#Over and over and over and over and- {crack} | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cressidagrey · 2 days ago

Text

Money, Money, Money

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri Series.

Summary: Felicity runs Oscar’s life. Oh, and she also handles all the money.

Warnings and Notes: Some more context for the Silverstone chapter, also some insight into Piastri family dynamics in this verse. Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

1: Chris Piastri

Chris had been patient. He’d waited through the contract drama, the Alpine mess, the quiet chaos that was the lead-up to McLaren’s announcement. He’d even stayed calm when Oscar casually dropped that they’d officially moved to a farmhouse—because, quote, “Felicity liked the light.”

But now he was looking at the numbers.

And blinking.

Hard.

"You’re going to be making how much next year?"

Oscar leant back in his chair, hands behind his head. “Depends on bonuses. But yeah. That’s the base.”

Chris whistled low. “Jesus Christ. That’s… real money.”

Oscar grinned. “Told you the sim rig was a good investment.”

Chris didn’t laugh. He was still holding the contract summary printout Oscar handed him ten minutes ago.

He tapped the top corner. “Okay. So you’ve got this. Great. Now who’s handling it?”

Oscar didn’t miss a beat. “Felicity.”

Chris’s eyes flicked up, sharp. “Still no financial advisor?”

“She’s more than capable.”

“And no prenup,” Chris added flatly. “Still.”

“You’re still upset abou that,” Oscar said drily.

“I’m upset you refused to,” Chris replied. “I asked you. I begged you to be smart. You were eighteen. And you married the first girl you ever kissed. You always brush it off.”

“I’m not brushing it off. I’m making a choice.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Chris snapped. “You married at eighteen. You had a child at nineteen. And you still refuse to take any precautions to protect the career we all sacrificed for.”

Oscar didn’t move. But something in his posture shifted—straightened. “What do you want me to say, Dad? That you were right? That we were reckless and dumb and ruined my future?”

Chris exhaled harshly. “I never said you ruined anything.”

“No,” Oscar said, “but you’ve never really believed us either. About anything.”

Chris blinked. “Excuse me?”

Oscar’s voice was low, but steady. “You’ve never believed us when we said Bee was planned. When we said we knew what we were doing. When we said we didn’t need help. You think we were just two stupid teenagers who got in over our heads and now you’re waiting for the fallout.”

Chris scoffed. “Right. The planned baby at nineteen.”

Oscar’s face shuttered. “Yes. Planned.”

“You can keep saying that, Oscar,” Chris said, “but you and I both know it wasn’t the timing you had in mind. You threw your entire career trajectory off-course. No nineteen-year-old plans a baby, Oscar. That’s not how this works.”

Oscar looked like he’s been slapped. “You think we’re stupid.”

“I think you were young.” Chris fired back. “And I think she got pregnant and you felt like you had no choice—”

“Don’t you dare,” Oscar snapped.

The air cracks.

Chris didn’t back down. “You were barely in junior formula. You were already under pressure. And instead of focusing on that, you were raising a kid in a rental flat with hand-me-down furniture and no job security— You were nineteen. No one knows what they’re doing at nineteen.”

“Maybe not,” Oscar said. “But we knew what we wanted.”

“And I spent six and a half million dollars making sure you got where you are,” Chris fired back. “So excuse me if I want you to think.”

Oscar went still. The words hung between them like a slap.

Chris pressed on, voice harder now. “I spent years calling sponsors, working second jobs, selling off anything we didn’t need just to keep you on the track. Your mother gave up every holiday to stretch the travel budget. And now you’re handing your entire financial future to the girl you married at eighteen and won’t even sign a piece of paper to protect yourself if it goes wrong.”

Oscar spoke slowly. Cold. “She is not just some girl.”

“I know that,” Chris said, finally sounding frustrated. “I know she’s brilliant and capable and—impressive. I know she kept you standing when things got ugly. But this isn’t about how resourceful Felicity is, Oscar. It’s about you.”

“I pay for my life,” Oscar said quietly. “Every grocery bill, every flight, every coat Bee’s ever worn—we paid for that ourselves. We’ve never asked you for help outside of racing.”

“You rushed into a marriage, a baby, and now you’ve wrapped your entire life around a girl who pawned designer handbags instead of calling us for help.”

Oscar’s fists clenched. “You think that was a bad thing?”

“I think it was pride,” Chris said, suddenly cold. “On both your parts. She didn’t want to come with her tail between her legs after her family cut her off. And you— you didn’t want to admit you were in over your head.”

Oscar took a slow breath. “We didn’t want you to feel obligated.”

Chris’s jaw tightened. “I was obligated. I spent millions of dollars getting you to F1. Do you think I did that so you could let your teenage wife manage your future out of a color-coded spreadsheet?” Chris rubbed a hand over his face. “That’s not the point anyway.”

“No,” Oscar said. “The point is that you don’t trust me. Or her.”

“That’s not true,” Chris said.

“Isn’t it?” Oscar challenges. “You think she married me for the money I might have. You think we had Bee by accident. You think I’m sleepwalking through life and one day I’ll wake up broke and bitter and you’ll have to pick up the pieces.”

Chris’s mouth was a thin line. He didn’t answer.

Oscar took a breath. His voice softened—just a little. “I know what you gave me. I know I wouldn’t be here without you. But I’m not a teenager anymore. And I don’t need you to manage me. I need you to believe me.”

***

Nicole was sitting at the dining table with a glass of red wine and her reading glasses perched low on her nose, sorting through forms.

Chris stood in the doorway, visibly agitated.

Nicole didn’t look up. “If this is about Felicity again, I’m pouring myself another glass of wine.”

Chris sighed. “You could at least pretend to take my side.”

Nicole set down the pen and looks at him over the rims of her glasses. “I divorced you, not because you were wrong all the time, but because you’re so annoying when you think you’re right.”

Chris threw his hands up. “Nicole. Please. Just talk to Oscar. He listens to you.”

“Because I don’t condescend to him,” she said pointedly. “I treat him like the grown man he is.”

Chris ran a hand through his hair. “He’s married without a prenup. He’s letting her manage millions. What happens if something goes wrong? What happens if she changes—”

“She’s not going to change,” Nicole cut in.

“You don’t know that.”

“Felicity manages my pension, Chris.”

He blinked. “What?”

“She took a look at it last year,” Nicole says casually. “Pointed out I had a dead fund and fees I didn’t need. Reinvested the whole thing in an afternoon.”

Chris stared at her. “You let your daughter-in-law manage your retirement?”

“She’s smarter than both of us combined,” Nicole said, tone sharp now. “You know that. You’ve always known that.”

“She was eighteen when they got married,” Chris muttered.

“And runs a household better than most people twice her age,” Nicole replied. “Felicity could run a Fortune 500 company if she wanted. She just happens to be more interested in upcycling cabinets and taking care of Bee.”

Chris scowled. “She plays housewife, Nicole. And Oscar lets her.”

“She chooses housewife,” Nicole corrected. “Big difference. And it’s not because she can’t do more—it’s because she already did. She literally got a PhD this year because she was bored, Chris. You remember what she gave up. I do. She had that whole trust fund, the estate in Singapore —until she told her parents she wasn’t giving up the boy.”

Chris exhaled again, tight and heavy.

Nicole softened—just a little. “ get it. You put everything into Oscar. You burned yourself down to build him a ramp. But our boy fell in love, and the girl he chose? She wasn’t a mistake. She was the best decision he ever made.”

“I just want him to be protected,” Chris said, quieter now.

“He is,” Nicole said. “And if anything happens, you better believe Felicity already has a five-tab spreadsheet, three binders, and a financial nuke pointed at the problem. Don’t confuse softness for weakness. She’s not fragile, Chris. She’s focused.”

Chris was quiet for a long time.

Finally, he muttered, “I still think he should’ve signed a prenup.”

Nicole sighs. “Yeah, well. I think you should’ve watered the lemon tree before it died, but we all have regrets.”

Chris stared at her. “That’s not remotely the same.”

Nicole sipped her tea. “Isn’t it?”

2: Mark Webber

Mark Webber had long since stopped pretending that Oscar Piastri ran his own life.

Oh, he showed up on time. Did the briefings. Signed the contracts. Knew the car and the data and the long-run pace.

But when it came to logistics, taxes, insurance, estate planning, or remembering that the electrical system in their farmhouse was still running on pre-war wiring—Oscar did what every sensible man should do.

He said, “Let me ask my wife.”

Mark had found it funny at first. A bit sweet. The overachieving childhood sweetheart turned stay-at-home-wife. Until he realized, somewhere between Oscar’s seamless contract transitions and the fact that his tax filings were always submitted early and perfectly formatted, that Felicity Piastri wasn’t playing house.

She was running an empire.

Quietly. From the kitchen. Usually with flour on her cheek.

Mark had seen it up close too many times now.

She was the one who tracked Oscar’s schedule in a calendar that put race engineers to shame.

She was the one who had his income split across diversified portfolios before McLaren ever offered him a multi-year deal.

And she was the one who’d once casually texted Mark a five-point list of everything he needed to fix in his personal retirement plan—because she’d overheard him complain about capital gains tax while making Bee a peanut butter sandwich.

He’d actually followed all five points.

So when he found himself holding a financial summary from his advisor, confused about a line item labeled “Australia – Deferred Liability: TBD,” there was only one person he thought to call.

The phone rang twice.

“Hi Mark,” came Felicity’s voice, crisp and warm as ever. “What did you mess up this time?”

Mark chuckled. “Got a minute?”

“Always. What’s the line item?”

He read it out. She hummed. “Deferred liability’s probably from your property sale in 2019—was that still in NSW?”

