes. They’re baggy on you, not overly baggy, and wrinkled like the rest of her clothing. Ellie comes into the room, staring at you. “We can film now.” You say calmly, as if nerves aren’t sprinting through your system.

“C-cool,” She stutters, slack jawed. “I’ve got the, uh, the camera set up. In the field. So, you can follow me out there.” Her hands, her whole body, is shaking. Her Hot Wheels boxers are practically soaked through to her torn black jeans, and she thinks she might be salivating.

The filing goes well. You look at the camera with a face filled with emotion, confliction, and fear. It’s perfect. Ellie knew you’d be perfect for this film. She stares at you the entire time, the camera aimed at you almost an afterthought. The movie will be good, yeah, but seeing you act like this right before her own eyes? It’s a dream. She’s in awe the whole time. Who knew you could act? You bully every theater kid you come across, so this passionate display of emotion from you, all done for the camera, is a shock to her. You get the whole scene done in one take.

“That was perfect,” Ellie gasps, her throat dry. “You’re really talented.” She gazes at you with huge eyes. In the sunset, you can see that her seemingly blue eyes are a pale greenish hue, a little bit of blue still floating around in them.

“Thanks Els,” You smile at her softly. Her breath hitches at the nickname. “Wanna watch a movie?” You propose. You don’t want to go home yet, face your mother and continue tending to her every want and need. You’d rather stay here with the girl you used to torment.

Ellie’s eyes widen as she folds up the camera stand and tucks it under her hoodie-clad arm. “U-uh yeah, we can do that!” Her voice pitches up into a squeak. It always seems to do that around you. “I’ve got a good collection. Starwars, and, ummm, How To Train Your Dragon… such a good movie…” She trails off, thinking. “But I’m A Cheerleader is such a classic, it’s about lesbians and uh- well, you don’t really care about that but.” She decides to stop talking as her face turns into a brilliant red tomato.

You cock your head to the side as you stroll into the house next to her. “We could watch that,” She nods quickly at your words. “Do you have a girlfriend?” The question slips from your glossed lips without it even being filtered through your mind. God damn it, you scream at yourself.

“What?” She yelps. “No! No no no, I don’t. I’m single. Single pringle!” Now it’s her turn to scream at her own self for saying something that even made her cringe. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know why I said that,” She apologizes, absolutely horrified with herself.

You laugh. “Don’t worry about it.”

Settling onto Ellie’s couch is possibly one of the most awkward moments of your life. It’s a nice leather one, pillows and blankets draped over it. You’re sitting straight up, like a rod, Ellie taking on the exact same stance at your side. Neither of you look at each other as she turns on the move, putting a pillow on her lap and hugging it close to her body. The room is so tense you could cut the air with a knife. You inhale and exhale deeply, the woody scent of Ellie Williams making its way into your nose. And oh my god, does she smell good. You want to bottle whatever scent that is and spray it on everything that you own, becoming surrounded by her always.

But you can’t do that. It would be gay and creepy.

You get engrossed in the movie quickly, finding yourself relating to Megan a little too much. Concealing herself, denying herself and her identity, falling for a girl she can’t have. She’s just like you. You get so engrossed that you don’t even notice Ellie’s breathing slowing as she falls asleep until she tips over, her head flopping against your shoulder. You almost jump as you realize that she’s resting on you, but that would mean waking her up.

“Shit,” You wheeze. “Oh fuck.” You inhale and exhale deeply, playing with your own fingers in your lap. Her hair is soft against the exposed skin of your shoulder, as the sleeve of the t-shirt has ridden up. Her pink lips are slightly parted, a peaceful expression painted across her freckled face.

You find yourself paying more attention to her than to the movie playing in front of you.

Before you can even prevent the words from slipping past your lips you whisper, just like a dumb middle school girl, “I think I have a crush on you.” It’s hardly a confession, it’s just a little whisper to a sleeping girl. But still, it’s more of the truth than you were supposed to let yourself say.

And then another whisper fills the room: “I have a crush on you too.”

——————————————————————————

hiiiii this chapter was SO fun. guys we had a confession! i’ve literally been freaking out because what do you mean my posts are getting 100 notes. that’s INSANE. thank you all so much 🫶🫶🫶

do we want a make out next chapter cause i can make that happen. let me know! also the Hot Wheels boxers were inspired by the Hot Wheels boxers i got my girlfriend for her birthday

i love you all so much!!!

-Blue 🦋

tag list:

@vahnilla @elliesngirl @naniiiii12 @liztreez @eriiwaiii2 @elliesgffrfr @nymanas @yashirawr @leeidk87

[kkpaaw]

It's Time~

I told yall the next post by me about the au would be Kai's season 1 concept and i meant it!

So here we are!

This is what Kai is wearing all through pre-season 1 and season 1

So let's talk a bit about Kai and what important information you'll need to know about him for pre-season 1 and season 1

♤Kai♤

Kai is the main protagonist in this au. Since he is taking over MK's spot in the lmk story and Lore, that means pretty much everything MK went through Kai does as well

He's still the same brash prideful caring loser he's always been, that hasn't changed, but now he faces a new danger and new adventure that he never expected to go through. At least he's not alone, he has Jay and a bunch of new allies in his corner helping out!

Kai, like MK will be staying with Pigsy and working at his noodle shop in order to make money and keep his place of residence.

♤Backstory♤

Kai's backstory In this au is quite different. Those of you who have watched lmk know what I mean but for those who don't, when time comes for the information to be relevant you'll know.

But for the sake of pre-season 1 and season 1 it's not that relevant

For now, I'll be telling you the events that lead up to Kai getting stuck in the LMK realm...

_____

__________

A few months after the events of Crystallized concluded Kai was in his and Nya's family home, visiting their parents and helping out around the house. He was clearing though some of his old belongings when he came across a particular item.

It was a small golden bell

The bell was an item Kai had never seen before nor has any memory of getting it yet it seemed so..familiar.

Like eerily familiar.

