#she knows more about me than anyone who's been in my life for this little of a time knows
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
Text
ILLICIT AFFAIRS (3/3) | CS55
summary : You shouldn’t have said anything. You really shouldn’t have. But it’s too late now. “He sent me a dildo shaped like his cock,” you mutter under your breath, so fast you almost hope she didn’t hear you.
wc : 14k
an : This might be the end of the Illicit Affairs series! Honestly I might write another part (as I intended) but I realized it could also end here. I might work it alongside a few other fics on the back burner.
The thing about Carlos is that he doesn’t tiptoe. He doesn’t hesitate.
He’s the kind of guy who walks into your life, plops down, and acts like he’s always been there.
At first, you think he’s just passing through, like one of those tumbleweeds in old Westerns. Here for a moment, gone in another, leaving only a faint memory and maybe a little dust.
But Carlos is no tumbleweed.
He’s ivy. Creeping into the corners of your life, attaching himself with relentless charm and absolutely zero warning.
At first, it had just been sex.
Carlos calls, you pick up, and the two of you dive headfirst into whatever filthy scenario he’s cooked up for the evening.
It’s hot, it’s fun, and afterwards, you both lie there catching your breath while exchanging a few words like some half-hearted attempt at aftercare.
“Good for you?” he’ll ask, panting, his voice somehow managing to sound both teasing and sincere.
“Sure,” you say, rolling your eyes at the ceiling. “Top ten, at least.”
He laughs. Deep, warm, addictive. “I’ll aim for top five next time.”
It’s simple. Casual. Exactly what you signed up for.
Until it’s not.
Until the minutes start to stretch.
At first, it’s just an extra five. Then ten. Then before you know it, the two of you are sitting there, chatting about absolutely nothing long after the heat of the moment has faded.
Next thing you know Carlos is reaching out for the sake of company.
It’s easy to brush it off at first.
To pretend it’s harmless.
Carlos is just a guy who’s annoyingly good at making you laugh and has a voice so smooth it could probably negotiate world peace or at least a really good discount at a used car dealership.
But then, one afternoon, as you’re scrolling through your texts, you realize something horrifying:
You talk to Carlos more than you talk to your friends.
No, scratch that. You talk to Carlos more than you talk to anyone.
And it’s not just the sheer volume. It’s the content.
It’s the way his words sneak into your day, set up camp, and throw a block party. He texts you good morning before you’ve even had coffee, which is frankly criminal.
Carlos Rise and shine, baby. Did you dream about me again?
You I dreamed I hit you with my car
Carlos Hot. Was I shirtless?
You No, but you were crying. Freaked me out
Carlos Probably because I looked so good
You should block him.
You should delete his number.
You do neither, because somewhere deep down, you’re a masochist.
He doesn’t stop at morning texts either.
He sends unsolicited opinions all day, every day.
Carlos Do you think cows ever get tired of standing?
You They sit, Carlos. They sit all the time.
Carlos Yeah, but like, emotionally? What if they’re just pretending to like grass because they’re scared of change
You What would they change to, exactly? Chicken nuggets?
Carlos Maybe. Cows could be wild carnivores waiting for their moment. We don’t know what they’re capable of.
One day, while you're halfway through a bag of chips, your phone buzzes again.
Carlos Do you think birds ever judge us for not flying?
You You need therapy
Carlos So do you, but I don’t judge
You You judge me constantly 🤨
The banter becomes relentless.
Carlos If you had to pick one food to eat for the rest of your life, what would it be?
You Pasta
Carlos Predictable. You’re so basic it physically hurts
You Pretentious words from a man whose favorite snack is probably caviar
Carlos First of all, how dare you
You You’re trash
Carlos Trash that you text back btw
Then comes the random photos.
He sends you a blurry picture of his sneakers one afternoon.
Carlos Do these make me look fast? Be honest, but also lie
You Fast to embarrass yourself
Carlos Wow. Jealousy is a disease. Get well soon
Carlos Does it change anything if I say they’re limited edition
You Limited edition ugly
He sends you a picture of his dog another day, sprawled on the couch like he pays rent.
Carlos We’ve decided to boycott walkies today.
Solidarity with my guy.
You Tell him he’s lazy
Carlos He says those are bold words from someone who hasn’t hit the gym this week
You glare at the screen. It’s 7 a.m. How does he even know that?
You Your dog is illiterate. Don’t drag him into this
Carlos Rude. He’s very smart
You He licks his own butt
He becomes a fixture in your life without you even noticing.
Carlos Did you miss me while I was asleep?
One morning, you’re sipping your coffee when your phone buzzes.
You I slept better knowing you weren’t conscious
Carlos So, you’re saying you dreamt about me
You I dreamt I moved to a remote island where Wi-Fi doesn’t exist
Carlos Romantic getaway for two. Love that for us
You groan, but your fingers are already typing a response.
And somehow, without you realizing it, Carlos isn’t just a voice on the phone or a name on your screen.
He’s everywhere, weaving himself into your days with his relentless humor and absolute refusal to leave you alone.
That’s why when a day passes by without any contact, you’re tilted off balance.
The silence is unnerving.
You tell yourself it’s just one night.
One single night where Carlos doesn’t text or call, and you should be relieved.
Grateful, even, for the reprieve from his relentless antics.
But you’re not.
You spend the evening trying not to think about it.
You scroll through Instagram, open a book, binge half a season of some random series. But every few minutes, you find yourself glancing at your phone, waiting for it to light up.
It doesn’t.
The hours crawl by, and by the time you’re lying in bed, glaring at the ceiling, you’re starting to feel… itchy. Annoyed. Frustrated. And maybe just a little bit unreasonably hurt.
Then, finally, your phone buzzes.
You grab it so fast you nearly knock it off the nightstand.
Carlos Miss me?
Your stomach does a ridiculous little flip, but you type back quickly.
You Not even a little
Carlos Liar
Another message follows: a selfie of him holding the meerkat plushie you’d sent him as a joke a week ago.
Carlos He misses you too
You groan, but your cheeks ache from smiling.
Carlos By the way
Carlos I sent you a gift
You I didn’t get a package?
Carlos Wait
Carlos Call me when you get it
You shake your head, setting your phone down.
It’s probably something stupid. Knowing Carlos, it could be anything from a ridiculous gag gift to an actual penguin.
Two days later, a package arrives.
It’s sitting on your kitchen counter, deceptively normal-looking for something that Carlos sent.
You eye it warily, debating whether you should even bother opening it.
You stare at it for a good ten minutes, arms crossed, trying to decide whether you should call him first or just dump it straight into the trash.
Eventually, curiosity (and mild fear) wins out. You grab your phone and click the topmost contact.
It rings once before he picks up.
“I was wondering how long it’d take you,” Carlos says, his voice smooth and entirely too smug.
“What the hell did you send me?” you demand without preamble.
“Why don’t you open it and find out?”
“Carlos.”
“Yes?”
You groan, already regretting this decision. “I swear to God, if it’s alive-”
“It’s not alive,” he interrupts.
“Then what is it?”
“Open it.”
“No,” you snap. “Because if it’s something awful, I can’t unsee it. I’m preemptively traumatized. Just tell me what it is so I can mentally prepare.”
“That’s not how surprises work,” he replies, completely unbothered.
“It’s not a surprise if I hate it,” you point out.
“You won’t hate it.”
“I highly doubt that.”
“You might be pleasantly surprised,” he insists, and there’s a tone in his voice, something too smug, too amused, that makes your stomach churn with suspicion.
“Carlos,” you warn.
“Yes?”
“If this is some kind of prank-”
“It’s not a prank,” he says, cutting you off again. “It’s a gift. A thoughtful, meaningful, deeply personal gift.”
“Deeply personal?” you echo, narrowing your eyes at the box like it’s about to explode. “That doesn’t sound reassuring.”
“It’s just a little something to remind you of me,” he adds, which is possibly the least reassuring thing he could have said.
You exhale sharply through your nose, setting your phone down on the counter so he can see.
His face lights up on the screen, all lazy smirks and overconfidence, and you hate the way your stomach flips at the sight of him.
Grabbing a pair of scissors, you slice through the tape with the caution of someone defusing a bomb.
Carlos watches you with rapt attention, his chin resting on his hand. “Excited?”
“I’m terrified,” you deadpan, peeling back the flaps of the box.
For a moment, you just stare.
Then, you shriek. Loudly.
“Carlos, what the fuck?!”
He leans closer to the camera, his grin widening. “You like it?”
“You sent me a dildo?!” you yell, your voice an octave higher than usual.
“Not just any dildo,” he says smugly, sitting back like he’s the king of the universe.
You stare at him, then at the object in the box, and back at him again.
It looks… normal, at first glance.
But then you notice the size. The veins. The shade.
The very specific details.
“Oh my God,” you whisper, horror dawning. “It’s your… your…”
“My cock,” he supplies helpfully. “Yep.”
“Carlos!” you screech, clutching the box like it’s cursed. “You’re a lunatic!”
“True,” he says, completely unfazed. “But admit it- you’re impressed.”
“Impressed?!” you repeat, your voice pitching even higher. “What is WRONG with you?!”
“A lot,” he admits, far too cheerfully. “But you already knew that.”
“How did you even- who does this?!”
“Visionaries,” he says smoothly. “Trendsetters. People who care deeply about customer satisfaction.”
“Customer?!”
“Well, you.”
“I am not your customer!” you yell, holding the replica aloft like it’s a cursed artifact.
Carlos is unbothered. “Technically, you are. You’ve been enjoying the original product for a while now. Or, well, the sight of it.”
You choke on air. “You’re insane.”
“Insanely thoughtful,” he corrects.
“You’re disgusting.”
“And you’re flustered. It's very cute.”
Your jaw drops. “I am not-”
He cuts you off, grinning wider. “So, when’s the test drive?”
“Oh my God,” you mutter, setting the… thing down and burying your face in your hands. “This isn’t happening.”
“Take your time,” he says, magnanimous. “I know it’s a lot to take in.”
“You’re welcome, by the way,” he adds, like this is a completely normal conversation.
“I didn’t ask for this!”
“I know. That’s what makes it such a great surprise,” he says, his grin practically splitting his face.
“Surprise?!” you echo. “I almost had a heart attack!”
“You’ll appreciate it later,” he says confidently.
“I will not!”
“Bet you will.”
“You need therapy,” you hiss, shoving the box away like it might explode.
“And you need lube,” he counters smoothly.
“You’re deranged!”
“Efficient,” he corrects, smirking. “In case you miss me.”
“I don’t!” you lie, your face burning.
Carlos watches you, entirely too pleased with himself. “You’re keeping it, though.”
“I am absolutely not-”
“Yes, you are,” he interrupts, his tone maddeningly smug.
“I am throwing it in the trash right now!” you declare, grabbing the box and stomping toward the trash can.
He leans closer to the camera, completely unbothered. “Go ahead. I’ll wait.”
You freeze, hand hovering over the trash.
“There it is,” he says smugly. “Knew you wouldn’t.”
“You’re insufferable,” you mutter, stomping back to the counter and slamming the box down.
“And yet, here you are, calling me,” he points out.
“Because I needed to yell at you!”
“And now you’re smiling.”
“I am not smiling!” you yell, even as you turn away from the camera to hide the traitorous curl of your lips.
Carlos laughs, leaning back in his chair. “Admit it- you think it’s funny.”
“I think it’s horrifying!”
“You’re laughing on the inside.”
“I’m plotting your murder on the inside,” you snap.
“Sure, sure,” he says, waving a hand dismissively. “So. Again. When are you trying it out?”
“Oh my God,” you mutter, pressing the heels of your hands to your eyes. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do.”
“Liar,” he says again, his grin positively devilish.
Before you can come up with a response, he adds, “Just make sure to let me know how it compares to the real thing. For science.”
“You’re insane,” you mutter, grabbing your phone and ending the call with a vicious jab.
Seconds later, your phone buzzes with a text.
Carlos Don’t forget lube, babe. You’re gonna need it. ;)
You stare at the screen, your cheeks burning.
Carlos And batteries. Unless you want to do it the old-fashioned way. Your call.
You want to throw the phone, the box, and maybe yourself out the nearest window.
You Blocked
Carlos Bad girl.
—
Carlos has this way of getting under your skin. Not in an infuriating, "I can’t believe I’m dealing with this" kind of way, but more in the likes of "Why do I secretly enjoy this ridiculousness?"
It starts with a string of increasingly pathetic messages.
Carlos Please?
Carlos Just once?
Carlos I take that back.
Carlos Twice? Maybe even thrice
Carlos C’mon, I’ll be good
Carlos I’m literally begging here
Carlos On my knees
Carlos Pathetically btw
Carlos Do you need a photo for proof?
You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out of your head.
You Carlos, we are not doing this again
Carlos You say that
Carlos But I feel like deep down you want to. You’re just being stubborn
He replies instantly, because of course he’s sitting there, waiting for your response like his life depends on it.
“Stubborn,” you deadpan, fingers hovering over your phone. “Sure. That’s definitely it.”
And then he hits you with a voice note, because apparently texts alone can’t convey his desperation.
You don’t even mean to open it, but your thumb slips, and suddenly there he is, using that tone that he knows gets to you.
"Just once," he begs, words spilling out of your speakers like some lovesick fool. "I swear I’ll make it worth your time. Please. I just wanna watch you take me again."
You know you shouldn’t.
It’s ridiculous, bordering on embarrassing.
But then you picture his face, probably flushed, probably biting his lip in that way that always gets to you, and against your better judgment, you cave.
You Fine. But just this once
Carlos I love you
Carlos You’re the best
Carlos I’m naming my firstborn after you
You Just call me
Carlos Yes ma'am 🥰
When the call connects, you're met with the sight of Carlos lounging on his couch looking very much the part of a man who's won an impossible bet.
One arm is draped lazily over the backrest, laptop balanced on his thighs.
The soft glow from the screen highlights the sharp angles of his jawline and the shadow of stubble that you know feels just as delicious as it looks.
The smirk that he wears is devastating. An expression of smug satisfaction that makes your pulse race even as you curse him for it.
His shirt clings to his broad chest, the undone buttons teasing you with a glimpse of hard lines across tanned skin.
His eyes are locked onto you.
There’s heat in them, hunger.
He’s relaxed, but you can feel the tension rolling off him, the way he’s barely holding himself back.
And you?
You’re perched on your bed, knees tucked beneath you, completely bare.
The dildo lies heavy in your hand, the silicone cool against your flushed skin.
The sheer indecency of it sends a rush of heat through you, making your thighs clench.
Carlos smirks, his hand disappearing offscreen for a moment, only to return with a slow stroke along his already hard cock.
He leans forward slightly, the movement drawing your eyes to the way his length twitches in his hand.
For someone who was shamelessly begging just minutes ago, Carlos is playing it way too cool now.
“Naked on your bed, holding a mold of my dick,” he says, his voice smooth like it’s a damn sales pitch. “I mean, come on. That’s the kind of devotion poets write sonnets about.”
You snort, rolling your eyes even as your cheeks heat up. “Oh, yeah. Shakespeare totally had this in mind when he wrote, ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day.’”
“Exactly. I’m a classic, baby. Timeless.”
“Delusional,” you counter, grabbing the bottle of lube with way more force than necessary.
His laugh is low and warm, the kind that annoyingly makes your stomach flip. “Call it what you want, but you didn’t say no to my ‘gift.’”
Your glare falters, just for a second, and he catches it immediately. Carlos thrives on cracks in your armor, and his smirk sharpens like a predator who just spotted its prey.
You glare at the bottle in your hand like it personally wronged you. "I hate you," you mutter, squeezing out a glob of lube.
Carlos's face lights up on the screen, all smug satisfaction and unearned charm. "Funny, because you're doing exactly what I asked. Almost like you want to."
"Don’t push your luck,”
He leans closer to his camera, his grin widening. "Oh, pushing my luck is my favorite hobby. You know this."
You level him with a deadpan stare. "And yet, here you are. Still single."
"Wow. Low blow. But fine, I'll allow it, because you're about to make my night."
"Make your night?" You scoff, dragging this out purely to annoy him. "I’m just trying to remember what this was called. A gag gift, right? Or was it just a waste of money?"
His jaw drops. "A gag gift? I can’t believe you’d say that. This is art."
"This is silicone," you reply flatly, holding up the toy with a disapproving shake of your head.
"Silicone art," he corrects, pointing at the screen like that changes anything. His grin sharpens. "And don’t pretend you weren’t curious the moment I sent it to you."
"You sent this to annoy me," you retort, spreading the lube over your fingers with dramatic flair. "And congratulations, it worked."
Carlos leans forward, his chin propped on his hand as he watches you, his dark eyes glittering with mischief.
"Oh, but look at you now. All lubed up and ready to go. Who's the real winner here, hmm?"
"Still me," you shoot back, though your fingers falter as you glance down at the toy.
Your grip tightens as if it’s a stress ball, and the obscene squelch it makes has you biting back a groan.
Carlos’s smirk grows. "Careful, sweetheart. You keep squeezing it like that, and I’ll think you’re practicing for something."
You let out a sharp breath through your nose, refusing to look at him. "You’re insufferable, you know that?"
He leans in even closer. "And you’re still here. Lube in hand. Ready to-"
"Don’t finish that sentence," you interrupt, finally looking up to glare at him. "I’ll block you."
Carlos snickers, leaning back like he’s won. "You’d never block me. I’m your favorite pain in the ass."
"No," you say, grabbing the toy with more force than necessary. "You're just a pain in the ass in general. Huge difference."
His brow arches as he watches you spread the lube along the length of the toy, the slick sound louder than your ego can handle. You freeze mid-motion, hyper-aware of his gaze tracking every movement.
Carlos’s grin falters for a moment, replaced by something darker, hungrier. His voice drops an octave. "Good girl."
The unexpected praise punches the air out of your lungs, and your hands falter, nearly dropping the toy.
"Keep going," he murmurs, his tone rich with satisfaction. His eyes don’t leave yours, the heat in them curling low in your stomach. "Let me see you do it."
Your pride flares, and you straighten your spine, lifting your chin as you resume your movements with exaggerated precision.
"You’re lucky I don’t throw this thing across the room," you grumble.
Carlos hums, his gaze shamelessly lingering. "You wouldn’t dare. That thing cost more than your dignity."
"Bold words for someone whose dignity died in 2016," you snap, but the banter feels more like a lifeline now, a way to distract yourself from the intensity of his gaze.
The corner of his mouth lifts, cocky and infuriating. "Touché."
You inhale sharply, your hands trembling slightly as you grip the toy.
You hate how your body reacts to him, how his voice, his laugh, his everything gets under your skin like this.
Carlos leans forward again, his smirk all-knowing. "Having fun yet?"
Your pride makes you glare at him. “Fuck you.”
His laugh is low, indulgent, the sound curling around you like smoke. "Soon, sweetheart. Very soon."
“Shut up.”
“Make me,” he fires back smoothly, his eyes gleaming with wicked intent.
His voice drops to a growl. "But you won’t, will you? You’ll do exactly what I say because you love being told what to do. Makes you wet just thinking about it, doesn’t it?"
Your lips part, but the sharp retort you’re trying to form dies as his gaze drops to your hands.
His smirk fades, replaced by a hunger so fierce it leaves you breathless.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice rich with satisfaction.
The unexpected praise sends a rush of heat straight to your core. "Keep going. Let me see you do it."
Your fingers tremble as you continue spreading lube on the length of the toy, the silicone cool against your skin.
“Fuck,” Carlos breathes, his hand tightening around his cock. “Look at you, already so obedient. Knew you’d listen.”
He shifts slightly, his voice softening. “Now, spread those legs for me. Show me how wet you are. I want to see that pretty pussy you’ve been thinking about me filling.”
Your thighs part, the cool air brushing against your slick heat as you settle back against the pillows.
His sharp inhale through the speakers sends a jolt straight to your core.
“Fuck,” he groans, his voice strained.
His hand pauses on his cock as he drinks in the sight of you, dark eyes dragging over every inch of exposed skin. "You’re so fucking perfect. Do you even realize how bad I want to bury myself in you right now?"
Your skin feels like it’s on fire, the heat spreading from your cheeks to your chest as the ache between your thighs sharpens with every passing second of his unrelenting stare.
Slowly, you drag the toy through your folds, the soft, slick sound of your arousal breaking the tense silence.
It’s obscene, the way the wetness clings, glistening on the head of the silicone.
Your arousal drips along your thighs, the skin glistening under the low light and you can feel how messy you’ve become, how utterly soaked you are.
"Oh, sweetheart," he rasps, his eyes fixed on the toy and the way it slides against your swollen folds. "That's it. Get it nice and wet for me. I want to see just how desperate you are to take it."
Your fingers tremble as you position the toy at your entrance, the blunt tip pressing against your slick heat. You hesitate, glancing up at him through the screen.
“Carlos…”
“Go on, baby,” he urges, his tone soft but insistent. “Don’t make me wait. I want to see you take it.”
You bite your lip, a soft whine escaping as you slide the tip between your folds again. His gaze darkens, his strokes faltering as he watches you hover above it.
The moment the dildo breaches the first ring of muscles, your head falls back with a moan that’s nothing short of sinful.
Carlos’s eyes burn through the screen, dark and wild, his fist sliding steadily up and down his cock as he watches you begin to move.
“Fuck, baby, look at you,” he groans, his voice rough and needy. “You’re so fucking tight. That little pussy is made for me, isn’t it?”
You whimper, your hips starting to bounce, your slick heat making it easier to slide up and down. The toy stretches you so perfectly, but it’s his words that send fire shooting through your veins.
“Yes,” you gasp, gripping the bed to keep your balance. “It’s yours, Carlos. Always yours.”
“Damn right it is,” he growls, stroking himself faster. “You'd rather have me inside you, stretching you out, making you scream my name, hm? Doesn't matter if it's a mold from my cock. Still can't compare, yeah?”
Your hips jerk at his filthy words, and you pick up the pace, grinding down harder until the toy presses right against that spot that makes you see stars.
“Say it,” he demands, his voice dripping with dominance. “Say how much you want my cock, baby. Tell me what you miss.”
“I miss you,” you cry out, each bounce making your voice tremble. “Miss the way you fill me up, how fucking deep you get- oh god, Carlos-”
“That’s my girl,” he groans, his jaw tightening as he watches the way your body moves, the slick sounds of the dildo sliding in and out of you driving him insane.
“You’d take me so good, wouldn’t you? Let me fuck you until you can’t even think, until you’re dripping all over my cock.”
“Please,” you whine, your fingers digging into the sheets as the pleasure builds, your body tightening around the toy with every bounce. “I need it. Need you to fuck me, Carlos. Need to feel you come inside me-”
“Shit,” he growls, his hips jerking up into his hand. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you? Feeling me stretch you open, filling you so full you’d still be dripping with me the next day.”
Your head is spinning, the combination of his words and the relentless drag of the dildo inside you sending you spiraling closer to the edge.
“You’d let me do whatever I want, wouldn’t you?” His voice is a low, dirty rasp now, his strokes frantic as he chases his release. “You’d let me bend you over, fuck you on every surface in the house, make you come over and over until you’re begging me to stop.”
You nod desperately.
“Go faster, baby” Carlos murmurs, his voice low and rough.
You whimper, obeying.
Each downward motion stretches you all over again, and the fullness makes your eyes flutter shut as a moan spills from your lips.
Carlos’s growl cuts through the speakers, low and rough. “You look so pretty fucking yourself on it like that.”
You lift yourself just enough for the toy to drag along your walls, the friction igniting sparks of pleasure that ripple through you.
When you sink back down, the stretch feels even deeper. Your thighs tremble, your pace picking up as the need builds inside you.
“Fuck,” Carlos groans. “Your tits are bouncing so perfectly. Keep going, baby, let me see them move while you ride it.”
Your breasts sway with each bounce, the motion only adding to the heat pooling low in your belly.
The way his eyes lock onto you, dark, hungry, devouring, makes your nipples pebble, the cool air only amplifying the sensation.
“You look so fucking good,” Carlos murmurs, half mindless, his strokes on his cock quickening as he watches you. “Look at how deep it’s stretching you. Look at the way your tits bounce every time you take it. Fuck, you’re so perfect.”
You can’t stop now, the pleasure too much to ignore.
Your hips grind down harder, rolling in small circles as you press yourself against the base of the toy.
Each motion sends shocks of ecstasy through you, your slick heat gripping the silicone like you never want it to leave.
“Bounce on it harder,” he says.
Your hands grip the sheets tightly as you obey, your hips lifting and dropping with more urgency.
