#waving scarves

[sunshineandlyrics]

🚁🇦🇷❤️ Steve loved the waving scarves fan project for Out of My System. He tweeted and posted on his IG story about it.

FITFWT Buenos Aires, 18 May 2024 x x

[maedhbhcrafts]

Uhh, so I was at an event in the woods all weekend, so I didn't have access to tumblr, so it was a very pleasant but also very surprising surprise to see that my notifications had exploded

I'm glad people like the hood as much as I do! I think it's my favorite thing I've ever made and I got good use out of it this weekend. I'll see if anyone got pictures of me wearing it that I can post later

Oh! And I entered the golden retriever scarves into an A and S competition and got third!

[sparklehoard]

Got complimented on how well and quickly I remembered the names of all the staff put at this job

(I have no idea what everyone looks like. I just memorized the license plates on their trucks)

[marypsue]

Am I unironically taking fashion and beauty advice from scans of old issues of Seventeen magazine? Mind your business.

[morporkian-cryptid]

There are scouts at the train station and it makes me happy ^^

[heyitsmeyup]

Best twist identity reveal in the series

By far the most important piece of lore to come from my reading of Tevinter Nights thus far is that fucking Brother Genitivi is the Randy Dowager. Incredible.

[gippyworm]

My mum made and gifted me this incredible hand-knitted poncho with FISH ON IT!!!!!! The little waves and the bubbles I can’t handle it… She spent easily 100+ hours on it and before this had only made a few scarves, absolutely incredible and I’m excited to wear it everywhere I go now 💚🐠💛

[p0orbaby]

Remember Cuddles in the Kitchen

summary: you go to your first game as the owner of The Arsenal

warnings: the teeniest start of some angst but that’s it

a/n: i wrote this in an hour, don’t judge, or do

word count: 1.3k

-

You arrive at the stadium in the kind of vehicle that hardly counts as a car anymore—a blacked-out Range Rover with plush leather seats, which are supposed to help with lumbar support or jet lag or something. It glides through the crowd outside the stadium as if it were water parting, leaving you in a surreal, weightless state as you stare out the tinted windows. People line up along the barriers, some of them with jerseys, scarves, others in crisply tailored suits, all of them fixated on the car as if it’s carrying royalty. In a way, you suppose, it is—at least, that’s what the club PR team likes to tell you.

The driver, whose name you can never remember despite his impeccable service, opens your door with precision timing, as if there were some imaginary stopwatch counting down the seconds it should take for you to step out. You have a fleeting memory of insisting to the board that you didn’t need this kind of attention, but that was waved away—of course you did, they’d insisted, it was all part of the club’s image. So here you are, stepping out into the sharp autumn air, the sound of fans and stadium chatter rising and folding around you.

People see you instantly, recognise you. A ripple of whispers, the odd “there she is!” or “our owner, that’s her!” float up from the throng. A camera flashes. It’s a bizarre mix of adoration and fascination, directed at someone who hasn’t even kicked a ball. They think they know you, these people, with their wide eyes and hopeful looks. They don’t, of course, but there’s no room for reality here, not in a world built on perception and spectacle.

You make your way through the stadium corridors, led by an assistant with a headset who murmurs into it like a stockbroker, keeping you insulated from the crush of ordinary fans. She’s brisk, polite, making small talk as you walk past murals of past players, glossy and smiling and set in that specific historical lighting that makes them look both heroic and outdated.

Eventually, you reach the suite. Inside, it’s the pinnacle of curated, near-stale luxury. Charcoal-grey walls, marble-topped counters, a buffet laden with food that looks more sculptural than edible—truffle-scented hors d’oeuvres and exotic fruits. You can’t remember the last time you ate at one of these spreads; it always feels wrong, somehow, to snack on pâté while everyone else is crammed into the stands, scarfing down chips and Bovril.

You glance at the screen on the far wall, where Leah’s name appears in the lineup. Your heart tugs, some deeply buried urge to be out there with her, watching from the stands, shouting with the fans instead of gliding through this marble-and-silver version of a stadium experience. You scan the field, your eyes finding her immediately. She’s focused, her whole body coiled with that easy confidence you’ve always envied, jogging alongside her teammates, every move smooth and efficient.

The fans in the lower section spot you from their seats, and a fresh wave of whispers and nods starts. A couple of people even clap when you’re shown on the stadium’s big screen for a brief second, a polite nod to their reclusive, mysterious owner. You smile, trying to ignore the flush of embarrassment, and settle back in your chair.

The match is a whirlwind, a blur of chants and shouts and, every now and then, Leah’s fierce concentration catching you off guard. She’s different out there, almost unrecognisable from the woman who drinks tea in your kitchen wearing mismatched socks. She’s something more primal, almost statuesque, moving with a determination that feels slightly otherworldly.

When it’s over, you wait in the suite, alone, watching as the champagne is removed, the food whisked away, and the staff disappear with their final, obligatory nods. The door opens, and Leah steps in, looking somewhat shy in her own space. Her hair is still damp from the post-game shower, and her cheeks are flushed from the effort, a hint of colour that feels more honest than the varnished elegance of the suite. She’s got that look—that bright-eyed, smug expression of someone who knows they played well but is too modest to admit it.

She stops, taking in the setup with a flicker of something you can’t quite place. A slight furrow of her brow, a narrowing of her eyes, as if she’s both impressed and vaguely amused by it all. She crosses her arms, eyeing you with a smirk.

“Bit much, don’t you think?” she says, her tone light but with an edge of something darker.

“Not my choice,” you reply, gesturing at the array of imported cheeses and miniature quiches. “Apparently, truffle-infused food is non-negotiable”

She snorts, but her arms stay crossed, her body language closed off. She looks around, her gaze lingering on the sterile decor, the impersonal luxury, and something in her expression tightens, like she’s uncomfortable here. “Feels like a mausoleum in here. Where’s the celebration? The noise?”

You shrug, glancing away, feeling an odd prick of defensiveness. “Apparently, being a good host involves keeping everything as quiet as possible”

She doesn’t smile, just watches you with that steady look. There’s a tension between you that wasn’t there before, something unspoken but heavy, and it catches you off guard.

“Is this what it’s like for you now?” she asks, her voice soft but pointed. “All this… pageantry?”

You hesitate, then nod. “This is what they want. The ‘owner’ experience”

She studies you for a moment, her gaze uncomfortably sharp. “And what do you want?”

The question sits between you, raw and unanswered. You don’t have a quick response, and that unsettles you. Because truthfully, you’re not sure. The distance between her world and yours, between the pitch and this hermetically-sealed suite, feels enormous, almost insurmountable.

Leah sighs, uncrossing her arms and taking a step closer. “I just… I don’t know. I thought it would be different. I thought… I’d come off the pitch, see you there, and it would feel like… like home, you know?”

There’s a pause, a heavy silence as her words settle over you. And it hits you, then—this isn’t just about the suite, the champagne, the hushed voices. It’s about the way this world has started to reshape you, molding you into something polished and distant, something that doesn’t quite fit with the person she fell in love with.

Without thinking, you reach for her hand, pulling her close. “Leah, I don’t care about any of this. I’d be out there in the stands with everyone else if I could”

She looks at you, her expression softening a little, but there’s still a hint of wariness, like she’s not entirely convinced. “Then why are you here?”

“Because that’s what they expect,” you say quietly, the words feeling oddly vulnerable. “It’s all theatre. None of it matters. The only thing that matters to me is… well, it’s you”

The tension in her shoulders eases, and she lets out a breath, her thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Sometimes it feels like I don’t even know this version of you. Like I’m just… watching from the outside”

Her honesty cuts through you, but there’s a strange relief in it too, as if naming the problem has made it more real, more manageable. “Then tell me what you need,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “Tell me how to make this work”

She looks at you, her expression softening, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “How about we start with a drink that doesn’t taste like money?”

You laugh, a genuine, unrestrained sound that feels like a release. “That, I can arrange”

You signal to the server, and within minutes, a couple of beers appear—actual beers, not the artisanal, locally-sourced nonsense. You crack open the bottles, handing one to Leah, and she raises it in a mock toast, her eyes glinting with amusement.

“To the queen of the royal box,” she teases, and you roll your eyes, clinking your bottle against hers.

“Long may she reign”

[livebeforeyoulearn]

Touch You Softly

Warnings: Fluff

Word Count: 2.3k

Summary: A soft, fleeting encounter of stargazing with a stranger.

-

The night is cold, biting, with winter's chill clinging to the air, but somehow you’ve ended up on the beach, surrounded by the warmth of friends and the soft glow of a bonfire. The flames crackle and snap, sending sparks into the air, which disappear against the backdrop of a starless sky. You pull your jacket tighter around you, feeling the sand shift beneath you as you sit close to the fire. Your friend, ever considerate, sits beside you while the rest of the group is scattered around – dancing, laughing, and sharing drinks. Their joy is palpable, the kind that comes with alcohol and carefree moments. But you? You’ve never been the type to drink or throw yourself into the wild abandon of nights like these. You’re content to watch from the sidelines, the quiet observer in a scene of chaos.

Your friend, aware of your tendency to withdraw, has stayed with you, perhaps out of solidarity, perhaps because they know you’d prefer not to be left alone. You appreciate it, even though neither of you says much. The silence between you is companionable, the kind that doesn’t demand filling. From your vantage point, you can see everything, every detail of the evening. Your eyes, sharp and observant, catch sight of a group of women walking towards your friends. They’re laughing, their voices blending into the wind that blows in from the sea, and they’re dressed for the cold in thick jackets, scarves, and beanies. You can almost feel the contrast between the warmth of the fire and the bitter cold beyond its reach.

One of your more intoxicated friends notices them first, stumbling forward with an exaggerated wave, calling out an invitation to join. You cringe inwardly at the slurred enthusiasm but watch as the women react. Some of them hesitate, exchanging glances, but three of them move forward, accepting the offer with grateful smiles. They integrate themselves into the circle with ease, accepting drinks and joining in the chatter, their laughter soon mingling with the rest. They’re friendly, easygoing, the kind of people who blend in anywhere. The group around the fire swells with new energy, and soon the air is filled with louder conversations, the rhythmic beat of feet dancing in the sand, and the clinking of bottles. 