Where had this come from? And why did it seem to call out to him??

"H-hey mom?" He called out, eyes still stuck In the bell in his hands.

"What is it Kai?" His mother's distance voiced called back.

"Can you... come here? I have something I want to show you!" He shouted.

"In a minute sweetie!" Kai hummed in response.

Kai found himself unable to look away from the bell. There wasn't anything unique about it. It was jsut a simple golden bell with a black strap and some tasles at the end, and yet, somrgung about it just screamed it being familiar

Something calling for him to ring it.

Kai isn't known for his good ideas so maybe that's why he ended up doing that exact thing.

The bells sound echoed through the room, the melody quiet yet loud, and once again something about it just insisted it was familiar.

At first nothing happened and Kai was about ready to shove aside such a feeling of nostalgia and out it away, but then...

The bell started to glow and vibrate rapidly.

"W-what the-?!" Kai yelped and dropped the bell. Instead of falling however it just overdue in place, the glowing and vibrating getting more intense.

Kai stood frozen as the bell got more and more intense. The glow becoming os bring it nearly blinded him. He tried to look away but the bell once again called his attention and he found himself looming into the glowing light as it grew brighter and brighter and then-

*POOF*

In one swift blink of light, both Kai and the Bell, were gone.

Only a few moments later did Maya appear I jthe doorway of his room looking confused as she searched for her son

"Kai? Sweetie? Where are you? I'm here to see what you wanted to show me?" She looked around the room In confusion

Did she mishear him? Mayne he was somewhere else?

She turned away and called out to Ray

"Ray?"

"Ya?"

"Did you see where Kai went?"

Neither her or Ray knew this yet but that would be the last time they see Kai for quite a while

_____

End!

Little story for you guys to give u an idea of how Kai ended up in the realm of lmk. I'll go into more detail about this as we go through the episodes so don't worry. This was more or less so u guys knew just HOW he got there

The next post you guys see about the au aside from any asks, will be Jay's concept Art for S1!. After him I got I think 2 more concepts for 2 other characters that I wanna use in this au! You'll see what I mean!

[haveyouseenthisskeleton]

Skelly has a neighbor thats a Karen and a neighbor that painted their house rainbow

They hate each other and often scream at each other

Undertale Sans - Sans likes to play the model little neighbour so his Karen neighbour trusts him, but then he's bitching with the other neighbor in her back and gives them material to get revenge. It's entertaining. Sans still wonders if he should paint his house rainbow out of nowhere just to see her reaction.

Undertale Papyrus - Papyrus is desperately trying to make them get along together, tricking them into improvised meals so they have no choice but to talk. He soon realizes it's going to be more complicated than he thought. At least he's never bored!

Underswap Sans - He couldn't care less, but he still keeps an eye on them as he's worried one of these days, they're going to do something stupid and get in trouble. He's trying to calm things down when their arguments are going a bit too far.

Underswap Papyrus - He's tired of hearing them scream under his window daily. Honey works at home, so it's difficult to focus when the neighbours are fighting all day. He's so pissed off that he actually snaps once or twice and screams at them to shut up from the window. He swears he's this close to calling Blue to arrest them for making too much noise.

Underfell Sans - Red loves chaos too much to not make things worse. When no one is looking, he's throwing dog poop on their windows or painting their alleys rainbows, then he runs home and goes to watch from the window, vibrating with excitement. He's an asshole.

Underfell Papyrus - Edge is a big Karen himself so he participates in the arguments lol. He doesn't even know why he hates them at this point; he just can't help it: he hates their guts. Both of them. And he's going to find any little excuse to go at their face. You think your worst enemy is the other neighbour? Wait until your bushes are poking out from two inches on his property.

Horrortale Sans - Their constant screaming is giving him headaches. Oak usually leaves when they start arguing, so he doesn't have to hear them, but sometimes, he has no choice. So Oak found a new solution that's very effective! He throws his axe by the window, straight between them, and watches with great satisfaction as they run away in fear, screaming at the top of their lungs. Finally, some peace.

Horrortale Papyrus - Willow is a big gossip and tries his best to stay discreet to not interrupt them. The thing is that Willow is also very expressive, and sometimes he can't help but gasp or go full googly eyes when one of them says something crazy, which kinda busts him every time, and then they all scream at him for listening to a conversation that doesn't concern him. Not that he cares about their complaints lol. He simply goes in his kitchen and opens the window to hear the rest of the argument. It's his favorite morning telenovella.

Swapfell Sans - He's not even hiding lol. Every morning, he goes to drink his coffee in front of the house to watch his daily dose of fun and angst. Sometimes, he comments on what's happening, which pisses off his neighbors, but it's not like you can just go at him and tell him to fuck off. He's literally a celebrity, you know. Nox absolutely is aware of the fact that they can't do anything to him and is having fun.

Swapfell Papyrus - He's making things worse. He's friend with both of them, and doesn't hesitate for one second to tell the other everything their neighbor did today, and amplify it a thousand times to see how they'll react. He could never get bored with it. His favorite moments are where they start to throw hands at each other; this way he can bet with random people on who's going to win and make free money.

Fellswap Gold Sans - Well, while they're fighting, they don't give him attention, and Wine hates when people are not giving him attention. So Wine always come to save the day and then gets praised by both his neighbours for always finding what to say to stop their arguments. What Wine doesn't tell them is that he sometimes starts the arguments himself when he's bored, but no one needs to know that. He's clearly the hero of the street.

Fellswap Gold Papyrus - Coffee doesn't like all the screaming, so he usually goes to play some video games to not hear them outside anymore. He's annoyed they're so loud he can't focus sometimes. He wishes he was confident enough to tell them to shut up, but he's not. So, uh, video games are fine.

[acapelladitty]

if somebody hasn't already asked: may we please hear about your gotham rogues inferno placements? (sincerely, this sounds awesome)

Thank you! ❤️🥰 So i've been mulling it over in my head all day and here's what I have:

First Circle (Limbo) - Catwoman & Red Hood.