The wet, obscene sound of the toy sliding in and out of you fills the room, mixing with your soft gasps and moans. Your breasts bounce with every movement, and you feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch.
“Baby,” Carlos groans, his fist tightening around his cock as he watches you ride the toy. “You’re so fucking perfect. You’d ride me just like that, wouldn’t you? Taking every inch, letting me stretch you open until you can’t handle it.”
Your breath catches, your body arching as you grind down harder, the toy hitting that perfect spot deep inside you. “Carlos,” you gasp, your voice trembling. “It feels so good- so fucking full-”
“That’s it,” he growls, his strokes turning frantic as he watches you lose yourself. “Take it all, baby. Keep bouncing. I want to see you come while you’re stretched out like that.”
“Yes,” you gasp, your body trembling as you grind harder, your cries turning into broken moans. “Carlos, I’m- fuck, I’m gonna come-”
“Do it,” he growls, his eyes locked on you, his voice pure command. “Come for me, baby. I want to see it. Show me how fucking good I make you feel.”
Your body shatters at his words, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your walls clench around the toy, your cries spilling out uncontrollably as pleasure courses through you.
“Fucking hell,” Carlos groans, his own release hitting him hard as he watches you fall apart. His hand jerks wildly as he spills over himself, his groans mixing with your whimpers through the screen.
As you both come down, the air is thick and charged, your bodies still trembling from the intensity of it all. Carlos grins at you, looking like the devil himself, his chest still heaving.
“Pretty girl.”
—-
Carlos’s phone is propped up against his water bottle, the screen showing you on the other end of the line as the two of you talk over lunch.
He’s at a small café near the gym, picking at a plate of grilled chicken and rice while you sit on the terrace of a restaurant somewhere near the Monaco Marina.
He can’t tell which restaurant exactly, but it doesn’t matter. He’s too focused on the way the sunlight catches in your hair, how you’re picking at a croissant with absentminded precision.
“So, wait,” you say, mid-bite. “You’re telling me you thought you could just wing the French?”
Carlos grins, popping a spoonful into his mouth. “I did wing it. The waiter understood me perfectly.”
“Sure,” you deadpan. “Because pointing at the menu is such a skill.”
He chuckles, wiping his fingers on a napkin. “Why complicate things? A man’s gotta eat.”
You shake your head, your exasperation half-hearted at best. “You’re hopeless.”
“Worked, didn't it?” he counters smoothly, a spark of mischief in his eyes.
You roll your eyes but don’t argue, which feels like a victory.
For a moment, the conversation drifts to lighter topics.
Where you’d want to travel next, the chaos of his morning workout, and whether or not croissants count as dessert.
It’s easy, effortless, the kind of back-and-forth that feels like second nature.
But then you glance down, suddenly fidgeting with your sleeve, and Carlos picks up on the shift immediately.
“What’s that face?” he asks, leaning forward, curiosity laced in his tone.
You pause, debating, then sigh. “Can I tell my friends about this?”
Carlos blinks. “This?”
“Us,” you say, casually, but the word lands heavier than you probably realize.
He freezes for a split second, his mind stalling like a rookie stalling a car on the grid.
Us.
You don't mean it in the way that’s currently making his chest feel too tight, but it doesn’t stop the word from echoing in his head.
You take another bite of your croissant like you haven’t just derailed his entire thought process.
“Legally? No.” he says, recovering with a smirk. “You’re under NDA. You can’t even mention I exist.”
Your eyes narrow. “Carlos, no one cares that much about you.”
“Ouch,” he says, clutching his chest dramatically.
You shake your head, your expression flat. “Be serious. Is it okay or not?”
He leans back, draping an arm over his chair and studying you with an unreadable expression.
The truth is, he should say no. He should remind you how much he values his privacy, how careful he has to be.
But the thought of you talking about him, to your friends, no less, makes him feel... proud. Like he’s somehow made it onto a list of people who matter to you.
“Yeah,” he says finally, his voice casual. “Go ahead.”
“Really?”
“Why not?”
You narrow your eyes, clearly suspicious. “You’re not going to show up at my door with legal threats if I say something stupid?”
“Not unless it’s really stupid,” he teases.
Your unimpressed stare makes him grin wider. “You’re annoying,” you mutter, but your tone lacks any real bite.
“You love me though,” he counters easily.
He watches as your face softens, just for a moment, and something about it makes his heart stutter in a way he’d never admit.
“You’re impossible,” you say, shaking your head.
“And you like it,” he fires back, his voice light, though there’s a trace of sincerity underneath it.
The conversation shifts again, and by the time you glance at your watch, he’s already dreading the inevitable.
“I should go,” you say, reaching for your coffee cup.
“Busy?”
“Not really,” you admit, but you’re already sitting straighter, ready to leave.
Carlos hesitates, leaning forward slightly. “Hey.”
You pause, looking up at him expectantly.
“Call me again tomorrow,” he says, softer this time.
Your brow lifts, a flicker of curiosity crossing your face. “Why?”
He shrugs, fighting the grin threatening to take over. “I like hearing your voice.”
For a moment, you just stare at him, and he thinks maybe, just maybe, you’re about to call him out on it.
But then you roll your eyes, hiding a smile that he doesn’t miss.
“Goodbye, Carlos,” you say, shaking your head as you reach for the screen.
The call ends, and Carlos sits back in his chair, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he stares at the now-empty screen.
Us.
—-
It’s the bimonthly girlfriend meet-up, and Kika’s already locked onto you like a heat-seeking missile.
“So, there’s this guy,” you say casually, swirling your wine like this isn’t about to become the most chaotic conversation of your week.
Her brow arches, her smirk appearing like she’s just been handed premium-grade gossip.
“Oh?” she says, leaning in.
“Yes,” you reply, taking a slow sip from your glass, because wine is courage, and you need a lot of it right now.
“Tell me more,” she says, her tone deceptively sweet, like a predator coaxing its prey closer.
You hesitate. There’s no way you’re telling her the guy in question is Carlos Sainz.
That would be insane. Absolutely unhinged.
One, because it’s Carlos Sainz.
Two, because it’s Carlos fucking Sainz.
“We’ve been… hooking up,” you say vaguely, hoping to skate by with minimal detail.
Kika narrows her eyes. “Hooking up? Where? I haven’t seen you at the club scene lately, and I definitely haven’t heard from Charles about you sneaking out.”
You blink at her. “Why would Charles know- wait. Are you spying on me?”
“No,” she says breezily, waving a hand. “But Charles knows everything about you. If you were sneaking around Monaco with a guy, I’d know by now.”
Kika tilts her head, studying you. “So if it’s not a local guy…”
She pauses. Then her eyes widen. “Oh my God. Is it a long-distance thing? Is this why you’ve been all ‘mysterious vibes’ lately?”
You sigh, realizing you’re caught. “It’s phone sex, okay?”
Kika blinks. “Phone sex?”
“Yes,” you say, downing the rest of your wine in one gulp. “We’re doing… phone stuff.”
She hums, sitting back, her gaze calculating. “It’s a famous guy, isn’t it?”
“What?!” you sputter. “How did you- why would you even-”
“Ma’am, look at you.” She gestures at you like you’re an exhibit at the Louvre. “You’re gorgeous. You’re you. Why would you ever settle for phone sex unless it’s, like, some Vogue model or an A-lister who’s too busy jet-setting to see you in person?”
“That’s ridiculous,” you say, trying to laugh her off, but it sounds more like a dying animal.
Her grin turns absolutely wicked, the kind of wicked that makes you instantly regret ever letting her into your life. “Oh, so it is a famous guy. You just gave yourself away. Who is it? Spill.”
“I did not!” you protest, but it’s weak. Too weak.
Kika hums, tapping a finger on her chin as she tilts her head. “Hmm. Let me think. Is it an actor? A musician? Oh my God, is it Harry Styles? Blink once for yes.”
“Kika-”
“Wait!” She gasps, cutting you off and slapping the table. “Is it a prince? Are you pulling a Meghan Markle? Are we about to be royalty by proxy?”
“Kika!” you hiss, glaring at her as a nearby table turns to look at the commotion.
“Okay, okay, fine. I'll behave.”
“But,” she adds, holding up a finger and wagging it at you, “you can’t just stop there. I want details. Stories. Anecdotes. What have you two done other than, like, phone sex? That can’t be it, right? Kick it up a notch. Spice things up.”
Your face burns, and you take a long, slow sip of your drink, desperately trying to buy time. “We… talk.”
Kika stares at you, unimpressed. “Talk? Oh, please. You’re telling me a man calls you up just to talk?”
You shrug, feigning innocence. “Sometimes.”
Her grin turns sharper. “And the other times?”
You look away, pretending to be fascinated by the texture of the tablecloth.
“Oh no,” she says, leaning in like a predator cornering its prey. “You’re not getting out of this. What does he say? What does he do? Don’t make me guess because I will make it a thousand times worse.”
You groan, your head falling into your hands. “Why are you like this?”
“Because I care about you,” she says sweetly, patting your hand before grinning again. “Now spill. What’s the wildest thing he’s done so far? Flown you out to a private island? Sent you a love letter written in champagne? What are we working with here?”
You hesitate. You know telling her anything will only fuel her chaos, but at this point, it feels like you don’t have a choice.
“Fine,” you mumble. “He, um… he sent me a… package.”
You take a long sip of your wine, trying to ignore Kika’s razor-sharp gaze burning into the side of your face.
You shouldn’t have said anything. You really shouldn’t have.
But it’s too late now.
“He sent me a dildo shaped like his cock,” you mutter under your breath, so fast you almost hope she didn’t hear you.
Kika chokes on her wine. Full-on chokes. She’s sputtering, clutching her chest as her eyes go wide.
Meanwhile, you calmly sip your drink, staring at some random painting on the wall like it’s the most fascinating thing you’ve ever seen.
“WHAT?!” she finally manages, her voice about three octaves higher than usual.
“I’m not saying it again,” you reply coolly, refusing to meet her gaze.
“He sent you a-” she starts, and then bursts into laughter so loud half the restaurant turns to look at your table.
You shoot her a glare, shushing her. “Could you not announce it to the entire world?”
“Oh my God,” she wheezes, clutching her stomach. “Mr. Mystery sent you a dildo shaped like his cock?!”
You take another sip of wine, your cheeks burning. “It was… thoughtful.”
“THOUGHTFUL?!” she howls. “He’s out here like, ‘What’s a practical gift? Ah, yes, my dick!’”
“It’s not a big deal,” you mumble into your hands, praying the floor will swallow you whole.
“Not a big- ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” She’s laughing so hard she can barely breathe.
“Kika,” you hiss, kicking her under the table.
“That’s so romantic,” she says, ignoring you entirely. “Forget flowers. Forget jewelry. Nothing says love like, ‘Here’s my dick. In case you miss me.’”
“This is why I didn’t want to tell you.”
“Are you kidding? This is the best thing you��ve ever told me,” she says, still grinning like a lunatic.
She leans forward, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Do you… do you keep it on your nightstand? Like, right next to your lamp? Is it displayed like a trophy? Maybe on one of those little velvet stands?”
“Kika!” you hiss, glancing around the café as if someone might overhear this absolute chaos.
Her laughter crescendos, attracting a few curious stares from nearby tables. She waves them off with a flick of her wrist, too far gone to care.
“No, seriously, I need to know. Oh God, imagine if you lose it. Like, it’s just missing one day and you’re crawling around under your couch yelling, ‘Mr. Mystery, where’s your dick?!’”
You groan, your head dropping into your hands. “Can you be serious for one second?”
She sucks in a breath, fanning herself like she’s about to faint. “Okay, okay. Serious. Totally serious. I’m done. Promise.”
You peek at her through your fingers, skeptical. “You sure?”
She nods, biting her lip to stifle another laugh. “Totally. Except… I have one more question.”
You lean back in your chair, staring at the ceiling like it might grant you patience. “What now?”
She leans in closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Is it… accurate?”
You freeze, horrified. “I’m leaving.”
“No, wait!” she cries, grabbing your arm before you can stand. She’s laughing again, her grip on your sleeve shaking with the force of it. “Come on, I’m kidding! Mostly. But seriously. Is it accurate? Like, should we call MythBusters?”
You gape at her, flabbergasted. “Why would I answer that?”
“Because I’m dying to know!” she says, eyes gleaming.
You shake her off and reach for your bag. “You’re insane.”
“And you’re avoiding the question,” she fires back, wagging a finger at you like a smug prosecutor. “Which makes me think it’s very accurate.”
You narrow your eyes. “You’re lucky I haven’t thrown this glass of wine at you.”
“Please,” she scoffs, twirling her straw. “You’d never waste good wine. Now, answer me. Did he measure it himself, or do you think there was a mold involved? Like, did he sit there in some science lab with a team of experts, being all, ‘Make sure you get the angle right!’?”
“Oh my God,” you groan, covering your face again.
The two of you quiet down as a waiter approaches your little corner.
It’s quiet for a moment—mercifully quiet.
Kika is vibrating with barely restrained laughter, and you’re praying she doesn’t lose it while he’s standing there.
The waiter sets down your plates, refills your glasses, and gives Kika a quick, confused glance because she’s shaking like a malfunctioning washing machine.
You smile at him—tight, polite, please don’t ask questions, I beg you—and he wisely scurries off.
The second he’s out of earshot, Kika slams her hands on the table, rattling the cutlery. “Let me see it.”
You nearly choke on your own saliva. “What?! No!”
“Why not?” she demands, like this is a perfectly reasonable request.
“Why not? Because we’re in a crowded restaurant, that’s why!” you hiss, clutching your purse like it’s a medieval chastity belt.
She leans forward, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “So you’re saying there’s a non-crowded situation where you’d show me?”
“That’s not what I said!”
She smirks. “Sure, but you didn’t not say it.”
“Kika, I swear to God-”
“Just one peek,” she pleads, like she’s asking for a bite of your dessert. “Under the table. No one will even notice!”
“Under the- what are you, a contraband dealer?” you whisper-yell. “This is not a shady back-alley dildo exchange!”
She grins, undeterred. “So, what does it look like? Is it… metallic?”
You freeze. “Why would it be metallic?!”
“I don’t know! Maybe it’s fancy. Maybe it’s, like, a collector’s item.”
“It’s not a lightsaber, Kika!”
She gasps, her hand flying to her chest. “Oh my God. Does it light up?!”
“No!”
“Are you sure?” she presses, narrowing her eyes. “Maybe it has LEDs. You know, for… ambiance.”
��
Kika’s obsession with the whole thing also refuses to let up. She knows, and worse, she loves knowing.
It starts small: innocent comments here and there, teasing questions she doesn’t expect you to answer.
But over time, her nosiness evolves into full-blown meddling. She’s not just curious. She’s invested.
And one day, it all comes to a head.
Kika cracks.
Or rather, her big mouth does.
“This is too good,” she hisses over the phone like she’s smuggling state secrets. “I can’t keep it to myself any longer.”
You drop your sandwich mid-bite, the mayo squelching onto the table. “What the hell do you mean you can’t keep it to yourself?”
“This secret,” she says, as if it’s physically weighing her down. “It’s eating me alive. I can’t keep it anymore.”
You groan. “Kika, we’ve talked about this. It’s not your secret to keep.”
“Which is exactly why I need to tell someone!” she snaps, like that’s a logical leap. “It’s not mine! It’s yours! I’m just... borrowing it, and now I’m returning it to the universe.”
“That’s not how secrets work,” you deadpan, rubbing your temples.
“I need to tell someone! Please, let me tell Alex,” she begs, her voice desperate, like she’s asking for kidney donation approval.
You choke. You actually choke, sputtering on your words like a broken engine. “Are you insane? Have you lost what little is left of your mind?”
“She’s so cool! She won’t tell anyone, I swear.” Kika’s tone is sunny, like she’s campaigning for Alex to win Best Confidant of the Year. “She loves secrets! She’s a vault!”
“She’s my brother’s girlfriend! My. Brother’s. Girlfriend.” You emphasize each word like you’re explaining calculus to a toddler.
“And a great secret keeper regardless of who she’s dating!” She chirps, undeterred.
“She’s dating my brother,” you hiss, as if saying it will drive the point home in her thick skull, pacing across your room like a caged animal. “Do you not see the problem here?”
“I see no problem,” she says brightly. “Alex is the Fort Knox of secrets. She’ll take this to her grave.”
“She’ll take it to my brother,” you counter, jabbing the air with your finger even though she can’t see you. “And then my brother will take it to my mom, and then my mom will take it to church, and next thing you know, I’m being exorcised for sins of the phone!”
Kika laughs, the kind of laugh that means she’s not taking you seriously at all. “Don’t be dramatic. Your mom would faint.”
“Kika!” you hiss, lowering your voice even though no one else is in the room. “If you tell her, I swear to God, I’ll... I’ll-”
“You’ll what? Call Mr. Mystery and complain about me?” Her grin is practically audible.
“Yes, and he’ll agree with me!” you snap, clutching your phone so tightly it’s a miracle it doesn’t crack. “Because this is not a group project!”
“Okay, okay!” She gasps, wheezing like she just finished a marathon. “I won’t tell her! I swear!”
You pause, narrowing your eyes even though she can’t see you. “Wait. Really?”
“No,” she says flatly, so matter-of-fact you feel your brain short-circuit. “I’m absolutely telling her. She’s going to lose her mind.”
You let out a shriek so loud your upstairs neighbor thumps on the floor in retaliation. “Kika, if you even breathe a word”
“Just picture it!” she interrupts, steamrolling over your protest. You can hear her bouncing on her bed. “I’ll text her right now. Something casual, like, ‘Hey Alex, you’re never going to believe-’”
“Fine!” you snap, throwing yourself onto the bed so hard the mattress squeaks in protest. “Fine, just tell her! But we do it in the next meet-up! I have to be present to keep your unruly mouth shut!”
Kika lets out an unholy squeal, the kind that makes dogs two blocks over start barking. You yank the phone away from your ear, grimacing.
“This is the best day of my life,” she announces, and you can practically hear her smirk.
“This is the worst day of mine,” you counter, dragging a pillow over your face and screaming into it.
“Relax,” she says breezily. You hear the telltale sound of typing. “Alex is going to eat this up. She loves a little drama.”
You lower the pillow just enough to breathe. “This isn’t drama. This is my life unraveling because you can’t keep your mouth shut.”
“Oh, please. You’re being dramatic,” she says, her tone so casual you almost throw your phone across the room. “It’s not like we're sending the story to Charles. That would be a scandal.”
You sit bolt upright. “Kika, I swear to all that is holy, if this gets back to him-”
“It won’t!” she chirps. “Unless Alex tells him. But she won’t. Probably.”
“Probably?!” Your voice cracks, and you claw at your scalp like you’re trying to yank out the stress by the roots.
“She’s trustworthy! You trust her, right?” Kika says, still typing away.
“No! I don’t trust anyone!” you shout, rolling onto your stomach and pounding your fists into the mattress. “Least of all you!”
Kika laughs so hard she starts coughing. “Oh, you’ll thank me for this one day,” she chokes out between wheezes.
“Unlikely,” you mutter.
“Anyway, gotta go! I’ll let you know if Alex is available next week,” Kika says brightly, and then the call ends before you can respond.
You stare at your phone in silence, a deep sense of dread pooling in your stomach.
Mistakes were made. By you. Specifically by trusting Kika with anything.
—
The restaurant is stupidly fancy, the kind of place where the bread basket comes with a backstory and the waiters judge you if you butter too enthusiastically.
You sit on the terrace, the Mediterranean sparkling behind you like a postcard that refuses to let you forget how expensive everything is.
Your table has a perfect view of the marina, where billionaires are essentially playing a game of “whose yacht is bigger.”
Not that you’re paying attention.
Alex and Kika are too busy ruining your life for you to focus on anything else.
Alex is halfway through her sea bass when you drop the bomb.
She freezes, her knife poised mid-cut, before her hand falls to the table.
Her fork clatters onto the porcelain plate, loud enough to make a few patrons turn their heads.
You wince, sinking lower in your chair.
Across from you, Kika sips her champagne, completely unbothered. She smirks, clearly enjoying the spectacle.
“You’re kidding,” Alex says, eyes wide with disbelief.
Kika doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh, she’s not kidding,” she says, swirling her glass lazily. “She’s dead serious.”
You squirm under Alex’s gaze, picking at your lobster ravioli like it might swallow you whole if you wish hard enough. “It’s not a big deal,” you mumble.
Alex snorts, an uncharacteristically undignified sound for someone who normally looks like she belongs on the cover of Vogue.
“Not a big deal?” she repeats, her voice rising just enough to make you glance nervously at the tables around you.
“Shut it. People are going to hear,” you hiss.
“Oh, darling,” Kika cuts in, her grin widening. “If people heard, they’d ask for more details. Probably start taking notes.”
Alex ignores her, leaning forward and resting her elbows on the table, etiquette be damned.
“You’re telling me you’ve been having phone sex with some elite celebrity and it’s ‘not a big deal?’”
You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “Can we not call it that?”
“What would you prefer?” Kika asks, her eyes practically sparkling. “Verbal intimacy? Oral storytelling?”
“I hate you both,” you mutter.
Alex waves her off, laser-focused on you. “And the… gift?” she asks, voice dripping with disbelief. “Are we glossing over the fact that he sent you a dildo?”
“It was thoughtful,” Kika offers, deadpan, before taking another sip of champagne.
“Stop helping,” you snap at her.
“I mean, really,” Alex continues, ignoring the interruption. “The man is rich, probably gorgeous to somehow convince you to give him a chance, could maybe have anyone he wants- and he’s doing phone sex with you?”
You glare at her. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“You know what I mean,” she says, brushing off your sarcasm. “Why would he go through all this effort unless-” She stops, her eyes narrowing slightly like she’s just cracked the Da Vinci Code.
“Oh my God.”
“What?” you ask, already dreading whatever is coming next.
“That man is in love with you,” Alex declares, her tone final, like she’s just announced a royal decree.
You choke on air, coughing so violently that Kika reaches over to thump your back, more amused than concerned. “He is not in love with me!” you wheeze.
“He absolutely is,” Alex insists, sitting back and crossing her arms.
“That’s a huge leap,” you argue, waving your hands in front of you. “How do you get ‘in love’ from… from phone sex and-” You gesture vaguely. “Other things?”
Alex doesn’t blink. “He’s a famous athlete, right?”
“Sure,” you say, narrowing your eyes. “So?”
“So,” she says, leaning forward, “he’s settling for phone sex instead of hooking up with someone in person? That doesn’t happen unless he’s in love.”
“It’s not settling!” you argue, flailing slightly. “It’s convenient! We have an NDA; it’s low effort!”
“Low effort?” Alex raises an eyebrow. “More low effort than walking into a club and taking his pick of willing women?”
“Well… yeah!”
Kika cackles, nearly spilling her drink. “Oh, babe. You really think you’re less effort? That’s adorable.”
You glare at her, but Alex presses on, relentless. “Does he do this with anyone else?”
“How would I know that?” you snap.
“Ask him,” Alex says simply, like it’s the most obvious solution in the world.
“Absolutely not!”
“Oh, come on,” Kika says, grinning. “Just casually drop it into conversation. ‘Hey, Mr. Mystery, quick question: am I your only long-distance dirty talk partner, or is this a group activity?’”
You groan, burying your face in your hands. “I’m not asking him that.”
“Why not?” Alex demands, cutting into her sea bass like this conversation isn’t actively ruining your life. “If it’s no big deal, he won’t mind. And if he does mind, well…” She trails off, her smirk infuriatingly smug.
“Then you’ll know he’s in love with you!” Kika chimes in, practically bouncing in her seat.
“Or he’ll think I’m insane,” you shoot back.
Alex shrugs, entirely unbothered. “Either way, it’s good information to have.”
You sit back in your chair, glaring at the two of them as they sip their champagne like this is the most entertaining lunch they’ve ever had.
“You two are the worst,” you mutter.
Kika raises her glass in a mock toast. “To Mr. Mystery and his poor, emotionally repressed heart.”
Alex clinks her glass against Kika’s with a soft laugh. “And to you,” she adds, “the object of his inconvenient affections.”
You consider grabbing their glasses and chucking them into the marina, but that would only prove their point.
Instead, you stab your ravioli with far more force than necessary, trying to ignore the heat rising in your cheeks.
Mistakes. So many mistakes.
—
You can’t stop thinking about it.
Carlos. In love with you.
The concept is so utterly ridiculous you actually laugh to yourself, out loud, like a complete maniac.
Because Carlos isn’t in love with you.