But not all of them have joined in. Across from you, a couple of women sit off to the side, much like you and your friend, preferring the quiet to the noise. They talk softly between themselves, their words indistinct over the crackling fire and the sea’s low roar. It’s then that you notice her. One of the women, sitting slightly apart, bundled in a puffer jacket with a beanie pulled low over her ears. She looks cold, hunched into herself, her hands shoved deep into her pockets, her knee bouncing as if trying to generate warmth. The firelight flickers across her face, and though the distance between you makes it hard to see her features clearly, there’s something about her that draws your gaze. Even from here, she looks stunning – otherworldly, almost. Her hair spills over her shoulder, caught in the occasional gust of wind, and she occasionally squints, her face contorting against the heat of the flames.

You can’t help but smile to yourself, the warmth of the fire reflected in the warmth you feel just watching her. She looks thoughtful, her attention shifting between the fire, the waves lapping at the shore, and her friends, but she doesn’t join in with the group. Much like you, she seems content to remain on the periphery, to observe rather than participate. It’s comforting, in a way, to know that you’re not the only one who prefers the quiet moments, the subtle joys of watching rather than doing.

Your breath catches in your throat when her eyes finally land on you. It’s a brief, fleeting glance, one that you’re sure she hadn’t intended to linger. But then, as if realising something, she looks back. This time, the moment stretches out, her gaze locking with yours across the fire. You feel rooted in place, your heart picking up a rhythm that surprises you. Her expression is unreadable, but there’s a softness in the way she looks at you, a curiosity maybe. Before you can process it, her eyes drop to the sand, her face turning thoughtful, as if she’s considering something. Still, you can’t look away. There’s something about her presence that captivates you, something unspoken hanging in the space between you.

When she looks up again, it’s with purpose. She tilts her head subtly, nodding toward a darker part of the beach, away from the fire and the crowd. You follow her gesture with your eyes, trying to figure out what she means, and then it hits you. She’s asking you to follow her. 

You glance back at her and nod, your own heart giving a nervous flutter. She rewards you with a soft, almost shy smile. You quickly turn to your friend, mumbling an excuse that barely registers, and when they don’t seem to notice or care, you stand, your movements almost mechanical, spurred on by an invisible force. 

As you start walking away from the fire, you sense her moving as well. Neither of you rushes, your paths gradually converging until you’re side by side, walking along the darkened shoreline. The soft crunch of sand beneath your shoes and the distant echo of the waves fill the silence between you. There’s no need for words right now, no pressure to break the stillness. You don’t know her, and she doesn’t know you, but that’s okay. 

You can feel the pull of something unspoken between you, a shared understanding that words might only complicate. You both seem to enjoy the quiet, the simple act of walking side by side as the noise of the bonfire and your friends fades into the background, leaving just the two of you, the sea, and the stars that have begun to peek through the clouds above.

The sand feels cold beneath you as you settle beside her, both of you sitting just close enough for the proximity to feel intimate, but not intrusive. You glance at her, feeling a strange, fluttering sensation in your stomach. She looks calm, her gaze fixed on the sea in front of her, and you feel a pull to say something, to break the silence that has settled so comfortably between you. 

“Why aren’t you enjoying yourself?” you ask, your voice soft, careful not to disturb the peacefulness of the moment.

She turns to you, a small, delicate smile spreading across her face, and it takes your breath away. It’s a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, but it’s warm enough to make your heart stutter. “What makes you think I’m not?” she asks, her tone light, almost teasing.

“You were sitting alone,” you reply, your words tentative, not wanting to overstep. There’s a vulnerability in saying it, in admitting that you noticed her, that you’d been watching.

She raises an eyebrow, the teasing glint in her eyes now unmistakable. “You were too,” she points out, her voice lilting, playful in a way that makes your lips twitch in response.

You feel a warmth bloom in your chest, the kind that isn’t from the fire. You hesitate for a moment, then admit, “I’m enjoying myself now.”

Her smile softens further, the teasing edge disappearing, replaced by something gentler. “So am I,” she whispers, her voice almost lost in the sound of the waves. The simplicity of the exchange leaves you both with a feeling that lingers, a shared warmth that seeps into the space between you. 

For a few moments, neither of you speak. She turns her gaze back towards the sea, her expression serene, as if the sea holds answers she’s not ready to share. She’s beautiful, more than you had noticed from afar. Up close, the softness of her features, the way her lips curve just slightly, the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she breathes – it all captivates you. 

But then, she lies back on the sand, her head tilting up to gaze at the stars. You realise, with a jolt of disappointment, that you can’t watch her without being obvious. So you follow her lead, lying back, the night sky stretching out above you, an endless canvas of stars. You can hear her breathing, soft and steady beside you, the rustle of her puffer jacket as she shifts. 

Your eyes dart toward her again, your head turning slightly to catch another glimpse. She’s focused on the sky, her eyebrows knit together just a little as if she’s studying the constellations. The moonlight casts a soft glow on her face, highlighting the delicate curve of her nose, the way her lips are still curved in that faint smile. Your gaze traces over every feature, as if trying to commit her to memory. There’s something peaceful about the way she looks up, absorbed in the beauty of the night. You can’t take your eyes off her.

And then, as if sensing your gaze, she glances towards you. She tries to be subtle, but you catch her. Her cheeks flush slightly, the blush barely visible in the dim light, and she offers you a bashful smile before turning her eyes back to the stars. 

The words tumble out of you before you can stop them, a whisper barely carried by the wind. “You’re very beautiful.”

Her head turns towards you again, this time more slowly, and you realise you’ve shifted closer to her without meaning to. Your shoulders are now touching, and the closeness feels intimate, like a secret shared between you. She seems surprised by your words, her eyes widening slightly as they search yours, but then her lips part in a soft, almost hesitant, “Gracias.”

Your hand moves on its own, a gentle, instinctual action. It rises to her face, your palm cupping her cheek with the lightest of touches. You search her expression for any sign of discomfort, any flicker of hesitation, but there’s none. She stays still, her eyes fluttering shut as your thumb brushes over her skin, tracing the gentle slope of her cheekbones, the bridge of her nose. Her breath hitches softly, the sensation clearly calming her, as though your touch is lulling her into a peaceful trance. 

You pull your hand back, afraid you might have crossed a line, but before you can fully retreat, she reaches up and gently catches your wrist, guiding your hand back to her cheek. “Don’t stop,” she whispers, her voice so soft it almost dissolves into the night air. “It’s nice.”

A smile tugs at your lips as you give in to her request. You roll onto your side, propping yourself up on one elbow to better face her, while she relaxes back into the sand, her eyes closing again. Your fingers trace her skin more confidently now, memorising every curve, every soft breath she takes. You run your thumb over her lips, a tender, barely-there caress, and her eyes flutter open, meeting yours. 

Your breath catches as you hover over her, your voice a mere whisper, “I could kiss you right now.”

She doesn’t answer immediately, taking a few shallow breaths, her chest rising and falling under your gaze. You wonder if you’ve pushed too far, but then she smiles – a bright, wide smile that makes your heart soar. “Please, kiss me,” she breathes.

You hesitate, giving her a moment to change her mind, but when she doesn’t, you lean down slowly, your lips finding hers in a soft, lingering kiss. She melts into it, her hand coming to rest on your hip, her thumb tracing gentle circles that send warmth coursing through you. It’s a delicate kiss, one that’s innocent.

When you pull away, your breath is heavier than before, and you look down at her. She’s still so close, her lips slightly parted, her eyes half-lidded. “Kiss me again,” she whispers, her voice so quiet, like it’s meant only for you.

This time, you don’t hesitate. You kiss her again, your lips pressing more firmly against hers, tilting your head to deepen it. There’s something meaningful in this kiss, though you can’t quite grasp what it is. It’s soft and sweet, but it feels like more than just a moment. It lingers, like something you know will stay with you long after it ends.

The kiss stretches on, and your breathing becomes more laboured, each breath shallow and quick. You lose yourself in the softness of her lips, the gentle way her hand moves on your hip, but eventually, you pull away, realising how long you’ve been lost in her.

Your eyes rake over her face, memorising every detail – the twinkle of her hazel eyes, the beauty spots dotting her skin, the way the moonlight makes her glow. She’s breathtaking.

“What’s your name?” she asks softly, breaking the quiet between you.

You shake your head, your voice low and hesitant. “No.”

A flicker of confusion crosses her face, but you lean down before she can ask why, pressing a delicate kiss to her lips, so soft it’s barely there. When you pull away, you stand, your heart heavy with the weight of what you’re about to do. Without another word, you turn and begin walking away, the sand shifting under your feet as you move in the opposite direction of the bonfire, of your friends.

She watches you go, sitting up slightly, but she doesn’t protest. She just watches, her heart heavy with a sadness she doesn’t fully understand. She doesn’t know your name, doesn’t know anything about you, but something in her feels like it’s walking away with you, leaving her behind. The kiss, the moment – it was perfect. She knows, somehow, that no kiss will ever feel the same again. Not with anyone else. Only you. 

And as you disappear into the night, without a glance back, she finally stands and returns to the group, a sense of quiet sadness settling over her as she looks out at the sea one last time.

part 2

[hannibals-favourite-meal]

happy 6k!! its well deserved! can i ask for secret relationship with Aaron Hotchner (if it hasn’t been requested yet) ♡︎

.⋆｡Serendipity｡⋆.

Aaron Hotchner x plus size reader

Something’s wrong with you, a subtle change taking place over months that your profiler co-workers haven’t noticed but one Penelope Garcia has

Warnings: secret relationship, fluff, Garcia snooping, mention of condoms/smut WC: 1.6k

6k Follower Celebration Bingo

Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library

Penelope was worried about you, to say the least. You had always been a bit of an introvert, preferring to stay home with your hobbies and books rather than go out to a bar with the rest of the team but over the last month, you had been far more reclusive than normal. She may not have been a profiler but she could see the way you hid your phone, the turtlenecks and scarves that now seemed to be a staple of your wardrobe, and most damning of all, the fact that you had avoided Girl’s Night.

And Penelope was going to get to the bottom of it.

“I need your help. Now.” She jammed her pen onto the end call button of her desk phone before the person on the other end of the line could answer. Her eyes were glued to the monitor in front of her, your social media page laid out across the screen. She had gone through every like, every comment, every follower and nothing seemed blatantly out of place but she knew she was missing something.

