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holyblonded · 14 days ago

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feel no pain | alexia putellas

pairings: alexia putellas x sister!reader

summary: after being publicly called out, alexia finally tries to redeem herself and mend your relationship

universe: bear’s/cloud nine universe

warnings: this whole series is just angsty tbh

notes: usually i really look over for grammar mistakes but i have no more adhd meds so its going to have to wait. on the bright side, the lack of adhd meds helped me finish this!

It had been a week since the barbecue. A week since you said the words that, no matter how many times Alexia replayed them, still made her chest crack open like a fault line.

“I’m actually done this time.”

That sentence hadn’t left her head. Neither had the rest of that night.

She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. She’d only stepped outside to get some air after Olga stormed off. After Olga’s words landed like gut punches she couldn’t defend herself from. But then she heard you. Through the open window, in the dim orange glow of the patio light. She heard everything.

"No more crying boohoo for her, no more saving seats, no more texts, nothing. I'm not going to waste any more time or tears on a person who has made it obvious she doesn't care for me." Your voice wasn’t loud, but it was steady. Brutal in its finality. Alexia had always known how to read a tone, and this wasn’t anger. It was grief with the funeral already held. You had buried her.

Alba had been crying. Softly, but uncontrollably. Eli looked like someone had kicked her in the gut.

And then the voice from the phone. Calm, grounding, and most of all gentle. “I understand you, Bear. But I need you to take a deep breath for me.”

Alexia flinched. Bear. She hadn’t heard anyone say that out loud in god knows how long. She was the one who gave you that name. When you were little and grumpy and always stomping around the house in your puffy winter jacket. Mi Osita. Her little polar bear. She’d thought it was hers… and now someone else said it. Someone who knew how to make you breathe again.

You quieted at the voice. You relaxed. Not for her. Not for your sister. But for JuJu, who didn’t even have to be in the same room to get you to slow your heart rate.

“You’re doing great, Bear. Can you give the phone to Alba or Eli so they can tell me the full story?”

You passed the phone like you’d done it a thousand times before. Your hands still trembling. And when Alba reached for your face to ground you, Alexia saw it—the way you melted into her hands like a child desperate to feel safe. “Calm down, Osita,” Alba whispered, her voice catching. “Sigan mis respiraciones.” (Follow my breaths)

You followed. Inhale. Exhale.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you,” Alba whispered again.

That was the part that gutted Alexia. Worse than anything she’d heard you say. Protect you. From her… from your own sister.

Now, back on the training pitch at Ciutat Esportiva, Alexia felt like she was moving underwater. Everything was too loud and too quiet all at once. Her touches were off. Her passes too soft. Every time she ran, her legs betrayed her.

“Ale,” Irene said gently, jogging beside her as they finished a rondo. “You good?”

Alexia nodded without meeting her eyes. “Fine.”

“You sure?” Irene asked again, tone more direct this time. “You’ve been off all week. Want to talk?”

“I said I’m fine,” Alexia snapped, sharper than intended. She didn’t look back as she jogged toward her water bottle, wiping sweat off her brow like it might erase the tension building under her skin.

Irene stayed put for a beat, then sighed and let her go.

The break came, and just as Alexia finally started to breathe, Vicky bounded over, Salma and Sydney right behind her, grinning like they’d just walked out of a movie premiere.

“Oh my God,” Vicky said, beaming. “Did you see the new Gatorade promo? Your sister’s flavor? It’s actually so good.”

“She gave me a case!” Salma chimed in. “Persimmon Rush. Who even thinks of that? It’s fire.”

Sydney laughed, nudging Alexia lightly. “She said it was inspired by JuJu’s favorite fruit in an interview. They’re so corny. I love them.”

Vicky nodded, face lit up with that kind of bright, infectious admiration. “She’s seriously killing it. Like, I knew she was good, but she’s becoming an icon. That new Nike line? Crazy.”

“Did you see the TikTok with the mini Bear doing the Putellas 1080 on a trampoline?” Sydney added. “Half the Olympic team stitched it. Bear reposted it with the caption ‘She stuck the landing better than me.’ She’s hilarious.”

They laughed and glowed, while all Alexia could do was smile. Tight, tired, and hollow.

Because she knew how cool you were. How brilliant. How rare. She’d known it since the first time she saw you land a spin in the backyard with no pads on, just grit and a scraped chin.

But she hadn’t been there for any of it. She hadn’t reposted the Nike line. Hadn’t congratulated you on the Gatorade deal. Hadn’t even watched the full run that won you Olympic gold.

And now? Now, she had to hear about your victories from her teammates. Her teammates who had somehow become your fans.

“I think she’s gonna win another one,” Salma said, thoughtful. “Like another gold. She’s built different.”

“She’s been through hell. That injury was tough,” Vicky murmured. “And she’s still the best.”

Alexia nodded again, but it was just muscle memory now. Her throat had closed. Her stomach churned.

She didn’t say anything. Because what could she say? I missed it. I chose silence. I let someone else become her safe place.

They kept chatting, buzzing, praising you, and all Alexia could think about was how you used to save her a seat at your high school showcases. How you used to wait by the tunnel after her matches, holding signs in the stands. How you used to run into her arms yelling, “Did you see me? Did you see me?”

You didn’t ask that anymore. Now, you had someone else waiting at the finish line. Now, someone else called you Bear. And Alexia, she had only herself to blame.

It’s been a week since the barbecue. A week since you said I’m done. A week since you told her, told the entire family, that you were finished chasing shadows. Since Eli cried. Since Alba whispered ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.’ Since you saw the look on Alexia’s face crack for the first time in years—confusion, then denial, then something that almost looked like guilt.

But you didn’t wait around for it to turn into anything real. Because you’re done.

Now, it’s the beginning of a new semester. You’re back at USC, off campus now. Finally moved into the apartment you and JuJu signed the lease for in last semester. It’s cozy, tucked just behind the campus hub, with one master bedroom, a guest bedroom, and two and a half bedrooms, floor-to-ceiling windows, and exactly one miniature couch that you had custom made for Deuce the Frenchie.

Deuce, for all his snorting, grumbling, muscled-up glory, is 100% your dog now. He sleeps in your bed, waits in your side of the bathroom, and barks at JuJu when she tries to steal your hoodie (her hoodie back) or play fights with you. She pretends to be annoyed, but secretly, she loves it. Loves that the three of you feel like a little world. A little family. One that shows up for each other.

Your apartment has become the official hangout spot for half of USC Athletics. Someone from the basketball team is always on the balcony, someone from the snow team always raiding the fridge. The whiteboard in the kitchen is always full of tournament dates and new potential smoothie combinations. The music is always loud. The air smells like fresh laundry, eucalyptus, and a hint of saffron. And your bedroom—you and JuJu’s bedroom—is a safe place now. No ice packs. No meds. Just you, JuJu, and Deuce, grunting in his sleep between you.

Life is good. No—life is great.

And then comes the preseason media panel. You’re not cleared to compete yet, but the university still asks you to speak—Olympic gold medalist, comeback kid, viral trick inventor, snowboarding’s darling. You don’t mind. You’ve done panels before. You know how to smile on cue. You put on your team jacket, Persimmon Rush patch stitched into the arm, adjust your gold ‘J12’ necklace to fall perfectly, and take your seat under the lights.

The first few questions are easy.

How’s the knee?

“Strong. We’re ahead of schedule.”

How’s it feel to be back on campus?

“Warmer than Switzerland. Colder than Spain.”

What’s your goal for the season?

“Land clean. And have fun.”

Then comes the question about Alexia.

The reporter phrases it casually, like it’s a throwaway. “Your sister Alexia is having a great start to her season with Barcelona. Do you two still keep in touch?”

You smile, thin and practiced. “We’re both busy, but I always hope she’s doing well.”