“Yeah. You remember that?”

“I remember everything. What’s the advisor’s email? I’ll send you the reference table.”

Mark rubbed his forehead. “Do I need to start paying you?”

“You couldn’t afford me,” she said cheerfully. “Besides, I’m already managing Oscar’s empire and Nicole’s pension. I’m full up.”

Mark snorted. “Jesus Christ. Does Oscar know you’re moonlighting as my financial therapist?”

“Oh, he knows,” she said breezily. “He told me to invoice you last time.”

Mark chuckled. “He still pretending he understands half of what you do?”

“He stopped pretending after I explained capital gains to him using Bee’s sticker chart,” she replied. “Now he just signs what I give him and asks if we can afford more smoked almonds.”

Mark shook his head, grinning. “He’s a lucky little bastard.”

“He knows. Oh, and by the way,” Felicity added, “tell your guy to check your international tax treaty allocations. You’re probably being double taxed on passive income through your EU holdings.”

Mark paused. “Have I ever told you you’re a menace?”

“Only every time you call me.”

And then she hung up.

Mark stared at his phone, then looked at the spreadsheet again.

There was a reason he always CC’d her on Oscar’s contract reviews. The girl could spot a hidden clause faster than most team lawyers.

He wasn’t just impressed anymore. He was a little scared.

People in the paddock liked to talk about Oscar’s talent. His calm. His racecraft. His future.

But Mark?

Mark knew the real secret to Oscar’s success wore denim dungarees, knew how to budget a household down to the cent, and had personally scared two marketing execs into submission using nothing but polite email phrasing and a well-timed spreadsheet.

In Mark Webber’s not so humble opinion:

Felicity Piastri was the best investment Oscar had ever made.

3: Lando Norris

Oscar was still in his race suit, slouched halfway off a physio ball, towel draped around his neck. His hair was damp.

He was scrolling on his phone one-handed, the other absentmindedly rubbing at his shoulder. Across from him, Lando was sitting upside-down in a beanbag chair like he was part of a modern art installation, frowning at his iPad and muttering numbers under his breath.

He squinted, then sat up properly. “Hey,” he said, pointing vaguely. “Do you use Capex?”

Oscar didn’t look up. “For what?”

“Investments. Advisors. Tax strategy stuff.” Lando waved the iPad like it’s obvious. “Zak’s been on about it. Wants us to think about long-term wealth management. Something about portfolio diversity and 'future-proofing our legacy.'"

Oscar hummed noncommittally. “Nah, I don’t use Capex.”

Lando raised a brow. “Okay, so who do you use?”

Oscar finally looked up. “What do you mean?”

“Like—who’s your guy?” Lando asked, a little impatient now. “Everyone’s got someone. I’ve got Simon. Charles got his brother and that weird Swiss dude. You’ve got, what, Mark handling yours?”

Oscar blinked. “I don’t have a guy.”

“You don’t—?” Lando cut himself off, leans forward. “Wait. You don’t have a financial advisor?”

Oscar shrugged. “Nope.”

Lando just stared at him. “Oscar.”

Oscar stretched his legs out. “What?”

“You’re a Formula 1 driver. You make… a lot of money. You don’t have anyone managing it?”

“I do,” Oscar said, reaching for his water bottle. “Felicity.”

Lando blinked. “Felicity who?”

Oscar gave him a flat look. “My wife, Lando. Felicity my wife,” Oscar confirmed cheerfully, like he wasn’t casually setting fire to Lando’s entire concept of financial management. “She’s good at it. Better than me. She likes spreadsheets and interest rates. It makes her happy.”

Lando’s mouth opened. Closes. “No. No. That doesn’t count.”

Oscar raised a brow. “Why not?”

“Because—because she’s your wife! That’s like saying, ‘Oh yeah, my daughter handles the catering.’ It’s—It’s nepotism!”

Oscar laughed. “She’s not taking a salary, mate. She’s running our life.”

“That’s worse!” Lando flailed his hands. “You’re telling me you trust her with everything? Like, she just… handles it?”

“Yes,” Oscar said simply. “She’s good at it.”

“She’s good at—what, managing millions?”

“Actually, yeah.” He looked mildly offended on Felicity’s behalf. “She started with nothing. Budgeted down to the cent when we were nineteen and pretty much broke with a newborn because we didn’t want to depend on my parents. She made our tax spreadsheet color-coded and terrifying. She played the stock market while Bee was teething. Said it calmed her down. I was too busy trying to figure out why Bee would only fall asleep if I sang Let it be from the Beatles.”

Lando squinted. “...She has a spreadsheet?”

“She has seven.”

“And you’re just—fine with it?”

“Yeah,” Oscar said, no hesitation. “She’s always been smarter with money than me. Back when I was on a feeder series budget and Bee was in nappies, she made every cent stretch. She bought me a secondhand coffee machine when I was surviving on two hours of sleep and bad instant. She used our first proper bonus to start a fund she literally called ‘Future Stuff That Matters.’ She pays for every single house reno out of portfolio gains. I don’t ask anymore—I just send her the contract info and go race.”

Lando looked at him like he’d just confessed to free-climbing a skyscraper. “You don’t even check your paychecks?”

“I check they’ve gone in,” Oscar said. “But otherwise, I forward everything to her. Contracts, bonus details, travel reimbursements. She’s got this whole color-coded system.”

“Okay, but like—" Lando ran a hand through his hair, clearly spiraling—"there’s not even a backup guy? Like, a tax consultant? A wealth planner? An app? A spreadsheet?”

“She has all three. She showed me once. The spreadsheet had tabs called Future Stuff That Matters and Oscar’s Idiotic Tech Purchases."

Lando blinked.

"There's a colour-coded section just for sim rig accessories," Oscar added, helpfully.

“She made you a budget category for sim rig accessories?”

“I exceeded it last year. I got a warning.” Oscar grinned. “I send her the contracts, she handles the rest. I don’t even know what our heating bill is. I just get warm in winter and assume it’s paid.”

Lando collapses back into the beanbag. “You are so weirdly married.”

“I’m extremely married,” Oscar agrees. “To someone who built an emergency fund, planned our retirement, and still re-grouted the kitchen herself last month.”

There’s a pause.

Then: “You’re insane.”

Oscar smiled. “I’m stress-free.”

Another beat.

Then Lando muttered, “Do you think she’d take me on as a client?”

Oscar burst out laughing.

4: Tom Stallard

Tom had been on the phone with his mortgage broker for twenty minutes and was losing the will to live.

“No, I said I do have the updated P60, but your online portal is down,” he said through gritted teeth. “No, I’m not uploading it again through Safari, I’m using Chrome. Why does that matter?”

He ended the call with a sigh, pinched the bridge of his nose, and muttered, “I have a master’s in engineering from Cambridge and this is the most complicated thing I’ve ever done.”

A quiet voice behind him said, “Everything alright?”

Tom turned to find Oscar, cooling off post-sim, cradling a water bottle and looking vaguely concerned.

“Oh, yeah,” Tom said, deadpan. “Just losing a slow war with mortgage applications. Spreadsheets, interest rates, new build tax. Very sexy stuff.”

Oscar hummed. “Felicity would love it.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “She likes mortgage paperwork?”

“She likes paperwork in general,” Oscar said with a small smile. “Spreadsheets. Forecasting. Financial plans.”

Tom chuckled. “Yeah, well, maybe I should hire her. At this rate my family is going to end up living in our car.”

Oscar tilted his head. “She’d probably help. She’s scary good with money.”

“Really?” Tom asked, vaguely curious. “She handle the household stuff?”

Oscar blinked. “No, I mean she handles everything. My salary, bonuses, investments, Bee’s custodial account, tax optimization. All of it.”

Tom paused. “Wait—wait, you don’t do any of that?”

Oscar shook his head. “She’s better at it. Has a system. Color-coded folders. Charts. She built a whole model to project how many years I could race before retiring without touching the principal. I think it includes inflation and… milk prices?”

Tom blinked. “You’re telling me your wife handles your entire financial portfolio.”

Oscar shrugged. “It just makes sense. She’s meticulous. She used to do it all while Bee was napping and we were living on a single paycheque and pawned handbags.”

Tom sat back, stunned. “Mate, I have a financial advisor and a mortgage consultant and I still don’t know what I’m doing. You’re telling me your wife just—does it all?”

Oscar gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Yeah. She’s good at it. And she enjoys it. I just sign things and ask her if we can afford new garden furniture.”

Tom looked at him for a beat.

Then said, deadpan, “I think I hate you.”

Oscar grinned. “She runs my retirement planning. I’m sorted for three recessions and a space war.”

Tom groaned. “Don’t tell me that. I just cried over a fixed rate of 5.3%.”

***

Tom hadn’t meant to bring it up again. Really, he hadn’t.

He’d only stopped by to drop off a folder Oscar left behind at the McLaren HQ. A quick in-and-out. No fuss. No existential crisis over adult responsibilities.

But then he made the mistake of saying, “I still haven’t figured out that mortgage stuff, by the way.”

And now he was in the Piastri kitchen.

Holding a cup of tea.

Watching Felicity Piastri, in a linen apron with a bee embroidered on the hem, pull up an amortization schedule like she was about to perform surgery on it.

“Alright,” she said, tapping at her laptop with a practiced efficiency that made his stomach clench. “Fixed rate of 5.3%, 25-year term, first-time buyer exemption, and a deferred LMI?”

Tom blinked. “Yes?”

“Okay, well, first of all, they’re charging you too much on your escrow buffer. That’s negotiable. And you can knock 0.2% off your rate if you bundle with their associated home insurance policy.”