That’s not how this works. Carlos doesn’t do “love.” Carlos doesn’t do you.
Well, okay, he does you in certain… contexts, but that’s beside the point.
The point is, Carlos is like a human golden retriever with too much charm for his own good.
He’s nice to everyone. He flirts with everyone. He probably gives everyone those stupid lingering looks that make your knees go weak.
He doesn’t fall in love. And if he did, it sure as hell wouldn’t be with you.
But the thought won’t leave your brain. It’s set up camp there, pitching a tent and roasting marshmallows over the fire of your own self-doubt.
And then the photo happens.
It’s a normal day.
Quiet. Peaceful, even.
You’re in bed scrolling through your phone, feeling pretty good about life.
You’ve got coffee on the nightstand, a blanket wrapped around you, and a vague sense of superiority because you haven’t thought about Carlos in at least six hours.
Then his face pops up on your feed.
Carlos, golden and gorgeous, lounging on a yacht like he’s auditioning for a Bond movie. He’s shirtless, of course. Because of course he is. The sun catches in his hair, and his jawline looks so sharp it could cut glass.
You don’t even blink.
You’re too used to this by now. This is just Carlos being Carlos.
But then you see her.
The girl.
She’s pressed up against him, all long legs and glossy hair and perfect teeth. She’s laughing, her hand resting casually, possessively, on his chest like it’s hers to touch.
Your stomach does something horrifying, like it’s trying to fold in on itself.
It’s fine, you tell yourself. This is normal. Carlos is always surrounded by beautiful women. This means nothing.
But the way he’s looking at her…
You throw your phone across the bed like it just personally insulted you.
Then you lie back and stare at the ceiling, trying to convince yourself you’re not spiraling.
Spoiler alert: you’re totally spiraling.
Which is how you end up calling Kika and Alex.
Because misery loves company, and also because you’re desperate for someone to tell you you’re not crazy.
“Hello?” Kika answers, far too cheerful for your current mood.
“I need help,” you blurt out.
“What kind of help?” she asks cautiously.
“Emotional help,” you say dramatically. “I’m having an existential crisis.”
“Of course you are,” she says. “Hang on, I’m adding Alex.”
“No, don’t-”
Too late. Alex’s voice cuts in, already exasperated. “What happened now?”
“He posted a photo,” you mumble, already regretting this.
“Okay…” Alex says slowly. “And?”
“And there was a girl in it,” you say, your voice climbing an octave.
“Oh my God,” Kika groans.
Alex sighs. “Let me guess. Hot girl, hand on his chest, looking like she just stepped out of a magazine?”
“Exactly!” you exclaim, sitting up. “How do you always know?”
“Because this happens every time,” he says dryly. “It’s cliche at this point. You're a walking cliche.”
You whine. “He looked… happy.”
There’s a beat of silence before Kika asks, “Are you drunk?”
“No!”
“Okay, just checking,” she says. “Because you sound drunk. Or insane. Possibly both.”
“I’m being serious!” you say, flopping back onto the bed. “What if he actually likes her?”
“Then he’s an idiot,” Alex says without hesitation.
“You don’t even know who she is!”
“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “No one’s better than you.”
You groan. “That’s not helpful.”
“Look,” Kika cuts in, her tone gentler now. “You’ve got two options. One, you ask him about it. Two, you do what you always do and overthink yourself into oblivion.”
“Three,” Alex adds, “you block him, move to a remote island, and live off coconuts for the rest of your life.”
“I hate both of you,” you mutter.
“No, you don’t,” Kika says sweetly. “Now, are you going to talk to him or not?”
“I don’t know,” you admit. “What if I ask and he laughs at me? Or worse, what if he doesn’t care?”
“Then you’ll know,” Alex says simply.
And that’s the crux of it, isn’t it?
Knowing.
Because right now, as painful as it is, not knowing still feels safer than finding out the truth.
“Thanks, guys,” you say finally.
“Anytime,” Kika says. “Now go stalk his Instagram and cry into your coffee like a normal person.”
“Bye,” you grumble, hanging up.
You stare at the ceiling for a long time after that, the ache in your chest refusing to fade.
—
So, you cut him off.
Not all at once, because that would be too obvious, and God forbid Carlos Sainz think you’re actually affected by anything he does.
No, you do it slowly, carefully, like easing out of a party you didn’t really want to attend in the first place.
At first, it’s just a delay in your replies. Not anything dramatic, just enough to make it seem like you’ve got better things to do than hang on his every word.
When he sends a text, you leave it unread for an hour. Maybe two.
(Okay, fine, sometimes you read it immediately and then stare at your phone for thirty minutes trying not to reply, but that’s beside the point.)
When you do respond, you keep it short. Curt, even. No emojis, no playful banter, just cold, functional sentences.
Carlos How’s your day going?
You Busy
Carlos Busy with what?
You Work
He doesn’t push, which is somehow worse.
You want him to notice, to ask what’s wrong, to demand answers you’re not prepared to give. But he doesn’t.
He just keeps texting you, the same way he always has, like nothing’s changed.
When he asks to call, you tell him you’re busy. Which is technically true, if “busy” includes reorganizing your spice rack and watching sad movies while eating ice cream straight out of the tub.
It’s not immediate, but it’s different.
The rhythm of your conversations shifts, the easy flow replaced by stilted exchanges that feel like wading through molasses.
The worst part is how much it hurts.
Because cutting him off isn’t supposed to hurt you. It’s supposed to make things better. Easier. Less messy.
But instead, you’re walking around like some tragic romantic hero, clutching your metaphorical wounds and waiting for someone to ask why you look so miserable.
You try to distract yourself.
You download a meditation app, but the soothing voice telling you to “release your tension” only makes you think about how Carlos used to tease you for clenching your jaw when you were stressed.
You go out with friends, laughing too loud and drinking too much, but every time your phone buzzes, you can’t stop yourself from hoping it’s him.
It usually is.
Carlos Did I do something
You Just busy
Carlos Are you mad at me
You No
You toss your phone onto the couch and stare at it like it’s personally betrayed you. He’s starting to notice, which is both validating and soul-crushing.
Because if he notices, then maybe, just maybe, he actually cares.
And if he actually cares, then maybe cutting him off isn’t the answer.
But then you remember the photo. The girl. The way he looked at her.
And you remind yourself that Carlos Sainz isn’t yours. He never was.
So you keep going.
You tell yourself it’ll get easier. That eventually, his texts will stop coming, and the ache in your chest will fade, and you’ll finally be free of whatever this is.
But for now, you’re just sad and tired and watching Pride & Prejudice for the third time this week, convincing yourself you’re Elizabeth Bennet and he’s Mr. Darcy, except there’s no grand declaration at the end.
There’s just silence.
—
It's one of those times where you answer Carlos' call so he doesn't think you're actively avoiding him.
You’re stretched out on your couch, half-listening as Carlos narrates the chaos of his day, his voice flitting between amusement and exaggerated frustration.
“…and then they tell me the setup’s wrong, again, so I had to sit there, listening to engineers argue for an hour. An hour! I’m telling you, I deserve a medal just for staying awake.”
“Tragic,” you reply, dry as ever. “Truly, you’re the unsung hero of motorsport.”
“Exactly!” he exclaims, his tone shifting as if you’ve validated some grand injustice. “Finally, someone understands.”
You hear the faint rustle of fabric, the soft creak of leather, and you know he’s probably leaning back in one of those expensive chairs he likes so much, the ones you tease him about.
It’s a scene you’ve imagined a thousand times—so familiar it borders on comforting.
“So,” he says, drawing out the word like he’s gearing up for something. “Guess where I am right now?”
“Let me think,” you say. “Some glamorous location with a ridiculous view and an overpriced minibar?”
“Close,” he says, and you can hear the grin tugging at his words. “I’m in Monaco.”
Your heart stumbles, just a little, just enough to be annoying, but you keep your voice casual. “Oh, the usual playground of the rich and famous. How very you.”
“Hey, it’s practically home,” he teases, and the warmth in his tone makes your stomach twist. “And speaking of home… aren’t you supposed to be here too? Isn’t that, like, the whole point of being Monegasque?”
You hesitate, just for a beat, but it’s long enough.
“…Wait,” he says, his voice sharpening with suspicion. “You’re not here, are you?”
“I’m in Italy,” you admit, aiming for breezy and landing somewhere closer to forced.
There’s a pause, the kind of silence that feels heavier than it should. “Italy?” he repeats, his voice carefully light, like he’s trying not to make something of it. “What are you doing there?”
“Just am,” you say, shrugging even though he can’t see it.
“Right,” he says slowly, and you can feel the weight of his thoughts pressing through the line.
He doesn’t push it, though, because Carlos is a lot of things, but he’s not the kind of person who asks questions he’s not ready to hear the answers to.
He shifts the conversation after that, steering it back to safer waters.
He tells you about a restaurant he tried, about the ridiculous amount of traffic on his way to the track.
You laugh in the right places, make snarky comments when it’s expected, and for a while, it feels almost normal.
But it’s not.
The photo lingers in the back of your mind like a ghost. Her hand on his chest, his easy grin, the effortless way they fit together.
You thought you could handle it. Thought you could keep things light and easy, pretend that the photo didn’t bother you, that you hadn’t spent an embarrassing amount of time dissecting every pixel like it held some kind of secret truth.
But now, sitting here, listening to him ramble on about his day like everything’s fine, you’re not so sure.
“Hey,” he says suddenly, breaking the flow of his own story. His voice is quieter now, more thoughtful. “You’ve been kind of… off lately. Is everything okay?”
Your breath catches, just for a second.
“I’m fine,” you say quickly, too quickly.
There’s a pause, just long enough for you to know he doesn’t believe you.
But he doesn’t call you on it. He just hums softly, like he’s letting you have this one.
The conversation winds down after that. He says something about an early meeting, and you use it as an excuse to end the call.
—
Carlos has a suspicion you’re avoiding him.
Or maybe, just maybe, Charles Leclerc has turned into some kind of shadowy mastermind, meticulously coordinating Carlos’s travel schedule just so he can keep you two apart.
It’s ridiculous, sure, but how else do you explain it?
When Carlos is in Monaco, you’re in Italy. When he’s in Italy, you’re in Mallorca. When he’s in Mallorca, you’ve suddenly jetted off to Switzerland, of all places.
It’s like you’ve taken on the role of “Where in the World Is Carmen Sandiego?” with unsettling precision, a game he didn’t even know he was playing until now.
At first, he tried to laugh it off.
Told himself it was just bad timing, a string of coincidences that would eventually break in his favor.
But now? Now it feels deliberate. Calculated. And the worst part is, he knows you. Knows you well enough to feel the subtle shift in the air between you, like a storm quietly gathering on the horizon.
He’s tried to tell himself he’s overthinking it.
That you’ve just been busy, that your life doesn’t revolve around him and his schedule.
But the excuses are starting to ring hollow, even to his own ears.
The delayed responses to his texts. The way your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes when he finally does manage to catch you available for a call.
And now, sitting alone in his Monaco apartment, his phone resting on the coffee table in front of him like a lifeline you’ve left dangling just out of reach, Carlos can’t shake the weight that’s settled in his chest.
You’re pulling away.
The realization hits him like a punch to the gut, sudden and brutal.
He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, his hands running through his hair as he stares at the floor.
His heart feels heavy, tangled up in a mess of confusion and hurt and something he doesn’t want to name.
Why? That’s the question that keeps circling back.
Why are you doing this? Why now, when he feels like he’s finally starting to understand just how much you mean to him?
His mind races, replaying every interaction, every conversation, searching for the moment he might’ve pushed you away without realizing it.
Did he say something? Did he not say enough?
“Dios,” he mutters under his breath, his voice thick with frustration.
He doesn’t want to think it, doesn’t want to believe it, but the thought won’t leave him alone: maybe you’ve finally gotten tired of him.
The idea makes his chest ache, a dull, hollow pain that spreads until it feels like it’s consuming him.
He doesn’t want to lose you, doesn’t want to let go of the quiet moments, the shared laughs, the way you make him feel like he can just be for once.
But what can he do? He can’t force you to stay, can’t make you want him if you don’t.
He picks up his phone, his thumb hovering over your name in his messages and sends a message before he chickens out.
Carlos Where are you right now?
You Still hoping for that coffee date, huh?
Carlos Always
You …Paris
Carlos frowns at his phone, and you can almost hear the mental gears grinding in his head. Paris. Of course, it’s Paris. Because why wouldn’t it be?
Carlos Okay, I’m going there.
Your phone buzzes immediately, the boldness of his response catching you off guard.
You What?
You ARE YOU SERIOUS???
Carlos Yes.
You Carlos, you can’t just drop everything and fly to Paris.
Carlos Watch me.
You stare at your phone, torn between laughing and rolling your eyes. This is insane. You text him back, unsure if you want to be mad or amused.
You This is insane.
Carlos No, it’s determination.
You It’s bordering on stalker behavior.
Carlos Then stop running from me.
You I’m not running!
Carlos You’re in a different country every time I blink. Sounds like running.
You It’s called having a life.
Carlos A life that conveniently never overlaps with mine. Carlos Got it.
You Carlos, I swear to God if you actually come here
He doesn’t reply. The silence settles in, and you think that’s the end of it. Carlos is too sensible to drop everything and fly to Paris, right? Right?
Wrong.
Three hours later, you’re in your hotel room, scrolling through your phone while you regret the third croissant you scarfed down earlier, when you hear a knock at the door.
You frown, setting your phone down. You weren’t expecting anyone.
Another knock, this time more insistent.
Curious, you peek through the peephole. And there he is.
Carlos Sainz.
Standing in the hallway, casually leaning against the doorframe, holding a bouquet of flowers like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
Your jaw drops.
You swing the door open before you can think better of it. “What are you doing here?”
Carlos shrugs, flowers in hand. “You said Paris.”
“That wasn’t an invitation!” you hiss, your eyes darting up and down the hallway as if expecting paparazzi to jump out from behind the elevator.
“Seemed like one to me,” he says, unfazed, like he’s the most logical person in the universe. “Besides, I brought flowers. That makes it okay.”
You stand there, staring at him, completely caught between laughing and slamming the door in his face. “This is… I don’t even have words.”
“‘Thank you’ works,” he suggests, stepping past you as if he has every right to be there, dropping onto the armchair with the ease of someone who’s been invited to stay.
“Excuse me-” you splutter, still holding the flowers, but too stunned to do anything with them.
Carlos stretches his legs out in front of him like he’s planning to stay a while. “Nice room. Cozy.”
“You can’t just-” You gesture wildly at him, still holding the flowers like they’re some kind of shield. “Carlos, this is insane!”
“What’s insane,” Carlos says, his voice slicing through the heavy silence, “is how hard you’ve been avoiding me.”
The words hit you like a sharp slap, cutting through the thin armor you’ve been clinging to.
You wince, his accusation landing squarely on the truth you’ve been trying so desperately to bury.
“I’m not avoiding you,” you say, but even as the words leave your mouth, they feel hollow.
A poor, pathetic attempt to cover up the obvious.
His eyes narrow. “Yes, you are,” he replies, his voice edged with a kind of raw frustration you’ve never heard from him before. “You’ve been avoiding me, pulling away like I’ve done something-”
He leans forward, his knuckles white from how hard he’s clenching them. “Did I do something? Tell me, please.”
You shake your head quickly, your chest tightening. “No, Carlos, you didn’t-”
“Don’t lie to me.” His voice cracks, rising just enough to make you flinch. There’s a tremor in his tone, something that tells you this isn’t just frustration- it’s pain.
Your mind races, heart pounding against your ribcage like it’s trying to escape. You can’t look at him.
You can’t meet his eyes because you know what you’ll see there: vulnerability. A rawness you’re too afraid to face.
“I told you, I’m not avoiding you,” you say again, but your voice wavers. The lie cracks as it leaves your lips.
Carlos exhales sharply, a bitter, humorless laugh escaping him. “Really? That’s what you’re going with? You’re not avoiding me? Because from where I’m standing, it sure as hell feels like you are.”
His voice lowers, softer now but no less piercing. “You’ve been ignoring my calls, dodging my texts. You won’t even look at me right now.”
He pauses, his voice dropping even further, his words so quiet they’re barely a whisper. “It’s like you’re disappearing right in front of me.”
“I’ve been busy,” you mumble weakly, knowing even as you say it how ridiculous it sounds.
“Busy,” he repeats, dragging the word out like it physically pains him to say it. “Right. Busy. Of course. That’s your excuse? That’s all you’ve got?”
You open your mouth to respond, but he steamrolls ahead, his voice rising in disbelief. “Do you think I’m stupid? Is that it? Like I haven’t noticed you pulling some kind of secret agent disappearing act every time I’m within a five-mile radius?”
“I’m not-”
“Oh, please!” he cuts you off, throwing his hands up dramatically. “When I was in Monaco, you were in Italy. When I was in Italy, you were in Mallorca. When I was in Mallorca, you went to Paris. I thought you cared about the planet!”
“I had a reason!” you defend weakly.
“Oh, sure. Let me guess. You were ‘busy.’” He uses air quotes this time, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Busy doing what? Hiding in the catacombs so I wouldn’t find you?”
“Carlos-”
“No, seriously! Are you Carmen Sandiego? Did you take on a secret job as an international spy and forget to tell me? Because at this point, that’s the only explanation that makes any sense!”
You can’t help it.
A small, nervous laugh escapes you, but it’s swallowed by the look he gives you, a mix of exasperation and something rawer, something vulnerable that wipes the humor from your face instantly.
“I’m serious,” he says, his voice quieter now, though no less intense. “Why are you doing this? What happened? Did I do something?”
“No!” you blurt out, the word rushing out of you like a reflex. “You didn’t do anything-”
“Then what?” he demands, stepping closer, his brows furrowed. “Why does it feel like every time I try to get close to you, you’re already halfway out the door? What is it? Did I say something? Did I forget something important? Did I-”
“Stop!” you snap, your voice louder than you intended, cutting him off mid-spiral. “You didn’t do anything, okay? It’s me!”
He freezes, his hands hovering in the air like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “What do you mean, it’s you?”
You take a deep, shaky breath, your heart pounding in your chest. “I can’t do this anymore, Carlos. I can’t keep pretending like this, like we, don’t mean more to me than it should.”
His brows knit together, confusion flashing across his face. “What are you talking about? What does that even mean?”
“It means I’m in love with you, okay?” you blurt out, the words tumbling out of you before you can stop them.
Your hands fly to your face, your voice shaking as you add, “Not as a joke. Not as a friend. Not in some ‘haha, Carlos is cute, what if’ kind of way. I’m in love with you, and it’s ruining me, and now I’ve said it, and- oh my God- I’m going to vomit-”
“Wait, what?” Carlos interrupts, his voice a mix of shock and something dangerously close to hope.
“You heard me!” you snap, your hands still covering your face as you pace in frantic little circles. “I’m in love with you, and now I’ve ruined everything, and you’re going to freak out and leave, and then I’ll have to fake my death and move to Antarctica and befriend a penguin colony-”
“Will you stop?” he cuts in, grabbing your arm to stop your pacing. “Just- stop for a second, okay?”
You yank your arm back instinctively, shaking your head. “No, I can’t stop! Because if I stop, I’m going to have to look at you, and if I look at you, I’m going to see the exact moment you decide this is too much, and you walk out of my life forever, and I’m not emotionally equipped for that-”
“Would you listen to me?” he shouts, his voice startling you into silence.
His hands fall to his sides, his eyes locking on yours with a desperate kind of intensity. “I’m not walking out of your life, okay? I’m not going anywhere. Jesus, do you really think so little of me?”
Your lip wobbles, your voice breaking. “You don’t get it. You’ll leave.”
He lets out a laugh. Sharp, exasperated, and a little unhinged. “I’m in love with you, you absolute idiot.”
You freeze. Your brain is refusing to process what he just said. “What?”
“I said I’m in love with you,” he repeats, louder this time, as if yelling the words will hammer them into your skull.
“Have been since the first night, I think. Do you honestly believe I’d fly halfway across the world, lose sleep, and spam you with dog pictures because I don’t love you?”
You stare at him, mouth agape. “You- what?”
“Yes!” he throws his hands up, pacing like he’s been holding this in for years and it’s physically painful to let it out. “God, how do you not see it? I thought I was being so obvious!”
Your brain is scrambling for any coherent thought, but instead, all you manage is: “Then who was that girl?”
Carlos blinks at you, mid-rant. “What girl?”
You fumble for your phone like you’ve been waiting for this exact moment to catch him red-handed.
Opening Instagram with trembling fingers, you shove the screen in his face, pointing at the offending photo. “This girl. The one on the yacht!”
He squints at the screen, then back at you, his brow furrowing.
“That’s my cousin, Marina.”
Your heart stops. “What?”
“My cousin,” he says again, slower this time, as though you might be hard of hearing. “She’s married to a guy named Tomás. I was literally holding her bag while she FaceTimed her kids.”
You gape at him, the ground beneath you threatening to swallow you whole. “Oh.”
Carlos stares at you, his mouth falling open. Then it clicks. “Oh my God. Is this why you’ve been avoiding me?”
“I wasn’t-”
“You were ghosting me because you thought I was on a yacht with my cousin?” he demands, his voice climbing into incredulous territory.
“It looked bad!” you squeak, the heat in your face making it impossible to look him in the eye. “I didn’t know she was your cousin! She was all- touchy!”
“She was showing me pictures of her dog!” he cries, like he can’t believe he’s having this conversation.
You clutch your head, feeling both humiliated and mildly hysterical. “I’m an idiot. I’m the biggest idiot alive.”
“No arguments there,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair, then fixing you with a look that’s somewhere between amused and exasperated. “You honestly thought I’d just…what? Post my side chick on Instagram for you to see?”
“I didn’t know what to think!” you snap, burying your face in your hands. “I panicked, okay? My brain spiraled!”
Carlos lets out a disbelieving laugh, pacing a tight circle like he’s trying to figure out how he got here. “So instead of asking me, you just…decided to ignore me? For weeks?”
“I said I panicked!” you groan, peeking at him through your fingers, mortified.
He stares at you for a beat, then pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath in Spanish. “You’re lucky I love you, you know that?”
Your heart lurches, but you’re still too mortified to fully process it. “You can’t possibly still love me after this.”
“Oh, I can,” he says dryly, crossing his arms. “But I’m definitely telling Marina about this. She’s going to think it’s hilarious.”
“No!” you cry, lunging forward and grabbing his arm. “Carlos, I swear to God, if you tell your cousin-”
He grins, all smug amusement now, his earlier frustration melting away. “I’ll think about keeping it a secret. On one condition.”
“What condition?” you ask warily.
“You stop ghosting me,” he says simply, his voice softening as his eyes meet yours. “And maybe…start trusting me a little more?”
You let out a shaky breath, the weight of your own stupidity pressing down on you. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, looking at the floor. “I really messed this up.”
“Yeah, you did,” he agrees, but there’s no bite to his words. He tilts your chin up so you have no choice but to look at him. “But you can make it up to me. Dinner tomorrow?”
You nod, a small, embarrassed smile tugging at your lips. “Okay.”
“And for the record,” he adds, smirking, “if you ever ghost me again, I’m showing up with a mariachi band.”
You groan, shoving him lightly as he laughs, but you can’t help the warmth spreading through your chest. Somehow, against all odds, he’s still yours.
---
@lilorose25 @widow-cevans @mderby03 @zyklion @papichulomacy @irisesinthegarden @leclercdream @moonvr @ilovemeni @iamdedsthingz @shwnirwin @softhecreator @claimingharrystigertattoo @5sospenguinqueen @wadupppdylan-blog @waytooobsessedwithlife @weekendlusting
#x reader#formula one#formula one x reader#formula 1#carlos sainz x reader#carlos sainz#carlos sainz x you#formula 1 x female reader#formula 1 x reader#cs55 imagine#cs55 smut#cs55 x reader#cs55 x you#cs55 fic#cs55#carlos sainz jr x you#carlos sainz jr x reader#carlos sainz smut#f1 fic#f1#f1 fanfic#f1 x reader#f1 imagine
467 notes
·
View notes
Text
the winner takes it all
alexia putellas x reader
summary: an unexpected invitation throws your world off-kilter
words: 6276
content warnings: it's a bit unfaithful
notes: in this universe real madrid is a proper opponent and rival to barcelona, in the sense that funding and history is relatively equal (so it's basically more like the men's rivalry)
idk where this came from tbh
Amb gran alegria,
Alexia i Olga
T’invitem a celebrar la nostra unió matrimonial.