The next reporter presses it, just slightly,

“Any chance we’ll see her cheering you on this year?”

You nod vaguely. “She’s got a packed schedule. We’ll see.”

And then comes the third one. The one that makes your throat dry. That makes your hands curl slightly in your lap.

“Would you say you come from a competitive family? You are the sister of an incredible soccer player.”

You laugh. Just once. Sharp and low. Then you smile again, but it’s not sweet. It’s bitter. Bone-dry. “Some compete,” you say, voice like glass, “and some disappear. Flip a coin.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence. A quiet, surprised chuckle from your coach, who steps in quickly, “Let’s move to the next question—maybe about NIL deals or community outreach…”

But it’s too late. The quote is already out there. By the time you get home that night, the clip has gone everywhere.

JuJu’s curled up on the couch in one of your hoodies, legs under a blanket, Deuce snoring at her feet, SportsCenter on mute and an NBA game running on her iPad. She looks up the second she hears the door unlock.

“Hey, Bear,” she says, her voice warm, familiar, soft.

You don’t even answer. Just drop your bag to the floor, shuffle toward the couch, and throw yourself directly into her arms.

She catches you instantly, wrapping her arms around your back, and lets you bury your face in her neck.

“You saw it,” you mumble, already groaning.

“I did,” she says. “TikTok says three million views. Instagram… I stopped counting. ESPN is having a field day.”

You groan louder. “I knew it. I knew I shouldn’t’ve said anything. I was tired. I was sore. And I hate those chairs—they’re always built for people with normal knees. No athlete has normal knees.”

JuJu hums and chuckles at your last statement, but doest’t argue. Just runs her fingers through your hair.

For a while, it’s quiet. The only sounds are the low buzz of the TV, the soft flick of her nails against your scalp, the way your breathing starts to slow in the circle of her arms.

Then she says, quietly, “Do you want to talk about it?”

You don’t answer right away. Because you do. But it’s hard. It always is. Talking about her.

“I didn’t mean to say it like that,” you whisper eventually. “I was just tired. I’m always tired when it comes to her. I didn’t want to make a scene.”

JuJu brushes her thumb across your jaw.

“You didn’t make a scene,” she says. “You told the truth.”

You lift your head. Meet her eyes.

And then it spills. Quietly. Like a cut reopening.

“I used to lie for her,” you whisper. “All the time. In interviews. To my teammates. Even to my coaches. I used to say, ‘We’re just busy,’ or, ‘We’re super close, just private.’ I thought if I kept saying it out loud, it’d eventually be true.”

JuJu doesn’t speak. Just listens.

“And then I stopped lying,” you go on. “And it got worse. The silence. The distance. The way she only remembered me when there were cameras. Or when someone asked. Or when it benefited her.”

Your voice shakes. “And I hate that I still care. I hate that I still check her stories. That I still wonder if she saw mine. I hate that part of me still hopes she’ll text.”

JuJu pulls you in tighter.

You bury your face in her hoodie again. “I don’t want to want her. I just want to be over it. Over her.”

A beat. And then JuJu whispers, “You will be.”

“How?”

She pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes warm, sure.

“Because you’re already doing it. Every day. With every medal, every rep, every laugh, every new beginning. You’re healing. And she can’t take that from you.”

You nod. Tears sliding down now.

“And if you ever get tired again,” JuJu says, kissing your forehead, “you can borrow some of my strength. I’ve got plenty.”

You laugh through your tears. “That’s so corny.”

She grins. “Shut up, you love it.”

“I really do.”

And just like that, you exhale. For the first time since the barbecue, your chest feels light again.

You don’t exactly know what started it. Maybe it was the long day. Maybe it was your sore knee. Maybe it was the emotional whiplash of the preseason panel and a flood of DMs afterward, all asking some variation of “But how are things with Alexia now?” Or maybe it was just the damn box sitting on your kitchen counter.

You’re standing there, soaked from the rain, half out of your hoodie. Deuce, equally soaked, at your side staring at the package like it barked at him first.

JuJu walks in, towel slung around her neck, fresh from lifting. She pauses in the doorway, taking in the scene. Her drenched girlfriend, her drenched, judgmental dog, and the (surprisingly dry) unopened package.

“Okay, what’s going on?” she says, amused. “You and Deuce look like you’re about to interrogate that box.”

You exhale slowly. “It was waiting for me at the training center.”

JuJu frowns and walks over. “USC Athletics delivered it to you?”

You nod. “They said it was dropped off earlier this week. No note. Just my name. But… it’s from her.”

JuJu tilts her head. “From your sister?”

You nod again, tighter this time. “She sent it there because Alba wouldn’t give her my address.”

JuJu’s face hardens just a little. “Okay. That’s… weird.”

“It’s so weird,” you mutter. “It’s awkward. It’s pathetic. I don’t even know what she wants me to do with it.”

JuJu puts a hand on the counter beside yours. “Want me to open it?”

“No.”

There’s a long pause. The box sits there between you and her like it knows what it’s about to do. Eventually, JuJu gives you a pep talk. Gentle, loving, steady. And somehow, you find yourself opening the flap. Inside is a jersey… her jersey. The new Barça kit. Signed. Folded perfectly. No note. No message. Just a signature across the number.

You stare at it. Your breath catches in your throat. “She signed it,” you whisper, stunned. “Like… like I’m a fan.”

JuJu steps closer. “That’s not—”

“This is something you give a Make-A-Wish kid,” you snap, voice cracking, “not your sister.”

You stumble back from the counter, chest heaving, and collapse onto the floor. The tile is cold. Your whole body shakes. It’s too much.

JuJu drops down next to you in a heartbeat, arms circling your shoulders. “Breathe, Bear. Breathe.”

But you’re already breaking. Sobbing into her chest, your hands balled into fists.

“She doesn’t get it,” you cry. “She never gets it. This isn’t an apology. It’s an autograph.”

JuJu holds you tighter, and you feel her press a kiss to your forehead.

“She’s trying in the only way she knows how,” she murmurs, “but it’s not the way you need.”

You don’t respond. You just cry harder.

Three days later, Alba sends you a screenshot. Alexia’s story.

A throwback photo of the two of you as kids. You’re maybe seven so she’s eighteen.

She’s holding your hand. You’re both in matching Barça shirts. It was the day she signed her senior contract with Barcelona.

No tag. No caption. Just the image.

“She posted this today,” Alba texts. “I think it’s her way of reaching out.”

You stare at it. You don’t respond. You don’t repost it. You don’t like it. You don’t message her. You check your Instagram and see she’s followed you again. You don’t follow back.

You’re done mistaking crumbs for love. You’re done hoping passive efforts mean anything.

She can follow you all she wants. It doesn’t mean she’s behind you. Not anymore.

Your comeback becomes official on a cloudy Thursday afternoon in early March. You’ve known for weeks, it’s been a slow buildup of PT milestones, check-ups, internal sign-offs, but now it’s public. The Royal Spanish Winter Sports Federation posts a sleek announcement:

“She’s back. Olympic gold medalist and reigning X Games champion “La Ossa” returns to snow competition. Cleared. Competing. Chasing another title at X Games.”

You don’t even plan on posting anything. But your Nike rep texts you and your agent says, “It’s good for the brand.” So you do.

It’s not dramatic, just a photo. You in your new snow gear, goggles pulled up to your forehead, board propped under your arm, a tiny scar from childhood visible under your reflective goggles.

The caption reads: “Let’s ride.”

It takes only six minutes to go viral. Your phone explodes. DMs, tags, texts from journalists, retweets from sports outlets. RFEA puts you on their story, and ESPN picks up the post before lunch.

But it’s not just them. Your teammates from USC and Spain post it. So do JuJu’s teammates—her basketball girls, her trainers, even her media intern. They tag it with bear emojis and write things like “Let’s go legend” and “She’s really HIM.”