“C’mon baby, I know you’re somewhere in there.”

The door to her cave slammed open, revealing a slightly sweaty and very out of breath Dr Reid. “What! What is it? What’s wrong?”

Penelope spun her chair around and in a squeaky voice responded. “I don’t know!” Spencer’s distressed expression faded, however, as soon as he saw what she had been looking at in the first place. His eyebrows furrowed and he stepped into the room, the blue light of her monitors reflecting off his glasses. 

“Garcia, are those bank statements?” 

“Two days ago, Y/N went to the pharmacist at 10 pm. 10! Who goes to the pharmacy that late unless they’re hiding something.” Penelope gestured wildly at the list.

“Or we just got back from a case and she had to refill a prescription?” She scoffed and waved him off.

“Our copay isn’t that good. I only know one thing someone buys for $15 at a pharmacy after 8.” Spencer gave her a puzzled look, “Condoms Dr Reid! Condoms!” 

Red bloomed across his cheeks but Penelope continued. “And then I noticed something else, Y/N hasn’t been to a gas station in almost 6 months. Or at least if she has, she hasn’t been paying for gas. So, tell me what that means.” 

“Someone has been buying gas for her.” Spencer leaned forward, his hands now planted on the only empty spot on her desk. 

“Or…” She prompted.

“Someone’s been driving her around.” His glasses slid down the bridge of his nose.

“Which means…” Penelope gently pressed them back up his face as the realisation dawned upon the genius.

“She has a secret boyfriend.”

——————

“Are we positive that this is a good idea?” Spencer shoved his hands into his suit pants pocket as he nervously looked around the empty hallway. Penelope huffed as she moved the bags of takeout over to her left hand, the numerous bracelets on her wrist jingling.

“Look, either she comes clean and gives us all the details about this mystery beau or we get a nice night in with one of our best friends in the world.” She firmly knocked on the door, stopping any further protest from Spencer. 

There was a few seconds of quiet, then a scuffle behind the door. They looked at each other before the lock clicked and your face was between the crack. “Penelope?”

Spencer leaned over so his head was above Garcia’s. Your eyes met his, your frown deepening. “And Spencer. What are you guys doing here?”

Penelope shot a look over her shoulder that screamed ‘I told you so’ before she held up the brown paper bags and gave you a megawatt smile. “There’s a Doctor Who marathon on TV tonight so I thought we could surprise you since it’s been forever since we’ve hung out!” 

“I’m not exactly dressed for company. Do you think you could give me a minute?” You glanced at something in your apartment, giving Penelope the opportunity to poke Spencer in the arm.

“Do you think we could come inside to wait, it’s a bit chilly out here.” You sighed. The door opened slowly, revealing your state of half-undress, wearing only a shirt that definitely wasn’t yours and that did nothing to cover the discolouration around your neck that suspiciously looked like hickies. Sweat dotted your hairline, your chest heaved, and the soft, sensual music playing from your speaker was everything that they needed to know.

Penelope’s squeal of victory was swiftly cut off by a man’s arm wrapping around your wide hips and tugging you back from the door, away from their sight. “It seems we’ve been had.” A deep voice rumbled.

“No way.” They were frozen to the spot, left staring at the empty doorway.

“Well, come on in then. Whatever you brought smells good.” Spencer was the first one to move, stumbling over his own feet as he entered the apartment. Penelope followed, a slightly dazed look on her face.

When she finally regained her composure, you had disappeared into the bedroom, leaving one Aaron Hotchner standing in your living room, dressed far more casually than they had ever seen him before, a sly smile on his lips. He took the bags of take out from her and carefully placed them on the coffee table. 

He was relaxed, incredibly so. His body language open, his eyes even sparkled when you walked back out of your room, now more dressed than before. Spencer’s brain ticked over as he watched the way your fingers brushed Aaron’s arm, recalling every moment he could where your interactions had been anything more than platonic in the years you had worked for the BAU. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Penelope sounded genuinely heartbroken, which made you break away from Aaron and wrap her up in your arms.

“We wanted to keep it private at first, just to see where it went.”

“And Stauss wouldn’t exactly approve.” Aaron added as he started pulling out the food containers.

“A relationship between the chief of a unit and his subordinate isn’t exactly against any FBI rules but it is frowned upon. Not to mention the over 10 year age gap between the two of you might’ve raised eyebrows.” Spencer perked up, earning a scowl from said older man.

“Yes that too.” He cleared his throat. Your giggle was muffled by Penelope’s hair. She turned around in your embrace to give Aaron a dirty look yet remained clinging to you.

“You’ve stolen her from us, keeping her all to yourself all the time.” Her grip on you tightened. “And buying condoms! Who are you to defile this perfect being.” 

Aaron had the audacity to look a little bashful at that, though you caught the flash of a prideful grin before he quickly hid it behind his usual frown. “She is my girlfriend. But, I suppose I have been selfish.”

Spencer had disappeared into your kitchen to look for some plates, but he soon called out to you. “What utensils do you want me to use? There are far too many in this drawer.” You rolled your eyes and pried yourself from Penelope, now leaving her alone with your boyfriend.

Her firm expression didn’t waver. “You love her?”

“Yes.” He answered without hesitation.

“Are you going to ask her to marry you?” Aaron’s brown eyes darted to the kitchen and once he confirmed that you weren’t standing within earshot, he muttered.

“It’s early but yes.”

“You need my approval.” She crossed her arms over her chest but Aaron could clearly see the way she was fighting a smile. 

“Of course.” He nodded, popping open a container of dumplings and stealing one. 

“Good.” She plopped down onto your couch, evidently all her questions answered, and took the box from him. 

“Is that all?”

Her nose scrunched up. “Don’t get ahead of yourself Hotchner, you aren’t off the hook yet. I’m telling everyone you’ve both been lying to us for months.” 

“As long as it stays in the BAU.” You piped up, your hands now full of various forks and knives, Spencer trailing after you with plates in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. “We don’t need to kick up a HR investigation just yet.”

“We’ll vouch for you both if it comes to that.” Spencer sat on the edge of the recliner so he could still reach the coffee table. You glided by Aaron, your shoulder purposefully brushing against his as you passed. Penelope patted the couch cushion beside her.

You grabbed the remote control and obeyed her hint, settling into the soft material with a sigh. 

“Now go, it’s our turn to get her.” Aaron just rolled his eyes playfully and kissed your forehead gently.

“Have fun you three, I’ll stay out of your hair.” You melted into his touch for just a moment before he pulled himself away to gather his things that he left on his your bedside table. “Although it’s been a while since I’ve spent the night by myself.” He teased.

That earned him a scoff from Garcia. “Go!” He raised his hands in defeat and left the three of you to the pile of food and your show. You accepted the offered plate from Spencer, it was silent save for the low voices from the TV and Aaron’s movements around your bedroom. 

Penelope had a pleased smile on her face, pride filling her chest. She had out-profiled a team of profilers before they had even realised something was off. And she had gotten an evening with you and Spencer through her genius. She pressed the side of her thigh against yours as you poured out some wine for each of them.

You grinned at her before you suddenly froze, a thought occurring to you.

“Pen… how did you know I had been buying condoms?”

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Criminal Minds

@lokiandbuckysdoll

Aaron Hotchner

@looking1016 @tripletstephaniescp @simpingfortoomanypeople

[2hightocare]

WHAT YOU NEED ✷

Synopsis: Jungkook and you try getting into the Christmas spirit, but you end up getting fucked up against the kitchen counter.

Pairing: Jungkook x f!reader

Genre: established relationship au!

Warnings: smut, size kink, light spanking, squirting, creampie, unprotected sex (don’t b dumb nd wear condom.) fluff, cussing, Jungkook has a dirty mouth. a kms joke, hair pulling and choking

Word count: 2.3k

A/n: let’s not sayyyy.. when i say i was giggling and kicking my feet i am not fucking lying! (Jk had me on a chokehold istg😒) they flagged my shit… um

Is it barely November 1st? Yes.

Are you putting the Christmas tree up already? Fuck yeah.

Jungkook would clown you for your love for Christmas, and honestly, you didn't care because you loved everything about it. The decorations, the new flavored coffee menu’s, the gifts underneath the tree, and the cold. You loved wearing beanies, scarves, and thick hoodies. Something about this holiday takes you back to your childhood—the way you would gather with your siblings and parents in the kitchen, making sugar cookies to put under the tree for Santa.

Were you heartbroken when your parents told you they were Santa? Yes. You felt betrayed after they lied to you for thirteen years of your life. When you shared your story with Jungkook, he burst out laughing, sharing that he found out at age nine after catching his parents in the act, making you want to cry for him.

Now here you both were at 10:40 pm assembling the Christmas tree. Jungkook's mom gifted you both, which is much bigger than yours from last year.

“Oh my fuck—this is too big, baby." Jungkook admires the height of the tree with his hands rested on both sides of his hips. Your excitement rises at how many possible ways you both could decorate it.

"Well, I can tell you hate it,” your boyfriend jokes as his hands wrap around your bare waist from behind. “Your hands are cold,” you flinch. Your hands wrap around his, trying to pass him your warmth.

“And if we decorate it with tiny dicks?” You crack your neck upward to see his reaction. “I mean, go for it, baby."

You swat his chest as he burst into a fit of laughter. “You swear you’re so funny, huh?” You look at him with a serious face, your mouth twitching from trying to hold in the big smile that wants to come out.

Jungkook just shakes his head. “Wanna decorate today with last year's decorations, or we can wait till tomorrow and buy new ones, and instead we can bake Christmas cookies?” He wiggles his eyebrows at you.

Anyone in their right mind would be thinking we’re crazy for already baking Christmas cookies when December is in a whole month. But you both didn’t care.

…

“We should’ve gotten pre-made cookie dough.” Your eyes look around at the marble counter in front of you, filled with all the ingredients your mother-in-law told you to use. “On god.” Jungkook stands beside you. “You know what? Let me call my mom. We need a tutorial, I'm afraid.” You giggle as he pulls out his phone, opening up FaceTime.

The phone rings three times before the camera fills up with your mother-in-law smiling sweetly. "Hi, my babies!” She says first, Your face lights up. “Hi,” you wave a hand to the camera. “Hi mom!”