10 d’agost de 2025
Gran Hotel Mas d’en Bruno
You haven’t read Catalan in years. You squint at the details.
You wish you had forgotten it.
Only Alexia would do this to you, twisting the knife as though it’s a favour, a compliment. Make it seem psychotic for not wanting to go, make it seem like it’s not a big deal.
The invitation isn’t personalised. You are not special in her eyes. You have been allowed onto the guest list, you have no mark in her life. Surely Olga would have objected if she’d known, if she’d been told. Maybe Alexia doesn’t talk about it. Maybe she has heard your name on match reports and team sheets, announcements for captaincy, interviews with Las 16 who called you traidora then and call you traidora now.
As if she knew it was coming, your phone begins to light up with messages from Alba. Apologies, perhaps, in her own Alba way. Stuff like ‘are you coming’ and ‘you don’t have to’ and then more buzzing, vibrating the shitstorm into a phone call.
You don’t speak often. Why would you? But you answer it, listless, really, and unsure what the correct approach to this even is.
“Hola, traidorita,” she says with a nervous giggle, reclaiming your nickname in Barcelona but reminding you of how you are perceived nevertheless. “I don’t know why you are on the guest list.”
Alba is like this: straight to the point, unafraid of her sister and unafraid to tell you what she thinks. They are very different, which is why she is the only one who has your current number in her contacts.
“You told her where I live,” you respond. Your shock makes no room for manners. “Because no one there has my Madrid address, Albi.”
“No one here has it, yeah. But she asked around. Well, Olga did.” She laughs again. Her nervousness is high-pitched and easily detected. “Told Ale that she has to have her childhood best friend at her wedding.”
“Childhood best friend?”
“Estranged childhood best friend?” she tries, and you can hear the smile and the teasing fucking smugness in it. You wonder if anyone else knows you have been invited. Alba because your address was squeezed out of her, sure, but… “And my mother thought it was a good idea too, before you try to murder a woman you have never met.”
“I’ve met Olga before,” you say without thinking, because that’s far easier to focus on than the idea of Eli getting involved in this completely undesired reunion that is about two centuries too early. “When I was going out with, eh, I don’t remember her name. A model. You know what they’re like. Olga’s the one who works for… thingie.”
There’s a sigh from the other end. “So many models yet not one name has been retained. Do you even ask them?”
“We’re not usually doing much talking.”
“Zorra.”
“Coming from you…” You smirk at the thought of all the little secrets Alba’s had you keep, a tradition that started young and became increasingly frequent when you removed yourself from everyone else’s lives. It’s like a journal, only you judge her. “You’re doing a good job of distracting me until I agree to go.”
She hesitates, then. You’re not an idiot and you know why she called. Alba is supportive but she has her own agenda most of the time, and no one else knows the exact time you get back from training aside from your fellow teammates. Even then, most are too intimidated to contact you in general, let alone to ask about being invited to Alexia Putellas’ fucking wedding.
Alba is also very manipulative, a professional puppeteer. And she knows exactly what to say. “It’s been fifteen years. Are you going to let her win?” It’s an infuriating provocation but it hits its target with ease.
…
The first step of preparing for this wedding takes place in the form of the Euros: you’re going to win it and be happy enough to ignore the impending doom hanging over your off-season plans. Going into the competition with heavy medals round your necks makes cockiness the slippiest of slopes, and it is safe to say that most of your teammates are prepared to cruise through at least the group stages.
An unexpected injury rips Jenni’s opportunity to play from her grasp (an echo of her ex-girlfriend, you briefly think), and she is flying back to Mexico before the tournament begins. Montse is a captain down – of course only this kind of disaster could happen to her – and before Patri can even open her mouth to volunteer for the role, you are dragged into a leadership meeting.
You’ve worn the armband before, though it seared and burned and blistered until you threw it in Jorge’s face and demanded someone else absorb the hatred it brought. He went ballistic as you’d said it, you remember, his face going red in the soft glow of your hotel room the night before the World Cup final. He’d leaned forwards, fist clenched, knuckles white and wanting to choke the life out of you.
“You have no respect!” he’d roared, voice splitting like thunder against the thin walls of your hotel room. “Not for me, not for your country, not for anything!” His breath was coming out in sharp ragged gasps. He spat. You’d wiped it off your body. “I thought you had scraped all the Catalan out of you, but here it is!” he’d screamed, loud enough to be heard but so comfortable in his power that it did not seem to frighten him. “Selfish and arrogant. You should have made it Seventeen.”
He’d left in his rage, slamming his door.
You regretted smiling in pictures with him, shaking his hand, kissing his cheek. You regretted the press conferences and interviews, the shaky defence you had constructed, the words of faith and trust you had professed and tried to believe. It had changed you, just a little bit, that incident. Made you think about who you are, where you come from. Made you remember someone you’d tried to forget.
But Irene and Alexia, staring at you with both contempt and confusion as you take a seat at the conference table, don’t know any of this. Why would they? To them, this is the traidora.
“Y/n is going to take Jenni’s place as third captain,” says Montse firmly, if she even knows how to do that. Irene and Alexia share a glance. Their roles have been restored for this competition and they are not prepared for an intruder to take that from them, although Irene will later remind Alexia that it is not your fault Jenni got injured. “I trust you three will come up with a suitable management plan. If you need me, you know where to find me.”
None of you really do know where she lurks, but she is walking off before you can clarify.
“We already have a strategy.” And she says it in Catalan, looking falsely apologetic when she is kicked underneath the table.
“Good job, Alexia,” you tell her, so nauseatingly saccharine that you almost think of the nearest route to a toilet. She’s surprised you’ve granted her a reply though, which is satisfying enough. About to spit out another remark to divide yourselves further, you shift in your chair, stretching out your legs underneath the table.
It is then that her ring catches your eye.
It’s delicate, shiny. A neatly cut diamond set in platinum with slight details that tell you someone thought about Alexia when they had this made and got it all wrong. Or maybe this is what she likes now. It’s not what you’d have given her.
She sees your eyes fall to her fingers, watching carefully as your gaze heats the metal and makes it almost too hot for her to keep on. You don’t really want her to know that you’ve seen it but you’ve made it bleeding obvious and so the predicament spirals and Irene wants, desperately, to leave you two alone – she knows shouldn’t, she’s aware of the health and safety risk.
There is something about the way Alexia clenches her jaw, posture stiffening as she allows herself one flicker from your face to the ring, that tells you she is bracing herself for a bullet. She always did have an uncanny ability to read you, however unwanted it was.
You lean back in your chair, aware of how the bystander is holding her breath, and decide to swallow the words burning on your tongue. You’ve accepted her invitation, and bitter manners are still manners. “Congratulations,” you say, words clipped and brittle, each syllable more venomous than the last.
The chair makes a screeching sound as you stand. Irene flinches but Alexia does not move. She refuses to watch as you walk out of the room.
…
Three hours later, Alexia is off the phone with Olga and knocking on Irene’s door with an embarrassed suppression of urgency. Shoulders hunched and lips downturned, the sight is enough for her to be ushered inside with only the quiet flap of Irene’s arms to beckon her forwards. With this part of the training camp being not quite tunnel-vision yet, Irene’s room is littered with toys and toddler stuff. Usually Alexia would be looking at them in quiet excitement. Right now, she is not so sure.
“Second thoughts?” Irene asks, and Alexia half-jumps backwards in shock, about to furiously shake her head and profess her love for Olga– “I think the plan is good. I don’t think we need to worry about Y/n in the centre, seeing how she’s been playing there this season.”
It slowly dawns on Alexia that Irene has assumed this is pre-tournament nerves, and that she is being shown such a vulnerable side of her co-captain because, well, who else can be? No one wants to see their commander gulp at the sight of the battlefield.
“She still favours her left,” Alexia gets out. “She might drift, leaving a big gap for you to cover.”
“She’s got offers from PSG, Chelsea, and Washington Spirit. It’s in her interest not to drift.”
“She’s good at drifting.”
Irene doesn’t respond to that.
“Since when did you wear your ring to training?” is what she chooses to say instead, asking the question with a healthy fear of getting her head bitten off, taking a small step backwards to put her at a safer distance.
Alexia doesn’t reply immediately, her fingers grazing the ring as she thinks. The weight of it seems heavier now, almost suffocating in the sterile air of the hotel room, as though this is everything she’s been trying to avoid. Her heart thuds against her ribcage. It feels like everyone is starting to notice.
“I didn’t think it was an issue.” Her voice is tight, defensive, but with a subtle, betraying crack. She pulls her hand back from the air, letting it fall to her side. “We hardly did much more than pass the ball today so I kept it on.”
It’s a poor excuse. It comes off for the cameras, not the contact of the game. Irene knows that. But, to her credit, she doesn’t push. She just watches Alexia, eyes narrowed slightly in an unreadable expression. “I just thought you guys were keeping it a bit more… private.”
Alexia turns her gaze to the floor, staring at the scattered toys and items around the room. The simplicity of it all, the domestic innocence, makes her feel even more tangled. She feels an urge to lie, to say that Olga asked her to, worried that you’d misinterpret its absence, but Olga doesn’t even know she has reason to lose sleep. She hasn’t found the courage to explain. She hasn’t felt the need to.
And, really, the truth is right here, echoing between them. Irene would have pieced together the story, as many of Alexia’s teammates have, hearing drunken retellings on nights out from whoever has known the two of you the longest that time. Maybe Alba has spoken to her, revealing everything after a round of tequila shots, as she tends to do. There are a few suggestions the older woman could make to her teammate, wounds she could open and then nurse, but she doesn’t and so she waits.
Until, finally, Alexia admits, “it’s complicated. She has caught me off-guard.” It could mean many things, but it is either your captaincy or the acceptance of her wedding invitation that has done Alexia in. She wonders whether this feeling of dread and uncertainty is the game – or the life waiting for her after she comes back from Switzerland. “Look,” she says abruptly, “I’m not here for advice, Irene.”
“Then why are you in my room?” She doesn’t have an answer for that. Irene sweeps her outside, gently but firmly. “I’m not going to tell you what to do,” she treads lightly, “but when was the last time you had a conversation with her?”
…
The training pitch in Switzerland is unseasonably hot, the kind of heat that clings to the air and makes tempers run shorter than usual. It’s almost a cure to homesickness but then the team look at each other and are back to hating every minute of this. There’s an undeniable divide. Montse either does not care or has not caught on.
It’s about your twentieth rondo this session, the ball zipping across the wilting grass as it touches Barça foot to Barça foot, the girls obviously enjoying this. You’re only holding back because too much investment will lead to another injury, and you are getting somewhat tired of being called a traitor. The players surround you with a ruthless efficiency that is starting to fray your nerves, and you make a note to talk to your coach about training, knowing that it will be easy to manipulate her into following something akin to what the girls at Madrid are more accustomed to.
Alexia is one of your taunters. Of course she is.
“Just three more interceptions,” she calls out, false strain, false support, false encouragement.
You bite back a retort, instead standing still as Aitana rolls a ball right past you. You wipe the sweat from your brow, feigning exhaustion, but the pretense is only that in name. Everyone knows you are one of the best defenders, the Barça girls especially, with their insane pride for La Masia.
“Lazy,” Alexia mutters.
You don’t respond, focusing instead on the fire in your chest as you forcibly break the circle and march towards Montse. She looks up from her clipboard as you approach.
“We should split training.” She pauses and then nods. “Attack and defence, at least. And don’t let the press hear this, but, my god, Montse, I do not like how they’re all back.”
“We’re a stronger team,” she says, but she’s smiling and you are definitely her favourite. Another deep breath and she is calling a water break.
The girls retreat to the sidelines for ice and hydration, and you reunite with the people you like. Your club teammates prefer you at national camp, because there is something less reclusive about you. It’s as though you’re trying to prove that you get on.
Olga hands you a water bottle, the contents of which you guzzle down in one go. She begins to comment on the absurdity of Alexia’s mandated rondos (“why do they have to keep reminding themselves how to pass a ball?”) and while you agree, your attention is diverted. Alexia is standing a few meters away with Mariona Caldentey. She’s listening to something the forward is telling her, face focused, finger twisting her ring around in circles.
That fucking ring.
You look away before you are caught in such a compromising position, wiping your forehead with your damp training shirt.
“Oye,” Misa’s voice pulls you back, “are you paying attention?” You’re not even sure when she joined the conversation. Your relationship with the goalkeeper has always been overly complicated. You work very closely, what with you commanding the backline and her… also commanding the backline. But she’s friends with people who must have at least once wished you dead, so it’s hard to tell where you stand. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” you lie, screwing the cap back onto the water bottle and placing it in Olga’s held-out palm.
“You’re never this spacey. You’ve been off since the meeting,” she presses, her voice gentle but insistent. “If this is about the captaincy–”
“It’s not,” you snap, harsher than what was meant. Her eyes widen slightly and you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Sorry. It’s not about that. I’m fine.”
Misa doesn’t look convinced but she nods, letting it drop. Gratitude relaxes your shoulders but the uneasy silence that follows is punishing enough for you to be eager for training to resume.
Now that the rondos have been left behind until tomorrow, you divide into teams for a scrimmage. The squad is split into four and you throw yourself into the exercise. Every touch, every pass, every run is perfect, and you are unrecognisable from your lackadaisical lull only ten minutes ago. You’re pushing your body and it flicks onto autopilot, driven by muscle memory and determination.
Your head’s not in it. You can’t outrun her shadow. You can’t think when your teams are against each other.
The ring must have come off now, and she is getting stuck in. She’s relentless and irritating, evading your teammates’ tackles and drawing you into her. It’s almost transportative: back you go to gardens after school or being barefoot on the beach, forced out of your relaxation and into an endless game of ‘tackle me like you mean it’. She has that same glint in her eye, that same goading gleam. You consider it, but crutches at a wedding is a low blow.
And so you lay off. Just on her, and only just enough so that she knows you are not trying. You do not care for petty squabbles. You are not willing to go back to those memories, to that time.
Or at least, that’s the message you hope she gets.
The games slowly wind down, prompted by Montse’s whistle to signal the end of the session. You stay on the pitch longer than anyone else, taking you time to collect the stray balls scattered across the grass. It’s partly an excuse to delay walking into the locker room, where the tension will be thick (you were not the right choice for third captain in the eyes of your teammates), and partly because you need a moment to breathe.
The others slowly disperse, peeling off to the showers or collapsing onto benches. Alexia lingers longer than most, wiping away her sweat with her shirt, abs exposed and tensed. She watches you as you move across the pitch, and though her gaze is subtle, you can feel it blazing hotter than the sun lashing down on you. But, despite her staring, she too is eventually coaxed away. You’re unsure whether she is thankful for the interruption.
When you finally make your way to the changing rooms, most of your teammates are in the showers, and the sound of running water mingled with laughter echoes. You take a seat at the locker you were assigned and let out a slow breath, peeling off sweat-soaked socks with mild disgust. You turn to fling them into your laundry bag, but their flight path is blocked by a blonde who has clearly delayed her own shower to talk to you.
She’s looking oddly pensive. You don’t like it.
“We need to talk.” It’s uncomfortable for Alexia to say and it’s worse for you to hear. You’re not sure you’re okay with her decision to become reasonable and mature. It’s quite the compliment to always be the cause for stoic, rational Alexia Putellas going absolutely batshit crazy.
Driving her up the wall is fun.
“I’ll send you an invitation. No need to tell me which room is yours.” You give her a smile. And, like you always do, you walk away.
…
There’s a charge to the air that is choking you by dinner time. The upgrade to captain allowed for your own room, and it is easy to blow off teammates who want to have plans with you with the simple excuse of needing to talk to your agent. You technically do, since you are going to leave Madrid during the transfer window, but you have no intention of dialling his number until he confirms the best and furthest team wants you.
You’ve spent the evening avoiding the majority of the players, which Montse took advantage of, encouraging you to spend dinner discussing tactics with her and her staff. You feel like the teacher’s pet. You know how angry it is making Alexia.
Collapsing on the bed when you back into your room, you let out a loud groan, sinking into the mattress. Your phone buzzes on the bedside table and for a moment, you think it might be Alba, allowing you no peace and quiet despite her distance. Instead, it’s a message on the team group chat from the strength and conditioning coach about tomorrow’s gym session. A wave of relief washes over you; anything but her.
Still, as you scroll, you catch yourself lingering on the names in the group chat, your thumb hovering near Alexia’s. Your stomach tightens and the memory of her tone, her expression, pulls at you like a tether.
She’s not going to drop this.
It’s no longer a matter of avoidance in the camp. You’ve said you will be present. She must want to ensure you will not make a scene.
A knock at the door, so quiet you are almost convinced it was imagined, breaks you out of your brooding. Your eyes watch the wood as though it will be splintered in a moment, but when you make no move to get up, a more insistent knock sounds. You sigh as you pull yourself off your bed, dragging your feet towards the door. Opening it, you find Alexia standing there, arms crossed and wearing an expression you can’t quite decipher. It lacks her usual burning hatred. She looks exhausted.
You struggle to feel any sympathy.
“What?” you snap. It’s a bit harsher than intended but you don’t let on that that’s the case.
“Can I come in?” You guess that she didn’t pick up the hint when you gave her no invitation. You do not want to talk. You don’t do that to people much anymore.
She expects the door to slam in her face – and you consider it – but it’s your hesitation that tells her she can, and so she slowly moves inside, shoulder brushing yours because you refuse to move out of the way. And then she raises a deliberate hand towards the door, pushing it shut. You ignore the ring.
You lean against the door once it’s shut, arms folded as she wanders further into your room. She looks out of place somewhere so personal to you, standing awkwardly in the centre and trying not to look at the explosion of clothes and books that has been detonated on the floor.
She reads the titles of a few – classics that look dense and boring. Something hungry inside her dulls a bit, because you have not changed in this respect.
“You’re quiet for someone who wants to talk,” you prompt, mostly because the silence is unbearable.
She doesn’t respond immediately. Her arms drop to her sides, fingers twitching as if unsure what to do with themselves. She tries to meet your eyes, but falters when she sees the cold indifference staring back. You’re looking at her like she’s a stranger. It stings more than it should.
“I didn’t invite you to the wedding,” she says finally. “Olga doesn’t know about us.”
“There’s no ‘us’,” you snap, sharper this time.
Her jaw tightens and for a second, she looks as though she’s been struck. “Don’t lie.”
“There is no ‘us’,” you repeat, your tone icy now. “That disappeared the minute I–”
“Left,” comes her interruption, her voice trembling just enough for you to notice. She steps closer, her shadow crossing yours, and her eyes narrow. “Which was your decision, not mine.”
You scoff, a bitter laugh escaping you. “Don’t act like you didn’t have a say in it.”
“I didn’t!” she fires back, her voice rising. There is something raw beneath it – something fractured. “You didn’t give me one. You walked out, and you shut me out like I was nothing. Like we were nothing.”
Her words hang in the air and for a moment, you don’t know whether to shoot or turn away. But her gaze pins you in place, fierce and unrelenting, as though daring you to deny it.
You hold her stare, your throat tightening. “And you didn’t try to stop me.”
The silence that follows feels deafening. Neither of you moves. Neither of you blinks. You’re both standing on landmines and have nowhere to go.
Her jaw clenches, her hands balling into fists at her sides. Her voice, though low, crackles with the heat of restrained anger.
“You didn’t give me a chance to stop you.” And she steps closer, ready to bite. The door presses against your back as you instinctively move away. “You made up your mind before I even knew what was happening.”
“Don’t pretend you didn’t see it coming.” You shake your head. “I didn’t just wake up one day and decide to leave, Alexia.”
Her expression darkens, something in her eyes flickering dangerously. “That’s not the point. You didn’t just leave the club. You didn’t just leave me. You left everything. Our family. Our life. Do you have any idea what that felt like? Watching you walk away as if none of it mattered?”
Your chest tightens but you refuse to let her words land. “You don’t get to make me the villain here.”
“I don’t have to,” she snaps, her voice rising now, accent thickening with her anger. “You were part of my family, part of me. You were at every Christmas, every birthday. My mother adored you. Alba still loves you like you are her own sister! And you just disappeared like none of it meant anything. Like we didn’t mean anything.”
You flinch at the weight of her words but force yourself into steadiness. “I didn’t belong there. It wasn’t mine, it was yours.”
Her face twists in disbelief, voice trembling as it rises again. “That’s bullshit and you know it! You were my family. My first everything. My first kiss. My first…” She pauses, her voice cracking. You swallow hard – you don’t want the fucking itemised list. “My first time. You think I just gave that to anyone? You think that it was just fun and games?”
Your stomach churns as she stokes a fire you’ve tried to smother for years. “It wasn’t nothing,” you agree, although it sounds like you are contradicting her in a way that causes her to falter on her drive forwards. “It was everything. That’s why I left. Because I couldn’t be what was needed anymore. Because I knew if I stayed, I’d only–”
“Only what?”
You gulp.
She’s back in your face, voice laced with venom. “Hurt me? Ruin me? Let us all done? Guess what, you did that anyway. Leaving made it easier? Made it hurt less?”
“I didn’t know what else to do!” you shout, voice splitting.
“You stay!” It echoes and it bruises your skin. Her eyes are blazing now, tears threatening to spill but held back by sheer force of will. “You stay, because that is what you do when you love someone. When you love a family. You don’t just walk away from them. You fight.”
You open your mouth to respond, but the words stick in your throat, caught somewhere between guilt and pride. She sees it and it only seems to enrage her further.
Her voice drops, anger so torrid she has to purposely cool her tone. “You know, I thought that my world was ending then. I thought you’d done your worst. But I was wrong. Because your betrayal wasn’t just personal, it was… political. To not see someone you love except for when they are sitting at the feet of this. Corruption’s pet. Pandering to an organisation you hated, while the rest of us fought for scraps.”
Heat rises in your chest. How dare she– “I don’t pander to anyone.”
“Don’t lie to me,” she spits. She’s too close. She’s too inescapable. And her anger is no longer fiery but icy, piercing through your skin. “I’ve seen the way you act around them, bowing your head and playing the loyal soldier while they tear us apart. You think I didn’t notice how he favoured you? Or how Montse magically replaces an irreplaceable member of–”
“It’s not like that,” you counter, but the words feel hollow even to you.
“Then what is it?” she demands. “What is it that makes you stand there and let them walk all over us? Let them divide us? And don’t you dare say it is for the good of the team. The team hates you for it. We all do. You’ve earned every bit of it, traidora.”
The word hits you like a whip, lacerating and making you bleed. Your hands curl into fists so tightly your nails dig into your palms, the sting barely enough to contain the fury surging through you. “Don’t you dare call me that!” The sentence tears out of your throat, rough and jagged. You take a step forwards, the air between you crackling with tension, your voice breaking as you spit, “you don’t get to say that to me. Not you.”
“Why not?” she challenges. “It’s what you are. You left, you betrayed everything we stood for, and then you came back just to make things worse. You made your choices.”
For a moment, all you can do is stare at her, the anger and heartbreak in her eyes, eviscerating and leaving you hollow. But then, something shifts in the air between you, and you find your voice again, souring from before.
“Is that why you’re here, Alexia? To throw all of this in my face? To let out fifteen years of harboured emotion? Or is it something else?”
Her brow furrows in confusion. Surprise. And then her expression twists into anger. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
You take a step forward now, and she is forced to retreat. “Do you not want to marry Olga, Alexia? Is that it? Is that why you’re here? Because you think you can come into my room, dredge all of this up, and make me the reason you’re unhappy?”
Her face pales as she takes a deep breath, hands trembling at her sides. “Don’t,” she warns, firmly enough to signal you need to push.
So you do.
“You came here because you’re scared.” She shakes her head but it’s rigid and forced. “Because you’re not sure you can go through with it and you want me to give you a reason to back out. Well, I’m not going to do that for you. This isn’t my mess. It’s yours.”
She says nothing and you feel sick. Her chest rises and falls with each gasping breath. She opens her mouth but again, you are left with silence, and the expression in her eyes flickers between defiance, confusion, and vulnerability. For a long moment, it feels like everything that could be said has been.
The air between you is charged, but neither of you know which way it will go.
You stare at her watching her waver. And it hits you: she doesn’t know what to do.
All of this, all the anger and the pain, all the accusations and betrayals, has led her here, to this moment. She thought she had an answer, she thought she would be able to end this, but now? Now, Alexia is lost. There is too much here, too much to lose. And for the first time in a long while, you are feeling the same thing. You are both no longer sure if you want to fight.