JuJu reposts it with a caption that just says: “She never left.” And then adds an Instagram Story of you holding Deuce like a baby with: “She’s still taking this deadbeat dog with her tho.”

And then there’s Alba, who posts a three-photo carousel. One of you snowboarding as a kid, one of you holding your gold medal in Beijing, and the final one, taken just months ago, of you walking unassisted out of the rehab clinic. Her caption says, “My baby girl. You were always coming back.”

You almost cry at that one… almost.

But what catches you off guard are the reposts that start rolling in from players you didn’t expect. Irene Paredes. Marta Torrejón. Aitana. Then the newer ones. Vicky López tags you and writes, “My role model.” Salma reposts with a flex emoji and says, “The real GOAT.” Sydney reposts a story from your X Games run last year, the one you landed that impossible frontside 1080, and just types, “Insane.” Even Jana reposts with a simple “Welcome back, Bear 🐻” Even though you’ve only met her once or twice at a Barça women’s dinner. And then the headlines start rolling in. ESPN España. MARCA. Mundo Deportivo.

“The Return of a Champion: La Ossa’s Road to Redemption.”

“Two Sisters, One Legacy: The Putellas Bloodline Reigns Supreme. La Ossa and La Reina.”

“Snow and Grass: The Putellas Dynasty Across Sports.”

You stare at that last one and feel something curl bitter and sharp in your stomach. Dynasty. Legacy. Bloodline.

You read the headline again. Your name next to hers. The sister who ignored your injury. Who gave you a signed jersey like a fan. The one who said in Vogue that she didn’t really follow snowboarding.

And before you can think twice, you go on your story. Black background. White text.

“I’m not sharing a headline with someone who won’t even say my name.”

You hit post. Your phone lights up again. People screenshot it. Fans repost it. One TikTok about it hits a million views by the next day.

You don’t care. You’re not here to make peace. Not anymore.

You don’t hear from her directly, not at first. Until the voicemails start.

She doesn’t text. She doesn’t DM. She doesn’t email. Just these shaky, stumbling voicemails. Sent in the middle of the night. Always under a minute.

You don’t listen to the first one. Or the second. Or the third.

But then there’s a day. A day where practice sucks. Where you push yourself too hard. Where your coach says, “Do it again,” and it slices through your chest. Where JuJu’s gone for an away game in Arizona and Deuce keeps bringing you his toy like you’re supposed to fix everything.

You make it home. You shower, only manage to eat three spoonfuls of plain, cold rice before get in bed with Deuce tucked against your ribs and finally, you press play.

Alexia’s voice crackles into your ears. She sounds… tired. Smaller than you’ve ever heard her. “I know you don’t want to hear from me. I wouldn’t either. But I—I’m proud of you, Mi osita. I always was. I just didn’t know how to love you right. I thought keeping my distance was… safe. For you. For me. But it was cowardly. I know that now. I missed everything and that’s on me. Not you. It was never you. I love you, Osita.”

You lie there, still as stone. The voicemail ends. The silence afterward is suffocating. You don’t move.

Then, slowly, your face crumples. Your hands come up to your mouth and you sob. Silent, wracking, body-breaking sobs. The kind that make your chest ache and your spine tremble. You curl in on yourself like it’ll help. Like it’ll make the past easier to hold.

Deuce shifts, curling tighter into you, licking the tears that slide down your chin, not having the strength to push him away. But you don’t call back—you can’t call back.

Because apologies don’t erase absences. And love doesn’t fix the damage when it’s said too late.

She left you in the dark for too long. And you’re only now learning how to find the light without her.

Alexia opens the door expecting warmth. She’s always expected that from her mother, even when she didn’t deserve it. Even now, with the gaping silence between her and her sister, she thinks that maybe Eli has come to soothe it over. To tell her it’ll be fine, that time will patch it all up. That Bear is dramatic. That she’ll come around.

But one look at Eli’s face tells her otherwise.

She doesn’t step forward. She doesn’t kiss her cheek. She doesn’t carry a tray of leftover tarta de Santiago or hum in that way that used to mean comfort. No. Today, she looks like a woman on a mission. Sharp, stern, and most of all tired.

And Alexia suddenly feels ten years old again, like she’s about to get scolded for breaking something fragile.

“¿Quieres pasar?” Alexia asks hesitantly, moving aside. (Do you want to pass?)

Eli nods once, then walks in. They sit on opposite sides of the room. The silence is heavy. It buzzes in Alexia’s ears. She fidgets, unsure whether to offer tea or brace for a storm.

Eli doesn’t make her wait long. “You know,” she begins, her voice quiet but laced with steel, “she used to sleep on the floor with your jersey.”

Alexia’s stomach drops.

“She was younger. Maybe nine? Ten? She’d fold it like it was sacred. Wouldn’t even let me wash it. Just hugged it like it was a lifeline.”

Alexia closes her eyes, pain blooming in her chest.

Eli leans forward, eyes fixed. “Now she sleeps beside a girl who loves her better than you ever did.”

It lands like a punch to the gut. Alexia’s breath catches. Her mouth opens but she has no defense, no shield, no way to soften the truth. She stares at the floor, shame settling on her shoulders like a second skin.

“I’m trying,” she says finally. “I’m trying to fix it. I’ve been sending things. I followed her again. I left her voicemails. I posted that photo…”

“Do you think that’s enough?” Eli cuts in, her voice rising—not loud, but sharp like glass. “Do you think that erases everything? The birthdays you forgot? The interviews where you pretended she didn’t exist? The months you let go by without so much as a text?”

“I didn’t know what to say,” Alexia whispers, her voice cracking. “I didn’t know how to fix it.”

“You don’t,” Eli says. “That’s the point.”

Alexia looks up, eyes shining. “I want her back. I want to be her sister again. I know I messed up. I know I hurt her. But I miss her. I miss—” her voice breaks. “I miss the way she used to look at me. Like I was someone worth being proud of.”

Eli’s face softens just slightly, but she doesn’t let up.

“You need to understand something, hija. You don’t get to decide when you want to be a sister. She’s not a porch light waiting to be turned on whenever you finally feel like coming home.”

Alexia blinks fast, trying to keep the tears at bay.

“She is fire,” Eli continues, firm now, eyes burning. “And you left her in the cold.”

Alexia looks away. Her hands tremble in her lap. She presses her palms together like maybe she can keep herself from falling apart.

“She has overcome more than you know,” Eli says, softer now, but no less fierce. “That injury nearly broke her. The press wanted her to be you. Everyone wanted her to fail so they could say she was a mistake. But she didn’t break. She rose. She is rising. She has a girlfriend who adores her, teammates who protect her, and friends who know her heart better than you ever bothered to learn. I am part of the blame. Staying silent for so long, letting her hurt that long.”

Alexia says nothing. She can’t. Her throat is tight. Her vision blurs. All she can think of is the sound of your voice in the conversation she wasn’t meant to hear. “No more saving seats. No more texts. I’m not wasting another tear on her.”

Eli stands. “You want to fix this?” she says. “Give her space. Don’t corner her. Don’t use the press. Don’t make passive attempts and call them effort.”

Alexia wipes her eyes quickly, silently.

Eli steps toward the door, then pauses. “She doesn’t hate you, Alexia. That’s what makes it worse. She still loves you. Deep down. But she doesn’t trust you with that love anymore. And you’re going to have to earn it back inch by inch.” She opens the door, then turns over her shoulder. “And if you can’t do that with patience and humility, don’t do it at all.”

Alexia stands in the quiet of her apartment, her jersey still folded on the couch, a photo of you both as children face-down on her desk. She walks over, picks it up, stares at the grainy image. Your little body wrapped in her arms, eyes wide, grin lopsided. She clutches the frame to her chest and finally cries. Not for what she’s lost. But for what she gave away.