“You guys look adorable,” she motions to your guys matching pink hello kitty pajamas. “Y/n bought them; I had no choice,” he lied, knowing damn well he wanted to match first. “Sureee.” You rolled your eyes at him.

The call continued as Jungkook's mom gave you guys simple instructions like beating the sugar and butter with a whisk, which Jungkook took over because your hand started to hurt, and gradually adding flour to the mixture, which ended with both of you guys covered in white flour because Jungkook turned the mixer too fast. After wishing your goodbyes, you both slightly shake off the flour, and you put the dough in the refrigerator. Apparently, you have to let it be firm.

“So now we have two hours to wait. I say we fuck.” Jungkook slaps your ass, making you squeal. “You’re horny??” Your hands make their way to his hair, slightly pulling. "Hm, maybe,” he whispers into your mouth, and he gives you a slow, wet kiss. “I’m still sore from earlier." I mumble in between kisses. “Was I too rough?” His rough hands massage your ass. You shrug your shoulders in his embrace.

“Christmas movie, then?” He asks, “I’m so down."

….

“Shit takes like ass,” you say, finishing up the cookie.

Your boyfriend looks around for the long-gone cookie. “I don't know; let’s ask the audience.” He looks around for the invisible camera. “Bitch!” You swat his arm, and he burst out laughing, holding on to his stomach.

“You literally ate that shit up.” His head is thrown back, and the most beautiful laugh roars out of him. “I will kill myself genuinely.” You chuckle while trying another cookie without the frosting you guys tried making from a tutorial on Google.

“The frosting is ass, cause this is a bomb,” you stuff your mouth with the remaining of the cookie humming at the taste. “Am I weird cause I fuck with the frosting?" He dips his pinky nto the bowl where the white frosting is before sucking it off. “Never mind actual shit." His nose scrunches in disgust, and his tongue sticks out, making you giggle.

"No, seriously, why is it so bad?” Jungkook takes a sip of the milk he had served not so long ago. “I have no clue, baby, but the sugar cookie itself slaps." You take your half eaten cookie up to your boyfriend's mouth and say, "Open, ahh." He immediately follows commands and opens before you shove his mouth with the golden cookie. “Mhm,” Jungkook's face scrunches as he bobs his head up and down, savoring the heart-shaped cookie.

“Probably the best cookie I had in a while, not gonna lie,” he states, taking a bite of the gingerman's head.

“Do we have cinnamon?” You make your way to the drawer where you keep all the spices. “ Found it,” you make your way back to the cookie before sprinkling some on your and Jungkook's cookies before taking a huge bite. “Oh my fuck," you moan.

"Oh, my fuck indeed.” Jungkook shoves the remaining cookie into his mouth, moaning at how it melted in his mouth. "Think, I just saw stars.” You say this while he side-eyes you. “Haha no.” He says that before picking you up on the counter, he settles in between your legs.

“Horny still?” You ask again, "Yes, very, I’ll be a gentle promise.” He leaves open-mouth kisses on your neck before slowly sucking.

“No marks.” You moan, your fingers slightly tugging on his hair and making him groan. “Scarf season, princess.” He looks up with a smirk on his face, then continues his actions, sucking and licking your soft spot. You bite your lip, trying to be quiet. Jungkook slowly grinds into your clothed pussy causing you to slip out a throaty moan. “Fuck—“ you throw your head back, your legs caging him closer to where you most need him. “I need you to lose the clothes and fuck me.” Jungkook chuckles at your demanding tone.

“Yeah? Want my cock already?” His hands rub on your thighs. You nod your head, looking down at the imprint of his now-hard cock. You reach for it, but Jungkook slaps your hand away, making you pout. “Patience princess,” Jungkook's hands tug on the band of your pajamas, pulling them down and taking your underwear along with it.

You squeal as your bare ass feels the cold counter top, and your boyfriend laughs before throwing the clothes somewhere on the ground.

Your pussy clenches over nothing, and you go to press your thighs together to relieve some of the tension, only for Jungkook to hold them wide open. He pulls his hard cock out of his pants, giving himself two pumps before slapping it on your wet center. Your gaze fixated on his dick on your pussy, your lips between your teeth moaning slightly when your boyfriend gives it another slap with his dick.

“So wet for me, baby,” he says, giving it another slap. "C'mere," Jungkook's picks you off the counter from your arms, “bend over. ” He orders.

You quickly follow his command, your juices dripping down your legs from how wet you were already. Jungkook spreads open your legs some more before making his way in between them, giving your ass a slap. “Fuck—“ you clench your thighs together as he soothes the red mark he just left. “Fuck, when are you going to let me fuck this ass.” Your boyfriend asks you, giving you another spank, making you squeak.

“Never,” you moan, making him chuckle under his breath. “Worth the try.” He jokes before sinking down into you, both moaning at the feeling. You felt so full. Jungkook is so big, stretching your pussy deliciously. “So big shit," you moan, your cheek pressed against the counter as he fills you up to the hilt. “You can take it, baby,” Jungkook says between gritted teeth. He felt you clenching around him, having him on the verge of coming right there in an instant.

“Always so good for me, baby. Want me to fuck you so good, huh?” He whispers into your ear, and you clench around him, earning you another spank, ripping a loud moan out of you. “Fuck me," you stutter over the pleasure your lower belly is feeling. “That’s what I like to hear, baby,” Jungkook says before pulling his cock out, just leaving the tip in before slamming into you. Your mouth hangs open as he repeats the movements over and over again. “Fuck just like that,” you grip to the edge of the counter, your eyes close immediately, as his rough hands compare to your smooth skin, hold tightly to the sides of your hips, pounding into you from behind.

“This cunt is mine, right?” Jungkook groans, sliding his cock in and out of your walls. You could only reply with a loud moan. But that’s not enough for Jungkook; your boyfriend wraps his hand around your hair, pulling you upward and arching your back in the process. “Use your words, princess.” He orders in your ear, his movements never halting.

"Fuck—your pussy! Only yours,” you spit out whatever words you could make a sentence out of. “Fucking you dumb, huh?” He lets go of your hair and moves his hand around your neck, adorning it like a necklace and applying some pressure. "Mhmm,” you moan, trying to open your eyes but shutting close after Jungkook slams into you again.

The room fills with the wet clapping sounds, groans, and moans that keep spilling out of your guys mouths. Your fingers find your sensitive clit, applying pressure and drawing small circles. "Fuck—I'm gonna come!” Your legs shake beneath Jungkook, and his arm wraps around your waist in case your legs give out on you.

“Yeah baby? Gonna come for me?” He slaps your hand away from your clit replacing it with his. Your back arches against him, and his cock continues hitting your g-spot repeatedly, sending you over the edge.

“Oh fuc—“ Your words are cut short when the pleasure in your belly finally snaps, and Jungkook's fingers furiously move on your pussy, making you scream into your hand. Wetness pools on your feet, dripping down your legs. “Fuck so hot when you squirt,” Jungkook continues fucking you through your orgasm, the overstimulation has you shaking underneath him. “Too much fu-fuck,” you head drops to the counter. You clench, sending Jungkook over the edge.

“Coming,” your boyfriend's head drops to your shoulder, his movements becoming sloppy, springs of cum shooting inside you, moaning at the feeling.

His movements come to a halt, his mind foggy, his cock throbbing when he pulls out, making you whine, feeling empty.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck,” Jungkook mutters under his breath as he sees his cum dripping out of your hole. Without a second thought, he shoves it back in with his index finger. “Aw shit,” you moan at the sensitivity.

He chuckles, kissing your shoulder blade. “You were so good for me, baby.” He leaves open-mouthed kisses all over your back, breathing heavily. You are trying to catch your breath, and your legs feel like jelly, not being able to move from your current position.

“Mhm,” you hum softly, your eyes closing. "Baby, don’t fall asleep on me,” Jungkook smiles at you, picking you up in bridal style, making you to squeal.

"How the fuck can you be so cute after just getting railed?” Your boyfriend moves your hair out of your face as you try to snuggle into his chest. “You play too much,” you mumble.

Jungkook lays you down on the bed before disappearing into your guys bathroom; a couple minutes later, coming out changed and with a warm rag in hand, “here, baby open,” he coos motioning to your legs. You do as he says. He slowly cleans and wipes your center, making you moan from oversensitivity. “Almost done,” he says before giving a last swipe and throwing the rag somewhere in the room.

“Do you want a pill, baby?” He asks against your cheek, to which you nod. He stands up, walking to your side of the closet and getting you something comfy to wear. “Here. Be right back.” Jungkook leaves the clothes next to you and leaves the room.

As you change into your clothes, Jungkook waltz’s in with an ibuprofen and a glass of water on his other hand. “Here,” he says, waiting for you to poke your head out of his hoodie before handing you the small pill.

You swallow the pill without any complaints before dropping down on the bed. “So tired.” Your eyes close before you even hit the pillow, making him chuckle. “Worn you out, huh?” He teases before dropping beside you, pulling the covers over both of you. You immediately cuddle up to his side, feeding off the warmth he radiates. Your leg is over his torso, and your hand is on his chest.

“I love you, princess.” He whispers into your hair, leaving a small kiss on your forehead. “I love you; now let’s go, mimi’s." You kiss his clothed chest, hoping he can still feel the kiss.

[maedhbhcrafts]

So I had an academic colloquium I was attending today, which meant a lot of time sitting and listening. And I have found that I pay attention better when I have something to do with my hands. So for the first part of my day, I worked on row 9 of the wave hood and got halfway through.

But I was especially proud of my progress on the cadet scarf in the later half of the talks, as I started from this

And by our break, I had gotten to here

and then for the last part, I embroidered for about 45 minutes, but at that point my hands were starting to hurt, so I stopped and just listened for the very last part.

So here's where I'm at right now!

[morelikeravenbore]

Feigning Indifference

"— And on the edge of it all, standing alone by the stands, there's you: arms crossed, little pout on your cute face, feigning indifference."

 (I promised Quidditch!smut for the girlies a literal year ago, oop. 🐢🐢🐢 Anyhoo...)