Placing both Selina and Jason in limbo is very representative of their duality in how they straddle the line between hero and villain. Both have a tendency to do the right thing where it counts but that shouldn't wipe out their other sins and the wrong they are willing to do to get ahead in their wants.

Second Circle (Lust) - Harley Quinn & Mad Hatter.

Both characters are driven by their desires. Harley is a victim of her own desires, her need for a strong figure to help shape and guide her actions and that has led her to her relationships with both Joker and Ivy and the carnage each have caused. Hatter is often guided by his delusional lust for an unobtainable ideal, his perfect Alice, and this goal has led to much of his evils.

Third Circle (Gluttony) - Penguin & Killer Croc.

Oswald is a man who values and enjoys the finer things in life. He has tasted hardship and he commits unspeakable acts to ensure that he never has to settle for the very best, be it his wine or his meals. Croc is being put here for his habit of human consumption. While it's not gluttony in the purest sense, I think it fits better than many of the other circles.

Fourth Circle (Greed) - Deadshot & Riddler.

Deadshot is an assassin for hire which makes his crimes a direct result of his greed and so this is most fitting for him. Riddler's greed comes more from his incessant desire to have everything which he feels is due to him. He craves attention, money, power, being the very best in what he does. His greed is relentless.

Fifth Circle (Anger) - Poison Ivy & Scarecrow.

Both Ivy and Crane are creatures fueled by rage. Ivy's rage towards mankind is unmistakable and leads her to cruelty towards her own people. Crane's hatred of mankind is more subtle but just as strong. He hates what the world has taken from him and punishes those who cross his path by forcing them to feel as miserable as he does.

Sixth Circle (Heresy) - Solomun Grundy & Mr Freeze.

The heresy of both men concerns their connections with death. Grundy is a walking zombie, an abomination which straddles the line of life and death with every step. Mr Freeze is a sadder figure but he also actively cheats death by forcing his wife to exist in a state of suspended animation and that's a mortal sin.

Seventh Circle (Violence) - Bane & Victor Zsasz.

Bane thrives in violence but possesses the mental capabilities to know exactly how to wield that violence to create the most devastation and pain to those he deems worthy of it. Zsasz is driven by his needs as a serial killer and he brings nothing to the world which houses him but pain and death.

Eighth Circle (Fraud) - Hugo Strange & Hush.

Hugo Strange is a fraud because he presents himself as a man with good intentions, one who wants to 'help' people but he is only interested in his own selfish gains. Hush is a more straight forward fraud because he claims the identity of another as his own with ill-intent and seeks to destroy it's original owner.

Ninth Circle (Treachery) - Two Face & Joker.

Harvey goes in treachery because his fate was to betray everything which he stood for as a man and as DA of Gotham and a betrayal of that magnitude cannot go unpunished. Joker, in a similar vein, is a traitor of all the good values of men and delights in making choices which cause the most suffering for the widest volume of people.

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

Can you please go into more detail about what you think has been happening at Sentebale from your professional experience and also from your royal watching experience too? Do you think the same has been happening at SussexRoyal, MWX, Archewell, American Rivera Orchard, As Ever, Travelyst etc.

Sentebale

First, I want to clear up some misinformation and rumors about Sentebale that I'm seeing on other blogs and forums: Sentebale did not receive the majority of its budget from USAID. You can check Sentebale's own annual reporting. The most recent annual report is 2023, in which they reported receiving approximately $213,000 from USAID and the UN. That is not a lot of money. To the federal government, that's like the equivalent of buying a 12-pack of crayons.

The other Sentebale/USAID rumor I've seen is that USAID gave Sentebale $51.4 million. No, that did not happen. USAID gave the country of Lesotho $51.4 million, earmarked for HIV/AIDS, over a period of five years cumulatively. It's possible that Sentebale got some of that money, but they did not get all of that money.

So USAID's foreign assistance getting turned off is likely not the source of Sentebale's current financial crisis. Reading the 2023 annual report, it sounds like most of Sentebale's money is raised from private donors. The NGO assistance from USAID and the UN is a small, insignificant portion of their overall budget.

(Lastly: I don't care what your political stripes are. This is not the post to be linking USAID to fraud and corruption. I will be blocking everyone who talks about that in any reblogs or comments. This is your only warning.)

But all of that said, I feel pretty confident saying that Sentebale does have financial issues of some kind. Look at the 2023 financial statement, which is included in the 2023 annual report:

The TL;DR of this worksheet is that expenditures (money going out) are rising while income (money going in) are declining.

This is not unique to Sentebale. It's a reflection of the economic downturn that many people and countries around the world are struggling with. And in fact, Sentebale's annual report says just this:

In my opinion, declining income means donors aren't giving or they're not giving big bucks anymore. For me, that's a ding on the board and the patrons because they're the ones who do a lot of schmoozing with the donors to raise money. From what I've seen of Harry...well, he plays polo twice a year and that's really all we know about his kind of charity work. I don't think he's courting donors the way he needs to, or should be, and I think that's a systemic problem in his approach to charity work - he and Meghan both seem to be resting on their titles and expecting the money to come rolling in because of that, plus their connection to the BRF.

The annual report also includes a statement on trustee responsibilities, which outlines their duties and responsibilities to Sentebale.

Knowing some of the complaints/concerns that Dr. Chandauka raised in her statement to The Sun, I suspect there's something going on here with their responsibilities as well, probably related to policies and records management. They aren't glamorous areas of responsibility - like when you join a board, you don't think about compliance requirements, you're usually thinking of all the fun, cool stuff you're going to do - so either the compliance work will get the barest minimum of attention or it'll get pushed to the Chair to do.

And that's kind of what I'm feeling is happening: the board isn't doing compliance (or hasn't done compliance well) so Dr. Chandauka has had to step in and now the board is upset because they don't like the way she's doing it and/or the decisions she's making.