She takes a hesitant step closer and you freeze. But then, just as quickly, her hand moves – not to strike, not to harm, but to touch you. Her fingers brush lightly over the fabric of your sleeve, almost tenderly, before they fall away, and you don’t know if the motion was meant for comfort or something else.
Her breath is ragged, coming in slow, uneven gasps. Her eyes never leave yours. You don’t want them to.
“I don’t know what to do with all of this,” she murmurs, the rawness in her tone shattering any remaining wall between you. “I don’t know what to do with you.”
How do you respond to that? You want her to leave but the thought is unbearable. You want space but she is not close enough. Something inside you stirs, something you can’t fight; a need to understand her and make her understand you. To make her see how tangled this, how impossible it has always been.
Before you can form the word, before you can even think, she moves in closer, and there is no longer distance. She doesn’t ask for permission. She doesn’t hesitate. And then, without warning, her lips are on yours.
It’s soft, tentative at first, as though testing the waters of something neither of you is sure of anymore. But then it shifts. Her body leans into yours, and the kiss deepens, more urgent now, as if this is everything that has not been said and has been at the same time. Your heart races, a million conflicting emotions crashing through you. Anger, betrayal, love – it is all here, you can taste it on her lips. It’s fierce, desperate, and it feels like an endless cycle of need and regret, pulling you both back to something raw, something irretrievable.
Her hands find your waist, gripping tightly as though anchoring herself to something that could pull her under. You instinctively respond, pulling her closer, drawing in the heat of her touch, the scent of her skin, the pressure of her body against yours. For a fleeting second, everything else fades away. There’s no past, no future, only here and now.
And then the fog clears.
You pull back, breathless and worse off. You’ve fucked up again. Alexia is crying.
“I’m not the person you think I am anymore,” you say, but it’s hard to meet her gaze. “I can’t be that person for you.”
Her eyes search yours desperately for lies, for deceit. She wants it to be wrong. She doesn’t know why. And she replies, “I don’t care what you think you’ve become,” because she doesn’t. It doesn’t matter to her.
You stare at her, heart pounding, and you want to feel like this will be worth it, but nothing comes except cold emptiness. You force yourself to stay upright. “I think the wedding will be good.” She swallows. “You’ll be happy with Olga. I’m sure of it.”
It’s a death sentence.
This time, it is Alexia who leaves.
…
The wedding is beautiful. Blissful sunlight makes the venue seem to glow and it is hard not to be impressed with how they have set this up.
The model at your side is also beautiful, but you remind yourself it is not a competition. You focus on the whispers of anticipation from the guests, the rustle of the dresses as people pass in merry groups, clinking their glasses and finishing their champagne as they take their seats. Everything looks perfect, plucked from magazines and tasteful brochures. This must be what Alexia wanted.
Your date is occupying herself in conversation with the man seated next to you, who might be hitting on her, though you don’t care. She slides a hand over your thigh anyway.
The ceremony begins, although you’re not really concentrating on it. You try to focus, listening as the officiant speaks, but the words have become a dull hum. It’s all so rehearsed, so expected, and it’s boring. You won’t be getting married anytime soon, that’s for sure.
You know the flow of these things: the vows, the promises, the kiss, and the crowd’s applause. It’s a performance, though it’s not quite a farce.
And then, it comes. The moment. The one that feels like a trap.
The officiant pauses, glancing out over the gathering. “Si algú s'hi oposa, que parli ara o calli per sempre.”
For a heartbeat, time slows. The air thickens. Every muscle in your body tenses and the world around you goes still. You catch yourself holding your breath, gaze instinctively shifting to the woman standing at the front of the altar.
Alexia.
Her eyes flicker briefly in your direction – just a flicker, but it’s there, unmistakable. It’s her moment of hesitation, well masked but clear as day to you. But before you can make sense of it, she’s looking away, eyes fixed back onto Olga. Her expression hardens, more composed now, and you know that you are not going to break this silence.
The officiant, oblivious to the storm passing between you both, waits for a beat longer before continuing, his voice echoing in the silence.
And she’s married.
You breathe out a sigh of relief. It’s over now. You’ve let her win.
387 notes
·
View notes
Text
I keep thinking about Laila. I fear the worst for her. She should've been graduating high school and going to college, not this. Not scraping out a meager existence amongst the rubble and the corpses begging for change on the internet to buy food and medicine. I wish I still had my old blog so I could look at the conversations we had, I'm glad I got to know her. She was a sweetheart and very dear to me like a little sister. But I haven't heard from her in months. I would be worried sick whenever she went a day without messaging me, but she'd always be back the next day, telling me about the bombings and the blackouts. But the days turned into weeks turned into months and now I'm finally facing the fact that she might be gone. I feel like shit for not coming to that realization sooner. It's been a creeping thought in the back of my mind for a long time, but I've been denying it and making excuses that she might have lost her phone or her password or something. Sometimes I see the "recently active" light on her blog, but I see that on deactivated blogs sometimes too, who fucking knows with how shoddy tumblr's backend is. If anyone has heard from her, please let me know. Either way, not knowing for sure is hell. I can't even cry for her to mourn for her, I've just had a lump stuck in my throat on the verge of tears for days. But I can't abandon her. Even though she might be gone, her family might still be alive, and we still have an obligation to them. Her mother was pregnant and might have given birth already- can you imagine having to take care of a baby in Gaza? If you have anything at all to spare, even if it's only a dollar, please do. Laila's fundraiser has a higher percentage of it's goal met than some, but honestly, that doesn't really mean anything. Between border crossings becoming less common and the price of living skyrocketing, these campaigns become less of a fundraiser for a specific goal and more of a fund from which to withdraw money to pay for necessities, and the percentage of the goal met doesn't reflect the amount of money they actually have. I'd be surprised if they have even a thousand euros- and that's not as much as it sounds when diapers or loaves of bread can cost two hundred euros apiece. I don't know how to make a specific family stand out to catch the attention of tumblr users, and I don't even know if it's worth it to turn them and their misery into sideshow attractions stripped of their dignity for a hypothetical engagement gain. But if you're reading this, please do what you can to spread this fundraiser and donate to Laila's family. They still need us. Tagging for reach under the cut- lmk if you want to be removed
@pussyronin @britomartis @wotsukai @smoqueen @specialmouse @boobieteriat @pitbolshevik @hollowslantern @tamamita @apas-95 @paper-mario-wiki @marxism-transgenderism @sayruq @nabulsi @grox @omegaversereloaded @cryptotheism @komsomolka @11thsense @beetledrink @imlizy @b0tster @r0zeclawz @punkitt-is-here @3000s @feluka @dailyquests @afro-elf @nyancrimew @thatdiabolicalfeminist @neechees @berserkerjewel @catsgifsarefun @spaghettioverdose @deepspaceboytoy @rickybabyboy @ot3 @90-ghost @i-am-a-fish @vampiricvenus @tpwrtrmnky @tlirsgender @minmos @slimetony @sluttynurse @opencommunion @iregularlyevadetaxes @neptunerings @yekkes @tododeku-or-bust @hotvampireadjacent @dirhwangdaseul @meshugenist @bunniope @evillesbianvillain
122 notes
·
View notes
Text
Hey I'm back with more arcane thoughts and they're sad! Because god forbid we catch a break in this fandom, right? Anyway (spoilers ahead)
MEL DOESN'T HAVE FRIENDS :(
I know that's gonna sound crazy. You're probably saying, "oh but she's so cool and lovely" and I agree but I really need y'all to think about this. Who does she talk to for any reason except political intrigue? Nobody but Jayce and Viktor. You could make an argument for Lest but she was also spying for her, so we don't know the nature of that relationship. It may very well have been another political thing.
Now I just wanna say upfront that I don't think any of this is really her fault, I mean you've seen how the council is and she probably doesn't know anybody else in Piltover. I mean think about it, she's a whole princess, her life IS politics. Her existence is political. Anyone she knew before her exile is probably a noble of some kind and it's very hard to remove politics from those relationships. That's probably how she ended up on the council to begin with. Jayce and Viktor are the only people who aren't nobility that she talks to. Jayce is a part of a family that was only just starting to gain significant wealth and respect, he's new money. Viktor is from the undercity. All of his money is coming from whoever's paying for him to be there. They're the only people who exist outside of the politics of the council. They're also dead now.
So let me summarize and put it in perspective. Mel lost her brother, was exiled from her home and whatever relationships she had there (which was probably with a whole bunch of nobles), went to Piltover and became a politician, thus becoming surrounded by nobles once again, she then had to kill her mom, and the only people who didn't want anything from her and didn't pressure her are now space dust. Let it sink in.
It makes this scene right here just that much sadder. She's really doing it all on her own now. Once again, her whole life will revolve around politics and there's nobody to give her a break. Nobody she can trust enough to be vulnerable around. She has more power than ever before but I don't think that's ever what she wanted. She knew she'd get it, I don't think this was a surprise, she knew she didn't have a choice.
I'm also thinking about how she didn't even have time to process her grief. They just cleaned up the aftermath of the war, which took a few weeks if not a month. They're probably still wondering what happened to Jayce and Viktor, did they figure it out yet? Can they even figure it out? She's probably still waiting on that news here. She probably already assumed they were gone in some capacity. That must be hurting her like you wouldn't believe, especially considering that she and Jayce never officially ended their relationship. They got separated, argued a little bit but made up, and then just went to war. There was no time to break up even if they wanted to, and honestly I'm not sure that they did and I'm saying this as a Jayvik truther. And don't even get me started on the guilt she probably feels about her mother. That could be a whole other post in itself.
Anyway, point is, Mel needs a hug so so badly oh my GOD
#arcane#arcane s2#meljay#mel medarda#arcane noxus#arcane spoilers#FREE HER#im gonna cry#viktor arcane#ambessa medarda#lest arcane
71 notes
·
View notes
Text
All Of Your Pieces (10 - Welcome Home)
Chapter Summary: “No,” you shake your head firmly. Wanda wouldn't do that to you, wouldn't impose her will on you, let alone on thousands of people. “I'm sorry,” Darcy murmurs, her voice low. “I know it’s a lot to take in. I wish I was lying, but I swear I’m not.”
“Prove it,” you demand, in a last, desperate attempt to cling to the life you've built here with Wanda, to preserve the trust you've placed in the person who means the world to you.
Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 6.1k+ | Chapter Tags/Warnings: None
A/N: We've reached the end of Part 1! If you've noticed the updated series masterlist, I removed the dates of when the Part 2 chapters will be published. I've decided to take my time as I've started Law school. Rest assured this series will be completed, as I have a feeling this will be my last for this pairing/fandom // More author's notes here.
Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist
It's getting late. Families are beginning to pack up, hauling sugar-fueled, weary kids back home, as the Halloween crowd dwindles to a few costumed stragglers. One by one, the booths start shutting down, their owners announcing fifty percent off final sales in a last-ditch effort to clear their stocks. You haven't returned from your patrol, and Billy and Tommy are nowhere to be seen.
You should've been back by now. The boys, too.
Wanda’s anxiety is creeping up again. She scans the square, searching faces, but none of them are yours. None of them are Billy or Tommy's.
“Have you seen my kids, Billy and Tommy?” she asks a passing neighbor.
“Can't say I have,” he shrugs, moving along.
An uneasy feeling crawls up Wanda's spine. Where’s her family?
Then she spots Agnes, effortlessly holding court with a group of volunteers by the cotton candy stand. She hesitates, knowing full well that getting Agnes' attention usually means signing up for more than she bargained for. But if anyone has a handle on everything happening tonight, it’s her snooping, ever-present neighbor.
“Agnes!” Wanda calls out, weaving through the remnants of the crowd.
Agnes turns, eyes gleaming, her mouth already stretched wide into a blinding smile. “Wanda! What can I do for you?”
“Have you seen the boys? Or Y/N?” Wanda tries to keep the edge out of her voice.
“Oh, the boys are at my place! They heard I got a new gaming console for Ralph and just couldn't resist. Begged me to let them try it out.”
Nothing about what Agnes said makes sense. “They went to your house? Without asking me?”
“Oh, you know how boys are with their toys,” Agnes rolls her eyes. “They were so excited, I didn't have the heart to say no.”
Wanda frowns. She knows her children well—they're adventurous but always inform her or you before taking off. “They should've asked for my permission,” Wanda says.
Agnes waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, don't be such a stick in the mud. They're safe and sound, having the time of their lives.”
“That's not the point,” Wanda snaps.
Agnes laughs, head thrown back, and it makes Wanda's skin prickle. “Come on, dear. It's Halloween. Let them have a little fun.”
Wanda takes a deep breath. “It's getting late. I'd like to bring them home now.”
“Of course, of course,” Agnes says softly, her hand resting briefly on Wanda's arm. “I’ll drive you over.”
Wanda climbs into Agatha’s car, her eyes still darting around, the unease in her chest growing tighter despite having an answer about where her kids are.
“Have you heard from Y/N?” Wanda can’t help but ask again, as if hoping for a different answer this time.
Agnes glances at her sideways. “Probably still on patrol. Dedicated, that one.”
Wanda nods, but it doesn’t ease the tightness in her chest. The streets feel longer than usual, stretching out like a labyrinth. Wherever you are, she hopes you’re doing okay, and that you’re nowhere near the boundary.
They arrive at Agnes' house shortly after. Wanda’s expecting the noise of video games coming from the living room, but the house is quiet and poorly-lit.
“After you,” Agnes says, opening the door.
Wanda steps inside, a cold breeze hitting her on the face almost immediately.
“Boys? Billy? Tommy?”
But there’s not a sign of them. In fact, there’s no sign of anyone in the house. The gaming console sits untouched near the television, controllers neatly arranged. The silence is too loud.
Wanda spins around to face her. “Where are they?”
Agnes closes the door behind them. “Oh, they might've wandered downstairs.”
“Which way?”
“Just through the kitchen and down the stairs,” Agnes points.
Wanda moves toward the basement door, her footsteps muted by an old rug. She opens it and descends the creaking wooden steps.
“Boys?” Wanda calls out.
The further she goes, the cooler the air becomes. Reaching the bottom, she finds herself in a space that doesn't match the rest of Agnes’ home.
The basement is expansive and ancient-looking, with stone walls draped in vines whose origins Wanda can't discern. There are candles spread around, making a circular enclosure of the empty spot in the middle. The room is filled with strange artifacts—old books, glass jars containing unidentifiable substances, and objects that seem out of place in a suburban home.
But none of that catches Wanda’s attention more than the fact that her kids are nowhere to be seen.
She turns back toward the stairs but Agnes is there, blocking her path.
“Looking for something?” Agnes asks innocently.
Wanda takes several steps back, her fists balling at her sides. “Who are you?”
Agnes looks pleased by that question. “The name’s Agatha Harkness. Lovely to finally meet you, dear.”
—
As soon as Darcy mentioned mind control and fabricated reality, you had to get out of the car. Darcy follows suit, and you wait for the punchline, but it never comes. It sounds crazy, but then, this town has always made you feel crazy. Maybe it's not so far-fetched after all.
But what’s inconceivable is Wanda being behind all this madness.
“Wanda? My wife Wanda?” you ask weakly, knowing there’s no one—perhaps no one within a thousand miles—who shares her name.
“Yes, but not exactly,” Darcy says. “She's manipulating everything—people, places, even time. Including you.”
Including you? You don’t feel like you’re being manipulated—not exactly. But whatever this is, it’s starting to wear thin, grating at your patience.
“Is this some kind of prank? Did Agnes put you up to this?”
“I wish it were a joke,” she bemoans, sounding like she means it. “Think about it. Do you remember anything before Westview? How you got here? Your life before this?”
“Of course I do,” you insist, but as you try to recall specifics, your memories blur—faces without names, events without context.
“What's your last clear memory before moving here?”
You try to answer, but your mind keeps drawing a blank.
“Exactly,” Darcy says gently.
You shake your head. “No, this is ridiculous.”
“I know it's hard to accept, but you have to believe me. Wanda is controlling everything, and you're a part of it.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you might be the only one who can stop her. The only one she'll listen to.”
“Why me?” you ask, heart pounding. “Do you even know me?”
Darcy shifts her weight under the streetlamp. “I’ve… read about you. You're Y/N, an Avenger, just like Wanda was before... before all this.”
“An Avenger?” You frown, the word sounding not entirely foreign to your tongue. “What's that supposed to mean?”
Darcy raises a brow. “You seriously don’t remember the Avengers? Earth’s mightiest heroes? You were part of a team that saved the world—multiple times.” She says it like it should trigger something, like the name alone should spark recognition. But it doesn’t. And already, you don’t like the sound of it.
You shake your head, lips pulling into a faint grimace. “Sounds like a PR stunt. If these so-called heroes are real, they shouldn't be worshipped like celebrities.”
Darcy chuckles softly. “You know what, you have a point there. But considering one of them is literally a god, it kinda leaves me, I mean us—with, you know—no choice.”
“One of them is a god?”
“Yeah, Thor. Tall guy, wields a hammer, controls thunder. Ridiculously hot. Ring any bells?”
She might as well be describing a cartoon character. You run a hand through your hair before grabbing a fistful of it in frustration. “This is crazy.”
“It is,” Darcy agrees. “But that’s our world now, apparently.”
You take a deep breath. “If what you're saying is true—”
“I swear it is,” she insists.
“Then how did I end up here? Why would Wanda do this?”
Darcy sighs. “It’s a long story.”
You glance at your watch. It’s 11:05 in the evening. Wanda will be looking for you anytime soon.
“You have five minutes.”
—
“Where are my children?” Wanda demands, her eyes flashing dangerously.
“Where are my children?” Agatha imitates her like a parrot. “My, that accent does like to play hide and seek, doesn't it?”
“Where are they?” Wanda yells, throwing her hands up in front of her, ready for the offense. She summons her powers on Agatha, but nothing happens. The shimmering crimson she relies on fails to appear. Agatha relishes in it, letting out a boisterous giggle.
“Oh, your magic’s no good here,” Agatha reveals.
Before Wanda can react, Agatha lifts her hands, and from her fingertips erupts a swirling purple energy that crackles through the air. In an instant, the magic lashes out, snapping around Wanda's wrists and ankles. With a sharp pull, Agatha yanks her forward, the force dragging Wanda off her feet and toward the center of the room. The bindings constrict, holding her limbs in place painfully, causing Wanda to squirm.
“Didn't you notice?” Agatha smirks haughtily. “On the walls? Basic protection spell. No? Nothing? These are runes, Wanda.”
Wanda glances around, her gaze falling upon the glowing inscriptions etched into the stone but they mean nothing to her. She struggles against the magical restraints, but the more she fights, the tighter they grip.
Agatha circles her, looking very much proud of herself. “In a given space, only the witch that cast the runes can use her magic. How do you not know the fundamentals?”
Runes? Fundamentals? Wanda narrows her eyes at Agatha. “Who are you?”
Agatha smirks, tossing the question back like a live grenade. “Who are you?” she challenges, staring down the bewildered, clueless witch before her.
Confusion flashes across Wanda's face. “What are you talking about?”
Agatha starts circling her, slow, like a vulture. “You've been pulling off magic tricks that take lifetimes to master—casting illusions, transmutation, hijacking minds. All on autopilot. Without any damn training. You will tell me how you did this.”
“I didn't do anything,” Wanda protests. “I'm not—”
That seems to shatter Agatha’s last ounce of patience. She flings Wanda back and forth like a ragdoll, each toss violent and jarring, until Wanda is back where she started, gasping for breath.
“I tried to be gentle, to nudge you awake from this pathetic daydream. But you'd rather fall apart than face your truth.”
Wanda clams up, unable to refute the other woman’s words. All of a sudden, Agatha yanks a hair from Wanda's head.
Clutching the strand, Agatha murmurs, “Revelare vitae memorias.” A purple aura envelops the hair as she weaves her spell.
Wanda tugs against the magical restraints binding her. “What are you doing?”
Agatha shrugs off the question, focused on completing her spell. She conjures a door on a previously bare wall, the surface pulsing with her energy. She flicks a strand of Wanda’s hair towards it, watching as the door swallows it and burns even brighter.
“Time for some real reruns.”
—
Darcy's theory seems just as absurd with the revelation that Wanda has been controlling the entire town this whole time.
“Faking my death and not being there for Wanda when she comes back just doesn't add up,” you say, kicking a stone as you pace in circles. Darcy sits on the pavement, watching as you wear a path in the ground.
“Why not?”
You stop pacing and look Darcy squarely in the eye. “Because I love her. She doesn't need to ‘kidnap’ me to stay with her.”
Darcy throws her hands up in exasperation, looking as lost as you feel. “Look, I don't know why Wanda brought you here! I don't know why you couldn't just be together in the real world or why she did this to Westview,” she walks closer to you. “I'm just as in the dark as you are.”
Her uncertainty only adds to your doubt. “Who are you anyway, Darcy Lewis? How did you even end up here?”
Darcy sighs, realizing she hadn't properly introduced herself or explained the situation right. “Okay, yeah, sorry. I'm…an astrophysicist. S.W.O.R.D—it’s a US government agency—contacted me more than a week ago about an anomaly in New Jersey. I was outside the Hex—this red barrier enclosing all of Westview—trying to figure out what's going on here. And then I got sucked in.”
“Sucked in? How does that happen?”
Darcy hangs back, weighing what's appropriate to share and what isn't. The image of you dying mere seconds after you emerged from the barrier seems to straddle both categories, but given the incredulous way you're looking at her—as if she's sprouted ten heads—signals your dwindling trust. If she doesn’t talk soon, she might just lose this rare opportunity to get you to their side.
She signals you to take a sit on the ground first, but you merely stare at her, waiting. “Well, it's complicated,” Darcy starts. “But before I ended up here, I saw something you need to know.”
“Go on,” you say cautiously.
She takes a deep breath. “You were dying.”
Your eyes widen. “What?”
“Last night, you tried to cross the boundary of the Hex,” she explains. “But as soon as you did, you started disintegrating—turning into dust.”
You stop cold. That dream where Wanda was vanishing—
Was it you all along?
Darcy continues, “We didn't know what to do, how to help you. But then the Hex started expanding—fast. I couldn't escape, and now here I am.”
You barely register her words as you try to piece together your memory of last night. Is that why you felt déjà vu on the way here? Because you've been here before? Because you've actually been outside?
Could Wanda be the reason you can't recall what Darcy claims happened last night? Has your wife really been manipulating you? Using her powers to deceive you?
“No,” you shake your head firmly. Wanda wouldn't do that to you, wouldn't impose her will on you, let alone on thousands of people.
“I'm sorry,” Darcy murmurs, her voice low. “I know it’s a lot to take in. I wish I was lying, but I swear I’m not.”
“Prove it,” you demand, in a last, desperate attempt to cling to the life you've built here with Wanda, to preserve the trust you've placed in the person who means the world to you.
“Fine,” Darcy exhales sharply, pausing to think for a moment. “I got it!”
You cross your arms, waiting expectantly.
“Do you remember your assistant, Geraldine?” she asks.
The fact that Darcy knows about her already turns your stomach. It means she wasn't lying about the broadcasts outside, where people have been monitoring the situation all this time.
You nod, unable to speak. The fear grips you so tightly you worry you might lose the dinner you had just an hour ago.
“Geraldine isn't who you think she is. Her real name is Monica Rambeau. She's an agent from S.W.O.R.D., sent here to investigate what's happening inside Westview.”
“That doesn't make sense. I've known Geraldine for months—”
“Have you?” Darcy counters gently. “Think about it. Can you recall anything about her life outside of work? Her family? Where she lives?”
You open your mouth to respond but realize you can't summon any details. It's as if those memories are just... missing.
Just like every other little detail in your life.
“I… I can’t—”
Darcy nods sympathetically. “That's because you’re all just playing a role here. Monica tried to reach out to her, to help her see what's real, but Wanda forced her out of this reality.”
Geraldine's resignation is a vague memory, nothing more. If Wanda has been pulling the strings, she's been selective with the memories she's allowed you to keep. That much is certain.
And you’re conflicted. No, that’s not quite right—you’re overwhelmed. You feel betrayed, most prominently. But beneath that, there’s guilt. Deep down, you’re troubled by the thought of how much pain Wanda must have endured to go to such lengths. It pains you too, knowing she suffered so greatly. If this isn't going away anytime soon, that means she's still hurting. And if you're going to agree to help Darcy figure this out, you’re going to do it for Wanda’s sake, not theirs.
Making this decision would be simple if not for—
You look down, your voice barely above a whisper. “And our kids? Billy and Tommy?”
Darcy looks away. “We couldn't find any records of them,” she says. “They're not documented anywhere in Westview.”
A sinking feeling grips your chest. “They're our sons—they're real.”