“I—what?”

Felicity didn’t look up. “You haven’t consolidated your super, have you?”

“I—no?”

She made a soft tsk sound, clicked twice, and then turned the screen toward him. “I’ve made you a comparison sheet. These two lenders are offering better packages with less red tape. The third one has a better early exit policy in case you want to upgrade later. You’re a high-income, low-debt client, Tom. You should be getting treated like it.”

Tom stared at the screen, then at her.

“I have never felt so financially inadequate in my life,” he muttered.

Felicity gave him a bright smile. “That’s okay. Most people feel that way after twenty minutes with me.”

Oscar wandered in, holding Bee upside down by the ankles. “She fix it yet?”

“She rebuilt it,” Tom said faintly. “She bullied my mortgage into submission.”

Felicity rolled her eyes. “I simply pointed out that he’s not a charity case and shouldn’t be paying interest like one.”

Bee giggled from where she dangled. “Mama makes the numbers scared.”

Oscar dropped her gently onto the couch. “That she does.”

Tom stood up, cradling the printed spreadsheet like it was a sacred text. “I don’t even know how to thank you.”

Felicity handed him a small foil-wrapped bundle. “Banana bread. No walnuts.”

Tom looked at it. Then back at her. “You’re incredible.”

She beamed. “I know.”

5: Zak Brown

Zak liked to think of himself as a forward thinker. Risk-aware, but not risk-averse. Smart with money. Not shy about opportunity.

Which is why, after a particularly positive investor call and a lunch meeting with a tech-startup founder, he cornered Oscar Piastri in the McLaren break room, armed with a protein shake and a golden nugget of advice.

“Listen,” Zak said, leaning on the counter while Oscar poked through the fruit bowl like he wasn’t paid seven figures to do much cooler things. “If you haven’t already, you should really look into green robotics. Smart manufacturing meets sustainability. It’s going to explode in two years. Get in now.”

Oscar paused. “Green robotics?”

“Yeah. Startups, mostly. Private equity entry points. Could be a good addition to your portfolio.”

Oscar nodded slowly. “Right. Sounds interesting. I’ll check with Felicity.”

Zak blinked. “Your agent?”

“No,” Oscar said casually. “Felicity. My wife.”

Zak frowned. “As in… she checks it?”

“She handles all my finances,” Oscar replied, grabbing a banana. “She’ll know if it fits with the rest of the portfolio.”

Zak stared. “Wait—you don’t have a financial advisor?”

Oscar looked genuinely confused. “I have Felicity.”

“No, I mean like… a firm. A professional. Someone who manages your money.”

“I do. Felicity.”

Zak was now blinking very slowly. “You’re telling me your wife manages your finances.”

Oscar peeled the banana. “Yeah. Has for years.”

Zak struggled for a moment. “Like… salary? Bonuses?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Investments?”

“All of it.”

Zak straightened. “How much do you even know about your own portfolio?”

Oscar chewed thoughtfully. “Um… it’s green? Ethically aligned? We don’t do oil, fast fashion, or surveillance tech. And I think there’s a clause about chocolate companies with bad labor practices. Felicity added that after Bee got obsessed with cocoa beans.”

Zak made a small, stunned noise. “You don’t… manage your own money?”

Oscar shrugged. “I mean, it’s our money. She just handles it. She’s better at it. She has these terrifying spreadsheets.”

“She’s not licensed.”

“Nope,” Oscar said, smiling. “She’s just brilliant.”

Zak stared at him for a long beat.

“You make seven figures,” he said slowly. “You’re one of the most promising drivers of your generation. And you’re telling me that you’ve outsourced your entire financial future to your wife.”

“Yes,” Oscar said. “She has a whole system. Reinvested dividends, ethical ETFs, a growth fund, a rainy day fund, and this weird little stash labeled ‘Oscar’s Panic Button’ that I’m not allowed to ask about.”

Zak’s voice rose slightly. “And you’re okay with that?”

Oscar blinked. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because you’re a public figure!”

Oscar finished his banana. “So? I’d trust her with everything if I was a postman.”

Zak leaned heavily on the counter. “And what did she say about green robotics?”

Oscar tilted his head. “She had ethical concerns. Something about the AI lab's hiring practices and a conflict with a union group in Denmark.”

Zak exhaled. “Jesus Christ.”

Oscar grinned. “Yeah. She’s good.”

+1: Oscar Piastri

Oscar had long since stopped questioning where the money went.

Not because he didn’t care—he did. He cared a lot, actually.

But because sometime between their first apartment and the farmhouse, he’d realized something fundamental: Felicity knew what they needed before he did.

And more than that, she knew why.

There had been a time—back when he was nineteen, with a newborn and a contract that barely covered rent—when every cent mattered.

And Felicity had stretched them with a kind of brilliance that made survival look like strategy. She’d budgeted nappies down to the cent. She’d thrifted furniture, sewed her own curtains, and somehow still found a way to buy Oscar a coffee machine when he couldn’t function without caffeine and 2-hour sleep blocks.

Even then, he knew: if there was anyone he trusted with his life—or his bank account—it was her. That trust never changed.

The first time he got a real bonus—something large, something meaningful—he handed it over without hesitation. “Use it for whatever you want,” he’d said, tired and sunburnt and half-delirious after a weekend in Spa.

She didn’t blink. Just tucked it away and said, “I’ve got a plan.” That plan, as it turned out, involved savings accounts, index funds, and a meticulous spreadsheet labeled Future Stuff That Matters.

Over time, their finances shifted. Grew. Stabilized. But Oscar never took that control back—not because he couldn’t, but because he didn’t want to.

Felicity didn’t spend for status. She didn’t buy expensive handbags or flashy watches.

She bought insulation for the attic because she wanted Bee to stay warm in winter. She bought antique light fixtures from a man named Jerry on Facebook Marketplace because “they had character.” She bought sandpaper and primer and tile grout and then used it herself.

She handled taxes. Investments. Long-term planning. She set aside money for Bee’s education, Oscar’s retirement, and an annual holiday they still hadn’t taken.

And she never once acted like it was hers alone—just theirs, and safe in her hands.

Oscar loved that about her. That she didn’t treat money like power. She treated it like possibility.

And while the outside world saw him as the Formula 1 driver, the rising star, the man with the million-dollar contracts—he knew better.

Knew that the reason he could focus on racing at all was because Felicity kept the rest of their world running so seamlessly behind the scenes.

Once, early in their marriage, he’d jokingly called her his CFO. She’d rolled her eyes. “I’m your wife.” But honestly, she was both. Because when his paycheck came in, he barely looked at it anymore.

He just handed it over, kissed her cheek, and said, “Tell me if we can afford a new front porch.” Felicity always smiled.

Always kissed him back. And somehow always replied, “Already ordered the wood. Bee helped me pick the stain.”

Felicity didn’t treat money like power.

She treated it like possibility.

And Oscar had learned to see it the same way—not in numbers, but in what it meant: security. Choice. Freedom. A future where his wife could say yes to things for herself. Where Bee would never grow up thinking that survival had to look like sacrifice.

And when people—Zak, Lando, even his own father—asked how he could trust one person with all of it?

Oscar just smiled.

Because that one person had been holding their entire life together since she was nineteen, tired, and holding a baby on her hip with a spreadsheet open on her lap.

She was the safest bet he’d ever made.

#formula 1 #f1 fanfiction #formula 1 fanfiction #f1 smau #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 grid x reader #f1 grid fanfiction #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri #Oscar Piastri fic #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri x reader #op81 fic #op81 imagine

891 notes · View notes

mssishipi · 1 day ago

Text

ecstacy — yjw

— sex with jungwon is good, no doubt about that. but the thing is… he doesn’t know how to stop.

content tags: established relationship, unhinged jw, explicit content (smut): soft dom jw (is he really?), cuffs, usage of toys, fingering, nipple play, overstimulation, basically this fic is an actual torture so read at your own risk, squirting, unprotected sex, jw has a big dick (yum🤤), creampie, cnc. MDNI. WC: 3.3K

note: it's been a really long ass time since i last wrote a smut so please bare with me. my mind is so fried but atleast i tried ahuehue... not proofread, anw, enjoy reading and reblog!

One thing about your boyfriend Jungwon? He has a bit of a collection—of sex toys, to be exact.

It’s the kind of surprise that catches most people off guard, especially considering how incredibly gentle, soft-spoken, and genuinely sweet he is.

Well...he’s still soft-spoken—his voice never rises, never loses that calm, steady tone but gentle? Not quite.

Behind closed doors, there’s a different edge to him. His sweetness doesn’t disappear, but it’s laced with dominance, control, and an intensity that contradicts his daytime demeanor. If there’s one rough thing about him, it’s the way he takes control when you’re underneath him.

Sex with Jungwon is good, no doubt about that. But the thing is… he doesn’t know how to stop.

Once he starts, it’s like he falls into a rhythm only he can hear, and you’re just along for the ride, trembling and breathless and completely at his mercy.

Your wrists are cuffed to both sides of the bed, the metal cool against your heated skin. Your legs are spread and tied down, leaving you completely exposed—open for him. At first, it’s fine. You can handle it. The slow build, the teasing. The way he slips the toy inside your pulsing cunt, then drags it up to circle your clitoris with frustrating precision.

Each slow movement of the toy has you dripping onto the sheets, your body reacting before your mind can even catch up. You don’t miss the way Jungwon’s eyes light up with excitement, a sparkle in them. A small, satisfied smile curves on his lips as he watches your pussy clench around absolutely nothing, the vibrator pulsing against you while he teases, never quite giving you what you’re begging for.