SussexRoyal/MWX Foundation

I don't know a whole lot about these two charities. I know that Harry and Meghan intended for SussexRoyal to be their version of the Royal Foundation, but as per one of the books (Finding Freedom? Revenge?), it was incorporated in the wrong way.

There are two ways to incorporate a charitable organization. I'm fuzzy on all of the specific details, but it more or less boils down to one way has less oversight, the other way has more oversight. SussexRoyal was incorporated in the "more oversight" way, while Harry and Meghan wanted it in the "less oversight" way. Why did they want this, I can only guess, and it's because they planned to use the organization not so much for nonprofit charitable work but as a way to reduce their own personal expenses by charging SussexRoyal instead.

All I know about MWX Foundation is that after they were told they can't use "royal" and Meghan had her little hissy fit, they launched MWX Foundation and moved all of the SussexRoyal assets there.

Where the snafu with the Royal Foundation happened is that when the Sussexes left, William and the Royal Foundation gave them a little bit of seed money so they could launch SussexRoyal/MWX Foundation. This is perfectly normal, it happens all the time, but there are certain laws, rules, and regulations to follow. The Charity Commission received a complaint that the transfer of funds was fraudulently done because it was about the brothers' relationship more so than the charitable organizations. (It sounds to me like someone was upset that they donated to the Royal Foundation but the check was cashed by SussexRoyal, which is a legitimate complaint.)

While the commission's investigation cleared the transactions between RF and MWX, the investigation did ding MWX on their documentation and recordkeeping...aka compliance. Their findings specifically said that MWX was spending too much on administration (meaning operating expenses and salaries), that it was concerning how quickly they closed the charity's operations, and the documentation wasn't as complete as it could have been.

Travalyst

So Harry's Travalyst organization was part of the RF/MWX investigation. The seed money that RF gave to MWX was later given to Travalyst.

And what do we know about Travalyst? ... Nothing. They don't put out any kind of annual reports or statements, so it's not really clear what they do, other than something having to do with sustainable travel.

A lot of people have a lot of questions about Travalyst.

For me, I think Travalyst is a way for Harry to get kickbacks from the travel industry in the name of conservation/environmentalism. I truly do believe that a lot of the traveling we see him (and Meghan) do is organized through Travalyst in a way that not only lets them write off all their expenses and taxes to someone else's checkbook, but also allows them to fly private and say they're helping the environment.

Major eyerolls from me here.

Archewell

Tragic name aside, I feel like Archewell was well-intentioned but poorly executed in the way that all things Sussex are. Archewell is/was definitely set up the way Meghan wanted, with as little oversight as possible.

And the thing about Archewell is that a lot of the problems they were dinged on for SussexRoyal/MWX Foundation, those problems followed them to Archewell. They have significant administration costs and their recordkeeping is lax (because they're always late on tax filings).

They do actually have good programming with Archewell, once you look past how odious and insufferable Meghan and Harry are. But the programming gets lost underneath the way the Sussexes use Archewell for self-promotion (which is true about a lot of these celeb-led charities), the downside to which is the assumption (and rumors) that the Sussexes use Archewell for a personal piggy bank, despite the record "showing" they work only one hour a week and don't draw a salary.

Speaking for myself only, my impression of Archewell is like a mafia-run restaurant. You don't actually see anyone in the restaurant (Archewell doesn't actually do anything) but year after year after year, the restaurant still stays open. Someone is bankrolling their operation because they don't seem to make any profit. Plus the fact that it's both a non-profit and a for-profit umbrella...gives me the icks.

ARO/As Ever

We might as well lump these two together because they're the same thing.

And just like with Archewell, the issues from SR/MWX continue to follow Meghan: insufficient documentation and lax recordkeeping, because she can't get her trademark and copyright applications correct.

This isn't a non-profit, it's an entirely for-profit organization selling goods and products, so a lot of the rules that apply to AW/SR/MWX don't apply here. I would not be surprised if there are invisible strings connecting Archewell to As Ever - for instance, maybe Meghan used money from Archewell to launch As Ever, versus her own money.

Invictus Games

I did a deep dive on their financials last year and much of it still remains valid. I don't know much else about Invictus Games as a nonprofit, so this will have to do.

The End

So if we look at the Sussexes' history as leaders of their own charitable organizations...they kinda suck. Because here's what we know:

There was actual evidence of mismanagement from the 2020 Charity Commission investigation pertaining to compliance and recordkeeping.

There are similar issues with documentation and recordkeeping in Archewell and As Ever.

Donations to Sentebale and Invictus Games are going down while expenditures are going up.

Harry is checked out of Invictus Games, showing up only for events (aka the games).

Harry is checked out of Sentebale, showing up only for events (aka polo).

Harry is checked out of Archewell, showing up only for events (aka paid speeches in NYC) - otherwise, it's largely Meghan's charity vehicle.

What even is Travalyst?

And I didn't include African Parks in this round-up, but we also know that Harry is checked out of African Parks and tends to show up only when there's an event.

Yes, that technically is what being a patron means - you lend your starpower to the organization so they can raise money or awareness, but most other patrons are also involved in the work, attending calls and reading reports and actually helping with the fundraising. That isn't what Harry does. He shows up for the bare minimum to collect his fee. That's what the historical record shows. That's what the safe assumption to make is.

So am I surprised that there's strife at Sentebale? No, not at all. Because it seems to follow Harry. He's so checked out otherwise, focusing only on how he can use charity work for attention and PR. He's not going to do anything with compliance. He just wants to collect his check and get content for a PR campaign.

And I think with Sentebale, it's finally caught up to him. It's caught up to him in a way that the African Parks scandal didn't, and I think it's for two reasons: 1) how much more personally affiliated Harry is to Sentebale, which makes him that much more personally responsible, and 2) that Harry has successfully affiliated Diana to Sentebale.

And I would put good money on Harry's accountability having everything to do with his mother's memory. He does not want Diana connected to any negativity or criticism, which honestly is very fair of him. I would also even suggest that the way Harry's PR keeps connecting Sentebale to Diana means he may have been able to use her memory to get whatever he wanted out of the board, and possibly donors too, but either Dr. Chandauka doesn't fall for that or the changes she made/wants to make doesn't leave room for Diana worship/guilt.