Darcy doesn’t say anything. Your eyes begin to sting as you walk into the middle of the deserted road.
You're not sure how long you stood there, contemplating the plight of these innocent people and the dangers looming over your family beyond this town. You gaze at the wedding ring on your finger. Being Wanda’s wife brought you nothing but joy. Being a mother to your two boys made you feel whole. Can you really let all that go?
Just as Darcy is about to check on you, having waited a while, you catch her off guard by walking back.
“What do you need me to do?”
—
Wanda's eyes dart around. “No... not here,” she whispers, recognizing her childhood home.
She thought those memories were lost—how a seemingly ordinary evening spiraled, altering her life forever. Seeing her mama and papa’s faces is a miracle in itself. Wanda had forgotten their features, unable to carry even a photograph of them for so long.
And Pietro—god, how she's missed him. He was the last sliver of Sokovia, the last piece of home she clung to before becoming an orphan in every sense of the word.
Life was simple then. It wasn’t always comfortable or peaceful, but they were happy as long as the four of them were together.
Wanda watches on, a helpless spectator as the mundane scene before her—an evening of sitcoms on the living room floor—is shattered by an explosion before the screen cuts to black.
She squeezes her eyes shut. When she dares to look again, devastation greets her. Her younger self and Pietro huddled under rubble, a Stark Industries missile mere feet away, its ominous beeping the only sound in the deafening silence.
Agatha muses, “You stared at that bomb, waiting for it to go off. Did you use a probability hex?”
“No, I…” Wanda blinks, her mind reeling . “It just never went off. It was defective. We didn’t know that. We were… we were trapped.”
“For how long?”
“Two days.”
Agatha hums, sizing up whether this incident had any real impact on Wanda’s recent exploits. Despite the trauma Wanda has endured, Agatha remains skeptical, and she steers them down another bend in memory lane.
From afar, another room takes shape—the Hydra facility, where she first encountered the Infinity Stone.
“I don’t want to go back in there.”
“The only way forward is back,” comes the terse reply.
—
Jimmy and Monica sit side by side on a surprisingly comfortable pile of hay inside one of the supply rooms of the camp, their wrists shackled behind them with cuffs this time.
“Well, at least Hayward splurged on the good hay,” Jimmy attempts at a joke, trying to twist his wrists free.
“Yeah, cause the next time I see him, I’ll be shoving them up his—” Monica bites her lip. Now’s not the time to think about all the ways she’ll make Hayward pay. Right now, their priority is getting out of these cuffs.
Reaching into his sleeve, Jimmy fumbles for a hidden pin. “Got a lockpick here. Just give me a sec—almost…”
She watches as he struggles to maneuver the pin into the cuff's lock, his fingers slipping. After several failed attempts, he lets out a frustrated huff.
“Here, let me try,” Monica says, scooting closer.
“Be my guest,” Jimmy says, sliding over the pin.
Monica grabs it, fingers deft and sure. A soft click follows. In a flash, she's free, reaching over to unlock Jimmy's cuffs.
“Impressive,” he remarks, rubbing his wrists.
“Years of field training.”
Jimmy fishes out his cellphone. “Guess they missed this in the pat-down.” He punches in a number. “Calling for backup from Quantico.”
He steps aside, murmuring into the phone, while Monica edges towards the door. She presses an ear against the rough wood, listening hard.
“Any luck?” she murmurs as he ends the call.
“They're sending a team, but we're on borrowed time,” he whispers back.
“Listen,” Monica says suddenly, holding up a hand.
Silence falls. There’s a muffled sound of chaos outside—high-pitched voices, scrambling footsteps, panicked commands.
“Is that... fighting?” Jimmy's eyes go wide.
“Sounds like it,” Monica says. “But who would be engaging Hayward's agents out here?”
“Maybe another S.W.O.R.D. team?”
She shakes her head. “Unlikely. They trust Hayward too much to send more scouts.”
The clamor grows—a cocktail of grunts, barked orders, and the dull thud of bodies smacking the ground. And then guns firing off nearby.
“This is bad,” Jimmy mutters. “We're sitting ducks. Unarmed ducks.”
Monica's gaze sweeps the area. “We need to find something to defend ourselves.” She snags a rusted metal rod from beside a stack of crates and hands it to Jimmy. “Here.”
He grabs it, his grip firm. “Better than nothing.”
She hoists a solid-looking plank. “Stay alert.”
Suddenly, the outside noises cut off, dropping the world into unnerving stillness.
“Why did it just go quiet?” Jimmy whispers.
Monica takes an offensive stance. “I don't know, but I have a feeling we're about to find out.”
Footsteps draw near—steady, unhurried. The door handle rattles slightly.
“Get ready,” she says, positioning herself beside the door.
Jimmy nods, holding his makeshift weapon at the ready.
The door creaks open slowly, and a sliver of light spills inside. They hold their breath as the door swings wider.
A shadowy figure looms at the threshold, silhouetted against the harsh daylight. Without waiting to see if this was a friend or an enemy, Monica lunges forward, swinging her plank toward the intruder. Jimmy follows suit, thrusting his metal rod in a coordinated attack.
But the figure dodges their attack like they're made of smoke. With a fluid sidestep, you evade Monica's swing, the plank slicing harmlessly through the air. Simultaneously, you pivot gracefully, ducking under Jimmy's thrust. In one seamless motion, you sweep your leg, knocking the rod from his grasp and sending it clattering across the floor.
Before they can regroup, you're behind Monica, coaxing her wrist until the plank clunks to the ground with a dull thud. Both agents stumble back, dumbstruck.
Monica’s about to charge again when you raise your hands.
“Easy,” you say hurriedly. “I’m not here to fight.”
Jimmy looks at you with utter shock and awe. “How did you—”
You smile thinly. “No time for explanations.”
Monica squints, peering harder. Something clicks. “Wait... Are you Y/N?” she murmurs in disbelief.
Recognition dawns on Jimmy’s face too. “It is you!”
You nod slowly. “I am.”
Monica keeps searching your face, like she's double-checking if it's really you. There are small differences between this you and the one in the Hex—your hair's shorter, framing a face that's sharper with…age. The lines around your eyes are deeper, and there's a hardness in them now that wasn’t there before.
“Wait, how did you escape the Hex unharmed?” Jimmy asks. “The last time you tried, it looked like you weren’t going to make it…”
You shake your head. “I didn't escape from Westview.”
“What do you mean?” Monica asks. “You're inside the Hex with Wanda, aren't you?"
“No,” you reply evenly. “That wasn’t—isn’t me.”
Just then, footsteps approach from behind. You spin around to see Clint, his bow slung casually over his shoulder.
“Well, that was quick,” you note.
He smirks lightly. “It would've been quicker if I weren’t so rusty.”
“Clint, is it true what she's saying?” Monica asks.
Clint nods solemnly. “Yeah. I made a rookie mistake by not considering the possibility that the Y/N in Westview and out here in the real world aren’t one and the same.”
Jimmy looks baffled. “Wait, what do you mean?”
“When I saw Y/N on that broadcast, I assumed she was inside the Hex. But when we saw the one from Westview disintegrating after she emerged from the barrier, that’s when I realized that something else was going on here.”
Jimmy's face screws up in confusion. “Then who was that?”
You lean back against the wall, a wistful look in your eye. “Based on what Clint told me, she's both me and not me.”
Jimmy throws up his hands. “I'm getting confused.”
“That's Wanda's version of me—the person she left behind five years ago,” you say.
Monica's eyes stretch wide as the penny drops. Is Wanda that powerful to be capable of what you’re implying?
“When you say she's Wanda's version...” She trails off, not confident to finish the thought.
“Wanda created her,” you say, as casual as if you were commenting on the weather. “Wanda doesn't know I'm still alive.”
—
“Exposure to an Infinity Stone,” Agatha muses, eyeing the memory of Wanda clad in a grimy gown that the Hydra facility dressed her into. She grimaces slightly. “That explains some of it, but not all.”
With a subtle gesture of her hand, another door materializes—a portal to another place, another time. Another memory—but this time, not a painful one. Wanda doesn't hesitate this time and walks towards it. There’s no choice in the matter, really. Might as well get it over with.
Behind the door is a well-lit kitchen. The countertops were sleek and clean, aside from an open jar of peanut butter and a half-empty jar of jelly sitting next to a loaf of bread. A butter knife rested on a plate smeared with both spreads, and a glass of water sat nearby, condensation pooling in a faint ring on the stone surface.
You were standing at the large kitchen island, carefully cutting the corners of your sandwich when Vision phased directly through the wall to your left.
“Jesus!” you yelled in surprise, the knife slipping from your hand and clattering against the plate.
“Well, well,” Agatha drawls, leaning back with an amused smirk as she turns to Wanda. “I must admit, I never pictured her as the type to take the Lord’s name in vain. Your wife looks like such a proper lady here in Westview, dear.”
Wanda remains motionless, her entire focus on you as this memory comes rushing back to her. You weren’t even friends yet, and Wanda had already noticed how distant you kept yourself from her. It wasn’t hostility, exactly, but it was clear you didn’t like her much back then. And she couldn’t blame you.
“My apologies,” Vision said.
You scolded him for announcing himself that way before he formally introduced himself to you. With a sigh, you told him you already knew who he was. Without missing a beat, Vision asked what food you were preparing.
“It's a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”
“The coloration is intriguing,” Vision noted. “I haven't encountered many purple foods in my lifetime.”
To Agatha, the exchange seems utterly trivial—and not to mention, boring. Yet, it only makes her more curious about why this particular memory has surfaced.
“Speaking of food,” Vision began, “Miss Maximoff hasn’t eaten. Nothing in over twelve hours.”
You were just about to take your first bite, but the mention of Wanda made you freeze.
“And why is that my problem?”
“Given that her quarters are adjacent to yours, I thought you might be concerned,” Vision said.
“Concerned? About the person who messed with my head? Hard pass.”
“Oh,” Agatha chimes in, continuing her unsolicited commentary. “Was your wife not particularly fond of you in the beginning?”
Wanda shakes her head slowly. “She hated me.”
Agatha’s grin widens. “And that drew you to her? Well, aren’t we a little kinky.”
The memory continues with Vision gently reprimanding you about the poisonous effects of resentment. You brushed it off with a sharp retort, making it abundantly clear just how little you cared.
Vision didn’t press the matter further. “Very well. If you’ll excuse me.”
He turned to leave, this time opting for the doorway instead of phasing through the wall.
“Wait,” you called out, piquing Agatha’s interest.
Vision stopped, looking back at you expectantly.
You sighed, rolling your eyes. “Look, just... take her something to eat. Here.” You shoved the sandwich plate toward him.
“It might be more meaningful if you delivered it yourself.”
“Yeah, that's not happening.”
He accepted the plate. “I will relay the gesture.”
“Don’t,” you rushed out. “I mean, don’t tell her it’s from me.”
Agatha scoffs like she’s watching a bad rom-com. “Enemies to lovers. My personal favorite,” she says, smirking. “Two people who can’t stand each other but still do nice things behind each other’s backs. Adorable, really.”
“She didn’t know I was there, watching the whole exchange,” Wanda says softly. “I went back to my room that night, eagerly waiting for Vision to bring me that sandwich. I was so hungry.” Her voice grows even quieter as she adds, “Y/N was the first person to do anything for me after my brother died. And she didn’t even like me.”
Agatha snaps her fingers, then gives Wanda a hard look. “Here’s the punchline, honey: you come back from the Snap—five years gone in a blink for you—and guess what? Y/N didn’t make it.”
Wanda looks stunned by the reminder that in the five years she was gone, she couldn’t shield you, couldn’t stop your demise. Clint kept silent on how it happened, and even when Wanda defiantly probed his mind, she found no clues about your death.
“She was gone,” Agatha says, circling around to meet Wanda's gaze. “But you wanted her back.”
Almost reflexively, Wanda nods. “I did,” she murmurs. “I wanted her back.”
The segment shifts seamlessly to a serene lakeside setting. It's a somber day—the day of Tony Stark's funeral. Wanda of this memory stood alone, gaze lost on the serene water, while members of the Avengers paid their subdued respects to Pepper Potts in a slow procession.
It’s Clint who noticed she’d been standing there a long time already.
“Hey,” he murmured, the nippy weather forcing his hands in his pockets as he joined Wanda’s side. “You holding up okay?”
Wanda smiled faintly. “As well as can be expected.”
He nodded, sharing her view of the gray lake. “It’s tough, losing someone like Tony. Feels like we’ve been bleeding pieces of ourselves.”
Wanda sighed. “But it's not just Tony, isn’t it?” This funeral should’ve also been for everyone they lost. Natasha, Vision…
You.
“Counting our losses would just do us more harm than good, kid,” Clint said.
She gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug. “I just... I miss them.”
Clint's hand found her shoulder. “I get it. I miss them too.”
Wanda drew a ragged breath, but these days, it felt like no amount of air was enough.
“All I've ever known is loss,” she whispered. “You'd think I'd be used to it by now, that it wouldn't hurt as much as when I lost my parents, or Pietro. But this…” Her voice faltered. “Losing Y/N cut the deepest.”
Clint squeezed her shoulder. It’s meant to be comforting but Wanda felt nothing.
“I’m sorry, kid.”
“I shouldn’t have been brought back,” Wanda said, stepping back, causing Clint’s hand to fall away.
“Don't say that. Y/N would've done everything for you to come back,” he said.
She turned to him, tears brimming in her eyes. “And I would've done everything I could for her to still be here—with me.”
Wanda watches herself in the memory, turning her back on Clint without a word. She didn’t say goodbye to anyone. Didn’t pay her respects to Stark’s widow. She slipped into the driver’s seat of the car you used to own after Clint turned it over to her.
The road led her to a quiet cemetery not too far away. She parked along a gravel path and walked among the rows of headstones until she reached yours. Seeing your name etched in stone brought a fresh wave of grief crashing over her.
Dropping to her knees, Wanda was wracked with sobs, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably. She cried until the tears refused to come, her body spent from the depth of her grief. Hours seemed to pass before she finally rose, shaky and streaked with tears. She wiped her face with the back of her hand and headed back to the car. Slumping into the driver's seat, she allowed herself a few more moments of inaction. In search of some small comfort, she flipped open the glove compartment and fished out your favorite CD.
As she rummaged through the assorted items, her fingers brushed against an unfamiliar envelope tucked at the back. Intrigued, she pulled it out and examined it. Her name was written on the front in your unmistakable handwriting.
With hands that trembled like leaves, she tore it open. Inside, there was a simple, elegant ring—the one she bought for you—and a folded brochure. It’s a map of a small New Jersey town. A plot of land was circled in aggressive red, and in a heart-shaped scribbled below, you've written, Where Maximoff will torment me for the rest of our days.
A smile, bittersweet and crooked, crawled its way to her face. The idea of a future you’d dared to dream together flooded her with both joy and heartache.
Compelled by a sudden urge to see this dream firsthand, Wanda started the car and set off towards New Jersey. The journey passed in a blur, her mind occupied with thoughts of what could have been. Hours later, she arrived at the ghostly town, its structures forgotten in time, lagging behind the rest of the world by at least a decade.
Following the map, she drove to the marked lot—a field overrun with wildflowers and framed by a quaint white picket fence. She walked to the center of the lot, your ring clenched tight in her fist. As the sun dipped low, it draped everything in a golden light. Right then, the full weight of her pain hit her like a freight train.
And when it happened, it started with a tingling sensation at the back of her neck, a subtle prickling that grew into an all-consuming fervor. Beneath her, the earth whispered of transformations, subtle yet insistent, as reality bended, acquiescing to the sheer force of her will.
Her powers gradually rose, a resurgent tide swelling from the emptiness that had, until this moment, consumed her. She released a primal scream as she unknowingly reshaped her surroundings—houses and streets morphed, relationships and identities changed—all molded from her memories and desires. Even the very colors of reality altered around her.
But she paid no heed to the unprecedented heights of her abilities. Her only focus was the release—the desperate emptying of her being, striving to purge the agonizing pain she’d felt since discovering you were gone.
With each exertion, she felt a piece of herself ebbing away, her essence—bright and golden—intertwining with the magic, seeping into the reality she molded. The pain was exquisite, an acute contrast to the numbness that had pervaded her existence since her return. She welcomed it, the pain confirming her existence, her agency, her power after so much had been taken from her.
As the final tendrils of red weaved the last of her into this new Westview, she felt a climactic release, as if she’d finally exhaled a burden she could no longer bear. She collapsed, the world spinning dizzyingly around her, her breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. The town pulsed—tentatively, like the first steps of a newborn—with life, a life that was both not hers and wholly of her making.
She lay on the ground, which had metamorphosed from the soft, dewy texture of soil to the cool, smooth tiles of a pristine living room. Her eyes fluttered open slowly, bracing for the afterlife, when—
Wanda gasped, her eyes instantly watering at the sight of you, unchanged, just as she remembered before the snap, before the world fell apart. Disbelief coursed through her, yet she couldn’t look away from the miracle of you, standing there within her reach.
“Wanda,” you whispered, your voice barely a breath. Extending a hand, you helped her to her feet, her left hand—adorned with a simple gold band—shaking as it met yours.
“Welcome home.”
A fragile smile began to trace her lips for the first time since her return. With your hand in hers, she stood at the threshold of her new home, crafted from all of her pieces.
#wanda maximoff x reader#wanda maximoff imagine#wanda maximoff x you#wanda x you#wanda maximoff#unbetad#my writing#my fic#elizabeth olsen x reader#elizabeth olsen#wanda maximoff fanfiction#oneshots#fic request#wandavision#monica rambeau#darcy lewis#jimmy woo#All Of Your Pieces#AOYP#agatha harkness#clint barton
125 notes
·
View notes
Text
Okay so little known fact about me, I'm a shifter and I frequently use both spiritual methods and substances to shift into other worlds, and like when I'm in the world of Genshin Impact I sometimes see the most messed up shit but I never tell anyone cause idk why, and today since my adventure was actually kinda sexy I feel like I should share some of the stuff I learned and experienced.
Especially because you know it involved my favorite man Scaramouche.
Okay so the tea was that basically contrary to popular belief in our world, Scaramouche is VERY much okay with being intimate with humans and it's actually hard to put into words why but it can basically be summed up as this, he secretly REALLY wants a family still. And in his mind, as long as he got someone pregnant (anyone it didn't matter who as long as he found them attractive enough), then he believed he could just make them immortal when he became a god and then have an undying partner and child (which he also never stated openly but it was obvious that he wanted this in particular because he was both curious as to what it would be like to be a husband and because he kinda felt like a woman would be easier to control and shut away from the world because she would have a kid to take care of anyway).
But there was one issue in this lesser known fixation of his, Scaramouche was actually frustrated because he believed he might actually be incapable of getting someone pregnant and was just shooting blanks basically.
My adventure kinda involved seeing what would happen if someone actually DID finally manage to be knocked up by him, and it basically went like this.
Scaramouche had a little bit of a reputation amongst the fatui maids to be someone known for having slept with and then thrown away a lot of different women over the years. And it was kind of an unspoken thing that if he suddenly started giving a girl a lot of things to do and kept trying to get her alone that he wanted to sleep with her.
No one among the staff would DARE say it out loud but it was kinda obvious that the harbinger wanted a baby out of someone because anyone who had been with him before always said that he'd do the same thing and would basically fuck a girl raw for hours almost every day and would also keep her close for about a month or two as he had doctors give her certain medicines and herbs and stuff to try and make her conceive.
If she was a failure after a few months then she was completely tossed out and sent back to the kitchens. And then within days Scaramouche would be stalking the staff again because it was easier to take a maid without anyone knowing than it was a soldier or nurse.
And if he likes someone he'd put on his superficial charm and start trying to lure them into his bed.
Also no one ever snitched because according to his past victims, Scaramouche was EXTREMELY generous in the sheets. However big into overstimulation and watching the faces of the girls he coupled with.
And a LOT of maids secretly tried to look more appealing with makeup and stuff when he was around because who wouldn't want to be spoiled by a hot rich guy who just wanted you to give him a kid in return for the best princess treatment in your life?
And oh my god did he almost seem to actually smile once as the story played out and I watched him get the news that one girl was finally a success.
And was there ever some hating ass bitches when the rumors of his successful impregnation started going around.
So basically this girl was treated like a freaking goddess.
Scaramouche literally paraded her around openly with the best clothes and jewelry and even her own damn mansion in some secret location. Literally she was his everything it seemed.
And it was crazy because he didn't love her as a person whatsoever. She could have been anyone because Scaramouche just wanted a family he could make permanent and didn't care what woman's coochie it came out of. Just so long as it was his and he could keep her controlled and hidden away safely with mora and nice things.
I saw more stuff but my mind is going blank as I recenter my spirit and sober up. I'm sure I could remember it later if I tried but basically yeah.
Scaramouche is very self serving and doesn't care about who he has to use to get what he wants or how. And he secretly still longed for someone to spend forever with him, so unbeknownst to most people, he was trying to get someone pregnant and then immortalize them and his offspring once he achieved divinity and became a god.
I just remembered part two of my shifting journey so let me update.
The story went on to what would happen to the girl after irminsul occurred and it goes as this.
Now feeling immense regret for how disrespectful and borderline cruel he was to some of his past partners, Wanderer actively tries in secret to seek out the mother of his child and learning where she was and what her perception of history had been altered to was heartbreaking.
According to her she was sold to the fatui by her family to work as a cook and pay off some debt, her life wasn't too bad until she was taken advantage of by what she remembered as just one of her male coworkers, after she was proven to be with child she ran away from the fatui and eventually just found herself in Fontaine. Then soon after that, Sumeru.
And that's where Wanderer finds her again. He knows the actual truth and eventually decides to come clean to this girl about what actually happened. She doesn't believe him but Wanderer is adamant about being the real father and vows to the girl to try and do the right thing by helping her with the kid.
At least.
She agrees but only because she needs the assistance and Wanderer knew how to be charming enough to earn her forgiveness.
After that he would finally get the family he envisioned but because he failed to achieve godhood, he knew he would lose them someday. And he personally believed he deserved to feel that loss so he would stay with the girl and actually try to get to know her as a person as a means of atonement and also to punish himself for treating this girl like an incubator at first.
#genshin impact#smut#genshin impact smut#genshin smut#genshin wanderer#wanderer#wanderer x female reader#wanderer smut#wanderer x reader#scara x reader#scaramouche x reader#scaramouche smut#scaramouche#genshin scara#scara#genshin kabukimono
53 notes
·
View notes
Note
I know that Yuu is gender neutral in the game for many reasons so it makes me wonder if Yuu was a girl in Conan would that change the dialogues and the way the characters interact with her?
Like not a major change to the main story or turning the game into otome but some small ones like in some characters interaction with Leona when stepping on his tail he won't want to beat us (because of the respect woman thing lol) in book one or Deuce being shy in the beginning of their friendship.
Hmm... For the most part, I honestly don't really think so? Cater still calls Yuu cute, Azul is still pretty polite, etc. Rook still waxes poetic and creepily recites your sizes, etc. regardless of gender. At best, maybe some of those traits would be exaggerated a little more or expanded on to suit the scenario?? Like maybe Ace would initially tease fem!Yuu about being at an all-boys school or something, isn't she bothered by it? But I really doubt that anyone would be tripping over themselves to protect or befriend fem!Yuu or anything, especially when most at NRC are primarily concerned with their own interests. Most of the characters aren't noted to treat women particularly differently than other genders. We also don't get to see the NRC students interacting with girls around their age either, so it's hard to discern how they'd be with them. I think even the "Deuce being shy in the beginning of the friendship" headcanon comes from a perspective colored by writings in fandom; Deuce in canon doesn't really seem to demonstrate issues interacting with girls, at least not that I can recall. At best, he expresses surprise when Grim mistakes Epel for a girl and fails to romance the Ghost Bride (he just freezes up). I think if we eliminated romantic interest altogether--because, to be clear, one girl in a cast of mainly guys is NOT always meant to be romantic or a harem--most of the cast would be their usual selves, if not maybe a little more polite due to how they’ve been socialized to see women as the “fairer” sex. (For example, Riddle, Epel, and Jade underestimate Sally, though this isn’t clear if it’s gender-based or because they sympathize with her poor home life.)