Alexia sits in the dark of her apartment, shoulders curled in like she’s trying to protect herself from the weight of her own guilt. She has a Champions League game is in two days, but she can’t focus. Every time she closes her eyes, she doesn’t see the pitch. She sees you. She sees the version of you that no longer looks at her like she hung the stars. Reminding her of the fact that it wasn’t always like this. It used to be you and her against the world.

Fourteen-year-old Alexia chased a giggling toddler across the backyard.

You were three, cheeks flushed with excitement, oversized Barça kit practically swallowing your tiny frame. You’d just managed to tap the ball past her and into the miniature goal she set up earlier that day, a feat you celebrated like you’d just won the World Cup.

“I scored! I scored, Lexi!” you shouted, arms raised like a superhero.

She laughed, pure, delighted laughter that echoed through the warm Mollet air. “You did, Osita! Golazo!”

You ran in circles, mimicking her own goal celebrations. She caught you mid-lap, scooping you into the air, spinning you around while you shrieked with joy.

“Lexi, I’m flying!”

“Of course you are, Bear. You’re unstoppable.”

She held you close after that spin, your forehead pressed against hers. Your curls were wild. Your grin was missing two baby teeth. She kissed your nose.

Back then, you were her shadow. Her little bear. She used to call you that every day—Osita when you were sweet, Bear when you had your little temper tantrums. She taught you to dribble before you could spell your name. You wore her old cleats like they were glass slippers. You loved her like she was the sun.

Two years later. You were five. A small pink bike with tassels sat on the front driveway, glinting in the afternoon light.

Alexia knelt beside it, one hand steadying the handlebars, the other resting on your helmeted head.

“I don’t want to fall,” you said softly, eyes wide and uncertain.

“You won’t,” she promised. “Because I’ll be right here.”

“You’re sure?”

She held out her pinky. “I promise. Pinky promise.”

You wrapped yours around hers. “With the kiss,” you whispered.

She smiled and leaned in, kissed your knuckle. “Con el beso.” (With the kiss)

Then you climbed on, wobbled, and cried out as the bike tilted. But she was there. Always there.

Her hands gripped the back of your seat as you steadied. She ran beside you the entire way down the street, breathless and beaming when you made it to the end without falling.

“I did it, Lexi! I did it!”

“You did,” she laughed, pulling you into her arms, heart thudding with pride. “I told you I’d be there.”

And you whispered into her ear, small and soft and certain, “Never leave me, okay?”

She squeezed you tighter. “Never.”

Then came the night everything changed.

You were seven. The house was quiet, painfully so. The kind of quiet that follows death like a shadow. Your father had passed two weeks ago, and though people still dropped off flowers and food, the visits had slowed. The once warm dishes were cold now. The grief was heavier.

Alexia was in her room when she heard the knock.

“Lexi?” your voice was barely audible.

She opened the door to find you in your pajamas, clutching a stuffed polar bear, tears lining your lower lashes.

“Osita,” she whispered, heart crumbling. “What’s the matter?”

“I can’t sleep,” you said. “I miss Papi.”

Alexia dropped to her knees and pulled you in. You didn’t sob. You were past sobbing. This grief was quieter, deeper. The kind that lived in your bones.

She carried you to her bed, tucked you beneath her blanket, pressed her forehead to yours.

“He’s watching over us,” she whispered. “Always. You know that, right?”

“Like a guardian angel?” you asked.

“Exactly,” she said, brushing your hair from your eyes.

You sniffled. “Do you think he’d be proud of me?”

Alexia’s voice cracked. “He’s already proud, Bear. So proud.”

Then came your whisper. “Will you always be here for me?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Yes. Always.”

“Promise?”

She held out her pinky, lips trembling. “Pinky promise.”

You linked yours with hers. “With a kiss.”

She kissed it, sealing it. And in the darkness, you finally slept.

Now. Alexia stares at her own reflection in the dark window of her apartment. Her eyes are bloodshot. Her heart is shattered. She broke every promise. She wasn’t there. Not when you moved into college. Not when you stood on that podium, medal around your neck, tears in your eyes as the national anthem played. Not when you tore your ACL. Not when you called her name through silence and she didn’t answer.

She let the press get between you. Let pride stand where love used to be. She let the idea of who she thought you should be ruin the chance to celebrate who you became.

And now, she has voicemails you won’t answer, throwback photos you don’t repost, a sister who used to sleep beside her—who now barely breathes in the same world.

“She’s not a porch light waiting to be turned on,” Eli had said. “She is fire. And you left her in the cold.”

Alexia curls her knees to her chest. She thinks of the jersey she sent—the stupid, signed jersey that felt more like a pity gift than anything meaningful. She didn’t mean it that way. She just…she didn’t know what to send. So she defaulted to distance, to impersonality, because getting too close meant reckoning with the years she spent failing you.

She remembers that voicemail she left. “I know you don’t want to hear from me. But I’m proud of you. I always was. I just didn’t know how to love you right.”

But the silence that followed said everything. Because love too late isn’t love at all. It’s regret. And Alexia Putellas has never known failure quite like this. Not on the pitch. Not in the spotlight. Only here, in the wreckage of a promise sealed with a kiss and a pinky. Only here, in the silence you left behind.

The event is loud, polished, over-produced in the way all Nike events are. Flashing lights, pristine backdrops, branded hydration stations and photo ops and camera crews lingering near every smiling athlete like moths to flame. You’re used to it now. Used to the attention, the posture, the grace required of you. You’re here for a good cause. You’re also here because your contract says you have to be.

JuJu’s off giving an interview on the far side of the room, charming the press in her calm, confident way. You can hear her laugh from where you stand, and it grounds you like it always does. She’s why you came. She’s why you stayed. She’s why you haven’t collapsed under the weight of everything else.

You’re idly sipping from a sparkling water bottle, scrolling through your phone to avoid small talk, when something shifts. You feel it before you see it—a sharp, gut-deep twinge like a storm moving in. You look up.

Alexia is across the room. She looks different. Not in the way time changes a person, but in the way regret lives on the face. There’s no smugness in her. No arrogance. Her shoulders are tight. Her expression is subdued, worn down by the ache she’s been carrying. Her usual command of a room is gone. She doesn’t glow here.

She looks… human. Small, almost. And heartbreakingly quiet.

She’s standing beside a Nike rep, but she’s not talking. She’s just watching you. Carefully. Softly. Not like she’s owed anything. Not like she expects a reunion or a smile. Just like someone who’s been hungry for your face and has finally found it in the wild.

You lock eyes. Time stops yet the room spins. The crowd fades and the music dulls.

Your chest tightens instantly. There’s a second—a flicker—where something in you wants to go to her. Wants to walk over, like you used to when you were little and got scared in a crowd. Like the part of you that will always remember her piggyback rides and pinky promises and the way her arms felt like home.

But then, you remember everything else. Every silence. Every unanswered text. Every birthday missed. Every time she talked about you like you were a stranger. Every passive attempt to fix something she shattered.

You remember her interview. “We don’t talk much.”

You remember the jersey. No note. Just a signature. Like she was sending memorabilia, not reaching for a sister.

You remember the voicemail. The one you listened to when you were raw and hurting and alone. The one that said ‘I didn’t know how to love you right.’

She nods. It’s small. Barely there. Not a plea. Not an apology. Just… an offering. A gesture that says I see you.

Your throat closes. You almost nod back…almost.

But then you take a breath and step away. One foot in front of the other. Back straight. Chin up.

You don’t look back. Because love, once, might have pulled you toward her. But you’ve learned that survival sometimes means walking away from the people who made the fire feel like home just so they could burn you in it.