But as I've said before, and as I will keep saying, there's a lot we don't know about what's happening at Sentebale so I continue to urge everyone to tread carefully here.

[perfectlyoongi]

been busy lately & forgot how to write (2k, f.reader, not proofread)

Yoongi was not allowed to love.

Of so many vices and pleasures that he was forced to forget, to hide, Yoongi believed that love would be the easiest to ignore – after all, he had never loved anyone. Of course Yoongi loved his family and was madly in love with the members of his group, but that pure love, that love that fervently consumes a person, that love that books and movies talk about so much, that specific love had never been felt by Yoongi.

Therefore, he knew that it would be easy to avoid this concern, to forget this small detail that so damaged the other idols. Because, for Yoongi, nothing other than his music was worthy of his eternal devotion.

Of course, he never completely ruled out the possibility of love emerging in the more distant future. However, Yoongi never actively looked for any love – perhaps because he felt too tied to his work, to his dream, to be distracted by something as pathetic as love.

Yes, a distraction.

For Yoongi, love was nothing more than an unnecessary distraction in his life. Why dive into the complex sea of ​​aggressive waves of love's instability when he could be peaceful, quiet, in his studio, making his dream real every day? Love was simply a social invention to spend money on flowers and gifts – Yoongi was certain of that.

As such, no love had captured his attention in so many years of life.

But love seemed to haunt him. Forced to write about it, to read about it, to watch fictional stories about it; love felt like a thick, dark cloud that lingered over Yoongi's life, as if forcing him to adapt to its presence before it could be felt.

The problem is that Yoongi didn't want to feel. Not for now. Not when his career was just starting to take off. That's why Yoongi avoided love: changing the channel when romance appeared, closing the eyes on Valentine's Day, covering his ears before the melodies came on the radio. Besides, Yoongi was an artist, and for him to continue being one, he would have to make people happy – the people who loved him.

But Yoongi would never have guessed that writing songs about his biggest phobia would be something so complicated; after all, what was it like for him to write about something he never felt? He didn't even want to feel it, and that was the truth.

Cruel fate of those who want to earn a living doing what they love; always getting into simple complications that could be solved if he would just allow himself to love. Somebody. Something. Anything other than his music. Something more concrete, yes. Yoongi had to fall in love with something real. Something he couldn't control.

And listening to the small problems of a desperate young artist, the stars conceived for him a unique opportunity to make his remaining dreams a real thing. All he had to do was agree to one simple request and his life could change for the rest of eternity.

╴╴╴╴╴⊹ꮺ˚ ╴╴╴╴╴⊹˚ ╴╴╴╴˚ೃ ╴╴╴╴

Perhaps, and in all honesty, love is not for everyone.

As he entered the rehearsal room, Yoongi couldn't stop thinking about that little statement. Of course, the truth of such a statement could only be proven by each individual in their personal study of the subject; however, in Yoongi's eyes and from the experiences he had in his twenty-something years, the theory he had created, and which he would defend with arguments and graphics if necessary, was that love was not something meant for everyone.

But what is love really?

“Joon, you would love to meet her!”

Hoseok's enthusiasm almost threw Yoongi's reasoning off course, but, already accustomed to the dancer's more eccentric behavior, Yoongi quickly returned to his study plan.

Step One: define love.

It seems simple enough.

Love is... Love is.

Is...

…

…

.

.

.

Love…

What is love?

“She can grab your attention as soon as she opens her mouth.”

Good. Now Jimin also shared the excitement that had infected Hoseok. Ignoring one was easy, a habit for Yoongi, but when they multiplied, the task proved to be slightly more complex.

Yoongi took a deep breath and sat on the floor, ready to start stretching.

Well, clearly the first step of his presentation had to have a more informative basis. The internet would probably be a safer source than the countless movies that lay on Yoongi's computer, not to mention that it would be easier to study on a screen with half a dozen underlined words. Yes, the first step would have to be supported by some material, so it would be better to move on to the next step.

Step Two: how does love arise?

“… speech I heard! The whole room applauded!”

Jimin was always noisy. Yoongi had yet to figure out how someone of his friend's stature could speak so loudly, always shaking Yoongi's thoughts. There were several hypotheses to be analyzed. For starters… Well, actually, it would be best not to delve into any other research while his main investigation was still ongoing. No thoughts could occupy Yoongi's mind other than his theory and how to support it.

As such, a new deep breath, a stretch of the back, a closing of the eyes. Total concentration.

Love comes naturally. It's in us. We begin to love our mother at a stage where we still have no control over human functionalities. It's natural. A feeling that arises molded by our soul when we are still inside our mother's womb. Deciding whether we continue to love her after we come into this world is a different story. A story that would take Yoongi to the next step.

Step Three: how to control love?

“…zero from UTSA.”

“Although she’s taking several workshops in the meantime,” Jimin quickly continued closer to Yoongi, making the older open his eyes slightly, driven by curiosity. “She is now focusing on music.”

“She said something about music production,” Hoseok sat down next to Yoongi and began to warm up his body before a new rehearsal. “It would be interesting to see what she is capable of doing.”

“Why do I feel like you two want something?”

Finally Yoongi could hear Namjoon's voice. Poor soul. Always so tired. Consumed by the group's excessive energy. He was like a divorced father who worked too hard to support someone who never slept.

A circle quickly formed on the room floor, Yoongi being the beginning of an irregular line of jackets and sweaters ready for another day of work. Everyone listened to the conversation, all captivated by the curiosity that the conversation between three of their colleagues gave them.

Maybe it was the frequent use of the pronoun she. Never a name was spoken. Just that pronoun. She. She. She. Time and time again, this was what could be heard echoing through the empty room. She. A certain someone not important enough to be worthy of being mentioned by name, and yet with a renowned status that led her to be mentioned repeatedly. Or even someone too powerful, so powerful that fear prevented young people from pronouncing her name, fearing the consequences that they might face.