Rated: Explicit. MDNI. NSFW. 🔞

Content warnings: f!reader, no mention of house or appearance, size difference kink, semi-public sex, voyeurism/exhibitionist fantasies, possessive!Sebastian, Beater!Sebastian, feral!Sebastian, excessive use of the word fuck, p in v, unprotected sex.

Word count: 1.8k

[MASTERLIST] [WATTPAD]

Sebastian descends onto the Quidditch pitch, wind-swept, sweat-soaked — victorious.

Like a stone in quicksand, he's swallowed up by the cheering throng of admirers before he's even fully off his broom; Slytherin's mostly, their faces painted emerald, scarves transfigured into woolly snakes around their necks — they crowd around him, beside themselves with the thrill of Sebastian's triumph, back-slapping, hand-shaking, cheek-kissing. Sebastian is glad to be wearing his protective gear against the most enthusiastic among them — not that he's weak without his shoulder pads and arm guards, but some thump him so hard with their congratulations that he wonders if they're Gryffindor’s in disguise trying to put him out of action before the next match.

Once he's past the worst of it, he shirks off his Beater's gear: pads, guards, helmet (even cup, which he unashamedly yanks right out of his pants) hit the ground in quick succession, discarded for the teams’ first-year assistant to collect in his wake (provided his rabid fan club doesn't get to them first.)

Thanks to his seventh-year growth spurt, Sebastian is hardly any smaller without his bulky gear on — a fact he uses to his full advantage to shoulder through the crowd. It takes him several minutes to wind his way through; supporters and haters in equal measure jostle for his attention, girls squeal and find excuses to touch him, Imelda criticises his technique as he passes (even though he just won her the bloody match), and somebody lets off a series of explosions overhead that shower the crowd with green and silver sparks. — And on the edge of it all, standing alone by the stands, there's you: arms crossed, little pout on your cute face, feigning indifference. 

He wants to kiss the frown right off your face. 

‘There you are.’ He grins down at you. You glare up at him.

‘Seven different girls touched your shoulders just now,’ you grumble, scanning your narrowed eyes over the crowd. ‘Two more touched your chest, and that last one tried to climb you.’

Sebastian's grin widens, delighting in your jealousy. ‘Did they?’ He affects a look of innocence. ‘I didn't notice.’

‘Liar.’ You shoot him a deeply contemptuous look. ‘Maybe I should take up Quidditch, see how you like seeing your girlfriend being groped after every match.’

His amusement drops faster than a fumbled Quaffle. Usually, he finds your little jealous streak endearing — after pining after you for two long years, convinced his feelings were one-sided, your possessiveness makes him embarrassingly gooey-eyed and lovesick. But today he's too jacked up on adrenaline to let that comment slide: nobody touches you but him. Not even in your imagination. 

With no more effort than he expends on waving his Beater's bat around (less, even), he lifts you with one arm, bringing your face level with his. 

‘I wouldn't let you play Quidditch,’ he says lowly, his voice deep with authority.

Authority which you completely ignore, like always.

Incensed, you scoff and wiggle and squirm for freedom (‘Ugh, put me down, you brute! — You can't tell me what to do! — If I want to play Quidditch, you can't stop me!’) but Sebastian only waits, watching your little tantrum with a mix of resigned patience and wry amusement. 

‘You're not the boss of me!’ you wail. You’re tiny in his grip, slender limbed and delicate, but you’re agile enough to break free if he doesn’t handle you right. His arm tightens around you, pinning you so firmly against his chest that you squeak. 

‘Yes,’ he growls in your face, ‘I am.’

Despite all the height and the strength he’s gained since you met in fifth year (or the physique if all the giggles and whispers about his shoulders are to be believed), Sebastian is, generally speaking, an unapologetic softie when it comes to you: the most precious thing he's ever beheld, there's not a girl alive more loved than you. But fresh off the field, bolstered by the dizzying rush of glory and adrenaline, all his usual gentleness eludes him. — Suddenly, he wants to do more than kiss the frown off your face. 

A hot lick of desire alights in his belly, as familiar as it is impossible to ignore. Without another word, he hoists you higher and carries you off beneath the stands; game forgotten, celebrations be damned, he only has eyes for you, little doll, little bunny caught in his hungry gaze, so small and soft and devourable. 

You yelp when your back meets the wall, but hidden now deep in shadows, Sebastian only grins, wolfish. Grateful he'd thought to discard his cup, he pins you there with his hips, making sure you feel every sudden aching inch of him between your legs. 

You're his now. You both know it. 

‘How can you be jealous when you're the only one who does this to me?’ He leans in close enough to spill hot words right into your pretty, parted mouth. ‘I should fuck you standing. Right here,’ — he punctuates with a sharp thrust that makes you gasp, — ‘right now.’

Your eyes go wide, but whether you're scandalised by his audacity or desperate for him to keep whispering filth, Sebastian doesn't particularly care.

He wants to fuck the shock right off your face. 

‘R-right here?’ The wobble in your voice makes him twitch. He grinds into you again, sloooowly this time, rolling the entire length of himself against you while he watches you shift from stubborn brat to good fucking girl; no matter how many times he's seen you like this, flushed pink and panting, he's still utterly obsessed with the moment you finally give in. 

Because you always give in. 

‘Why not?’ He begins the careful crumbling of your resolve with the top button of your blouse, then the second button, third, fourth… But by the fifth his patience snaps and he yanks — hard; no need for a vanishing charm, he rips your shirt clean open. Buttons pop off in all directions; he knows you'll scold him for that later, but right now you only have strength enough to whimper. 

‘What if they see?’ You palm his shoulders — but you're pulling, not pushing. 

‘Let them.’ His lips are on the hollow of your collarbone, sucking shivers out of you. ‘Let them watch me fucking ruin you.’

Yanking you away from the wall, he spins you around and envelopes you from behind, one arm curled so tightly around your waist you couldn't wiggle free even if you wanted to. Not that you do want to; that much is clear when his other hand slides beneath your undies. Fingers slick, he fucking moans his way down the side of your neck, his tongue laving a hot, wet stripe down to your shoulder. 

‘You think I want to touch any of them like this, huh?’ He bundles your little body against him like a blanket, his arms taut and muscles straining as he works your moans free with his hands and his tongue. You buck obediently against his palm, and when he slides two thick, long fingers inside you, your knees give out. He holds you up, pinned pretty to his chest, your tits heaving in the open air, nipples begging to be painted wet by his hungry mouth. 

Sweat drips from his hair and lands on your face. ‘You think I want to fuck any of them the way I fuck you?’

Through the gaps between the stands, the Quidditch pitch is empty, quickly abandoned for post-match festivities (or commiserations if you're a Gryffindor). He imagines marching you back out there right now fucking you in the middle of it, stripping you bare and pounding you silly while the teams debrief in the changerooms and the Slytherin's celebrate their win in the dungeons. — He'd never do it for real, of course, but the fantasy of claiming you so openly, having you exposed and babbling on his cock for anyone to see makes him dizzy. 

He wants everyone to know you're his. 

The thought makes him fucking — lose — it. 

Hot and thick in his hand, he strokes himself free from his trousers with frantic pumps and a long, drawn-out whimper. If he's teetering on the edge of control, then you don't stand a chance; he hoists your leg up and rubs himself desperately against your underwear, mouthing your neck from behind, palming your tits with his big, calloused hand. Never has he been more grateful for all the grueling training sessions that have granted him the strength to manhandle you onto his cock whenever the mood strikes.

Undies bunched to the side, you arch your back and reach an arm around his shoulder, begging, begging, begging even as he's pushing in, in, into you. The sound he makes when he's fully sheathed is nothing short of feral; he stumbles forward, that hot, tight squeeeeeze of you so good it makes him weak in the knees. 

It's fucking unbearable what you do to him, the way you make him dribble and buck and moan all sorts of dirty things in your little ear — the way you make him lose control. 

‘Look at you,’ he slurs, anchoring you to his body with the full, hot length of his cock. ‘S'fucking good, s’all fucking mine.’

Holding your leg up, he sets a slow, deep rhythm and imagines himself watching you: a last-minute straggler drawn to your hiding place by your sweet moans. He imagines how pretty you'd look all stretched out and stuffed full of himself, tits bouncing, mouth agape with pleasure, too fucked out of your mind to realise how loud you are. He'd touch himself to it — oh fuck yes he would, edging himself to time his climax with yours. And maybe you'd notice him, a pair of dark eyes burning with desire. Maybe you'd like it. Maybe it'd make you cum harder. 

Fuck. Lust roils thick and luscious in his stomach and he makes a mental note to fuck you in front of a mirror next time. 

He's gasping now, slamming into you so hard your foot almost leaves the ground with every thrust.

‘If only —’ he groans, ‘— they could — see you —’ He drops his head to your shoulder and bites. ‘You're the — ngh — only one — oh, fuck —’

Surely you know — surely you understand that it's always been you; that the way you surrender makes him feel strong; that being inside you makes him feel less broken. Surely you know that he uses his body to say the things he can't put into words. 

It's more than sex: he fucking loves you. 

Your peak hits you first: a long, slow, wet release that Sebastian rides out as best he can without falling over. He moans along with you, echoing ecstasy into your ear, holding you up while your body succumbs to the overwhelming love he gives and gives and gives over to you. And when you're done, spent and shivering in his arms, sweet and limp and loved to the extreme, he follows. 

[idyllic-ghost]

title: Stay in Character! pairing: vernon x gn!reader genre: established relationship, fluff, warnings: reader has a sister with a kid, mentions of childbirth, mentions of stress, anxiety over moving in with a partner synopsis: You're on the verge of panicking - you still have moving boxes to pack and move into your boyfriend's apartment, but you can't leave the fact that your sister is giving birth to her second child while you're babysitting her first. However, your stress slowly dissipates when you walk into your cluttered kitchen and see your boyfriend playing pretend with your niece. wordcount: 5.9k

rating: PG 15

a/n: i keep wanting to write soft fluffy vernon blurbs idk what's happening

Disclaimer: The scenarios and depictions in my works are fictional and do not represent real-life situations. They do not aim to reflect the complexities of any culture, city, or individual. All characters are entirely fictional, regardless of names or descriptions.

Join my taglist // Masterlists

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The bumbling sounds from your tiny kitchen caught your attention as soon as you got out of the phone call with your sister's husband. Once one anxious thought was gone, another one appeared out of the blue - what were they doing in there? They weren't messing with the boxes, were they? You took a deep breath, trying to calm down enough for you to have an interaction without yelling.