It takes everything in you not to cry.

Alexia watches you go. Her hands tighten into fists at her sides, then slowly unclench. She doesn’t chase after you. She doesn’t make a scene. Maybe once, she would’ve tried to save face, spin it, make you the one who couldn’t forgive. But not now.

Now, she just stands there, watching the space you leave behind. Like she’s realizing all over again that the worst part of losing you wasn’t the fall out—it was knowing she was the one who let you fall.

And that this time? You didn’t even ask her to catch you.

#alexia putellas x platonic!reader #alexia putellas x sister!reader #alexia x reader #alexia putellas x reader #woso community #woso x platonic!reader #woso fic #woso x reader #juju watkins x reader #·˚ ༘ cloud nine

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livingasaghost · 11 months ago

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sorry i'm still just so hung up on the fact that captive prince is portrayed by the general public as a series that glorifies slavery and sexual assault (aka the pinnacle of no consent) when in actuality the core theme is that the most important thing you can give someone else is their freedom and their agency and their ability to consent. like even though laurent has all this power over damen at the start of the series, even though he abuses that power a handful of times, ultimately those two spend the entire series figuring out how to best serve the other in order to overcome the violence that was done to and by each of them - not because they're in a master/slave relationship, but simply because they care about the other person and they know that neither of them was allowed the consent they deserved in previous relationships and situations!!! and at the end of all of it, they accept not only that they have been hurt by lack of consent but they acknowledge that they have been abusers in their own ways, perpetuating a system that is harmful and cruel, and when they join together to create a new kingdom they make a point to put an end to the slavery that brought them together in the first place!!!!!!! what the fuck!!!!

#ignore me i'm just yelling at the clouds #it's sick and twisted that the bookish community misconstrues the point of this series sooooo hard just bc it has mature content in it #captive prince #c s pacat #cp #capri #cs pacat #mine

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harmoonix · 4 months ago

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SALVATORE

Astrology Observations

Descendant (your 7th house has the same degrees as your ascendant/rising), at 4° 16° 28° degrees craves a more soft love type. They're definitely attracted to more tender people

Descendant at 6° 18° degrees craves a more rational love. They wanna keep it real, and without any illusions or fake people, they're attracted to authentic people

Descendant at 1° 13° 25° degrees craves the dominant lover type, someone who they can rely on or and to be there when they need it. They're attracted to people who show dominant energies

Descendant at 5° 17° 29° degrees craves a type of love without any obstacles, no one can interfere in their love, someone who can give them the moon and the stars

Venus in the 3rd decan (20° - 29° degrees) can definitely experience more relationships later in life, probably more in their adulthood than teenagehood

Venus aspecting the south node, especially if they are in the 7th house, gives me major vibes of a widow in a past life

Venus aspecting Saturn natives crave long and durable relationships rather than hooking up around and having one night stands

Mars aspecting Jupiter in good aspects natives are full of ambition and power to work/going through lots of harsh things

Mentally, Mars in the 3rd, 6th, and 11th houses are good. Here, Mars needs a lot of stimulation of the brain and more focus on the details

Jupiter in Libra natives can get lucky with a relationship and the people they surround themselves with. Their personality is likable

If you have soft moon signs like Pisces, Libra, Taurus, or Virgo, but your moon is aspecting Pluto, it will automatically make it more dark, so you may not relate with the 'soft moon observations'

Venus, in the 1st, 10th, and 12th hosue age so beautifully with the years, definitely going old and pretty too. Beautiful everywhere

Lana del rey's chart will always amaze me. She has Venus in Taurus in the 7th house, and that makes sense to so many of her songs. Bless her. Salvatore and doing time are some of my favorites from her

Jupiter in Aquarius natives can be very popular online/liked on social media. At the point of obsession sometimes/they can have a mass of ppl following them too

Pluto aspecting Moon is so dark on an emotional level, the native with these aspects can be even interested in death themes/afterlife/spiritual connection after death

Asteroid Aphrodite *1388* in harsh aspects to Venus (opposite, conjuction, square) tends to have a hard time learning how to love or how to receive it

Aphrodite 1388 in air signs can possess beautiful voices. You can often get compliments about having a nice voice

Aphrodite 1388 in good aspects to Moon (trine, conjuct, sextile) can be more in tune with their energy/emotional state. These natives can also have a huge feminine energy

Aphrodite 1388 in both harsh and good aspects to Pluto can indicate a powerful energy, striking beauty, more dominant than submissive and dark personality

Moon aspecting Mercury natives are very soft spoken. They usually have a pleasant voice/good at interacting with others. They know how to charm softly

Asteroid Circe (34) aspecting in Pluto can indicate psychic powers, seeing ghosts/entities/shadows, having a curiosity about death or about what happens after death

Circe aspecting Sun can have healing powers, not physically..but they can heal others with their words/energy, these natives can make others feel better quite easily

Jupiter aspecting Moon natives have (in harsh aspects) can have a hard time being optimistic, and the same can happen for those with Saturn - Moon aspects.

Ascendant aspecting Moon or Neptune natives have that kind of face you'll never be able to forget. It can be quite nostalgic/familar

Sun in the 3rd/9th house can get social with everyone in the room as long as they share the same vibe. They're pretty open to everything

Scorpio Risings can have so many intense people in their lives due to Pluto ruling their 1st house and Venus their 7th house with Taurus

Virgo Risings tend to have exes coming back in their lives due to Pisces energy in the 7th house, + if you have Mercury Retrogade in your chart as your 1st house ruler

Pisces Risings tend to meet hardworking partners due to their 7th house in Virgo. They might have good communication in their relationship.

Saturn or Capricorn in the 12th house of karma can sometimes indicate a hard life. It's not taken out of context, but it's very karmic

Uranus aspecting Venus (in harsh aspects) can be quite confusing. Especially on what they want/crave from their love life or partners, indecisive

Lilith aspecting Moon in harsh aspects rely very much on their emotional side. They can be at their lowest and still need some nurturing/care

Have a great weekend,everyone 🖤🖤

Harmoonix 🖤🖤🖤

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phonesuite · 1 year ago

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Mobile ordering has become increasingly popular, and embracing it can help businesses stay competitive in today's fast-paced market and meet the evolving needs of their customers. Learn More...

#mobile ordering #mobile voip #mobile phones #cloud voip #cloud pbx #cloud technology #hotel phone installation #ip telephony #hotel pbx #hotel phone system #hotel hospitality #phonesuite pbx #Voip Hospitality #cloud telephony #cloud communication #hotel phone #voip benefits #sip to analog #telephone system

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squidlydoodles · 5 months ago

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Furby Dream Castle 🫧

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genshinimpactresources · 7 months ago

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Hoyofair | Dimensional Detective Chronicles Countdown: 6 Days

Artist: ho_siya

Download Link (Google Drive)

#genshin impact #event artworks #community event artworks #hoyofair #hoyofair countdown #featured artworks #zhongli #ganyu #shenhe #xianyun #cloud retainer #yelan #ningguang #xiao #xingqiu #baizhu

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poorly-drawn-mdzs · 7 months ago

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Behold, a Bunny!

(for @alliechickfic on twitter)

#poorly drawn mdzs #mdzs #a-yuan #lan wangij #All the bunnies bouncing around cloud recess must be the most theraputic feeling in the world.#If I were A-yuan I too would throw out all my past bad memories and fill my heart and soul with bunnies.#Well...It's more so to do with how our brains try to protect ourselves from traumatic memories.#And as happy as we tend to remember little A-yuan - His whole early life was almost entirely a stress filled experiance.#From losing his parents to being put in a work camp to living in a struggling community to the [redacted]...he did not catch a break!#It warms my heart knowing he got a happy second chance.#Does anyone else think about how A-Yuan consistently represents positive second chances?#In a story that constantly tells us that trying to be kind will only result in suffering;#Everything about Lan Sizhui says: 'No. You can be kind and there will be positive change in the world. The sacrifices you made mattered.'