All fairy tales really.

Yoongi knew they had just forgotten the poor unfortunate girl's name.

“You could call her here for some production lessons.”

The suggestion was from Jimin, but the pleading look came from Hoseok.

“Production lessons…?”

“Isn’t that one of the classes at UTSA?”

Jin had to step in. Maybe it was because he was the oldest and enjoyed watching the chaos unfold in the group, or maybe it was because he missed seeing the attention on him, but Jin's question was pertinent, leaving Jimin and Hoseok skating gently on ice too thin to dance on.

There was a brief moment of silence. Three seconds. A time that for many might seem short, without any existence, that happened as quickly as the blink of an eye; however, for Yoongi, it was enough for him to return to his study and plan his next step.

Step Four: how to deny love?

“Even if I wanted that, which I don’t,” Namjoon continued with the dialogue, dismissing Jin’s comment with a sideways glance, focusing only on Jimin and Hoseok, “I don’t know if it would be useful for her. Or if the company would allow it.”

“That’s the golden key!”

Hoseok's smile was big, almost as big as that room, and Yoongi couldn't help but smile gently, infected by the sun's rays coming from his bandmate, completely forgetting about his presentation and theory.

“Y/N is a Literature student in the European division.”

The name.

Yoongi finally heard her name. Y/N's importance filled Yoongi's chest with nervousness coming from the mystery surrounding that person. From so many her’s, she became a name. A someone. A real person who held incomparable importance.

“Literature is the least important art at UTSA,” Namjoon sighed and stretched his back a little before continuing with his speech. “Not to mention that being from year zero and European makes everything more complicated.”

“And don’t forget what happened the last time a year zero student interned here.”

The voice of Jin brought with it a great heavy wave of macabre memories, leaving a bitter taste in the hearts of his companions.

It was always a risk to hire interns for the company, everyone already knew that; what they didn't know was what consequences would befall them if they were sent away earlier than stipulated.

All humans were vengeful by nature; of course there were those who took care of their stimuli and kept each emotion in a drawer designated for forgetfulness and fears. The problem is that there were still those who sailed on the waves of resentment from events long ago written in the stars. And that group that had now stopped warming up still had the scandals of past summers fresh in their memory.

They couldn't take the same risk again.

“If you guys want to be with her again so badly, why don’t you ask Nate?”

Jungkook sometimes seemed like the voice of reason. It was still a mystery to Yoongi how someone so young, surrounded by so much chaos and shaped by six boys with no sense of reality, could be so reasonable in more controversial moments.

Yoongi looked at the two beggars and waited for an answer.

Seconds consumed Hoseok and Jimin's souls, neither of them uttering a single word, too embarrassed by the simplicity of the problem, never expecting a solution to emerge so quickly. As such, Yoongi smiled.

"Please?"

Taehyung's plea broke all the silence, leaving everyone astonished by his intervention: why would Taehyung have asked for that favor? What interest did he have in that mysterious girl who shook the group so much? No – wrong. What power did that girl have to make the whole group interested in her, in the conversation, in her mysticism?

Finally, a sigh from Namjoon and all the smiles returned to the faces of the six remaining companions. Everyone anticipating their leader's response. Everyone eager for the words of confirmation. Everyone. Everyone. Everyone.

“I think Yoongi and I can give her a lesson or two.”

“Why are you involving me in this?!”

Yoongi's protest was drowned out by applause and shouts of happiness from the two bearers of that request; almost in ecstasy, a cosmic euphoria invaded their bodies, both Hoseok and Jimin showed their happiness to everyone in the room, shouting the leader's name, predicting the young student's work, longing for their reunion.

And a meeting.

Namjoon ignored Yoongi's words, so it would be a meeting. A meeting between him, his leader, and a stranger. Somebody. A person. No – wrong. Y/N. Her name was Y/N.

---------------------------------------

based on a (day)dream & nightmare i had few months ago. utsa is a made up university - yn is one of the students, nate one of bts dancer & student and lol dunno why i'm explaining this lolol it's trash and probably wont have a continuation oh well la vide es asi

[starmieknight]

Stars Align

Dipper Vs. Manliness

17 Again AU: After a disastrous first day with the twins, Stan swears to do better as an uncle. But fate loves playing tricks on him and the magic 8-ball in the attic is more than it seems.

Now on top of having a pair of twelve year olds around the house while he tries to finish the portal and bring his brother home, Stan has to deal with being back in his seventeen year old body! Summer has never been weirder in Gravity Falls.

Prologue, The Legend of the Gobblewonker, Headhunters Pt. 1, Headhunters Pt. 2, Headhunters Pt. 3, The Hand That Rocks the Mabel Pt. 1, The Hand That Rocks the Mabel Pt. 2, The Inconveniencing (previous)

“So,” Wendy said casually, making Stan’s survival instinct scream in fear. The girl looked totally cool and at ease. Not a good sign. “Happy birthday, man.”

Stan jumped to shush her, slapping a hand over her mouth ― only to recoil in horror as she licked his palm.

“Ugh! Gross!”

“I got brothers of my own.” Wendy shrugged unapologetically. She fixed him with a look. “So, why are you keeping it a secret? You throw a party here every year, dude. Besides, you’re turning eighteen again ― plenty of reason to party hard.”

The pit in Stan’s chest yawned, opening invitingly with the intent to swallow him whole. 

Come in, it beckoned, just relax and forget all of this. Just quit and admit you can’t keep going, can’t keep up this farce any longer. Just tell her. Tell her you killed your brother ― your own twin ― and don’t deserve to celebrate your birthday anymore!

“Not real big on the party scene.” he scoffed instead, forcing the edges of the pit back together until he wasn’t in danger of being swallowed whole. He waved a dismissive hand at the girl and turned away, not sure if he could totally keep the despair out of his expression.