The exception to this, many would point out, is Leona, who comes from a country in which women are respected. The strange thing is, whenever this point is mentioned, I always see people speaking about it in relation to Leona and Leona only, even though Ruggie and Rook also come from the Sunset Savanna (so technically those latter two would also theoretically be respectful to women). Now, there's a lot of discussion in the fandom about just how far Leona's "feminism" (a term used by fandom, never said in official materials) stretches. The most extreme of takes paint Leona as a misandrist who actively hates on or mistreats men while upholding women as superiors. And that... Well, I don't agree with this interpretation whatsoever. Yes, Leona no doubt respects women and is more likely to listen to them if they ask him to do something (for example, attending a party for a female painting in Cater's School Uniform vignette or taking a picture of himself in his robes for his sister-in-law in his own Ceremonial Robes vignettes). However, he won't just keel over and do whatever is asked of him simply because it is coming from a woman (think back to Ghost Marriage; he was still pretty pissed off when Eliza slapped him), and nor is he shown to disparage his own gender.
Rather than putting women on a pedestal, I think it would be more accurate to say that Leona doesn't underestimate women or think lesser of them because of their gender. (If you're interested my detailed breakdown of "feminist" Leona, check out this analysis.) For example, while his classmates worry for Sally's wellbeing in Lost in the Book with Nightmare Before Christmas, Leona lauds Sally's cunning and ability to save herself. We also get a pretty good look of this in the Episode of Savanaclaw manga, which features a female Yuu. (And before anyone says, "Yuuka could be hiding the fact she's a girl!", take a look at these panels. She is clearly not making an effort to hide her chest and given her nonchalant personality + ability to physically defend herself, Yuuka has no in-universe reason to be hiding her gender. The other students probably don’t bring up that she’s a girl because she’s already been around at NRC for roughly a month at this point and have likely acclimated to her presence. Besides, people don’t normally bring up “well, that’s a girl” out of the blue in everyday conversations.)
Riddle seems to treat Yuuka the same as the gender-neutral Yuu in the game; he still adjusts her tie for her without any flourishes, flinching, etc.
If you read the Episode of Savanaclaw altogether, pretty much all of the characters treat Yuuka like another fellow student and not "oh, this is a woman and a woman has to be treated differently".
Leona stops Savanaclaw mobs from beating up Yuuka and co., but this isn't significant because he does the same for gender-neutral Yuu in the game. It's not "I stopped the guys from hurting a woman" behavior. And get this: Leona still challenges Yuuka and co. to a magift/spelldrive game and he STILL kicks their asses and expects them to get up for more. He doesn't give even Yuuka special treatment or leniency because she is a woman. He wants her to play him again, the same as the other students (who are all guys). It is Jack who has to intervene and stop his dorm leader from bullying Yuuka and co.—but again, this isn’t a change from the game, as Jack always steps in anyway.
Yuuka recognizes Leona as "the garden caretaker" from back when she accidentally stepped on his tail. Unfortunately, we don't get to see if Leona attempted to attack her from this instance. It could be that the manga excluded it because he didn't try or it could be that he did (if the magift/spelldrive demands were of any indication) and the manga just didn't have time to show it in full. Buuut we should also note that Leona makes exceptions to his own... "moral code" when it is convenient for him. For example, he tells his students to not pick on outsiders but then still wails on us through sport. When Yuu steps on his tail in the garden, he says, "Well, can't say it'd be much fun to hurt someone so helpless," but then adds, "Still gonna do it, though."
My point is, this is the closest we'll get to "how would the boys treat a fem!Yuu", and that's what I'll leave you with.
#twisted wonderland#twst#disney twisted wonderland#disney twst#Leona Kingscholar#Azul Ashengrotto#Ace Trappola#Cater Diamond#Riddle Rosehearts#notes from the writing raven#question#Yuu#Deuce Spade#Rook Hunt#Epel Felmier#book 1 spoilers#book 2 spoilers#ghost bride#Eliza#ghost marriage spoilers#Ruggie Bucchi#Jack Howl#Savanaclaw#Sally ragdoll#lost in the book with nightmare before christmas spoilers#jp spoilers#episode of savanaclaw#episode of savanaclaw episode#Yuuka Hirasaka#Hirasaka Yuuka
26 notes
·
View notes
Text
Groot and Drax exchanged glances as Reks and the other guard started speaking. Drax, always humble, mistakenly assumed that Arvin was an admirer of his who wanted to say hello. Groot, on the other hand, initially thought he had gotten in trouble for chasing the lizards.
The more the two men spoke, though, the more questions the two Guardians had. Looking at each other, Drax and Groot shrugged simultaneously, neither of them knowing what Reks and Arvin were talking about. Apparently, the Guardians had uncovered a plot against the King and Prince of Dalmasca.
"We have?" Drax asked with both hands resting on his belt. But when he saw the look Groot gave him, he stood taller. "Yes, we have indeed."
"Why is everyone trying to kill everyone today?" Groot asked, though only Drax would understand him. He stood on Reks' shoulder carefully. "I don't get it... Why?!"
"Exactly!" Drax said with vehemence. "Why would anyone want to kill the Prince? He is beautiful!"
"Maybe someone's jealous of the way he looks and they think he has to die," Groot suggested innocently. It seemed like a perfectly logical explanation in his young mind, but saying it aloud made it appear all the more real, and he gasped audibly. "Oh no! What are we gonna do?"
"We do not know if that is certain," Drax replied. After a brief pause, he added, "But it seems plausible."
─── ・ 。゚☆: *.☽ .* . ───
Mantis smiled at the maid when she complimented her, before gesturing for Elin to follow her.
"Thank you! Elin... That's a pretty name! Come sit, please." She ushered the young woman to the sofa; it would help in case Elin needed to lay down due to the delicate nature of the topic at hand.
"Elin, as you can probably tell... I am not a human, or... hume, as you say. I possess certain... abilities," she began. "There is a reason why I wanted to speak to you privately. I am an empath. I am able to read others, and I can feel sources of energy. Life. Like the life sir Azelas attempted to take from me. So in return, I made him tell us his... um, tell us his secrets."
Mantis held out a hand so Elin could take it if she needed. "If there is anything I can help you with..."
─── ・ 。゚☆: *.☽ .* . ───
Gamora stood still and showed a blank expression as Raminas spoke with his son, though she nodded politely and offered a small smile when Caelen thanked her and said he would assist the Guardians as they needed.
"Just remember to get us the blade for my teammate and that will be enough repayment. It will make her smile." Her tone was a little more engaging and friendly this time, betraying the smallest hint of playfulness.
Moments later, Gamora was a bit surprised when Munoh reappeared, but it gladdened her to know that they brought word from Nabradia.
Apparently, Prince Rasler and Princes Eswynn would arrive sooner than intended; a formal dinner would take place. And Caelen wanted to... invite the Guardians? Gamora's eyes widened slightly, glancing and Munoh when they agreed with their chosen mortal.
"I will find my fellow teammates and tell them we have been invited. Thank you." She offered a polite nod. "Rest assured, we will not mention the invasion. I will inform my comrades of this as well."
With that, Gamora spun and left the throne room.
─── ・ 。゚☆: *.☽ .* . ───
Rocket and Quill were leaving the Benatar when they spotted Gamora from afar. Quill called her name, waving his arm with a big grin on his face.
"Gamora! Here!"
The woman saw them and approached the two Guardians. Her arms crossed over her chest.
"Any luck with the ship?"
"It's gonna take me a while to fix it, that much I can tell ya," Rocket replied. "Until then, I made somethin' to... uh... y'know, help improve Mantis' abilities."
"How?" Gamora asked.
"Uh, I dunno, remember that one time when she put a livin' planet to sleep? 'Cause you saw it, I saw it, we all saw it. The girl doesn't know how powerful she is, but I do. She's said before that she can't dull her powers. That means they can only grow. This will simply... dial 'em up to eleven. She'll be able to fuck shit up."
"I see." Gamora nodded and straightened. "I thought you said you don't care about us."
"You know me, I love a little mayhem and she's got the power. There's a lotta potential for chaos there."
"In any case..." Gamora smirked and shook her head. "We have been invited to have dinner with the royal family tonight, as well as the Prince and Princess of Nabradia."
"Huh?" Rocket narrowed his eyes.
"It's a celebration," Gamora clarified.
"A celebration," Rocket repeated numbly. And then he broke into a fit of laughter.
"What are we celebrating?" Quill asked.
"The wedding. Princess Ashelia is going to marry Prince Rasler. And I... I suspect it's an arrangement," Gamora said, remembering how anxious Ashelia seemed when she told Gamora and Mantis about the event.
"And why the fuck should we give a shit 'bout the wedding?" Rocket barked.
"Yeah, I don't get it either. Why would the King invite us?"
"The King didn't invite us. Caelen did," Gamora clarified.
"Ah, of course." Rocket rolled his eyes. "Of course Prince Charming's gonna take us under his wing, Mantis was able to get along with his invisible friend after all. Wonderful."
"Dude..." The Star-Lord's voice was a whisper. "Dinner means there will be food..."
The two stared at each other for a moment as Gamora's hands moved to rest on her hips.
"Okay, fine, we're goin', whatever," Rocket said.
"We must not mention the invasion in front of the Prince and Princess of Nabradia," Gamora explained. "King Raminas believes Prince Rasler might want to go defend his home which is... understandable. For his safety, we should refrain from bringing that up."
Another Time, Another Place (A Hollow Universe In Space) || closed with tarnishedxknight
@tarnishedxknight continued from here
The Guardians stood there, letting Captain Basch formally introduce them to King Raminas. They all then bowed respectfully except for Rocket, who only did so because Gamora pushed his head down. They trusted Basch for the most part, as he assured them no one would hurt them after telling them to leave their weapons at the ship. Quill and Gamora were the first ones to leave theirs; Drax didn't want to leave his knives, but did so after Mantis looked at him, while Rocket pulled a comical amount of retractable weapons from his pockets.
As they followed Basch, Mantis had stayed behind for a moment to approach Vossler. She felt much better after Munoh sent her some calm energy, and she smirked at the man. Suddenly, her hand was on his cheek, her antennae aglow. "Whenever you open your mouth to say something unkind, you will wail like a baby. Honestly, it might be more coherent than anything else you have said," she whispered. She patted his cheek twice as if to seal her whimsical behest, and hurried to follow the Guardians as Basch guided them through the palace of Rabanastre.
Quill straightened and cleared his throat to speak to the King. Mantis took his hand; Quill was a little confused, but he allowed it since he knew she wasn't feeling great.
"Your Majesty," he said, once again lowering his voice in an attempt to mirror Basch's formal tone and presence, hoping it would make the King like him more. "We come in peace. We thank you for your time, and we apologize for occupying one of your docks. I think I have–" He stopped talking rather suddenly, and swallowed. "Uh... I think... I have..."
What was happening was that Mantis was frantically reading his thoughts as he spoke, using her powers to interrupt him because he was going to say he had the perfect stuff to make up for it, wanting to show the King some Terran music with the Zune. While Terran music was excellent, Mantis knew not everyone would like it, nor find it an acceptable form of apology.
"I have no excuse," Quill said instead. "And I have to... shut up... now."
#tarnishedxknight#guest muse: groot#guest muse: drax#guest muse: gamora#guest muse: rocket#muse: peter quill#[ v: another time another place a hollow universe in space ]
52 notes
·
View notes
Text
YOU'RE JOKING!!!!
This is the girl again!!! Now that her exams, her concussion, and Christmas is over I have decided to stir the pot with her again, and I just very gently reminded her that, "hey, you flirted with me a couple months ago...do you remember that?" (she did not) (I have AGAIN been bolder than I meant to) but anyway, she was like, "I'll get back on that!"
BOULDER TO THE HEAD PERHAPS?!?!
So far she has only tried the English songs, but she'll get there. If I don't get a girlfriend out of this, I'll be fine. If I don't get a Joker Out fan out of this— what was all this for?!
#personal#joker out#This one I am putting in the main tag because if my mission is successful we will have a new friend in the tag#I had a panic attack last time she flirted with me and girl nothing even happened but I have been so on edge#currently going through the ups and downs like “we are so back!!” “we are so done for and i can't do this“ ”WOOOO WE'RE SO BACK!!“#don't mind my other friend saying fart in her note...idk what is going on in her life#also context for anyone who doesn't follow me: I've been talking to this girl and analysing her poetry with her for about four months#i asked her why she followed me on instagram because I do not know her irl and she said she just thought I was pretty and THEN FLIRTED AT M#(she did that two months in to knowing me) (perfectly reasonable amount of time)#it scared me really bad though but i persist#she is a little crazy and really invested in me and I think she likes me more than i like her but I'm sure things will work out anyway...
8 notes
·
View notes
Text
Makeup artist:.......... Are you nervous?
Baja: a little bit.... This isn't like in front of a studio audience right
Makeup artist: No sweetie, it's just a one-on-one interview.
Baja: that's good. Who are we interviewing?
Makeup artist: You're going to have to ask the show-runner, Mickey.
Mickey: let's go. Let's go. Let's go what takes so long putting powder on a face. He has perfect skin anyway. We had to get him to the dressing room. We start filming in a couple minutes
Makeup artist: I'm finished. Just need to map down some scales and he's...... All done. You're free to go sweetie
Baja: thank you
Mickey: So you must be then host of the show. Sorry I wasn't able to meet you sooner. I was on vacation. Oshi told me you're a really good candidate for this show. You seem to be competent you know your way around music....*sip* ..... Coffee?
Baja: I don't really drink that much coffee. I like tea though
Mickey: Green tea! *Snap*. .*snap*
Assistant: your green tea
Baja: thank you
Mickey: Well I know one thing for sure. She was right about the pretty face. Now as you get dressed head to the studio so we start filming promotional material Ramon should be there with you. After your interview which will count as the pilot
Tammy: Mickey listen I really think you should reconsider about not casting me for the show
Mickey: No....*sip*
Tammy: but I really think you should I mean I can at least be co-host. I'm great to be around! Tell him, baba
Baja: it's Baja
Mickey: No, we need to bring up the sea slug viewership
Tammy: I can be the second co-host
Mickey:....*sigh*...... Tammy listen to me. You didn't get the job all right. You just don't fit the criteria we need for this show and this channel. But hey you have other opportunities for other networks alright. You're pretty, you're bubbly and you have a nice rack. You can get a job anywhere with those qualities around here.... You're just not going to find it at this station
Tammy: but-
Mickey: goooooood byyyyyyyyyyyyyeeee Tammy!!
Security guard: Right this way ma'am
Tammy: Mickey!!! I'll have your fucking job!!
Mickey: we'll see you next week Tammy we're filming the season finale
Baja: she seemed pretty upset
Mickey: eh she'll get over it ... She's been in a couple of shows here and there on the network. She plays Kate the baby sitter on 'dock and dingy' ......*sip* ..... She'll be fine. Here Is your dressing room your clothes should be folded
Baja: alright... and I just head to set after
Mickey: yep your's and Ramon's chairs will be the brown arm chairs. The musician or celebrity will be sitting on the loveseat and will perform on the stage behind you
Baja: they're going to perform?
Mickey: yeah.. yeah they're starting their Solo career
_______________________________________________
Ramon: hey... You look good. They spruced up your wardrobe too
Baja: yeah. I wonder if we're able to take this home with us
Ramon: probably. I think it'd be easier just to keep in our dressing rooms for now. Keep our work clothes separate from our regular clothes. Feels like bad energy to mix them together.
Baja: how so?
Ramon: I mean this nice brand name stuff fancy designs, colors and a hefty price on it. It's nice but it isn't really me. It's what the studio and the producers want me to be and I rather keep that at work when. I go home I wear my regular off-brand jeans, my 8-year-old sweater and a pair of kicks with a hole in it. That's me. That's who I am. A regular person, I'm not above anyone and I don't want to feel like I am. Get what I'm saying
Baja: yeah... I get it. You don't want the job to change you
Ramon: exactly
Mickey: All right! Hitch you got the shot?
Hitch: Yeah I got it. We can use this for commercials
Baja: you were filming?
Mickey: Yeah yeah no worries. We just wanted to film you guys interacting. We didn't tell you cuz we wanted to look natural.
Hitch: we didn't have any mics on so we couldn't hear what you were saying so don't worry about it. I'm the director by the way names Hitch. Nice to meet you..
Baja: hello
Ramon: hey
Mickey: alright so we're going to start filming the show in 30 minutes. Kikura is their dressing room.
Ramon: Kikura from C-side?
Mickey: yeah
Kikura: sorry I'm late.. I tend to procrastinate when I'm getting ready for these types of things...... Not a good excuse but... yeah
Mick: Well that's perfectly fine. We'll be filming in a couple minutes this is Ramon and this is Baja. They're going to be the ones interviewing you
Kikura: hey
Hitch: while we wait for that, let's do some more advertisements
______________________________________________
Assistant: alright..... Advertisement 2 take one...[clap]
Baja: Hi my name is baja and I'm the new host of the inklab's new show 'music at midnight'.... Me and my new co-host Ramon
Ramon: sup
Baja: we're going to be interviewing musicians from all walks of life
Ramon: and different genres.
Baja: We're going to have nice conversations getting to know them, telling us some really cool stories.
Ramon: a show airs Thursdays at 11:30 p.m. can't wait to see you there!
Hitch: CUT!.... Great! We're going to do some more editing and maybe some reshoots on that but here is your intro You're going to do this during every episode you introduce yourself. You tell them what show they're watching and then you tell the current news what's going on in the music world..... You're also going to have to do that when you start writing articles for the blog, but we'll get to that later. ... Here's the monologue script. If you want to go off script feel free... Go over it, memorize We'll film in 15...... Oshi! Good to see you..*mwah mwah* how are you baby
Oshi: Hitch! Hope everything is going well I just wanted to check in on everyone
Hitch: yes... You're going to start filming soon so have a seat....(Pat...Pat)
Oshi: alright..... I'm getting a call.....*ugh*..............[inhale].....[exhale]...... Hi Shimi! How are you doing dear?... Are you having fun on the farm? I saw some pictures warabie posted on squidder. You look cute riding the tracker hehhe....... Well you only have one week left honey..... yes I've enjoyed my break..... The church? If that works for you honey I guess it gives you a purpose.........*sigh*...(Eye roll)....acting is also your purpose I know...how's warabie is he having fun?......well tell him to try to enjoy himself..............yes ...... alright good bye hun.............
_______________________________________________
Shimi: hm.....
Merv: Shimi it's your turn to take the manatees out to graze, take your son with you. Noiji start up the tractor I need you to harvest the octoberries, ikkan pack up squidmelons and head into town. Koi would you help me harvest some of the squid lemons
Koi-koi: I'd love to
Merv: Cirrina sweetheart you said you're going into the city for a school project?
Cirrina: Yeah just for 2 hours. When I get back I'll feed the krill and clean out their coop
Merv: All right, be safe
Shimi: warabie help me load up the manatees
Warabie: yeah..... What were you calling Mom about?
Shimi: It's none of your concern she didn't let me talk anyway............
Warabie:... All right, the manatees are in (bump...bump).....
Shimi: alright...................
Warabie:............so what's mom up to at home?
Shimi: she's working on project O.E.T network
Warabie: that's nice she's been working on that for years
Shimi: *humpf*.... We've been working on for years.... Typical of her to go behind my back and do things without my permission or opinion
Warabie:...... Oooookkkaaay...........hm.................hey mahi
_______________________________________________
Mahi: hey dude
Warabie: what's going on at home?
Mahi: nothing much. Baja got a new job...... stop!........ Yeah, he's going to be on TV now. That's pretty neat
Warabie: tv?!
Mahi: some talk show.... Midnight music...... Music at midnight something.....neta stop spawn camping!
Neta: I'm not spawn camping
Warabie: he got the job!? How did he get the job?!
Mahi: I don't know, I really haven't had time to talk to him. He's been in and out of the apartment for like days now..... cod damn it!.... Let me leave the base at least...... fuck!
Neta:hehehehehehehe... I'm sorry .hehehe
Mahi: sorry... Neta's being an asshole...uhhhhh...Baja honestly hasn't been here and when he is here he's just there to get dressed and then leave.
Warabie:*sigh*....... good for him... Guess he's going to be the new breadwinner
Mahi: hey so when are you coming home?
Warabie: end of the week I should be home
Mahi: great apartments too quiet and-Neta!
Neta: what?! What am I doing wrong? I'm just playing the game. It's not my fault you always end up in my range of sight. Get good at the game
Mahi:*huff*... Can you come home faster? I miss you
Warabie: aww I miss you too mahi.. I honestly want to go home too. This place sucks ......I'm tired of scooping Manatee shit and hauling crates of squidmatoes
Neta: ask him the question
Mahi: *ugh*........are you able to bring home fresh produce and milk
Warabie: I....... I'm going to have to ask ikkan's dad that
Shimi: we're here unload the manatees
Warabie: I got to go.... text you later..........
Mahi: bye..... I'm not playing with you anymore! I'm done with this game....
Neta: One more round. I want to get a gold badge on this weapon I'm two games away. You can be on my team this time
_______________________________________________
Cirrina: .......this must be the address..........(Knock knock)
Bayou: Cirrina! You showed up!
Cirrina: yeah....hehehe sorry if I'm a little early ...
Bayou: no worries. Come in, come in you can use your shoes on the shelf right here. So what do you want to know about krillarney?
Cirrina: I'm just you know the origins and the history of krillarney...... You lived on the surface for most of your life, right? Is that true for most octolings here?
Bayou: yeah... Most of us here spent their whole lives on the surface though there are some who moved here who previously lived underground
Cirrina: Interesting......so... And did your family move here?
Bayou:...... I think you might get more information from my nan.... Nana!!....... You remember my Nana. from church?
Nana: yes!? Bayou? What is it love?.....oh... Dear the little girl from church. Nice to see you again sweetie
Cirrina: hello..
Bayou: Nan do you mind if she asks you a few questions?
Nana: I have no problems sweetie
Cirrina: It's just a couple questions .. . I'm doing a five-page essay on octarian history in other countries
Nana: wasn't that nice? Well what do you want to know dear?
Cirrina: uhhhh .... When did you move here
Nana: oh I have no idea sweetie It's been years...... The war started when I was around......10 of 11 years old. I lived with my two sisters in a small village My mother was a School teacher and my father passed away years ago.
Cirrina: *writing*
Nana at the time my village was not affected by the high tides but it was targeted with conflict over land and resources. Next thing you know, I was being drafted for the war along with my two sisters. They just turned 13. They never held a weapon before. My mother couldn't even imagine them going to war, it was only after the first bomb we decided to leave. We had to leave quickly so we weren't able to bring a lot. All we had to pack was whatever we could fit in our backpacks. I packed two dresses, pair of pants, three shirts and one skirt. I also packed my Adva doll she's the only toy I played with for years.
Cirrina: *writing*
Nana: My mother was good friends with a man who moved to our village before the war happened. He was a nice inkling man Mr. Doal he offered to help us leave. His son got drafted and passed away early in the midst of combat. He told us about a developing sovereign country called krillarney that was currently taking in anyone and everyone across the world who wanted to get away from the war
Cirrina: *write*..... So how did you get to krillarney
Nana: we were informed that there were fairies and ships offering to help people leave. We set our trip in the middle of the night and met up with Mr. Dole and other people who wanted to leave as well. The walk was 3 hours straight. No brakes, no rest until we made it to the coast and we got onto a ship. It was a squid beak ship if I remember, The S. S. Escargot. We sailed for a week to krillarney making several stops picking others in similar situations.
Cirrina: was it just inkfish who were escaping?
Nana: oh no there were so many people from so many walks of life on the ship. Urchins, fish, cephalopods, Crustaceans. So many were affected by this war. I remember seeing some still wearing their military uniforms. It was their only chance to leave and they took it
Cirrina: when you got to krillarney what was it like? Was different from how it is today.
Nana: Well I can tell you one thing we didn't have these malls, outlets or a nice studio apartment like I have now hehehe. .... When I first got here My mother could only afford a nice small house with two bedrooms. Our neighbor was young octoling and his wife was a bass. They were enlisted in the military for years. When the war started they were completely against it. They were planning on having kids at the time they couldn't do that if they were at war. Unfortunately they weren't able to have kids but they watched me and my sister so many times that they kind of saw us as their kids hehehe
Cirrina: *writing*...... Do you ever think about your old village? What happened to it?
Nana:............. Well....um..... Like I said at the time the high tides didn't affect my home but.............. Soon enough it was............. Everything was wiped out and everyone......... From what I know now....... The water levels have subsided and it is inhabitable but............ I just never went back. Everything I know about that place is gone. My home my toys.....some of my old friends
Cirrina:.... I'm sorry.......
Nana: it's alright love
Cirrina: ....... I think I asked enough questions
Nana: are you sure? I could tell you more
Cirrina: oh that's ok really.... I have enough to write my paper. I have to get home to do my chores
Bayou: alright..... Do you want me to walk you to the fairy dock?