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evelineheaven · 3 months ago

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ℭ𝔩𝔬𝔲𝔡 𝔊𝔞𝔱𝔢

𝔑𝔲𝔪𝔟𝔢𝔯 200025

hello, i discovered a new asteroid, cloud gate. very interesting, this is about where you are heavenly connected. And what is heavenly about you, what goes out the physical realm. This are about the houses, you can look what house your cloud gate is in, and see where you are heavenly connected, or what is heavenly about you. The Cloud Gate is seen as a gateway between realms between the physical world and higher dimensions of spiritual awareness. When located in a house or making aspects to personal planets, Cloud Gate reveals where your life becomes a vessel for spiritual embodiment, often through trial, purification, or deep transformation. Houses are from 1 - 6 in this post.

𝔉𝔦𝔯𝔰𝔱 𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔰𝔢 with cloud gate in your 1H, it is in your appearance, aura, the way they come across. This is just you as an identity. They look like you are heavenly, a beauty that goes beyond physical, a beauty that keeps people up at night, there is magic in the way they walk, the way they look, they are just a full plate of magic. They are the most heavenly here, the appearance, they are a walking magic. They have always had a deep feeling, with magic, they are extremely spiritual, they just get information every day, whether they are conscious of it or not, heaven is behind you. They often radiate something heavenly or otherworldly. People may immediately sense that there is something special, unusual or spiritual about them even if they are not consciously aware of it themselves. These people often have a transformative aura. Others can feel attracted to them, or even triggered, because their presence triggers inner processes in others. They often have something striking or unique about their appearance that can be in their eyes, facial features, style, or just a vibe that is different from the norm. They stand out without necessarily trying to.

Through the transformative energy of a gate these people can change their appearance or style frequently Adapt chameleon-like to situations sometimes even literally “look different” at different stages of their lives (in face, weight, hairstyle, etc.)

𝔖𝔢𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔡 𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔰𝔢 your patience, your stability, how grounded you are, how calm you are, that is heavenly. Nobody does it like you. By the way, when it comes to money, Your body and physical world are a channel for spiritual growth. You learn to ground spiritual energy into matter, literally living your worth in the here and now. The senses (touch, smell, taste) can be heightened or energetically influenced by non-visible fields. You feel energy in food, objects, clothing, etc. Material things have a vibration for you. Money in your life is rarely ‘just money’. It is a carrier of energy a language in which universal value makes itself tangible. You may experience physical complaints that cannot be explained medically, but are completely logical energetically. Another deep theme at this gate is the mystical realization that everything you own is an extension of your energy. You may have few things, but everything you own carries a certain beauty, purity or intention. You intuitively choose what belongs to you. For example, you can be sensitive to materials, smells, colors or textures. Every object, every piece of clothing, every piece of land can speak for you in vibration. The main shadow or growth lesson here is self-worth.

𝔗𝔥𝔦𝔯𝔡 𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔰𝔢 your intelligence, the way you talk, you talk with words that come from heaven, as if you are channeling from heaven. Your intelligence is heavenly addictive, people will think you are a reincarnated being from heaven when they hear how intelligent you are. Your siblings probably think you're weird, like you're not one of them, and you've probably been excluded by them too. You probably had teachers who admired you. The could see you as in the purest form. Your thinking and communication are imbued with an unconscious desire to find deeper truths. Instead of superficial conversations, you are constantly seeking ways to understand the hidden layers of information. You may find that your thoughts evolve more quickly than those of others what is obvious to most people is often just the beginning of a much larger search for meaning for you. This placement means that you have a great spiritual curiosity. It is not enough for you to simply communicate, you want to delve deeply into the essence of words, symbols and ideas. It is not just what is said, but what is between the lines. You have an innate ability to hear between the words what is really meant. You may have a gift for writing, speaking, or teaching because you are able to see things in a new light, helping others gain insights they have not seen before.

𝔉𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔱𝔥 𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔰𝔢 Your emotional world becomes a rich source of spiritual knowledge and insight. People with this placement may feel that their feelings, memories, and emotional depths are not purely personal, but instead carry energies from past generations or even past lives. In your childhood, you may have felt particularly impacted by your home environment. This could have been both positive and negative, depending on the energetic situation within your family. Unconscious patterns from your parents or early experiences may resurface, but the Cloud Gate in the 4th house makes it possible for these patterns to not only be experienced by you but also consciously processed and healed. This placement may also bring stories or memories from past lives to the surface. You may feel that there are certain, unspoken emotional conflicts within your family history that are calling to be understood and healed. There is a karmic layer to your family relationships particularly with your parental relationships. especially the mother, you may find that there are unconscious energetic bonds between you and your parents that are not always clear or visible. People with this placement are often spiritual seekers, trying to connect with the larger mysteries of life through their emotions. They may have an inner knowing that their emotional experiences.

𝔉𝔦𝔣𝔱𝔥 𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔰𝔢 You might experience moments where you feel inspired or divinely guided during creative pursuits, as if your art or creations are being channeled from a higher place. These moments of inspiration may not always be fully understood on a conscious level, but they have the power to bring you profound spiritual insight or clarity. Your creations could even serve as spiritual messages, healing tools, or beacons of light for others. Romance and love affairs are another key area affected by the Astroid Cloud Gate in the 5th house. The 5th house governs romantic relationships, flirtations, and the joy we derive from being loved. However, with the Astroid Cloud Gate here, you may find that your romantic experiences are deeply spiritual or karmic in nature. Love affairs and relationships may not simply be about fun or pleasure, but they could feel like soul contracts. You may feel that the people you meet romantically are often drawn to you for reasons that go beyond the surface. These relationships may bring you closer to your higher self or push you to confront deeper parts of your psyche. While you likely have a natural magnetism and a love of pleasure, there is an element of sacredness to your romantic experiences. You might crave deep connections, and your romantic life might feel like a sacred dance, where you are learning about love, vulnerability, and emotional transformation.

𝔖𝔦𝔵𝔱𝔥 𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔰𝔢 This placement often creates a bridge between the physical and the spiritual realms, and you may be someone who intuitively senses that the path to enlightenment isn’t always through grand experiences, but through presence, mindfulness, and devotion to the small things. You might be prone to energetic imbalances, fatigue, or psychosomatic symptoms, particularly if you’re disconnected from your deeper truth or ignoring your soul’s needs. But with awareness, you also have powerful capacity to heal yourself. You may naturally be drawn to holistic healing, energy work, herbal medicine, or body mind therapies like yoga, Reiki, or breathwork. Over time, you’re likely to discover that health is not just physical, but also emotional, spiritual, and energetic. You might become a guide for others in this, helping people see how daily habits and spiritual alignment are interwoven. You could even feel called to develop rituals of self-care that support your own spiritual path. meditation, mindful eating, grounding practices, or intuitive movement. There’s also potential here for ancestral healing or karmic cleansing through the body. Old family patterns around work, servitude, or self-worth may be stored in your system, and the Cloud Gate gives you the spiritual strength to transmute and heal these energies.

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holyblonded · 1 day ago

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love (gonna get you killed) | alexia putellas

pairings: alexia putellas x sister!reader

summary: your internally conflicted about your feelings towards alexia. meanwhile alexia is realizing there might be no salvaging your relationship

universe: cloud 9/bear’s universe

warnings: angst, angst, and more angst!

notes: i was in fact listening to the damn album writing this 🌚 i think this is the shortest chapter of cloud 9 i’ve ever written cause it was honestly gut wrenching to write but also it fr a setting up chapter

You didn’t know what to expect after the Nike event. But you didn’t expect this.