“You big liar.” He could practically hear the eye roll in the girl’s voice. “You love being the center of attention ― and you’re going out of your way to get every teenager in town out here!”

“For the money.” Stan insisted, palms beginning to sweat around the edges of his clipboard.

“And,” Wendy pushed on, ignoring him. “You suddenly being a teenager again and inviting a bunch of teens ― some of which really like you ― is a great chance to celebrate being young again!”

Stan made a face, the expression giving him the confidence to turn back around to face Wendy. “You’re makin’ it weird.”

“You’re being weird.” she countered with a smirk. Her face softened minutely. “Seriously, dude, I won’t make a big deal about it if you don’t want me to. No one else knows.”

He raised a brow at her.

“Speaking of ― how’d you figure it out?”

Wendy’s smirk returned in full force. “Stole your wallet.”

Stan scowled as he snatched back the offending item when she waved it in his face.

He wasn’t too annoyed, really ― he was even a little impressed by her stealth.

Besides, he wasn’t dumb enough to keep his money in an actual wallet. He kept it stuffed up his sleeve and down his socks. Safer that way.

And he could make a new ID whenever he needed one. Easy peasy.

“Fine.” he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s my birthday. And I don’t like to celebrate it, but―”

“Hey, man,” Wendy waved him off. “It’s cool. You and Soos are more alike than you think.”

Stan scoffed again, giving the girl a shove that barely budged her, but couldn’t stop the slight curl of his lips.

There were worse people to be compared to than Soos.

And she’d agreed to drop the subject.

He was able to start marking things off his checklist when Soos and the twins emerged from the storage room with the party supplies. Tambry joined them after a while, briefly snapping a picture of Dipper and Mabel mid-silly string war.

“You’ve got a ton of hits on the party tweet.” the brunette announced in her typical unenthused monotone. She took a quick picture of Stan too before returning to her phone. “This’ll help, too.”

Stan blinked, looking over his simple outfit of a white T-shirt and jeans blankly. “How?”

Tambry raised a pointed brow at her phone screen. “Cus’ you’re hot? S’like curb appeal ― people’ll come flying in just because you’ll be there.”

Stan burst into a belly laugh at the idea.

“Yeah, right! Pull the other one, kid. No one’s gonna come just to see this ugly mug.”

Tambry actually moved her eyes away from her phone to share an incredulous look with Wendy.

“Actually, dude.” Wendy said, looking physically ill with the words coming out of her mouth. “A lot of our friends think you’re… ugh, I can’t even say it.”

“You’re hot.” Tambry repeated, shrugging and returning to her phone. “With, like, an old timey vibe. Like that guy from Grease.”

“You talkin’ Zuko or Kenickie?” Stan asked absentmindedly before shaking it off. “Wait, what?! These kids need glasses!”

“Like you do?” Wendy grinned cheekily.

Stan rolled his eyes, but his rebuttal was cut off by the arrival of Mabel. The girl slammed into his side like a cannonball and then proceeded to climb him like a demented squirrel. Stan grunted when he got a knee to the gut, but planted his legs to keep them steady.

Tambry snapped another picture.

“Totally hot, strong boxer dude.” she confirmed with a thumbs up.

Stan felt his ears go hot.

“We should start calling you Hunkle Stan!” Mabel cackled, ruffling his hair.

Stan grumbled when she knocked his curls out of their gelled coif and grabbed the back of her sweater, swinging her around and dangling her in front of him like a kitten by the scruff.

“Alright.” he huffed, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Enough of that. How’s about you and Dipper make yourself useful and copy these flyers? And stop drinking all my party supplies!”

Dipper ― the aforementioned party supply thief ― took a pointed sip of his Pitt Cola, unafraid.

Stan narrowed his eyes at the little display of defiance.

About time the kid started growing a backbone.

“Oh boy!” Mabel squealed in delight, wriggling in her uncle’s grasp until he put her down. “A trip to the copier store!”

“Calendars, mugs, T-shirts and more! They got it all at the copier store!” Soos chimed in cheerfully, earning a round of laughter from the twins.

“Soos! What did I tell you about making slogans for other businesses?! And save yourself the trouble ― you know that old copier in my office? I finally fixed the old girl up! Good as new!”

He grinned at the twins’ looks of apprehension.

He was perfectly capable of repairing his (Ford’s) things.

Just look at the Shack ― still standing and all!

And now he could make photo copies of Dipper’s journal when the kid went to sleep. Considering actually getting the thing from the kid was proving harder than getting a newborn away from its mother. Seriously, the kid had some sort of separation anxiety going on with that thing.

It reminded Stan of how Ford acted all those years ago and he would have chucked all those damn books down the Bottomless Pit if he didn’t need them so badly.

Making copies of party flyers would be the perfect test run before he put the actual journal on the scanner.

What could go wrong? ____________________________________________________________

“Whaddya mean it copies people, too?!”

Stan stared at the gaggle of Dippers in front of him and felt a migraine beginning to throb behind his eyes.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to breathe deeply.

This was such a Ford-like scenario, he could hear his mother scolding them from the shadows of the hall.

Actually, if he thought about it, he was copying the same exact pose she habitually used on him and Ford when they were kids.

He tried to channel the energy of a middle-aged, Jewish Jersey woman when he finally looked back at the gaggle of Dippers.

Judging by their abashed expressions, it was very effective.

“Where’s the original Dipper?” Stan demanded.

The leader of the clones ― whose hat read 2 ― pointed sheepishly at the ceiling.

“We locked him in the closet.”

Stan pinched his nose again. “Lemme guess, you didn’t leave a guard, either, didya? I gave you lock picking lessons, Dipper.”

There was a panicked frenzy from the gaggle of clones before a pounding on the stairs preceded the real Dipper’s arrival.

To the boy’s credit, he only hesitated for a moment before throwing himself at his doppelgangers with a pitchy war-cry.

Stan stared at them blankly, wondering if he should let Dipper solve his problems on his own or step in and break the fight up. It’s not like he wanted the kid to get hurt!