That’s the thing about Jungwon—he knows exactly how to ruin you without even touching you properly. He hasn’t taken off a single piece of clothing, hasn’t even laid a finger on your most sensitive spots. And yet, you’re falling apart.

He makes you crave everything. His touch. A simple brush of his fingers. Even just a glance at what’s hidden behind his pants—his huge fucking cock, so painfully hard. You’ve barely seen it tonight, and that alone makes you dizzy with need.

Your head is spinning. Your throat burns from all the begging, the moaning, the hoarse screams you’ve let out over the past hour. Your legs shake, your wrists ache against the cuffs, and your eyes—God, your eyes can barely stay open. Every time he pulls another orgasm out of you, they roll back with a mix of pleasure and exhaustion. You’re so, so tired, and so wrecked.

“Please, please… just fuck me. Just fuck me already!” you cry out, voice cracking from exhaustion.

Jungwon is still sitting at the edge of the room, completely composed, watching you with fascination. Your legs tremble uncontrollably, still spread wide, still bound, as another orgasm rips through you. The loud hum of the vibrator fills the room, blending with your high-pitched moans and hitched breaths.

You try to shut your legs, to push the toy away from your aching core, but you can’t. You’re strapped open, so damn helpless. Your clit feels raw, burning from the endless attention. It’s been nearly two hours of this, and your entire body feels like it’s on fire. You’re drenched in sweat, heart racing, muscles twitching from the constant tension. And still… Jungwon doesn’t look finished. He watches you like you’re the most captivating thing he’s ever seen.

“L-Let’s just finish this and sleep, okay?” you gasp, trying to meet his eyes. There’s desperation in your voice, but you still try to sound sweet—still trying to bargain with the man who holds all the control.

Finally, he stands. His gaze travels slowly down your body, from your tearful eyes to your heaving chest. And then, he leans in and kisses you softly, almost tender. You melt into it, sighing against his lips, your body automatically responding despite the ache. You try to kiss him deeper, tongue desperate against his, hands twitching against the restraints as you try to pull him closer.

“Love you, my sweet little angel,” Jungwon whispers against your lips, smiling so gently it almost feels cruel.

You smile weakly back, eyes watery but soft. “Love you too… now please—please untie me?” you beg.

For a moment, your heart lifts in relief as you see him walk toward the cabinet beside the bed. You think he’s going for the keys because finally. But then your eyes widen in horror when he pulls out a small collection of toys instead and places them gently on the nightstand.

Your stomach drops.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

“No!” you cry out, yanking at your cuffs even though you know it’s useless. Panic surges as he picks up a pair of nipple stimulators and places them over your already sensitive chest.

"Shit— no! Don't! Stop!"

The moment they turn on, you jolt. The soft suction and flickering pulses send electric shocks through your breasts, focusing on your nipples and making your back arch off the bed.

“Ahh—n-no! No more!” you shout, writhing, body bucking against the restraints.

Jungwon doesn’t say a word. His fingers trail down slowly, tracing the mess between your legs, spreading you gently. Then, without warning, he pushes two fingers inside you, curling and sliding them.

“Hahh… J-Jung… ahh—” Your head falls back, and your eyes roll. The pleasure blurs everything—your thoughts, your words. “I c-can’t… anymore…” you whisper, voice trembling, barely holding together.

Your thoughts scatter like leaves in a storm, lost to the overwhelming flood of sensation. Every nerve in your body is lit up, every inch of you trembling, wrung out, and oversensitive.

Jungwon, on the other hand, looks like he’s in bliss. His chest rises and falls with labored breaths, eyes locked on your body. When he feels your walls tightening around his fingers, his lips part with a quiet moan. The way you grip him—so hot, so wet, so helpless—nearly drives him insane.

Your head lolls to the side, arms stretched and chained above you. Your mouth hangs open, tongue slipping out slightly, drool tracing a path from your lips to your chin. You’re panting, muttering broken, incoherent phrases that even you don’t understand.

Underneath his pants, Jungwon’s cock throbs with the weight of restraint. Finally, he pulls his fingers out of you and quickly undresses, his hands shaking in urgency. He barely blinks, barely breathes, as he climbs back onto the bed.

Before you can even register his presence fully, you hear another vibration. A sob tears from your throat as a small egg vibrator slips inside you, humming to life with a relentless buzz. Another one is pressed directly to your clit, making your hips jerk violently. The stimulation is too much, all-consuming and now you’re crying, tears running freely down your cheeks.

Your mind is barely there when Jungwon settles over you. You feel his body hovering close, the warmth of him mixing with yours. He cups your cheek with one hand, gently brushing away your tears, while the other supports the back of your head.

“Shhh…” he soothes. “It’s okay, baby. You can take it, can’t you? Be my good girl, hmm?”

You can’t even answer. Your lips tremble, a sob stuck in your throat, your body wracked with pleasure that borders on pain. The buzzing on your clit, the pulsing deep inside you, the suction on your nipples—it’s too much!

“You’re my good girl, right? Answer me, angel,” Jungwon repeats.

“I-I… I’m y-your… nghh… g-good girl,” you manage to choke out, eyes squeezed shut. The moment you say it, Jungwon smiles—and not just any smile, but the one he gives when he’s deeply, thoroughly satisfied. It’s the kind of smile that says he’s proud of you.

He shifts on the bed, straddling your hips, his knees on either side of you. His cock is flushed, rock hard, and leaking precum. From this angle, you can see it clearly—aching and ready. Your breath catches.

“Say you can take it,” he says again, eyes burning into yours.

“I-I c-can t-take it… F-FUCK!” you scream as the vibrator inside you kicks up to a stronger setting. Your nails dig into your palms, your back arches off the bed, and your legs jerk against the restraints. Another wave crashes over you, and you’re gone again, mouth open in a silent scream before the moans pour out helplessly.

Jungwon groans at the sight of you. He tosses the remote aside and his hand wraps around his length, the slick glide of his palm a poor substitute for what he really wants, but right now, it’s enough because what he’s seeing? It’s everything.

You’re trembling, legs shaking uncontrollably, arms pulled taut by the cuffs. Your entire body is soaked in sweat, flushed, and still, you’re clenching and twitching, hips jumping with every surge of overstimulation. You’re crying, sobbing softly through parted lips, but your body won’t stop responding. And to Jungwon, there’s no more beautiful sight in the world.

Ecstacy.

He never understood the word fully before you. People always talked about it like a fleeting rush, a peak that fades as quickly as it comes. But with you? It lasts. It blooms slowly.

"Hahhh.... 'Wonnie, c-close again!"

Jungwon whines, an unfiltered, almost desperate sound as his hand speeds up. He braces himself on the mattress, panting through clenched teeth as the fire in his gut coils tighter and tighter.

You’re nearly delirious, legs quaking, sweat dripping off your skin in soft trails. The small toy is still pulsing relentlessly between your thighs, buzzing away mercilessly, and you—his perfect, precious girl—can do nothing to escape it.

Your body jolts, then locks up. Another wave crashes over you, and Jungwon can see it in real time—your stomach tensing, mouth falling open, eyes fluttering back as you climax again. It’s like your soul momentarily leaves your body and crashes back into it, all in one breathless scream.

He groans loudly, the sound raw and shameless, as his orgasm builds at the sight. His cock throbs painfully in his grip, aching for release.

“Stop! Please… stop! Make it stop!”

You’re sobbing, shaking your head side to side, tears streaking your cheeks as your voice breaks entirely.

A strangled gasp escapes Jungwon’s lips as his climax slams into him. His body jerks forward as he spills across your stomach and chest. The orgasm tears through him, spine curling, muscles locking, vision flashing white at the edges. His hips twitch helplessly as each pulse escapes him, breath ragged, mind floating somewhere far away.

Between his high and the aftershocks rolling through his body, he still hears you screaming his name, begging him to stop.

Jungwon blinks, disoriented. For a moment, his mind is blank, floating somewhere between euphoria and guilt. But then his eyes land on you.

With shaky hands, he reaches for the remote and flicks off the power. The hum of the toys dies, replaced by silence—save for your ragged breathing, the hiccuping sobs that break his heart, and the faint creak of the bed as your body finally begins to fall limp in exhaustion.

He moves fast but gentle, slipping the nipple clamps off first. His breath hitches at the sight—your nipples flushed deep red, firm and oversensitive. He swallows hard, fighting the urge to touch, to kiss, to soothe with his mouth.

Then there’s the vibrator still buried inside you. It’s soaked, your slick dripping down your thighs, clinging to the toy as it slips out with a wet, lewd sound. The air is thick with the scent of sex, of release, of everything you gave him tonight. His stomach tightens again at the sight, but he forces himself to stay focused.

“D-done?” your voice comes, barely a whisper.

Jungwon doesn’t answer right away. He’s still staring. His body might’ve just finished, but his mind is caught somewhere in the afterglow.

His fingers fumble briefly with the small key before unlocking the cuffs, one by one. You don’t even lift your arms—just lie there, shivering, twitching occasionally when a breeze brushes across your skin.

You let out a shaky breath as your wrists fall free. A sob leaves your chest, but this time it’s soft—relieved. Grateful. Your arms weakly pull inward, cradling your own chest as you collapse into the sheets.

But your body… it’s still trembling. You’re still soaked. That last orgasm hadn’t even faded, and the aftershocks have your thighs twitching with every shift of your hips.

Jungwon swallows hard as he kneels behind you, watching your body try to recover, the way you curl slightly into yourself like you’re trying to keep your insides from spilling over.

"J-Jungwon?"