Not this strange hollowness. Not this unfeeling pit in your chest where, just hours ago, you thought there would be fireworks. Or tears… or maybe even relief. But no, just indifference. Or maybe something more dangerous. The numbness. The one that follows when you’ve been waiting for an explosion that never comes.

You lay on your hotel bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. JuJu was in the shower. You could hear the faint sound of water, steam curling under the door. The bed was cold on your back, but you didn’t move. Not even when your fingers began to ache from being clenched too long.

You always chased Alexia. You chased her smile. Her attention. Her approval. Her scraps. And tonight, you were so close you could’ve reached out and touched her. You could’ve said something—anything.

But instead, you looked her in the eye and let it go. But now, you’re wondering if you did the right thing.

When JuJu comes out of the bathroom, her braids are piled on top of her head and her skin glows faintly from the heat. She’s wearing black shorts and a sports bra, towel slung around her neck. Her eyes find yours immediately.

“Hey,” she says softly, pausing in the doorway. “You’re quiet.”

“I’m fine.”

JuJu doesn’t move, just watches you. You can feel it, her gaze heavier than the room. You sigh and roll to your side, away from her. “I said I’m fine.”

She doesn’t believe you. She never does, and she’s usually right. A moment later, the mattress dips as she climbs in next to you. She doesn’t say anything. Just lies there, the silence thick but not suffocating. Her fingers brush yours once, so gently you almost miss it, but you don’t pull away.

You lie like that for a while. Jyst breathing together. Not touching, but not apart.

Eventually, your voice breaks the silence. “I thought I’d feel something, Ju.”

She doesn’t interrupt you, she just listens.

“I don’t know what I expected. Anger, maybe. Or heartbreak. Heartbreak for sure. But I didn’t feel any of it. I looked her in the face, and I felt… nothing.”

JuJu hums softly, encouraging you to keep going.

“And now I don’t know what’s worse—the years I spent hurting over her, or this…the nothingness. Like there’s a hole where something used to be.” You turn your head to face her, finally. Her eyes are already on you, warm and patient and steady. You wonder if she ever gets tired of holding space for you. “Do you think I did the wrong thing?” you whisper.

“I think you did what you needed to do to protect yourself,” she says. “That doesn’t mean it was easy. And it doesn’t mean it won’t hurt later. But you didn’t do anything wrong.”

You nod slowly. It’s hard to believe it, but it’s also hard not to believe her.

“I just feel so… off. Like I’ve been carrying this thing my whole life and suddenly put it down, but my arms still hurt from holding it.”

She smiles, a little sadly. “That’s grief, babe. Sometimes it shows up in silence.”

You look at her. This girl who’s never asked you to be anything but exactly who you are. Who never pushed or pried, just offered warmth when the world felt like stone.

“Thank you,” you say, voice quieter than before. “For always seeing me for me.”

JuJu leans forward, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. “Always.”

The next morning, JuJu has an early interview. You wake up to the sound of her tiptoeing around the room, trying not to wake you. She kisses your temple before she leaves, and you pretend to be asleep just to savor the feeling.

Once she’s gone, you shower, throw on a hoodie and sunglasses, and head out into the morning light. New York is buzzing, but you’ve been here enough times to know where to go to escape the chaos.

You make your way to a little cafe tucked between two bookstores in the East Village. The smell of espresso and buttered croissants floats through the air as you walk. But just as you turn the corner, you bump into someone.

“Oh. I’m so sorry,” you say reflexively.

But then you look up and meet the kind eyes of Olga. You blink as a smile grows on Olga’s face. “Hey, kid.”

You instantly hug her. She hugs you back just as tightly, kissing the side of your head.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, though you already know.

“The Nike thing. With Alexia,” she replies.

“Right. Dumb question.”

You gesture behind you. “I’m going to this really cute cafe. Great coffee and pastries. Wanna join?”

Olga considers it, then nods. “Sure. Lead the way.”

You order your usual, an iced oat milk latte with an extra shot of espresso and a breakfast sandwich. You also order JuJu’s favorites to-go, an iced vanilla matcha and a chocolate croissant.

Olga gets a cappuccino and some almond pastry you’ve never seen her eat before.

You sit at a small corner table, the window fogged slightly from the warmth inside. It’s peaceful. You almost forget what yesterday was.

Until Olga clears her throat. “She didn’t speak,” she says softly. “After seeing you.”

You look up. But you don’t say anything.

“She left early. Alexia never leaves events early. She takes everything seriously. You know that.”

You do. Of course you do.

Olga stirs her coffee. “I found her in the hotel gym at three in the morning. On the treadmill. Running like she was being chased. She didn’t stop until I made her. She looked like… she looked like she was falling apart.”

You don’t respond. Not because you don’t care. But because you don’t know what to say. You feel…nothing. Not anger. Not pity. Not satisfaction. You didn’t even cry last night. And that scares you more than anything.

Eventually, you and Olga part ways. She hugs you again. Says she’s proud of you. You nod with a smile on your face. But the smile never reaches your eyes and she sees that.

Back at the hotel, JuJu’s not back yet.

You sit on the edge of the bed, the city noise muted by thick windows.

You look at the coffee cup she left this morning. Still warm. You hold the matcha she loves in one hand and the croissant in the other. You set them on the table.

And then you sit...and you sit…and you sit. The silence isn’t peaceful this time. It’s loud. Louder than the treadmill at 3 a.m. Louder than the voice in your head asking if you made the right call.

You don’t know. And you’re terrified that you may never know.

JuJu stretched her long limbs as she rose from the velvet chair, thanking the interviewer with a polite nod and signature easygoing smile.

“Am I done yet?” she asked her agent, that distinct Californian drawl pulling through her words. “My girl got me a matcha from my favorite place.”

“You’ve got one last fitting,” her agent replied, scrolling through her phone. “A quick one. For the LA shoot next week. After that, I promise, you’re free to go back to your girl and your overpriced green milk.”

JuJu couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her lips. “My girl,” she repeated under her breath, letting it linger like a prayer.

“For now, take a break,” her agent added, glancing over her shoulder. “Snacks are on the second floor if you want something.”

JuJu shot off a quick text to you: last thing then I’m yours. matcha better be cold 💚

Then she headed to the second floor, running her hands over her fresh braids, hoping for peace. Instead, she walked straight into it. Alexia.

She was standing by the fruit platter, untouched bottle of water in hand, staring out the large conference window like it might give her answers she hadn’t already asked herself a thousand times.

JuJu’s steps faltered, but only for a second. She adjusted, always steady.

“JuJu Watkins,” she greeted, extending her hand with calm, poised strength.

Alexia turned slowly, lips tugging into the tightest imitation of a smile. “I know.”

She took JuJu’s hand, cold, tense, and reluctant to linger. Silence filled the space.

But then, with a crack in her voice she didn’t mean to let show, Alexia asked the question she’d been too scared to voice out loud. “How is she?”

JuJu blinked once. Her tone didn’t shift. Her voice didn’t raise. But somehow, it hit harder than if she’d screamed.

“She’s not okay,” JuJu said, arms now folded across her chest. “She’ll lie to everyone. Smile, crack jokes, say she’s fine—but she’s not. Because she’s grieving her sister.”

Alexia’s breath hitched, but JuJu didn’t stop.

“She’s grieving someone who’s still alive. And that’s the hardest thing to do.”

There was no venom in her words. Just the truth, measured, clear, and very JuJu.

Alexia stood frozen, the weight of it all slamming into her chest. JuJu watched her just long enough to make sure it landed, then turned and walked away.

And Alexia—strong, composed, media-trained Alexia—turned into the women’s restroom, locked herself into the farthest stall, sank to the tile floor, and cried.

Not quiet tears. Not graceful ones. Gut-wrenching sobs, the kind that curled her spine and left her chest heaving. Because for the first time, she realized she might have lost you for good.