Rolling up your sleeves, you walked into your kitchen to deal with the next situation. The walls were covered with stacked boxes, so you almost couldn't see the old wallpaper. The noises were coming from your kitchen table, which still wasn't packed up. Vernon was sitting at the table with your niece, and the two of them had put out a paper plate with whatever snacks they could find, three glasses, and a bottle of water.

Your shoulders relaxed as you watched the two of them play pretend. They had clearly been trying to help you pack but had gotten distracted by your miscellaneous items. Vernon was wearing one of your scarves on his head and an old pair of sunglasses you had forgotten about - your niece wearing a matching pair. However, as soon as he saw you come in, he took off the glasses and sent you a gentle smile.

"Is everything okay?" he asked.

It was all so ridiculous. Your sister was in the middle of an unexpectedly early childbirth, in the middle of you getting ready to move into your boyfriend's apartment, and here he was: playing dress-up with your niece. In some weird way, it was just what you needed - how Vernon could know you had no idea.

"She's fine," you finally replied with a tired smile. "It was a little bit of a surprise, but everything seems to be okay... what are the two of you doing?"

"We're just-"

"Stay in character!" your niece complained.

Vernon mouthed "Sorry," before putting the sunglasses back on and turning back to your niece. With his usual, matter-of-fact voice, he asked her what she thought about the weather. Your niece picked up her glass and took a sip of the water, making an exaggerated "ahh" as she put it back down.

"Too much rain," she responded with a nonchalant wave of her hand.

You could see Vernon have to restrain himself from laughing, his hand flying up to cover his smile. After clearing his throat, he nodded in agreement. You should be packing up the last of your stuff, the moving truck will arrive soon, and you should probably text your sister's husband again to ask him to send you updates. But right now, you could feel how tired you were in your bones. So, you sat down on the third chair and let Vernon pour you a glass of water. Then, he picked up the paper plate and held it out to you.

"Gummy worm?" he asked.

"How old are those?" You chuckled as you inspected the candies on the plate.

"I have no idea," he admitted. "But the cookies are from last week, I think."

You took a cookie and silently thanked him. Vernon and your niece continued their conversation about rain, which took a sharp turn when Vernon mentioned thunder - which was apparently very controversial in your niece's eyes. Any anxious feelings you had over moving in with Vernon were slowly disappearing. For a moment, you could truly let go of everything as Vernon kept your niece busy - and if he acted like this in a moment of crisis, maybe the two of you would do well living together.

"Bathroom break!" your niece suddenly exclaimed, clapping her hands together once to signal that the scene was over.

She hopped off her chair and walked away to your small bathroom. You had already taken all of the boxes out of there, so you knew that she would be okay on her own.

"She's a little director," Vernon said.

"She is," you murmured.

He gave you a long look, a silent "Are you really okay?" to which you responded with a nod. Vernon moved his chair closer to yours, wrapping his arms around you and slowly patting your head.

"You're doing good, babe," he muttered against the top of your head.

"Thank you."

"I'll go back to packing up and you could sit with her for a bit," he suggested. "Or I could do anything else you need."

"Packing sounds good," you hummed. "I just need to make sure she's not feeling neglected or anything, you know? My sister was worried."

Vernon let go of you and grabbed your hand to give it a comforting squeeze. He was still wearing the scarf and the sunglasses, and you could no longer keep a straight face. You snort and turn away from him, trying to shield yourself from breaking out into even more laughter.

"What?" he asked and tried to make you look at him again. "Am I not pretty?"

After taking a deep breath, you look back at him with a contained grin. Vernon cocks his head at you, clearly aware of the way he looks now but also determined to keep you smiling. Your niece eventually came back from the bathroom and climbed back onto her chair. The two of you looked at her expectantly as she cleared her throat.

"Bathroom break's over!" she chimed.

"Honey," you said carefully. "Is it okay if Vernon goes away to pack some more stuff and I stay here with you?"

Your niece glanced back and forth between the two of you before extending her hand to Vernon. He carefully removed his scarf and glasses and placed them into her small, outstretched palm.

"You've been replaced!" your niece exclaimed dramatically as she handed you the items. "I'll give you the roll as long as you stay in character!"

As you and Vernon erupted into laughter, your niece continued to mimic the voice of a director before she eventually joined you in your mirth. Everything that could go wrong today, did go wrong - yet, it felt bearable with Vernon by your side. Observing his banter with your niece might have seemed like a man simply engaging in make-believe with his partner's niece others, but to you, it was a deeply serene and comforting scene. You knew with certainty that your future was in reliable hands.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

feedback is always appreciated!♡

taglist: svt taglist: @enhacolor, @shuabby1994, @junhui-recs, @dkakapizzaboy, @just-here-to-read-01, @loviehan, @userjunhuii, @novalpha, @bubblymoon, @aaniag, @d0nghyuck, @fantasy2wonderland, @seunghancore, @woozixo, @niktwazny303, @lllucere, @uniq-tastic, @wonwoospartyhat, @stariightjoyy, @hyneyedfiz, @cali-snow, @crazywittysassy, @yeosayang, @wonuvs, @dokyeomkyeom, @kyeomiis, @gyuguys, @notevenheretbh1

[perfectsunlight]

I BET YOU THINK ABOUT ME - JISOO

kim jisoo x reader

word count: 3.5k

warnings: implied age-gap, class disparities, isolation, belittling, emotional manipulation, mentioned breakup.

synopsis: despite being broken up, you bet your wealthy ex-girlfriend still thinks about you.

there were many things you enjoyed about dating kim jisoo. the way her laughter could light up a room, soft but knowing, like she was in on a joke no one else understood. how her touch was always delicate—calculated, even—as if everything she laid her hands on was an extension of the control she had over the world around her.

but her wealth and status? no, those were never the reasons you stayed.

even now, walking down the narrow, cobblestone streets where red and gold leaves scattered beneath your feet, you couldn’t help but be swallowed by memories of her. the crisp autumn air bit at your skin, a sharp reminder of the past, tugging at your thoughts like the wind tugged at your coat. it was in this season that jisoo had always seemed to glow brightest. her beauty matched the fall—effortless, rich, like a vintage painting come to life. she was untouchable.

however, she was just as cruel.

you just didn’t realize it at the time. how her perfectly manicured fingers—always cold to the touch, always adorned with rings that shimmered in the dying autumn light—had dug deep, not into your skin, but into your spirit. each time she mentioned your "quaint" lifestyle, your "charming" lack of understanding about the finer things in life, it had been wrapped in a velvet glove of affection, so you hardly noticed the sting at first.

it had felt like walking through the falling leaves, admiring the beauty, unaware that winter was creeping closer, ready to strip everything bare.

she had always made sure you knew she was from another world—one where silk sheets were the norm, where every meal came with a waitstaff and a glass of wine you could hardly pronounce. her apartment had been like a showroom, sterile and pristine, with floor-to-ceiling windows that stretched out over the city like a kingdom she ruled from above. and you, standing in the middle of it all, had felt small.

but now, in the aftermath, you could see how she had looked at you, like a pet project. an amusing distraction.

you remember the last dinner you shared at some restaurant you couldn’t pronounce, where the chandeliers above flickered against the dim light and the leaves outside the window swirled like some gilded snowstorm. she had ordered for you without asking, her voice as smooth and cool as the autumn breeze that crept into the cracks of your jacket.

"it’s adorable," she had said, waving her hand dismissively at your confusion when the plates arrived, "how little you know about this. really. it’s sweet."

at the time, you’d laughed it off, sipping the wine that burned your throat more than it soothed. but now you realize how sharp her words had been, each one a blade wrapped in silk.

the holiday parties were even worse.

you’d always felt out of place, like an actor in the wrong movie, wandering through rooms filled with people who looked like they belonged in some old-world painting. there were always murmurs of stocks and art auctions, people in tailored suits that hung off them like armor. you, in your off-the-rack blazer, had felt like an imposter. but jisoo, with her arm linked loosely through yours, had moved through the crowd effortlessly, her smile cold and practiced, like she knew every secret and every face in the room.

the air inside was thick with perfume and candlelight, but it never warmed you. outside, through the towering windows of the penthouse venues, you could always catch glimpses of the world you belonged to—the same city, but miles away, where people didn’t wear silk scarves that cost more than your rent or talk about vacation homes in hushed, reverent tones. the autumn leaves that still clung to the trees seemed desperate, the last few hanging on in the icy wind. much like you had been, clinging to jisoo’s side, pretending not to notice the subtle, cutting remarks she’d make about your clothes, your taste in music, your background.

"you know," she’d say in that breathy, disinterested tone of hers, eyes scanning the room like a queen surveying her subjects, "maybe next time you could wear something… a little more appropriate for the occasion?"

the words had stung, but you’d smiled, nodding like you hadn’t just been dressed down in front of people who already looked at you like you were her charity case. you’d downed your drink, hoping the burn of it would distract from the ache in your chest, while jisoo had already moved on, laughing airily at some joke from a man whose name you couldn’t remember, but whose disdainful eyes stayed with you long after the night was over.

at those parties, she’d always introduce you the same way: “this is y/n.”

nothing more, nothing less. like you were just another accessory—another piece of her perfectly arranged life. your name alone always hung in the air, stiff and formal, with no affection behind it. 

it was a title, not a connection.

but the way she spoke about herself was different. she was kim jisoo, daughter of one of the wealthiest families in seoul, a woman who everyone admired but no one truly knew. she never missed a chance to remind people of her lineage, of her success, of the places she’d been that you could only dream of. you’d stand there, smiling politely, the outsider in your own relationship, as she charmed the room with stories of her luxury trips to europe or some exclusive party she’d attended.

you used to tell yourself that maybe this was just her world—one you didn’t quite understand but could learn to navigate. after all, you thought, love was supposed to be about growing, about adapting to each other. but now, looking back, you see it differently. you hadn’t been adapting. you had been erasing yourself.

you remember the first time you’d seen her living room—everything about it had been a display of understated opulence. the couch, soft and inviting, had been custom-made in italy, a piece of furniture that cost more than you’d make in a year. the kind of thing you wouldn’t even dare to sit on without an invitation.

she’d caught you staring at it once, your fingers brushing lightly over the velvety surface, as if afraid you’d leave some permanent mark on it.