You feel his hands gently reposition you, guiding you slowly onto your stomach. You let him, barely resisting, only sobbing quietly, the kind of sound that makes his chest ache and his cock twitch.

“One more,” he whispers near your ear, brushing his lips over your cheek. “Just one more, baby. Then I’ll stop. I promise, okay?”

You cry out, he gently pushes your legs apart and lifts your hips just enough, guiding you into position.

“Fuck,” he hisses, as he presses forward slowly but your body reacts instantly.

"Ahhh!" You gasp, then squeal as your walls clamp down, and without warning, a gush of liquid pours from you. You’re fucking squirting.

Jungwon groans, forehead dropping to your back, overwhelmed by the sheer sensitivity of your response. Your hips try to jerk forward, trying to escape, but he holds you in place with one arm curled around your waist.

You’re still spasming when he finally sinks inside, forcing his huge cock inside you. Your soaked walls resist him in a trembling way, trying to push him out while also drawing him deeper.

You scream again as he fills you, your voice breaking around the sobs. He hushes you gently, lips brushing your neck.

“Shhh… it’s okay, baby. Almost there. You can do it—just a little more,” he whispers, his own voice shaking.

He stays still for a moment, buried inside your pulsing heat, feeling your body flutter and tighten around him. His chest presses to your back, arms wrapping around you, holding you close as you sob into the pillow.

“My good girl,” he breathes, kissing the space behind your ear. “You’re doing so well. So perfect for me.”

You whimper brokenly, clenching again as he slowly draws his hips back—just an inch—and thrusts forward again.

Your body goes pliant beneath him, letting him take the lead, letting him guide every motion as his hips begin to roll with slow, fluid strokes. The drag of his cock through your drenched heat makes his head fall forward, jaw clenched, breath shuddering against your neck.

“Little more,” he pants. His eyes flutter shut as he sinks back into you, the tight grip of your body drawing another moan from deep in his throat. “Just… like that.”

You sob again, your hands claw at the sheets.

Jungwon groans softly and leans over you more. His hand slides gently around your neck, His thumb brushes your jaw, tilting your head up so he can see your face.

Your lips tremble. Your eyes flutter, barely open, hazy and wet from tears, but locked onto him.

He exhales sharply at the sight. He leans in and kisses you upside down, the angle is awkward, but lips finding yours between moans and movement. The kiss is messy, wet, desperate. His hips never stop, and the rhythm begins to build again, more urgent now. Each thrust hits deeper, heavier, guided by the way your body clings to him, keeps him buried.

He moans into your mouth as you whimper against his. Then his tongue drags over your bottom lip, over your cheek, catching the taste of your tears and sweat. His teeth scrape lightly against your skin before he licks up the salty trail along your face.

“Mine,” he breathes against your cheek. “All mine.”

Your only response is a faint cry as your body clenches again, another sharp squeeze that makes him falter, hips stuttering from the overwhelming sensation.

His hand leaves your throat and presses between your shoulder blades, pinning you gently into the bed as he pulls your hips higher, changing the angle.

“Ahh, f-fuck!” you squeal. Your thighs quiver violently, and Jungwon nearly loses it right there at the sound.

His pace falters for a beat, then picks up again, faster, more erratic. “So good—so fucking good,” he stammers out, neck slick with sweat.

Your walls clench again, fluttering around him, and he lets out a wrecked sound, almost pained in how much he needs this.

His hips slam forward as he grits out, “Pretty… you’re so pretty. So good for me.”

His hand moves from your back to your waist, holding you tight as he keeps grinding in. “I love you,” he gasps, not even meaning to say it again, but it falls out of him in a choked whisper. “I love you so fucking much…”

His voice cracks at the end, moaning into your skin.

His lips find your shoulder—he kisses it once, then again, moaning into your skin as he thrusts harder. He’s unraveling. His rhythm turns desperate, your name falling from his lips.

"J-just a little more, hmm? I'm gonna creampie this little pussy t-then— fuck, we're done." Jungwon pants, voice cracking with emotion, every word shaking as it leaves his mouth. His eyes are blown wide, focused on where he’s buried deep inside you. “I love you—ahh, I love you so much…”

Jungwon grabs both of your arms, pulling them back gently, lifting your upper body just enough to tilt your chest off the bed. Your back arches, his hips slapping against you, skin to skin, the sound filthy and wet.

Your breasts bounce with every motion, your body jolting under his force. You barely register your own scream before your entire frame begins to convulse.

"Holy shit." Jungwon gasps at the sight, eyes wide with stunned, reverent awe as he breathes out.

You let go completely—again—and it’s overwhelming. A fresh, hot stream releases from you uncontrollably, drenching everything. His thighs. The sheets. The space between you. The air fills with the scent of arousal and sweat, with the stuttering breaths of both your bodies falling apart at the same time.

His thighs shake violently as he spills his cum into you, a strangled, low moan escaping from the pit of his chest. He doesn’t stop moving—keeps thrusting, dragging his length in and out as he pours every last drop inside of you, desperate to make it last.

The warmth floods between your legs, and the way your body pulses around him only draws more out of him. And it’s almost an afterthought to you now, dulled by the overwhelming waves of pleasure and exhaustion. You’re beyond feeling it fully, your body too far gone from the overstimulation he dragged you through.

He whines high as he buries himself to the hilt again, staying there, pushing in as far as you’ll let him. Your body quivers under the weight of his release, and he presses his chest to your back, wrapping both arms around you.

"Thank you, thank you, my angel."

The room falls into a heavy silence.

When Jungwon finally, carefully pulls out of you, he pauses—eyes drawn to the mess he left behind. His release slowly trickles from you, glistening down your inner thighs, and he can’t help but stare.

Then his gaze drifts up.

Your body is limp against the sheets, your chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. Your face is flushed and dewy with sweat, eyes barely open, lips parted like you’re still floating in that lingering euphoric high.

And yet—something about the sight of you like that makes heat stir in his gut all over again.

Jungwon swallows hard as he feels himself twitch, already starting to thicken with the urge to take you again.

#enhypen #enhypen smut #enhypen hard hours #jungwon x reader #jungwon smut #jungwon hard hours

874 notes · View notes

sunsetcupid · 3 days ago

Text

EYES OFF! ; F1 GRID.

synopsis: When you are catcalled on the street, it is only natural that your boyfriend reacts a certain way, be it possessive or enraged.

trigger warnings: Use of feminine pronouns from the reader’s perspective; Descriptions of romantic acts and behaviors; Suggestive remarks; Descriptions of cat-calling; Mentions of physical altercations

a message from the author: Once again, I added Daniel Ricciardo to this fic. I think I’ll be doing that for the rest of the stories in this series. If any of you would like to add a driver or request a certain scenario, don’t hesitate to message me in my inbox!

ISACK HADJAR

He can’t believe his ears – he can’t begin to fathom why someone would make such a vile comment, especially to his girlfriend, the sweetest, most loving person he knows. It physically repulses him, and for a moment, you think he might vomit all over the sidewalk.

Likewise, as soon as he hears the leering statement, he freezes in place. Head cocked to one side, fists clenching until the knuckles turn white. You have to practically drag him away, telling him that “It’s not worth it” because the boxer in him is just itching for a fight.

“No one should be saying those things. Not to you, not to anyone. They need to learn a lesson, and I’ll fucking teach them.” He repeats it as if it were his personal mantra, over and over.

For the rest of the day, he’s sulking. An invisible rain cloud is hovering over his head, but it doesn’t stop him from being extremely clingy. If you dare move out of his eyesight for a second (to get a snack or to put your phone on charge), he immediately panics and can’t stop kissing you afterward.

OSCAR PIASTRI

Oscar is not a confrontational guy at all. His version of arguments are stony silences, unanswered texts, and the cold shoulder. Nevertheless, he rather enjoys keeping a level head and remaining calm. But when a guy walking down the street wolf-whistles at you and cracks some lewd joke about wanting to explore the curves of your body, Oscar wants to tear him apart.

He takes a few deep breaths, attempting to regulate his rapidly pounding heart rate before it explodes out of his chest. He might consider walking away, but when he sees your panic-stricken expression, it’s game over.

Oscar stalks over to them, his voice low and gravelly as he makes the catcaller regret his existence with a few well-chosen words. He’s more forceful, more direct than you’ve ever heard or seen him be, and it turns you on.

LANCE STROLL

His head whips to look at the culprit, his eyes widening in astonishment. For a moment, he thinks he’s imagined it, but the leering smirk on the offender’s face dashes his hopes. “What did you just say to my girlfriend?” Lance’s voice is eerily calm, not a hint of his inner rage visible on the surface.

The only way you can identify how he truly feels is the vein pulsing on his neck, and the fact that he’s gone rigid, like a tree trunk. You have to place a hand on his arm to get his body to relax.

As a result of the incident, Lance becomes more vigilant, walking in front of you at all times and blocking your body with his – a very attractive shield. He even offers to get you a personal bodyguard, but you adamantly refuse.

LANDO NORRIS

His face flushes with anger, eyes turning into flinty shards. He’s so pissed off that someone would dare to tease you, especially in such a creepy manner.

You have to whisper-hiss at him to not get into an altercation with the person who catcalled you. He’s like an overgrown puppy, growling at the person and trying to tug himself free of your grip in order to go fight the other person. “I don’t give a fuck about race penalties. He’s a fucking bastard!”

Once he’s regained some composure, he posts a lengthy paragraph on social media, denouncing misogynistic behaviors and urging everyone to make donations to women’s empowerment groups. “We love to believe that the world today is modern and equal, but it can never truly become inclusive if these events are still commonplace.”