The hotel room was too still, too silent, and too much. So you left. The streets of New York were buzzing with life and yet you couldn’t feel any of it. Your sunglasses covered your eyes, but they couldn’t hide the tension in your jaw, the way your mouth kept twitching like you were holding something in.

You wiped at your cheek quickly when a single tear escaped. You hadn’t even noticed it until the wind kissed the wetness on your skin.

You hated crying in public. Always had. But today, it wasn’t sadness that broke you. It was indifference.

You had looked your sister in the eye and walked away. And nothing cracked. Nothing shattered. It should’ve hurt more and that scared you, so much.

You wandered aimlessly until you passed a city park. A group of little girls in matching Nike kits giggled as they kicked a ball back and forth, shouting in Spanglish and laughter. One of them tripped and fell.

The others immediately rushed over, pulling her up, brushing grass from her knees, telling her she was brave.

That’s when it happened. The memory came like a sucker punch to the gut.

You were six again. A scraped knee, tear pooling, and blood starting to run.

“Lexi! My knee!” you had sobbed, tiny hands clutching your leg. “I’m scared!”

And she had run to you, your hero in cleats and still in her football kit, kneeling down without hesitation.

“It’s okay, Osita,” she said, already lifting you off the grass. “Be brave for me, mi nena.”

“You are so brave. So strong.”

She held you in her lap as she cleaned you up. She kissed your forehead like she always did. Like love was easy.

But it hadn’t stayed easy.

The flashback left you winded. Your knees almost buckled.

You turned away from the park, sunglasses slipping slightly, breath catching in your throat. You kept walking, fast. One foot in front of the other.

But the grief had already climbed under your skin again, like it never left. And this time, it wasn’t just grief for what you lost.

It was for the parts of you that used to believe you’d always have her.

Alexia had never known this kind of restlessness before.

Not even the high pressure matches at Camp Nou, not even the captain’s armband weighing heavy on her sleeve during the Champions League final. None of that came close to the ache she carried now. None of that had kept her up at night like this. Her head pounding, thoughts spiraling, guilt making her physically ill.

She had tried to keep her distance like everyone told her to. Tried to convince herself that maybe space would mend things. But JuJu’s words haunted her.

“She’s grieving someone that’s still alive, and that’s the hardest thing to do.”

It rang in her ears constantly.

She thought about you every day. The little girl who used to trail after her with mismatched socks and wide eyes. Who used to whisper “Lexi, look!” every time she learned a new trick. The teenager who slowly stopped asking for help. The young woman who looked at her now like a stranger. If she looked at her at all.

Alexia knew she couldn’t undo the past. But silence was no longer an option. Not after what she’d done. What she’d failed to do. So instead of another voice memo she’d delete before sending or a curated Instagram post, she picked up a pen.

The letter took her days. Nine pages in her neat, slanted Catalan handwriting.

She didn’t ask for forgiveness. Not once. She just… told the truth. Told you how she had panicked, how fear warped into distance, and how distance turned into something colder. How she had promised your father that she would protect you, love you, raise you the way he would have wanted. And how she failed.

She wrote about how you were brave, so much braver than she had ever been. How she used to watch you sleep when you were a baby, just to make sure you were still breathing. How she’d kept every silly drawing you gave her. Every birthday card. How she still carried your photo in her wallet. How she never stopped loving you.

She didn’t know where to send it. Not directly to your building, she didn’t have the address. Not through your club or your agent. So she showed up at Eli’s door, tears already threatening.

“Mami, please,” she whispered, holding the sealed envelope in trembling hands. “I know you said to give her space, but—she deserves to know. Even if she never speaks to me again. I need her to know the truth.”

Eli said nothing, just stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her daughter. Alexia cried like a child, forehead pressed to her mother’s shoulder, while Eli silently took the letter.

You were already raw that day. You hadn’t slept…again. Something about the trip, the city, this whole event had your emotions prickling at the surface. It had even clung to you in your sweet city, LA. You had gone through the motions, smiled when expected, nodded through meetings, even taken a few photos. But inside? You were cracking.

So when you opened your apartment door and found the letter inside, familiar handwriting, Alexia’s name in the corner of the envelope, you didn’t even make it to the couch.

You dropped right there on the floor. Your knees hit tile. Your hands shook. Deuce rushed over, nuzzling into your side as you held the envelope like it might explode.

And then the tears came down, heavy and inconsolable. You sobbed in gasps that made your ribs ache. The weight of everything—loss, abandonment, betrayal, love… it crushed you all at once. It was like grief had been waiting in your lungs, and the moment your fingers touched that paper, it finally let itself out.

You didn’t open it. You couldn’t. You just clutched it to your chest and wept, forehead resting on your knees, Deuce’s soft whimpers the only sound in the apartment besides your cries.

Eventually, you crawled into bed, letter still clutched in your hand. JuJu came home to find you like that.

At first she thought you were asleep, then she saw the tear tracks, the puffiness around your eyes, the way your fist still gripped the corner of the envelope like a lifeline. She gently slid it from your fingers and read the return address.

She didn’t open it. Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t even touch your arm. She just placed it back down on your pillow, beside your sleeping form, and let you be.

Later that night, you woke up in the dark. The air felt too still. The shadows too loud.

You turned your head slowly and stared at the envelope. It sat there, quietly waiting.

You stared at it for a long time. Long enough that the clock changed minutes. Long enough that the ache in your chest turned into something sharper. You could almost hear her voice. Osita. My baby girl. You hated how much you missed her. You hated that part of you still loved her. But more than anything, you hated the fear that reading that letter might undo you entirely. So you didn’t read it. Not yet.

Both JuJu and Deuce snored in your ear. JuJu’s soft, rhythmic breaths brushing your shoulder while Deuce’s little puffs of air tickled the crook of your neck. One of his paws rested gently on your chest, twitching occasionally as he dreamed. The bed should’ve felt safe like this. It should’ve felt warm. It’s should’ve felt anchored. It should’ve felt loved.

But you were wide awake. Your eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling, unblinking. The shadows cast by the streetlights outside crawled across your room in slow, shifting lines, and the hum of your own thoughts filled the silence left in their wake. It was like your brain refused to let you go. Every breath you took felt too shallow, like you were only pretending to be okay. Like your body was holding itself together with tape and wire.

You didn’t even hear the buzz of your phone, not right away. It was only when the screen lit up that you registered anything outside the mess inside your head.

alba 🤍

I’m not choosing sides. I just miss my sisters being okay.

You blinked and then inhaled shakily. Your thumb hovered over the screen. You read it once. Twice. Five times. You weren’t sure what hurt more, the honesty of it or the fact that she was right. You missed it too. You missed being okay. But you weren’t. You hadn’t been in a long time. And you didn’t know how to get back there.

There had been a time when a message like that from Alba would’ve been enough to break the dam inside you. When you would’ve called her sobbing. When you would’ve begged her to tell you what to do.

But now? Now you just stared at the message as if it were written in a language you no longer understood. Your throat was tight, your chest burning under the weight of a sadness so familiar it had become a second skin. You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Because choosing not to respond somehow still felt like control in a world where everything else had fallen apart.

Deuce shifted beside you, letting out a tiny sigh in his sleep. JuJu murmured something incoherent and instinctively curled a little closer, wrapping a protective arm around your waist. But even wrapped in their warmth, you felt cold.

You turned your phone over screen-down and closed your eyes. You didn’t cry this time. You just felt the silence press against your ribs like a weight. And just let it sit there.

#woso x platonic!reader #woso fic #woso x reader #woso community #woso imagine #woso #alexia putellas x platonic!reader #alexia putellas x sister!reader #alexia putellas x reader #juju watkins x reader #·˚ ༘ cloud nine

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