Despite being outnumbered, Dipper managed to clock one of the clones in the chin with a perfect left hook.

Stan’s mind was made up.

“Good job stickin’ up for yourself, kiddo!” he called over his shoulder as he headed down the hall.

Dipper grinned, lip swollen and his teeth bloody from the fight, before diving back into the fray.

He was proud of that little gremlin ― and kind of impressed that he had taken to those boxing lessons so well.

Kid was a natural! Just like his old (young) Grunkle! A Pines through-and-through. Sure, Mabel was a bit more bloodthirsty and vicious when it came to hitting things, but Dipper’d catch up to her by the end of the summer!

Now, with the boy occupied, Stan had the perfect opportunity to invade the twins’ privacy and loot their personal belongings!

… wait. That sounded terrible.

He was gonna go look for the journal, okay? _____________________________________________________________

“Stan gone?”

“Somewhere upstairs, dude.”

“Twins distracted?”

“Yeah. Mabel’s partying with some friends and Dipper’s manning the counter! I think? I maybe saw him at the DJ booth… but then there was this awesome dot and I kinda lost focus. But someone’s playing music! It’s all… romantical out there, dude.”

“Then let’s do this.” Wendy cracked her knuckles as she and Soos stared down the vending machine. She wasn’t exactly sure what Stan was hiding behind there, but she was more than ready to pry the thing open and find out. Or punch it until it short-circuited and opened up. Either option would have a Dan Corduroy and Stan Pines’ stamp of approval.

“I dunno about this, dude. Stan’s gonna be so mad if he finds out…” Soos poked his fingers together, a nervous gesture he’d picked up from Stan over the years. Wendy had seen the movement all too often since Stan woke up as a teenager.

She couldn’t discount the inane magic of the town being the cause, but there was no telling what the man was getting up to in his secret basement. There was just too much about him that didn’t make sense.

Wendy needed to know the truth.

… dang, she was starting to sound like Dipper.

“Soos.” she said firmly, fixing the handyman with the infamous Corduroy glare. “I’m tired of being in the dark about my friend. I’m opening this door ― with or without you ― and going down there.”

Indecision and nerves flitted over Soos’ face before he settled on resignation.

“This’ll be a good plot twist for my fanfiction.” he finally sighed before bending down to examine the keypad. “Hey, dude, you don’t think this’ll go all explodey secret agent-like if we put the wrong code in, do you? Or if it needs you to give it money first? I only have, like, three dollars in my wallet right now, dawg. Do you know the code?”

Wendy groaned. “I know as much about this as you do, Soos! How would I know if Stan rigged it or where he keeps his secret codes?!”

“Probably in his office.” the handyman shrugged casually, tilting his head to think. “Like how he has that secret TV behind the jackalope head. Antbit? Rabalope?”

“The what, now?”

“Oh, yeah, dude! Totally all secret-agenty ― but Stan walked in right after I found it and sent me home for the day with full pay if I kept it hush-hush. I was like, fourteen? Only time he ever gave me the day off. I probably should pay him back now, since I said something…”

Wendy scowled at the revelation, frustrated that Soos hadn’t mentioned that tidbit before, but blew out her annoyance with a heavy sigh.

“Fine. Let’s look in his office.” _____________________________________________________________

First of all, Stan was not sneaking.

He didn’t need to sneak! This was his (brother’s) house and he could go anywhere he pleased. It just made more sense to walk softly and avoid the creaky floorboards in the hall. He didn’t want any nosy teenagers snooping around his house when they should be downstairs partying and paying the exit fee.

So what if he peeked around corners before continuing to his office? With Mabel and her glitter bombs, a guy had to be cautious. Besides, he didn’t want to run into any of those clones again. They creeped him out!

… okay, fine! He was sneaking.

He’d finally gotten his hands on the third journal and he didn’t have long before Dipper noticed it missing. He was so close to finally finishing the portal that he could taste it!

It tasted like salt air and toffee peanuts. Like winter air and pain and tears and thirty years of grief.

He’d be damned if anyone tried to stop him now!

“Don’t go in there, dawg!”

What the actual fuck.

Stan stared at Soos in exasperation, the journal suddenly feeling a hundred pounds heavier where he’d hidden it away in his new jacket’s inner pocket.

“Soos, move it.” Stan sighed, not even bothering to question the man’s motives. “I already know about the clones. Dipper handled it.”

“Clones?” Soos gasped, eyes widening with excitement. “I totally gotta get in on that!”

The handyman opened the door, only to have it slammed shut in his face.

“What the―”

“Oh, yeah!” Soos laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Totally forgot about W― someone being in there. Who is not Wendy.”

“What’s Wendy doin’ in my office?” Stan asked suspiciously, narrowing his eyes. Maybe he should use the mom pose on his employee.

He had money hidden in there!

“Dude, chill out.” Wendy rolled her eyes at him, an easy smirk on her face as she exited the office. She fastened the last two buttons of her flannel as she joined them. “I spilled some punch on myself and had to change shirts. Someone’s been hogging the bathroom ― might wanna check in on that.”

“Soos ― take care of it.” Stan commanded, still squinting at Wendy. When did she start keeping extra clothes in the Shack? Had she hidden them in his office? When did she even have time? “And both of you get back to work! No slacking!”

“You got it, boss man.” Wendy shot him a quick finger gun before dragging Soos down the hall.

Stan watched them go, something still not sitting right with him about the situation.

The whole thing was just off.

But there wasn’t time to speculate.

He had to copy this journal now.

Stan locked the door behind himself and flipped through the pages with horrified fascination. The pit in his chest grumbled ominously.

“Finally,” he mumbled, stopping on a horrifying collection of eyeballs peeking out of a page covered in black scratches. Like Ford had lost both his mind and control of his body when he’d drawn them. Harsh red letters took up most of the page, along with some codes Stan wasn’t looking forward to breaking. He swallowed thickly. “I have them all.”

The complete story of Ford’s descent into the unknown.

And the key to getting him back.