CHARLES LECLERC

He curses in French, letting loose a dictionary’s worth of swear words you didn’t even know existed. That’s his clash with the perpetrator. On track? He’s ready to fight. But in person? He’s less eager to do so.

In lieu of this, he wraps you up in his sweater, taking your hand in his and comforting you with his closeness. “I’m here for you, mon ange. And I’ll always protect you.”

He’s big on physical touch after – kissing your cheeks and cuddling, enveloping you with his body like he can shield you from every harsh remark people make. Perhaps he can. He’s just that magical.

DANIEL RICCIARDO

He’s absolutely incensed. The happy-go-lucky facade disappears in a snap, replaced by cold fury. He slings one arm around your shoulder, laughing menacingly. “Hey, mate! Eyes off my girl, and fuck off.”

Daniel would 100% get into a brawl with someone who insults his girlfriend, not because he is a violent guy, but because he wants to properly defend the love of his life.

He could be bleeding and bruised for weeks after, yet he will forever be proud of his capability to defend his girlfriend.

Later, he tries to make light of the situation by making jokes. Ultimately, however, all he wants is to take you in his arms and never let you go. You’re everything he could ever want, and he hates that other people have the power to hurt you.

Credits: Dividers — @strangergraphics

948 notes · View notes

alinathinkstoomuch · 2 days ago

Text

SAFEST THING

pairing: aaron hotchner x wife!reader summary: rossi drops off a drunk hotch who can't help but profess his undying love for you, based on this request. warnings: flufffff, love drunk hotch who is completely besotted with you. that's literally it. he loves you, dammit! word count: 0.9k

✧ masterlist | ✧ alina's 1k bar

Rossi could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen Aaron tipsy, let alone properly drunk. Steaming, wobbling, slurring his way through a love sonnet drunk. It just wasn’t a thing that happened. Ever.

His suit jacket was abandoned somewhere in the backseat of Rossi’s car, which now smelled like a whiskey parlour. Rossi had cracked a window in hopes the breeze might air it out before the leather started soaking up the scent—and maybe, just maybe, sober Aaron up a little before you gave Rossi an earful for letting your husband get this shitfaced.

So shitfaced, in fact, that he apparently didn’t even remember taking off his tie, which was probably laying somewhere on the bar floor…right next to his left cufflink.

“She’s just—Dave, listen. Listen. She’s so smart. Like scary smart. And she makes it look easy, y’know?”

Rossi hummed in vague acknowledgment, eyes on the road.

“And she’s so pretty, and Jack loves her. Really loves her. He used to be so quiet and now he talks and laughs and he made her a macaroni necklace last week and said she was his favorite person ever, and I didn’t even mind, Dave.”

Rossi didn’t look over, mostly because he knew if he made eye contact, Aaron might cry.

“I think—I think she healed us, Dave. Made us a little family.”

“You’ve mentioned,” Rossi replied dryly. “About six times since we left the bar.”

Aaron let out a wistful sigh and slumped back in the passenger seat. “She’s my home, y’know?” he said dreamily. “It’s not even a place anymore. It’s her. Just…her.”

“Mm,” Rossi grunted. “Poetic.”

They pulled up outside your home a few minutes later. The porch light was on, making Rossi shake his head. He could practically feel you pacing inside. Probably barefoot, probably annoyed, possibly armed.

He switched off the engine, glancing sideways. “Alright Romeo. Let’s get you to your Juliet before she kills us both.”

Aaron blinked up at the house like it had just appeared. He swayed slightly, squinting through the windshield. “She’s gonna be so pretty when she’s mad.”

Rossi let out a long-suffering groan and got out of the car. “Unreal,” he muttered, circling round to the passenger side just in time to catch Hotch attempting to stand up without using any of his core strength.

“Whoa, easy there,” Rossi huffed, grabbing his arm. “Let’s keep the dramatic swooning to a minimum.”

He was halfway through wrangling a love-drunk, six-foot-two, Unit Chief up the steps when the front door opened and you stepped outside, tying the sash of your dressing gown with the same expression you strictly reserved for when Morgan and Reid decided to start pranking each other mid-case.

“Oh, Aaron,” you sighed, hands on your hips. “Really?”

His face lit up like a Christmas tree. “It’s you,” he breathed, all dreamy-eyed, abandoning Rossi. “You came outside.”

“Yes,” you said flatly, stepping down to meet him. “Because you’re being very loud. We have neighbors. And Jack.” You pointed up towards the window. “He’s asleep, so hush.”

Aaron turned back to Rossi, grinning like an idiot. “Told ya she’s pretty when she’s mad,” he slurred right before he fully leaned into you with all his weight causing you to take a step back, catching him by the arms just in time.

“You’re not even gonna help me get him inside?” you asked, glaring at Rossi over your husband's shoulder.

Rossi was already halfway down the steps, brushing his hands off. “He’s all yours, sweetheart. Goodnight and make sure he sleeps on his side. He was mixing everything Morgan ordered.”

You adjusted your grip on Aaron as Rossi disappeared down the path, mumbling something about needing a drink and a month off. Aaron meanwhile, had gone entirely pliable in your arms. Not quite dead weight, he was still trying to be helpful in that way drunks think they’re being helpful, mostly by murmuring ‘I’ve got it’ while making zero actual contribution.

“You realise I’m probably going to hold this over you for the rest of your life,” you muttered as you led him up the final step.

“I deserve that. But in my defence…you looked really good coming down the porch.”

“You want to live, don’t you?”

“Very much,” he nodded, leaning heavily against the doorframe as you flicked the light on. “Preferably in this house. With you.”

Your arms were around him again, helping him to the couch. “I mean it,” he added as he slumped on the pillows with a grunt. “You. This. You’re the safest thing in my life.”

You swallowed, your annoyance dissolving like sugar in warm water by the sincerity in his bloodshot eyes. “Let me get you something to drink before you start making me cry.”

“I know what this job does to people,” he went on, and you paused mid-step, glancing back at him. Without thinking, you abandoned your hydration mission entirely and sat down beside him. “I’ve seen it, we’ve watched it. Over and over. And you,” he continued, “you still choose me. Even on days I wouldn’t choose myself.”

You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his, your thumb gently spinning his gold wedding band. Then you brought his knuckles to your lips, pressing a soft kiss there. “Always, baby. Now let's get you upstairs and you can carry on telling me how great I am, hm?”

That earned the faintest of smiles, crooked and sleepy. “I do have a lot more material.”

“I bet you do.”

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic @yourallaround-simp @percysley @wowitsafemale @cinnamoncunt @keiminds @iyskgd @mystic-rox @insured-by-the-mafia @mggslover @star-crossed-sephie @tearykth @2dloveshp @lovelystrawberry @imissaaronhotchner @justyourusualash @alexxavicry @storiesofsvu @ehedrick012110 @hopelessromantic727 @piatosniathenie @averyhotchner @softtdaisy

join my taglist here 💌

please fill out the form if you'd like to be tagged for specific readers or send me a dm if you'd like to be removed from the list!

#alina’s 1k bar🍸#mine🌟#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner #criminal minds #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner one shot #ssa aaron hotchner #hotch #aaron hotchner fluff

544 notes · View notes

st3f13ily · 2 days ago

Text

Encore Of Obsession

Pairing: Yandere Saja Boys x Reader

Genre: Kpop, Demon, Yandere, Supernatural Obsession

Summary : But the tour is over. You planned to leave. They have… other plans. Because of the SA'JA, love isn't a feeling. It's a possession.

You close the dressing room door.

The crowd's roars still echo through the venue, but you're already halfway through zipping your travel bag. You're quitting. This job was meant to be temporary. You weren't supposed to feel watched all the time. You weren't supposed to find roses and other types of flowers every night in every corner of your house.

You weren't supposed to be followed home every night.

But now, you know. The SA'JA boys weren't human idols. They were demon sirens in designer leather, creatures wrapped in flawless visuals and sharpened smiles.

And now… they're behind you.

Five shadows. Five sets of eyes. Five obsessions.

The door behind you slams shut.

The light flickered.

It was Jinu, staring at you with his Demon eyes, staring at you like he was about to take your soul any moment. But he can't, because you were the only one that they can't seem to control, to take, to surrender everything you've got. You were immune to them, you are immune to them, to these Demon Sirens.

You're trapped. In a room with five beautiful monsters who love you far, far too much.

He steps forward first, slow and calm. Always calm.

"Leaving?" Jinu murmurs, eyes unreadable. "Without telling us goodbye?"

Abby then stepped forward, chuckling as he says "Pft, you can't leave, we even packed the snacks you like, we even wrote you a song. Wanna hear?"

He starts humming.

You feel nothing. As always.

He stares at you, then at his own trembling hands.

"I… I killed that stylist you didn't like." he whispers, voice cracking. "I listened. Doesn't that count for something?"

"Abs, move." Baby says, voice low. He looks at you like he's dissecting you.

He calls out your name and then he murmurs, walking in a slow circle around you, "Do you even know what your real memories are?"

You go cold.

"I could erase them," his voice is deep but it has some gentleness. "Make you love me. Make you hate them. Make you forget that you ever tried to leave."

His fingers brush your temple.

"Want me to?"

"Enough," Jinu's voice echoed, then Romance stepped in front of Baby with a smirk. "She doesn't need force. She needs to feel."

He takes your hand.

"I remember every time you looked at me. Every half-smile. Every time you didn't run when we were alone."

His grip tightens.

"You wanted me too. Didn't you?"

Your voice shakes. "No."

He laughs. "Lie to me again. I dare you."