“do you like it?” she’d asked, her tone casual, almost playful, as she kicked off her shoes. organic shoes, she’d said—handcrafted by a designer who only used sustainably sourced materials, each pair worth thousands. she’d tossed them carelessly to the side, as if they were nothing more than an afterthought.

“it’s beautiful,” you’d breathlessly answered, unsure of how to respond. what else could you say? the couch was more than a place to sit. it was a symbol of everything that separated you from her.

the older woman had smiled, that knowing little smile of hers, and settled onto the couch, curling her legs beneath her. “it should be,” she’d replied, her voice laced with a subtle arrogance. “it cost a fortune. but you can’t put a price on comfort, can you?”

at the time, you’d nodded, sitting beside her, careful not to spill the coffee you’d brought from a café that seemed almost comically out of place in her world of curated luxury. but now, looking back, you realize how much weight that moment held.

the couch, the shoes, the apartment—it was all part of the same narrative. jisoo’s life was meticulously designed, every element perfectly placed to reflect her status. even her so-called love of organic, sustainable products wasn’t about caring for the earth; it was about showing the world that she could afford to care. it was another layer of the image she presented, another way to remind you that you didn’t quite belong.

the shoes—those ridiculously expensive shoes—had been one of the first things you’d noticed about her. how she would glide through the city in them, effortlessly chic, while you tried to keep up in your well-worn sneakers. how she never seemed to care about the price tag, because to her, money wasn’t something you worried about. it was something you had. something you displayed.

you remember asking her about them once, marveling at their craftsmanship, at the intricate details stitched into the leather. “they’re nice, right?” she’d said, almost bored with the conversation. “made by a small artisan. i like supporting brands that are more...conscious. but it’s not just about the shoes, you know? it’s about a lifestyle.”

at the time, you’d nodded along, impressed by her philosophy, thinking there was something admirable about her commitment to sustainability. but now, with the clarity that only distance can bring, you see it differently. it wasn’t about responsibility or caring for the environment—it was about exclusivity. 

jisoo didn’t just buy things; she bought status. and as a result, she never let you forget where you came from.

she didn’t need to say it outright; her silences were louder than any words. the way her gaze would graze over your simple gifts, a flash of disappointment quickly masked by a too-sweet smile. the way her laughter, always so soft and melodic to anyone else, would carry a sharp edge when she’d point out how "cute" your attempts to impress her were. every look, every gesture, had been a reminder: you would never be enough.

and the holidays only magnified the divide between you. her family gatherings were a spectacle—elegant, with a quiet kind of opulence, but they were colder than the snow beginning to fall outside. conversations were distant, sterile, filled with politeness and half-meant compliments. you’d watch as jisoo’s mother raised an eyebrow at you, a polite but questioning smile on her lips, while her father barely acknowledged your presence at all, too engrossed in conversations about business acquisitions and real estate.

you remember the first time you had brought her home to meet your family. the warmth in the room had been undeniable, even if the house had been modest. the table was small, the plates mismatched, and the wine was cheap, but there had been laughter. real, full-bodied laughter, the kind that left your cheeks flushed. but jisoo had sat there, stiff and out of place, a polite smile frozen on her lips as she delicately picked at her food. she had said all the right things, but you could tell—she didn’t belong in your world, just as you didn’t belong in hers.

and after that night, she’d never come back. not once.

"it’s not my kind of environment," she’d said, as if your family home was some quaint little corner of a forgotten world. but you hadn’t pushed it. you’d just smiled, hoping that love would eventually smooth out the rough edges between your lives.

but it never did.

your image of her entirely changed once she launched her own dior collaboration.

the transformation was undeniable. jisoo had always been poised, elegant, and out of reach, but when her dior collaboration was announced, it was as if she ascended to another level entirely—a world you never truly belonged to. the moment you saw her in those campaign ads, draped in luxury from head to toe, with that distant, unreadable expression in her eyes, you realized something had shifted. it wasn’t just the clothes or the brand—it was her.

the once subtle differences between you were now glaring. she’d always had a way of making you feel small, of making the simplest moments feel like they were being measured against some invisible standard. but now, with the world’s eyes on her, she no longer had to hide it. she wore her superiority like couture, and her status was no longer just an undercurrent in your relationship—it was the defining feature.

you remember scrolling through your phone that first day the campaign was released, seeing her everywhere—billboards, social media, magazines. her image was iconic, flawless, unattainable. the woman in those pictures wasn’t the same person you once loved, or perhaps she was, and you had simply refused to see it. the jisoo in dior was the one the world adored: polished, elegant, and untouchable. and the jisoo you had known—the one who laughed with you on lazy sundays, who curled up next to you in bed with soft whispers—felt like a figment of your imagination.

that night, you sat in your apartment, surrounded by the faint scent of coffee and fallen leaves, watching her face appear on the tv during yet another interview. the host praised her for her taste, her grace, and asked how it felt to be a global ambassador for such a prestigious brand. jisoo smiled that small, practiced smile, the kind that could melt an audience but had always left you feeling cold.

“it’s an honor, truly,” she said, her voice as smooth as ever. “i’ve always been drawn to the finer things in life, and working with dior is the perfect alignment of that vision.”

drawn to the finer things. those words echoed in your mind long after the interview ended. it wasn’t that she loved the finer things—anyone could—but the way she lived for them, the way they seemed to define her, made you realize just how different you were.

the last time you saw her in person, it was the tail end of last fall, the leaves almost entirely stripped from the trees, the sky a muted shade of gray. you’d met for coffee, though it felt more like a final performance than a reunion. she had walked in, dressed head-to-toe in dior, effortlessly chic in her monochromatic outfit, the click of her heels on the hardwood floor echoing like some distant reminder of all the ways she had outgrown you.

she hadn’t even taken off her sunglasses, those oversized black lenses that concealed any hint of vulnerability. the moment she sat down, you knew—this was the end.

“i’m heading to paris for fashion week,” she had said casually, as if she were talking about a trip to the grocery store. “things have been busy.”

you remember nodding, unsure of what to say, feeling the weight of the unspoken words between you. there was no warmth in her gaze, no familiarity in her voice. the woman sitting across from you was a stranger, more concerned with her schedule, her image, her empire, than with you.

when you finally found your voice, all you could manage was, “i’m happy for you.” it sounded hollow, even to your own ears.

she had smiled—an empty, fleeting gesture. “thanks. it’s good to hear you say that.” her leaving behind the scent of her designer perfume felt more symbolic than it probably should have,

that’s when you knew—there was nothing left of what you once had. 

the girl you had fallen in love with was gone, replaced by someone who only cared for power, prestige, and perception. and as the autumn wind howled outside, rattling the windows of the café, you realized you weren’t mourning the loss of her, but the version of her you had once believed in.

jisoo wasn’t just a woman anymore. she was a brand. a symbol. a masterpiece crafted by the very world she belonged to. and you? you were simply a chapter in her rise to the top, forgotten as soon as the ink dried.

you didn’t date kim jisoo for her wealth. 

you dated her for the way she seemed to know the world in a way you never could—confident, poised, above it all. you thought that maybe, by loving her, you could somehow touch that world too. but love wasn’t what had tied you together. not really.

it had been power.

she loved the way you looked at her, like you were eternally trying to catch up. the way you stumbled over the names of her favorite designers, or blinked in confusion when she mentioned some art exhibit you hadn’t even heard of. she loved the control. and you—god, you had loved her for it. back then, you thought it was awe. now you see it for what it was: submission.

but there, in the middle of the bustling autumn streets, as you watch the leaves scatter across the pavement in a dance as fleeting as your relationship, you find yourself wondering—does she think about you?

does she ever sit in that apartment of hers, surrounded by luxury and untouched by the season, and wonder what it would be like to be less than perfect? does she ever close her eyes and picture the messier parts of love, the parts she could never let herself fall into?

you smile bitterly, pulling your coat tighter around yourself. maybe she does.

maybe, even now, as you wander through the city you had once explored together, her mind drifts to you—the one person who had never fit neatly into the frame of her perfectly curated life. maybe she remembers how, despite everything, you were never quite small enough to be molded. 

and maybe, just maybe, in her moments of silence, with her designer bags and high-rise views, she thinks about how she’ll never find someone quite like you again. someone who saw her for more than just the polished surface she presented to the world. someone who, despite it all, had loved her—flaws, cruelty, and all.

the wind howls, scattering more leaves into the air, and you watch as they swirl and disappear. there’s a certain beauty to the way things fall apart, you realize. a kind of freedom in it.

jisoo might not know that, but you do. however, your mind refused to let you rest.

it was 3 am, and you were still wide awake. the cold light of your phone screen cast shadows on the walls of your tiny apartment, worlds away from the penthouse where jisoo was probably fast asleep. you imagined her there, wrapped in those luxurious silk sheets, her breath steady, undisturbed by thoughts of you. in her city. the one that always felt a little brighter, a little shinier than yours. a place you never quite belonged.

your mind wandered, picturing her with someone new. someone from her world. the kind of girl who knew all the right names to drop at fancy dinners, who could wear those thousand-dollar organic shoes without feeling like an imposter. a girl with a perfect pedigree, someone who her friends probably thought was “better” than you. you could almost hear them whispering it, their voices low but full of certainty.

it wasn’t long ago that you had tried to fit into those circles. you’d been the outsider, awkward and out of place in jisoo’s world of high-society dinners and private parties. but you tried, back when love made you brave, when you thought if you just held her hand tight enough, the rest would fall into place.

they let you sit at the table, once. out of courtesy, or maybe because you were still attached to her arm like an accessory she wasn’t ready to give up. you’d laugh when they laughed, your smile tight as they sat around talking about the meaning of life, throwing around names of philosophers and books you’d never heard of.