Cirrina: (blush).... well........ok...
Bayou: great..... I'll be right back Nana
Nana: Come back safe
Cirrina:..........................
Bayou:...........................
Cirrina:..................
Bayou:..............you know we have tons of historical sites here if you ever want to check them out..... Add some photos for extra credit
Cirrina: that would be nice but I really need to get home
Bayou: we don't have to do it today.
Cirrina: I leave at the end of the week
Bayou: Well you can plan something for this week maybe Tomorrow maybe?....
Cirrina: I can see.... Yeah I think tomorrow would be good yeah..
Bayou: All right so why don't we meet up here again at 2:00 and I can take you to the lighthouse, The bridge of new beginnings and I can even take you to the museum
Cirrina: Great! It's a date! I mean....uh... No! It's not a date..... it's a day out....an outing yeah it's it's it's an outing we're going out......for the day! We're going out for the day
Bayou:..heheheheheh... Here's my number....... I'll text you tomorrow. See ya Cirrina!
Cirrina: bye..hehehehehe........*sigh*..........
_______________________________________________
Assistant director: 'music at midnight'.... Introduction take three!.....(CLAP)
Hitch:go!
Baja: welcome, welcome! Welcome my name is Baja! And this is my co-host Ramon
Ramon: hey!
Baja: I'm very excited to say that this is the first episode of our very new show called 'music at midnight'. What is music at midnight? Well as the names in the title says we're going to be talking about music and it's going to be airing during midnight.
Roman: yep so while we sit here and talk and do interviews. You're going to be sitting on your couch or in your bed and your nice warm jammies.....
Baja: I wish we could wear pajamas
Ramon: Right? We should ask the exacts for a pajama day
Baja: hahahaha...(CLAP)..... All right, let's get started.... Today's music news....... But before we do that, who's who's with us today
Ramon: today we have Kikura sitting in our guest seat
Kikura: hey everyone
Baja: so we Kikura here today and there the guitarist for the band c-side and she's a part of another group riot act.....now Kikura is it true that riot act actually came before the band C-side?
Kikura: uh....oh my cod.......uh wow..... Yeah actually that is true. It did come before C-side... Technically yes but at the time it was not called riot act.... It was actually called 'no boys allowed' uhhehe.... We were in high school that was our original band.... We were in an all-girls school. We were just a couple of weird kids just screwing around... We were all in theater together and we used to hang out under the bleachers and I don't remember who mentioned it but one of us said "wouldn't be funny if we started a band and we had no idea how to play the instruments"....and heh That's how it really started
Baja: it started out as a bit?
Kikura: Yeah it started out as a bit. We started to borrow instruments from The music room and we started to play, used to write music together like we had our own group chat and everything ... It started to get serious during second year of school. It started out as a joke and then just kind of started to really get into it and we really just stopped seeing it as a joke and started seeing it as more of a hobby and soon after we started to book gigs, shows and sets in people's basements. It just kind of took off after that.
Ramon: so what made you join C-side?
Kikura: so C-side started after I met Beika it was a small underground club. He recognized me from my band and he was really excited to see me! He told me that he was a bass player and his old roommate was a drummer and they needed a guitar player. He had a couple songs that he's written and he wanted my opinion on it. He wanted to see if I was able to do a demo track for him.
Baja: *nods*
Kikura: a couple weeks of talking I went to the studio and I met Uotora... He's such a sweetheart oh my cod.... We did rewrites and we wrote some more music. We did some test tracks and 5 hours later I was officially a part of the band...
Baja: what was your first concert like.... You played in sesame hall as the opener for wet floor
Kikura: I was surprisingly calm during the whole show. Really thought I was going to panic and freeze up because this is the first actual concert like a concert concert like it wasn't just a group of people hehehe in a backyard. I remember the crowd wasn't that enthusiastic when we came up but after playing 'click bate' people really just started to really get into it and we just formed a fan base after that.
Ramon: are you still a part of that band? After you released your new album with riot act
Kikura: oh yeah definitely. I'm still a part of the band I'm not going anywhere. This ain't that kind of band. Do we treat each other with respect...hehehe...hm... But no this is just a side project. We all just started talking again and it's just a passion project we're just doing really
Baja: and speaking of passion projects, let's get to the news....Nami one of the members of beloved yet controversial bands front roe has enough that branching off and starting a solo career. Today on Inkstagram she announced that she's working on a new album and writing her own songs she even took a selfie of herself in the studio showing in the recording booth.
Ramon: I think nami's very underrated in the band. It's good to see she's getting out there
Kikura: I'm so happy that she is. I only met her two times. It was during the black square music festival and the seashore awards she is so nice, she's so kind and so pretty. We were talking and I brought up keeping my music in a notebook and she did the same thing too. She has several notebooks of music that she really wants to make but it doesn't really fit the sound of 'squid squad'..... Well I guess it's front roe now but she's kept those book for years... I truly hope she's putting those to good use
Baja: You know this actually isn't her first solo work. She worked on a soundtrack for 'high-rise falling 4'. It was a video game for the gamer boy x system.
Kikura: really?
Raman: Yeah I know that she composed background music for the menu and she also made The third boss Battle song. Man If they ever make the movie of high-rise falling
Baja: they are never going to make that movie.... It's always in production hell for years now
Kikura: I've only played the second and third game in that series, but I heard the movie is going to be starting off with The fifth installment and going backwards which doesn't make any sense
Hitch: what is high-rise falling? I don't know what that is. What are they talking about?
Oshi: It's just a game that these kids play. The audience will know what they're talking about
Ramon: they should bring her back for the movie. It would be really cool if she remixed her original tracks. I love that for him. I'm happy that she's making music. I'm really excited..... What else we have for the news
Baja: SashiMori are no longer doing fall tours or winter tours like they used to
Raman: oh?
Baja: So one of the members, Paul. He's no longer able to travel because he has school so they're going to have to do summer tours
Ramon: that makes sense.... I remember their last tour was during fall during spook fest. Everyone dressed up in costumes and during their last set, people were giving out candy.... Folks was handed a bucket before they got into the arena. it was good candy too like people were getting full size candy bars..... What type of candy do you like? I like gum.... You could never go wrong with gum..... Good flavor, good texture... And you can blow bubbles with it. What about you?
Baja: I enjoy chocolate... I love a good piece of chocolate..... Especially if it has a filling in it like marshmallow or something.....Kikura?
Kikura: I would say I'm a hard candy type of person.... I enjoy jawbreakers
Baja: really
Kikura: Yes, it lasts longer than most candies and..... Besides lollipops It is the only candy that is socially acceptable to take out of your mouth
Hitch: do we have any chocolate sponsors?
Oshi: no but I can get with the marketing team and see what we can do
[one hour of banter later]
Baja: Well folks that's our show! Thank you for being here for our first ever episode. The riot act album will be released on the 22 so make sure you check your local stores for it....now enjoy one of their debut songs 'No planned survivors'
[riot act performing in the back ground]
Mickey: what are the viewerships right now?
Assistant: Right now the viewerships are sitting at 89.4 million...and online..... only 20k views... But that number might rise in the next week
Mickey: [inhale].....[exhale]...... What do you estimate the viewership for ink lab plus?
Assistant: Well..... Judging from the viewership on TV and the viewership on the app we might be able to gain..................... 100 million first episode maybe even more...
Executive: I don't understand it! they talked about video games and then candy, went on a tangent about handbags and backpacks. How is this popular?! This is supposed to be about music and celebrities.
Oshi: Kids today aren't really all that interested in celebrities showing off their fancy cars, expensive clothes and lifestyle. They're bored at that and so are the newer artists. They just want to know who they are as a person....if knowing about their favorite candy and opinions on games keeps them engaged and interested in their music and our show I see no problem with it
Mickey: hmmmm.....
Hitch: I think we might need a meeting for this. I have an idea
Oshi: what's the idea
Hitch: we haven't had that much traction on the app for a while. instead of making a recorded video the next time we film we do a live stream and have the audience involved with the conversation
Mickey: I like that. Keeps the audience engaged and keeps the viewerships high. it saves money on editing
Hitch:......... These kids are going to make us a lot of money
_______________________________________________
Neta had 12 kills in one match and 6 of them were mahi
lmao fish was fighting for their life @fish-at-fish-fish-resort
#Micky is also a shark#specifically a silky shark#Hitch is a Pickhandle barracuda#most who work in this type business are sharks and other predatory aquatic Life like barracudas piranhas and Bill fish#something something Hollywood something something it being a very cutthroat brutal and also predatory#Neta being an asshole maining a charger refusing to let anyone leave the base#squid break Splatoon ships are just old cargo ships#wow i wrote a lot I honestly should of broke it up into parts but what ever#I'm not shore if any of nana's back story contradicts any of the Canon Splatoon lore i honestly should of checked#i honestly wrote all that because I forgot about Cirrina's actual punishment and she needed to write something to help her grade#so she can go to her concert instead of summer school like she wanted#Cirrina going on her first date. yay! well I'm sorry not date outing it's just an outing not going out! just outing#i like writing realistic dialogue especially mundane conversations Idk if they interview came off as boring or not#i personally enjoy when interviews with celebrities are in a podcast format where they just talk about whatever and nothing really exciting#Baja has a very particular audience#autistics who also have an interest in music people you want to know more about their favorite musician#people who put on the show in the background so they can get their work or chores done#simps#me planting the first seed of a soon to be messy and very public divorce 👏🏾😈#mahi and neta playing Splatoon but it's not like the Splatoon we play its more like over watch or cod idk maybe team fortress 🤷🏾#Kikura is a lesbian and I think they should convince Nami to leave front row and be in riot act#they should also kiss and stuff#I know there's probably a little bit of spelling errors in this#especially in the#but it's 4:30 and this has been in my drafts for a week. I don't know longer than 2 days. I'll fix it later#ok I'm back I did some small edits#neta
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
.
#alright these tags are super embarrassing but i needed to rant publicly so uh. you can read this but please don't perceive me too much#it is so fucking exhausting having nobody to share my life with#i have literally zero friends at this point bc ever since my grandpa died i've pretty much stopped trying to keep in touch with my hometown#friends and i cut off my 'friend' group that were racist assholes who treated me like a doormat back in october and haven't really made any#close friends at college since. and i just fucking hate that this is the same way i've felt for so many fucking years like you'd think it#would be bearable at this point and i'd be used to being alone and for a while i honestly was but it just hit me tonight how fucking lonely#i am and how tomorrow i have to keep on just doing the shit i have to do in life without anyone to talk to and share it with#other than my mom who's been pissing me off lately so i've been pushing her away too!#it's so tiring to have to go out and do things and have responsibilities everyday and not being able to share that with anyone idk it makes#it feel almost like i'm carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders which is SO dramatic i know#like today i wanted to talk about the stupid false alarm gas leak thing with my sort of friends in this club i'm in but i didn't get to talk#to anyone at the meeting bc everyone was just talking amongst themselves in their little groups of best friends and it just reminded me that#i don't have that and i've never fucking had that i've only ever pretended i had that#it's like all these years i've been pretending to be a person that has friends and knows how to live life normally but i never have#more than anything i just miss my friends from home bc they're the closest i've ever felt to having friends that are like family but. i#don't know how to talk to them anymore. i didn't tell any of them when my grandpa died and i think they just assumed that i've moved on so#they've probably moved on and i already know that they have their own lives and friends at their schools that are a lot more full than mine#wanna know the worst part about all of this? i just had therapy and basically told her everything's fine#and i won't meet with her again until 3 weeks from now so literally the only person i can talk to about this right now is my mom#which i am absolutely not gonna do bc she's gonna get so scared and worried for me and i can't have that rn#anyways yeah. this isn't even that big of a deal like i haven't had friends for at least the past 6 months it's not like anything's changed#i just feel extra sad about it right now. i need a distraction stat gonna go watch watch some tv goodnight#shut up hanna
4 notes
·
View notes
Text
you show me a tarot card at this point and i WILL go ‘oh like [revue starlight character]!’ they should never have done this to me
#revstar#arcana arcadia ruined my life some may say it ruins my life to this day#i am thinking about it always always. revstar in general i am always thinking about.#if i posted as much abt revstar as i think. well you would all know everything about stella and shiro#(threat)#let me tell you more about how they (in a franchise where it’s directly stated that the characters are trading their youths for theater) are#the ones who have lost their youths the most tragically because they never had a choice.#and have never really been friends as equals but are probably still the closer to each other than anyone else.#not even about aa . this is just .#like let me tell you about this shot where everyone else is interacting with stella as friends#and shiro just has#her hands behind her back. let me tell you about -#and i’m STILL a seisho girl at heart they’ve just been on the mind#like DUUUDE we haven’t even seen who shiro really is without all the BULLSHIT on her shoulders just little glimpses… SHES ONLY 14..#and stella. well she is haunted by trauma apparitions very literally. and this is only AFTER the expectations of her family cause her to hav#an onstage breakdown and consider herself a failure#and her family have literally basically called her a disappointment iirc??????? get her OUT OF THERE!!!!!!#could talk about the symbolism with all of the second wave siegfeld characters for HOURS#they’re based on extinct animals that’s literally the thing i’m autistic about#ranting in tags so no one has to wade through all the posts i want to make#so funny this post is abt as and i didn’t even talk abt it… i promise i have just as many thoughts about it
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
11/20/2024
Around Sept, I gotten a PT employment since my sister decided to argue with mom about her son's behavior and didn't want to bring him after school.
After that I gotten a PT shift to help cover the costs for illustrations for YT uploads... my checklist is almost cleared since I have to contact the same illustratior for the opening portion of the YT videos... After that I can proceed with video editing for uploads on YT...
Atm I'm still looking for full time shift to be able to cover other costs.... I have to look for FT shift until the 30th before I'm being sent to NJ which I don't like main reason is behind that is, I'm being family monitored against my will with no freedom to have privacy of my own....
I'm hoping if I can push everyday until the 30th for YT monetization to where I'm stable I can find my own space without being restricted against my own will.
If I'm able to earn enough to live on my own as a content creator, I'll be able to make video content I like making as well as expand to other content that's been on my checklist to work on....
I have in mind on how should I present my showcase as a pngtuber/vtuber... Though it might be around next year to pick a few things from the craft stores for parts of the showcase reveal...
For the 2nd YT channel I have, I'll most likely upload the work process of main channel uploads maybe vlog content where it's just me holding the camera when it comes to certain parts where I'm allowed to upload and won't disrupt business...
Main channel uploads is going to be half gameplay, and rest most likely non-gameplay content like tcgs and other things on my check list like itabag/oshi DIY stuffs and dog videos.... Collabs is something on my mind though it would have to be when NGS content is a bit slow with updates for the month after headline broadcast....
Watching other content creators I like on YT and learning about different styles they edit has become resources for me to learn and grow as a content creator into how I want to present my videos through trial and error in a fun way...
Regarding to SNS places I'm active, here is more likely a blog post of things going on IRL and talk about YT content plans I have thought for a while before going back to the drawing board of ideas I want to consider thinking about...
Bsky, X/twitter/Xitter, IG and tik tok might be mostly to practice on uploading shorter videos uploads... YT and twitch might be for streaming but YT is just video work uploads and possible streams...
Other video platforms might be a work in progress to test waters for a while....
I have considered about joining an agency as an indie vtuber, though my concern is management that can assist with sponsorships to help with IRL things and for YT streaming and videos uploads... It might be when I have some solid to present...
This is just an update for today of things I have been thinking about and happened recently for the past months to now...
#pngtuber#envtuber#vtuber#Blog update for November#life update#There are things I have been mulling over#A few things are left for me to resume video editing at night before working on YT uploads#I really don't want to be monitored against my will by family who always shames me when it comes to employment and threatened to be put out#Home with family has become a bird cage with little freedom to do anything on my own time#I'm doing everything I can try to find a full time IRL shift and figure out when to move out to somewhere I can find living space#At night my breaking point just goes in tears of being reminded from everything family has been life shaming me about...#I just can't sleep at night thinking about it#Even if I started a GFM to help with moving fees as well saving enough for rent I just don't think anyone would care enough to help me#I just want to edit gameplay videos and learn more about video editing than being life shaming by family#If I showed any form of standing up for myself including emotions I'll suffer the brunt of punishment and get scolded for it#Any form of reason with my mother ends up being in vain for she being single minded and believes in herself as righteous and knows best#Sometimes getting through to my mom is talking to a brick wall into telling her I want to be a content creator in uploading videos on YT#Including streaming she'll respond to being nosy and demanding about how much money that's being made on YT etc just to get a piece for her
1 note
·
View note
Text
guys i have successfully embarrassed myself to a whole new level and should probably search up how to change my phone number or turn back time idk
#ani rambles#truly fuck me#kfljafkdsnkdjlg#welp#i fully knew liking one of my friends was going to ruin me#and she really shouldn't have hinted anything at me about the person in her life because i was a criminal minds fan in 2020 and i'm crazy#so of course i found the person's account using just a profile picture#and the person is gorgeous and they might be just friends but from the singular screenshot i have been sent it feels like otherwise#and she's gorgeous too she could have anyone she wants#and of course it's not me and is what it is#and now that i have this in my head suddenly i am so embarrassed for “jokingly” flirting with her to make her laugh#and doing the stupid 36 questions to fall in love even though i know they're not real but still#she knows more about me than anyone who's been in my life for this little of a time knows#and maybe more than some of my closer friends who have known me for years know#i am honestly such an idiot i knew i needed to take space and get over it but i can never say no to her#sorry about this lol my irl friends are tired of hearing about her
1 note
·
View note
Text
Teacher: If you don't get anything in to your boss on time, guess what? You'll be fired!
Me: Crazy. Guess who's staying unemployed for the rest of her adulthood?
#sam's talky talks#Haha. I hate it here#Actually. Recently I've been thinking about adulthood as well. But more of just...am I gonna be stable enough–#–to provide for myself? What if my job is shitty? What if I stayed unemployed for the rest of my life?#What the fuck am I going to do?#I mean. Shit. That's scary. And I'm so bad at communicating with people because I get anxious and shy#I suck at getting shit done so throw some job opportunities out the window. I'm so bad at writing stories I can't cut it as a writer#I...my mom was right. I'm never going to succeed in life. I'm just too busy stuck in my little world#I'll never be able to help anyone. I'll never be the amazing daughter she always wanted. I'm gonna be like those 30 years olds–#–who still live in their mother's basements haha...#I bet by that time I'm 20 my mom is gonna be sick of me. She'll probably want to throw me out by then because I'm such a disappointment#It's always what I've been anyways ya know?#Shit. I'm probably never going to finish high school. Never go to college. I can see myself being a drop out more than anything#Disappointing huh? It's all I've known. I'm surprised my parents haven't caught that yet#My dad and step-mom have so much hope and expectations for me I can't breathe#<- I mean. They don't want me to be an A+ student. But they really seem to want me to do amazing#You know. My dad jokes about how I should be getting A's. That B's and C's aren't good enough. And that kinda hurts#That hurts a lot. Because I've never been a good student. Just average#I'm venting and rambling in tags. Haha#Ignore me please. This is nonsensical that this point
1 note
·
View note
Text
Many years ago, I was wandering around downtown Ottawa with my best friend. We ran into a friend of his who offered us some hash (it sucked), then said there was a really good house party nearby if we wanted to go. We were like, yeah, sure. So that's how we ended up at some completely fucking random person's house.
I look around to ask if my friend knows anyone here and he's simply gone, as is his friend. And this isn't some red solo cup hangout; this is a party. There's people counting out pills on the kitchen counter. I am clearly neither as cool nor as drug-savvy as the kitchen people, so I back away and instead wander aimlessly into the living room, which seems to give off more of a chill vibe.
A bunch of people are seated in a circle on the floor. One of them is fiddling with a big wad of newspaper or something. A really cute grunge girl with piercings and tattoos scoots aside to make room for me, so I sit down.
"What's that," I ask her, gesturing at the newspaper wad.
She gets a really big smile on her face. You know the smile. It's the I'm About To Watch This Innocent Soul Get High As Fuck smile. "You've never smoked a tulip?"
"What's a tulip?" I ask.
"It's like if a joint was also a bong," she replies. "You gotta try it."
"Alright," I reply, a little uncertainly. This will not be my first encounter with weed. I am more comfortable with the janky newspaper bong than I am with whatever the fuck is going on in the kitchen. Besides, this girl is really cute and I would like to have a friend here now that my existing friend has turned into vapor or been transported to the Upside-Down or whatever the hell happened to him.
I watch as one person holds the newspaper joint-bong upright and holds a lighter over the top while another gets beneath it, tilting their head back to take a puff. Apparently smoking this Cheech & Chong monstrosity is a two-person job.
"Oh," I say, looking at the fist-sized knob at the top of the wonky newspaper joint. "Yeah, it does kinda look like a tulip." Grunge girl smiles at me.
I watch as the tulip is passed around the circle, along with the lighter, and hits are cooperatively taken. It reaches grunge girl, who takes a huge puff and holds it for an extended moment before exhaling an impressive blast of smoke. She smiles expectantly and holds the tulip up for me, preparing to spark the gigantic meteor of dank that makes up its tip. By this point I have completely forgotten about my missing friend. I only care about making a good impression on grunge girl. I tilt my head back and hit the tulip like a smokestack.
It is the following morning. I am sleeping between a couch and a wall. I'm not positive that this is the same house I was just in. My memories are gone. Someone is yelling at me: "dude! Dude! Wake up, dude!"
I sit up. My mouth tastes like cigarettes. I do not smoke cigarettes. "Wha," I ask the yelling man, who I am quite confident I have never met before in my life.
"We're going on a quest," he tells me, gravely. "You have to come with us."
I look around. Neither my friend nor his friend are anywhere in sight. I also do not see grunge girl anywhere. I shrug helplessly. "Okay."
We embark from this house. I learn that the destination of this quest is Tim Horton's. This is a relief to me, as coffee and a donut sounds really fucking good right now. Somehow, the route to Tim Horton's takes us past the Governor-General's residence, which everyone else in the group loudly heckles on the way past. I do not know what the Governor-General has done to raise their ire, nor do I particularly care. I trudge along with my hands in my pockets, pleased to note that I still have my wallet, phone, and keys. I fervently wish that I could remember anything about last night. Maybe I talked to grunge girl. Maybe she's why my mouth tastes like cigarettes. The tulip tasted nothing like cigarettes.
I am asked about my politics. I voice my frustrations with corporate corruption, the pay-to-win electoral system, the lack of transparency and accountability. This is met with great approval. The guy who was yelling at me claps me on the back. I get the impression that we became friends last night. I don't recognize his face. I do not know his name and he definitely does not know mine. I behave as though we're friends anyway. We are comrades on a quest.
By the time we make it to Tim Hortons, the gaggle of stoners I'm walking with have all run out of energy and/or attention span. People order snacks and break away in pairs or solo, to call for rides or plan the day's events or just vegetate and wait for the drugs to leave their systems. I look around and find that my nameless friend has also gone to the Upside-Down. As I wash the cigarette taste out of my mouth with coffee, I unsuccessfully try to remember whether I saw grunge girl smoking tobacco at any point. I remember nothing. That tulip was so fucking powerful that it instantly sent me a whole day forward in time.
Alone in the city, I try to call my best friend and get no answer. I walk to the nearest bus stop, catch a bus most of the way home, and call up my parents to ask for a ride back. They ask where my friend is. I tell them that I have no idea; we went to a house party and I don't remember anything else.
When they pick me up from the bus station, they ask me some very safe, nonspecific questions, and seem to relax when I describe what little I can remember. It isn't until years later that I realize they were probably terrified I'd gotten rufied or something, and were so relieved to learn otherwise that they didn't even bother chiding me for smoking myself unconscious in an effort to impress a strange woman. In any case, they were probably happy to find out that I did, in fact, like girls; I suspect they had been privately wondering whether I was gay.
After getting home, I finally manage to get my best friend to answer his phone. I discover that he tried the kitchen pills, spent most of the night crossing the entire city on foot, and crashed at his cousin's house. He sounds like shit. I tell him that he should have tried the tulip, instead. He fervently agrees with me.
I never see grunge girl again.
That's okay, though. She got to see a clueless stranger get fucked the entire way up on some ungodly strain of giga-weed, and I got smiled at by a cute girl, and then I got to go on a quest. Wherever grunge girl is, I hope she's happy. I hope she's smoking the fattest fucking blunt and smiling as some kid passes out behind a couch.
13K notes
·
View notes