Mystery skips in, barefoot, lips stained red.

"I brought you a gift." he finally spoke, holding out something small and velvet.

You open it.

It's the different types of flowers that kept haunting you every night, every night when you thought you were alone in your house but different types flowers kept appearing in every corner.

"I cleaned your apartment. I burned your trash. I made everything perfect for when you come home—to us."

His smile turns glassy.

"You're not leaving," he whispers. "Are you?"

Their voices rise in perfect harmony—an unsung encore only you can hear.

Your ears ring.

Your body trembles.

But your soul stays yours.

Still immune.

Still resisting.

And that… only makes them want you more.

998 notes · View notes

frownyalfred · 2 days ago

Text

crack fic idea where Dick has to take over for Bruce on patrol last minute in the suit and nobody thinks to give Selina a heads up so she corners Dick-as-Batman on a rooftop and gets .5 seconds through her ridiculously sexual opening line before her eyes widen, she physically backtracks, and they both stare at each other in horror as they realize, simultaneously, exactly what was about to happen.

(Selina has a minor crisis and has to be consoled [“I knew you when you were eleven”] and Dick tries to make it better by saying he isn’t that much younger than Bruce. which makes it much, much worse)

#batman #bruce wayne #dc #dick grayson #fic ideas #nightwing #Robin #Selina Kyle #Catwoman #batcat #Bruce is passed out on painkillers at home and has no clue #what payback is about to result

948 notes · View notes

uniquecutie-puffs · 3 days ago

Text

Heartstrings & Hellfire: Prologue

A stage burst into life, awash with thousands of glowing light stick and roaring fans. Neon beams ripple across the arena, covering to form a brilliant sigil: letter H, blazing at the heart of it all.

The crowds chants in perfect rhythm, voices echoing like a war cry of devotion.

Huntrix!

The name reverberates, charged with energy. As the lights whirl and pulse, fans raise their signature light sticks, ornately shaped like clover blossoms with interwoven lines, echoing the elegance of traditional norigae. Bathed in soft lavender and violet hues, each stick glows with a radiant H in its centre, uniting the crowd in a magical, synchronised light.

“The world will know you as a pop star.” a calm, powerful voice narrates, Celine, their mentor.

“But you will be much more than that.” She continued as a thick mist coiled across the stage, revealing three silhouettes of figures standing side by side. Their reflection shimmer as if caught between past and present.

“You will be Hunters.”

Centuries earlier.....

Red lighting cracks the earth of a quiet nearby village during the Joseon-era. the ground glows ominously beneath terrified feet as villagers turn, too late. From fiery fractures in the soil, grotesque shapes rise.

Demons.

“Demons have always haunted our world,”

One by one demons began to terrorize the village and take the souls of the innocent.

“Stealing our souls and channeling strength back to their king, Gwi-Ma.”

Streaks of light twisted upward, souls, torn and taken from the villager, pulled like comets into the void. In a shadowed realm, Gwi-Ma, the Demon King, devours them. Each soul that he feeds on bloats his form with power. With every feeding, he spawns new horrors.

“Until heros arose to defend us.”

A mother shields her child, clutching only a rake for protection, as demons close in. But then a song is heard from the gate. A sudden glow.

The demons were about to attack the people, only to be stopped by the presence of three women standing atop on the gate. Clad in warrior's hanbok, each holding weapons that shimmer with unnatural brilliance. With a song powering them to defend the villagers and defeating the demons.

“Born with voices that could drive back the darkness.”

As the three women conquer the demons, each woman sings with rich melodious grace while soaring and vanquishing all the demons within the village.

“Singing songs of courage and hope. But hunters are more than warriors. They also had the protection of an angelic warrior supporting them with their light magic.”

As the final demon fades into dus, the warriors descend, with elegance and fierceness. Their harmony summons a wave of light, wrapping the country in safety. From above, a new glow.

A fourth figure descends, an angelic warrior, radiant in white hanbok. With hands outstretched, she channels the music into pure white magic.

“Our music ignites the soul and brings people together.”

The angelic warrior went over to a little girl whose soul was ignited by the performance of the warrior's and held her hand to show compassion and hope while retrieving the little girl's sparkled soul in doing so, creating a glowing light show.

“With this connection, the first Hunters created a shield to protect our world, the Honmoon.”

The warriors gather. With synchronized steps and radiant song, they form a circle at the village center.

“Every generation, a new angel is reborn with the new trio of hunters chosen to fulfill our ultimate duty.”

The angel lifts her hands and a wave of golden light erupts outward, a protective shield was formed.As the demonic horde screams from the underworld, the light seals them away.

The Honmoon expands across the land, a barrier that no demon can breach.

“A barrier so strong it is impenetrable, that will keep demons and Gwi-Ma from our world forever.”

Time shifts. Eras pass, each decade of music gives birth to a new trio of Hunters and the rebirth of the Angel was shown as they sang together in harmony.

“The Golden Honmoon.”

The Sunlight Sisters' golden performance was the breaking point in creating the golden protective shield around the world.

“And now that duty falls to you.”

Celine stood with a giant scared willow tree behind her. Before her stand the new Hunters, the first male led generation.

At the center: a tall young man with violet hair, intensity in his eyes. To his left, a smirking dancer with flaming pink hair. To his right, a graceful and beautiful woman with long golden wavy locks, eyes full of fire and kindness. And beside her, a bright soul with dark navy hair, fists clenched in resolve and excitement.

Celine steps forward.

“That victory is within your reach. It is your voice, your song, that will create the Golden Honmoon.”

The four of them looked at each other and clasping hands to show their loyalties to one another and their friendship.

“Yes, Celine,” they all said in unison.

Their eyes shine. Not just with the thrill of the stage but with purpose and fire.

AUTHORS NOTE:

Hi, so this is the start of the story hehehe, hope you enjoyed it so far. So the height is based on the height of some of the BTS members (since they're back and I love them).

Also I would like suggestions for the male counterpart of the names for the Huntrix. I read somewhere that the name Rumi can be unisex so that stays but I'm having a hard time with Mira and Zoey's male names.

So far I have is Miro and Zane. But you can comment down below if you have any other suggestions that you like.

💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜TAGLIST💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

@gremlinartstudio @enerofairy @aliyahanime43 @zoeyella1-4 @daisy56789 @darling-dearestt @0eye0 @sirenetheblogger @akariis4snowball @crescent-z @any-maybe @shoopershtar @bitchpleaseeeeeeeeee @foxinspace @selenescribes @onebraincellsaday @hoo-hoo @lowkeyjarr @kitsune-05 @princessbonniebubblegumsblog @scarletsssarchive @bugworldsworld @redrage71890 @kashasenpai @hisashifrey @akiqvq @aespaminjeong @greensunflowerjuna @justrandomlypassing @eyesdontread @eliengoddes @codgirle @fandomgoddes05 @yirengbam7089 @themostdelusionalgirl @baby-bread-in @graceluvseilish @lynvriee @itsstarlight01-blog @zomqiez @strayharmony943 @nevermorekisses @hikari-michiko @lizzymizzy-blogg @lovingyeet @chibiduck @hisashifrey @maximimtrashchild @reni502 @queenofviolenceandnerds @gasoline-eater @tagmepls @gl00muraaii @prettylittlelavvy

@comicsol1999 @saternsky @thoughtfulbananaduckcroissant @sunshinedaisy21 @katzline @thecrazyone2007 @mat-mat-mat @monnxtqf @dyuiphc @p1nkpaperstars @misdollface

#kpdh x reader #jinu x reader #kpop demon hunters x reader #rumi x reader #zoey x reader #mira x reader #kpop demon hunters #romance x reader #abby x reader #mystery x reader #baby x reader #saja boys x reader #huntrix x reader #genderbend huntrix #Male huntrix x reader x saja boys #Male rumi x reader #Male Mira x reader #Male zoey x reader

529 notes · View notes

aventurineswife · 3 days ago

Note

Can i ask... hsr men with a reader who always calls them by their name, when the reader suddenly uses a pet name, an intimate one at that out of nowhere? Like, would they ignore would they get flustered or stuff?

“Call Me That Again and I’m Yours”

Synopsis: They’ve always known you as someone steady—reliable, composed, respectful. Names were a boundary you never crossed. Until you did. Suddenly, a soft pet name slips from your lips—they can only respond in the only way they know how.

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Mydei x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Caelus x Reader, Argenti x Reader, Romantic Tension, Emotional Vulnerability, Subtle Fluff, Soft Pet Names, Slow burn/Sudden Intimacy, Banter turning Tender, Hurt/Comfort (esp. for Mydei and Sunday), Stoic Men Unraveling, Subtext and Suppressed Feelings, Unexpected Reactions.

Warnings: Light mentions of blood (Mydei's scene), Slight angst / emotional baggage, Suggestive tension (Aventurine, Dan Heng), Emotional themes (e.g., trauma, guilt, redemption).

A/N: I might have to do multiple parts of this req, so let me know which characters you wanna see next! :DD

You’d always called him Aventurine—not Kakavasha, never anything soft. Just Aventurine. Clean, professional, distant. Even during your playful banter or those late-night strategy sessions when his voice dipped and his eyes lingered a little too long, you’d kept the line firm.

But tonight, as he adjusted the roulette brooch on his collar, you walked past him, leaned in, and murmured, “Looking sharp tonight, darling.”

He froze. For precisely 0.5 seconds—a brief hitch in his well-oiled persona. His fingers paused mid-adjustment, and the ever-present grin twitched, faltered… then curved into something slower. Something far more dangerous.