“the book that just saved me,” one of them had said, casually, like it was a known fact that certain books saved people. you’d smiled and nodded, even though the title flew right over your head, another reminder of how little you belonged.

jisoo had glanced at you then, her eyes softening in the way they sometimes did when she noticed you struggling. she squeezed your hand under the table, like she used to when you were still hers, when you thought her world was one you could live in.

but that was before. before the doubts crept in, before the weight of her world pressed down on you. now, it felt like she’d moved on, maybe even found someone who fit in effortlessly where you never could. someone who didn’t have to pretend.

you rolled over, the silence of your room closing in, and you couldn’t help but wonder if she was asleep now, completely at peace. and if the girl in her bed had the right name, the right look, and could keep up with her friends when they talked about art and life and all the things that always seemed just out of your reach.

the thought made your chest ache, that deep, familiar loneliness that always seemed to come with thinking about her. about them. those nights when you sat in the background, silently wishing you could be enough. but no matter how much you tried, you could never quite silence the feeling that jisoo’s friends were always comparing you to someone else, someone better.

and tonight, even though you knew it was pointless, you couldn’t stop wondering if they were telling her that the new girl was everything you never could be. or maybe jisoo was out at one of those cool indie concerts she dragged herself to every week, trying to feel young, trying to prove she was still part of the scene, even though she didn’t belong there any more than you did. it was always about feeling cooler than she actually was, pretending she wasn’t inching further from the age of the crowd around her.

but even with her friends laughing by her side, pretending to be someone else, you knew the truth. 

“i bet you think about me.”

[b14augrana]

Scrubber

The aftermath of a Champions League final masterclass

Barça Femení x teen!reader

pt. 4 masterlist

Warnings: cuteness 💝💝💝 you guys know the status on that proofreading.

A/N: i was going to use catalan translation for majority of the spanish dialogue but the translator was not cooperating which sucks 🫤 sighhhh

i hope y’all missed her because the mighty brick wall of barcelona is back and better 💪🏼

our estrella, buenaza, spain minister of defense, pequeñita, nenita, bebita, chiquita, whatever you wanna call her, shes the team’s pride and joy 😚

Everyone was talking about the final for weeks. When you got back to Barcelona, it was like the entirety of Cataluña had watched it.

Even while you were walking with Irene to Mapi’s apartment, you got stopped on the street multiple times by Barcelona natives, praising your defensive performance. You thanked them of course, but you were still not used to the attention. If you weren’t used to this, you couldn’t imagine how Aitana felt.

“Will it always be like this?” you asked Irene, and she put an arm around your shoulder as you two walked. “Sí, but you’ll get used to it,” she replied.

The club had given the players a day to recover from the plane ride and relax before you started to celebrate the win. You and Irene slept over at Mapi’s apartment and then you all went back to the club facilities together to board the bus.

While you were in Bilbao doing the lap and talking to fans, you got handed a huge Boixos Nois flag, which you took without hesitation. It was surprisingly easy to get it onto the plane and when you landed in Barcelona, you stashed it (along with a few other things) in the locker room. That’s what you so urgently needed to grab when you ran into the facility, almost missing the bus as you ran back to it with the flag beneath your arm and your waistband loaded with other festive accessories... plus the scarf tied around your head.

"Buenaza, you have enough stuff?" Mapi asked, laughing at the flag and bulkiness beneath your shirt.

"Yeah, I think. Is it not enough?" you replied, and Mapi shook her head. "Don't worry, it's enough."

The bus jolted forward as it started to move, almost making you fall over. "(Y/N)!" Aitana said, beckoning you over to her.

You loved Aitana. At first, you were a little bit intimidated by her because of how incredible she is as a player. Normally when someone is that good, there is some sort of unspoken skill hierarchy that you feel separates you two, but Aitana was different. She wasn't like a mum to you — that role belonged to Fridolina — but instead she was like a big sister. Everyone on the team was like your big sister though. Aitana just happened to be one of your favourites.

"Sit down," she urged you, basically pulling you onto the spot beside her. She too had a scarf tied around her head, which you pointed out and said, "We're matching!"

"What's under your shirt?" Aitana asked, pointing at the lumps. "Oh, just some stuff. You can have a few if you want," you replied, lifting your shirt slightly to reveal the rather large blaugrana-coloured party poppers and streamers shoved into the waistband of your pants.

Aitana laughed and took a couple party poppers and a roll of streamers, "Gracías!"

You felt the bus turn, and that's when a question came to mind. "What do we do after the parade?"

"We're going to the Plaça Sant Jaume," Aitana replied, "But let's worry about that later. Look!" She stood up and looked over the railing, and you did the same.

Below you were what looked like thousands of people dressed in blue and red, waving flags and scarves and whatever else. You could hear music being performed live, and you saw confetti and red and blue smoke.

"Mierda..." you whispered, taking it all in. You saw a sign in the crowd; '(Y/N) (Y/L/N), EL MINISTRO DE DEFENSA ESPAÑA'. You took a minute to translate it in your head and when it clicked to you, a wide grin appeared on your face.

Aitana shook you and held up her party poppers, signalling you to do the same. When you got them out, you two held them off the side of the bus and after Aitana counted down from 3, you both pulled them, sending a stream of red and blue confetti down to the people on the street below.

“Aitana, (Y/N)!” Alexia yelled from the other side of the bus, waving you two over. You walked over to her, making sure to grab your flag.

“What’s going on?” you asked, and she pointed to the camera. “Team photo! You’re in the front, since you’re la estrella de la temporada,” Alexia said, thrusting you downwards to sit in front of everyone else. You looked at her stunned, about to object and say you’d rather stand, but then the cameraman told you to look towards the camera and smile. You grumbled under your breath but obliged, and you felt a pair of hands on your shoulders. You looked up to see that they belonged to Alexia, who was smiling at you proudly.

“Nuestra estrella es la millor!” Aitana yelled, jumping at the back and blowing the last of her party poppers just as the cameraman took the photo.

You flushed red. You felt so appreciated, not only by your teammates but by the fans too. When you joined the team, you were also concerned about being taken in by the fans. The girls always said that without their support they’d be nothing, so they were extremely important to you. Seeing them wear your jersey, hearing their cheers for you, feeling their love whenever you walked into the stadium, it all meant the world to you.

“Okay, photo’s done. Let’s celebrate!” Patri yelled, and everyone agreed. You shot to your feet, grabbing your flag and running to the back of the bus. You held it by the end of the pole, waving the large flag over the railing. Aitana and Patri joined you, flinging the rest of the streamers off the back of the buss and collecting confetti from the ground to sprinkle on the crowd and in each other’s hair.

Mapi ran up to you three and starting jumping up and down, waving her flag. “Una bandera ens agermanaaaa!” she sung, grinning as she waved her bandera proudly.

The bus eventually stopped outside the city hall and you all filed off. The city hall’s architecture was classical, and you liked it very much. You didn’t immediately go inside though; you spent a good 10 minutes personally talking to fans down below, and you also took some photos and other media for the club Instagram page. You enjoyed interacting with the fans, and you were slowly warming up to the idea of it.

You admired the building as you walked inside, and you were led up the stairs and to the balcony which overlooked many more fans. A microphone was passed around between each player, giving them the chance to speak to the fans.

The girls took turns greeting the fans. Alexia croaked out a “Visca el Barça” and Frido could barely say “Hola” with her voice being so gone. Lucy spoke Catalan for the first time in forever, per Ona’s request, and then the microphone ended up with you.

“Hola,” you started off, not really sure what to say. Mapi leaned towards the mic and said, “Si no te das cuenta, está muy nerviosa,” laughing mischievously as you yanked the mic away from her.

“¡No la escuches! Todo lo que tengo que decir es que Barcelona es el mejor club del mundo!” you said into the mic, your voice cracking. You hadn’t even realised you lost your voice up until then, but you laughed it off nervously, just wanting to give the mic away. “Visca Barça y visca Cataluña!”

You hurriedly passed the mic to Mapi, breathing a sigh of relief once it was out of your grasp. You weren’t the best at speaking to such a huge crowd yet, but you could’ve done worse.

Just then, you remembered that the Euros and Olympics were only a few months away. You knew how much talking and interviews that entailed, which wasn’t really up your lane. Like you told yourself before, this lifestyle would take some getting used to.

Suddenly, your phone buzzed in your pocket, making you raise an eyebrow. You fished around for it and when you eventually pulled it out, your eyes widened in alarm. ‘Hurry! Your 813 day streak is about to end! Log in to Hay Day claim your rewards’ flashed across your screen, and you had never slapped in your password faster. On top of everything, how could you forget?

“Finally logging in?” Ale asked, and you nodded. “I thought something was seriously wrong with you when I didn’t see you checking up on Bagheera Land,” she continued. That wasn’t meant to be the name of your town, but Mapi had gotten into your phone one day, changed the name of it, and you had never changed it back.

“Come on, we’re going back to headquarters and then you have to start packing so we can leave,” she said, and you put your phone back in your pocket as you walked down the stairs of the city hall.

You had received your call up to the Spain national team not very long ago. At first you were hesitant to accept because of the movement against the Spanish football federation, and you confided in Mapi about it, telling her you wanted to protest against the federation with her, but she had convinced you to take the opportunity. She said it would help you grow closer to your Barcelona teammates and also meet the other Spain internationals, plus develop as a player. You were still hesitant, but you listened.

Then you learnt that the upcoming matches were Euro qualifiers and the matches after that would be Olympic games. That terrified you. To Aitana you were always ‘Pequeñita’, to Irene you were ‘Nenita’ and to Mapi you were ‘Bebita’ — you were basically a baby, you couldn’t play in such big tournaments!

You poured all of these feelings out to Alexia on the bus ride back to headquarters. At the end of your rant, she put her hand on your shoulder and looked at you intently. “Chiquita, you played in the final of the biggest European club competition and ended up being the player of the match. Without you, we wouldn’t have won that! You can play in the Olympics and the Euros, I believe in you.”

She wrapped her arms around you in a reassuring hug which you gratefully accepted, hugging her back tightly. “Thank you. I feel a little bit better about it now,” you giggled.

“Now, when we get back to headquarters, grab your stuff from your cubby and make sure you pack tonight. I’ll come pick you up tomorrow from Irene’s and if you’re not fully packed…”

“I will be, I promise,” you answered. “Can I take my Vidić jersey?”

“Chiquita, we’re only playing two matches. You’ll be reunited with your beloved jersey in no time,” Ale said. That wasn’t enough reassurance for you, and you looked at her with pleading eyes. The woman grumbled and shook her head, fighting back a smile. “Fine, I guess you can bring it.”

“You’re the best, Ale!”