“Well, well,” he drawled, eyes flicking to yours like dice clattering on velvet. “Did my ears deceive me, or have you just raised the stakes?”

You arched a brow, amused. “I figured it was time to gamble a little.”

His smile widened, but you saw it then—the faint crack in his composure. The way his hand ghosted behind his back, fingers twitching in the air like he wasn’t sure whether to pull you closer or push you away. That name—it wasn’t just cute. It was intimate. Dangerous. It threatened the mask he so carefully wore.

“Careful,” he whispered, stepping closer until your breath caught. “Use that word again, and I might start to think you mean it.”

You smiled back, just as daring. “Maybe I do.”

And just like that, for once, you’d left him unsure who was winning.

“Sunday, we need to address the guest list again. The ceremony’s balance will collapse if—”

“—We include the North Sector delegates, yes,” he interrupted gently, hands folded, gaze serene. “I am already aware.”

You sighed, scribbling notes. Same old Sunday—graceful, poised, untouchable.

“Fine, love, but if this flops, I’m blaming you.”

Silence.

You didn’t catch it at first. His reaction was… almost imperceptible. The pen stilled between his gloved fingers. His eyes flicked toward you with the smallest shift of light. There was no smile, no obvious response, but something behind his gaze unraveled—like a ripple across still water.

“…‘Love’?” he repeated quietly, voice low, measured.

You looked up, unsure if you should laugh it off. “It just slipped.”

“I see.”

He returned to his work, posture perfect—but you noticed he hadn’t written a word since. His mind was elsewhere. The halo above his head shimmered subtly, like it pulsed in time with his heart.

It wasn’t embarrassment. It was something deeper. As if the word had struck a chord he’d long buried—something warm, painful, human.

“…You shouldn’t use a word like that lightly,” he finally said, glancing at you again.

“And if I didn’t?”

His lips parted, then closed. No answer. But his gloved hand slowly reached over and rested on yours, just for a moment. A silent concession. A rare flicker of vulnerability.

You'd breached something sacred—and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to pull away or fall in.

You found him alone after the skirmish, sitting on the edge of a ruined stone altar, cape torn, armor dusted with ash. The blood wasn’t his, but it stained his hands all the same.

“Mydei,” you called softly, approaching him through the rubble.

He didn’t look up. “I told you to stay with the others.”

“I don’t take orders well.”

A pause. Then a sigh—more relief than exasperation. His eyes finally met yours, heavy with exhaustion and something else: grief he didn’t voice, names he couldn’t forget.

You reached out, thumb brushing a line of red from his jaw. “You’re safe… Beloved.”

He blinked.

“Say that again.”

You tilted your head. “Beloved?”

He stood, slowly, towering, not in a threatening way—but like the weight of that word shifted the battlefield under your feet. He stepped closer until you had to tilt your head to meet his gaze.

“No one’s called me that since…” His voice cracked, just slightly. “Since before the sea swallowed me whole.”

You swallowed. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” he said, reaching out with a hand trembling with restraint. “No, don’t stop.”

In a world where titles were earned through blood and legacy, beloved was the one name he’d longed for but never dared to claim.

You gave it freely—and that was the one war he didn’t know how to fight.

Dan Heng stood silently in the Archives, eyes scanning over glowing data logs. You approached, hands behind your back, watching the way the soft blue light played across his features.

“Dan Heng,” you said as usual. He hummed softly, acknowledging you without turning.

You reached his side, pretending to study the data, but your focus was on the curve of his jaw, the slight furrow of his brow.

“I brought you some tea. Thought you could use a break, darling.”

The word slipped out, soft and syrupy.

Dan Heng froze.

His grip on the datapad faltered. He didn’t look at you immediately, but his ears turned a vivid shade of pink.

“…What did you call me?” he asked, tone low, almost cautious.

You played innocent. “Hmm? Oh, nothing, Dan Heng.”

He finally turned, eyes narrowed, a faint flush still lingering on his cheeks. “You did. Say it again.”

You tilted your head, grinning. “Darling?”

He exhaled sharply, muttering something under his breath, trying to maintain composure. He failed spectacularly. The calm, cool Dan Heng couldn’t meet your eyes for a solid thirty seconds.

But when he finally did, he stepped closer.

“…If you’re going to say things like that,” he murmured, voice softer now, “Don’t be surprised when I stop pretending I’m unaffected.”

You and Caelus had been walking side by side after a mission, stars glittering above. You laughed about something he’d said, casually bumping your shoulder against his.

“You always do this, Caelus,” you said, teasing. “Charging in like you’ve got plot armor or something.”

“I mean, I might,” he joked. “Main character energy and all.”

You rolled your eyes. “Sure thing, love.”

The moment the word left your lips, silence fell.

Caelus tripped over his own foot.

He caught himself quickly, turning to you with wide eyes. “Wait. Did you just call me—?”

“I did,” you confirmed with a sly grin. “Something wrong with that, love?”

His expression shifted, uncertain whether to be flustered or flattered. He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks blooming with color.

“I… No. I mean, it’s not wrong. Just. Unexpected.”

You nudged him again. “You’re cute when you’re trying not to smile.”

“I’m not trying not to smile,” he said quickly, then failed to hide the shy grin tugging at his lips. “Okay, maybe I am. Call me that again.”

The battlefield was quiet now, monsters defeated, the sunset casting golden hues across the ruins. Argenti stood tall, brushing dust from his armor with knightly grace.

You approached, hands behind your back.

“Argenti, you were amazing back there,” you praised, as always.

He nodded humbly. “Merely fulfilling my duty to Beauty and righteousness.”

You smiled. “Of course, beloved.”

Argenti blinked.

The word echoed.

He turned to you slowly, as if unsure he’d heard correctly. “Beloved…?”

You tilted your head, eyes innocent. “Yes?”

He pressed a hand to his chest, lips parting slightly in astonishment. “You honor me with such a name… Are you certain… I am worthy of it?”

“You’ve always been worthy,” you said softly.

He took your hand, kneeling with a reverent grace, eyes shining. “Then allow me to dedicate not only my blade but my heart to you. For Beauty may guide me, but you, my beloved, inspire me.”

You laughed, a little flustered yourself now.

Leave it to Argenti to turn one pet name into a poetic vow.

698 notes · View notes

rawme-price · 3 days ago

Text

Soap and reader who is willing to put up with any comment....up to a point.

You listen to plenty of jokes about urs and johnnys relationship, about ur excessive PDA, about his Scottish accent. Hell, you listen to jokes about him being short. The last straw?

"Im shocked you haven't made him get rid of that horrible haircut!"

The mug ur holding literally cracks from how hard ur gripping it, and the table goes silent as you stand. "Listen here," you hiss, leaning over the table to glare "i put up with alot of shit, but you do not get to fucking comment on my johnnys hair, got it? He looks damn good, and im fucking tired of hearing you lot dig at him when youre walking around looking like a botched botox treatment." You storm off to find Johnny, pissed.

(Anyways soap gives u insane head when he hears abt this. He's so in love lol)

#inspired by the fact i LOVE soaps hair and im tired of people saying it looks dumb #cod #john soap mactavish #cod smut #johnny mactavish #johnny soap mactavish #johnny soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #soap smut

937 notes · View notes

dark-night-hero · 3 days ago

Text

Imagine being Caleb's non-mc significant other. Alpha/Omega verse.

Imagine the Skyheaven Academy was filled with steel towers and crystalline skies. A sanctuary for the elite, soldiers, empaths, and psychics. It was a place for ascension, both in rank and social standing.

Imagine, somewhere among these floating island and shining uniforms, you found love in the most unexpected place. One of the academy's strongest Alpha, Caleb.

Imagine, Caleb wasn't just admired, he was respected. His psychic resonance cut through space like gravity, his instincts honed with near animalistic precision. He was a living symbol of dominance and control.

Imagine and yet he chose you. You, with no second gender. No heat. No scent. No place in the primal biological dance of Alpha and Omega.

Imagine you always thought his love would be enough to silence the whispers behind your back. That it would shield you from the subtle rejections at formal events, the way professors avoided eye contact when grading your reports, the way other Omegas stared at you with sympathy or worse, disdain.

but Imagine the one you could never win over was Caleb's mother. She never raised her voice. She didn't need to. Her disdain was precise, venom hidden beneath the silk. She once told you with a smile that your love was "Admirable" like a child playing dress-up in the clothes of something sacred.

Imagine you kept it together. You always did. For Caleb. But the night you asked him.

"If I were an Omega, would things be different?" His silence spoke louder than any betrayal. He didn't say yes. But he didn't say no either. That's when the crack in your heart began.

Imagine it happened during Skyheaven's lunar convergence. When psychic storms made it dangerous to suppress instincts. The Academy called it "Resonance Week." For most Alphas and Omegas, it was treated with caution. For you and Caleb, it was a test.

Imagine walking in, and the person you love doesn't see you.

Imagine it wasn't because he forgot you.But because instinct buried everything else.

Imagine the door wasn't locked. That should've been the first sign. You stepped into his quarters, fresh from drills, still half in uniform. You thought he might be resting. Maybe already asleep. You thought he might smile when he saw you. But he didn’t.

Imagine the air was thick. Too warm. Mixed with something unfamiliar. And then you saw her. The Omega. Not just any Omega. Perfect. Engineered. Glowing with heat and pheromones like honey and wildfire. And in front of her was Caleb.

Imagine his eyes were dilated. Chest rising and falling like he couldn't breathe. Shoulders shaking under the weight of instincts barely held back.

Imagine you call out his name once. Soft. He didn't hear it. You said it again, louder this time. And then again, a crack in your voice could be heard this time. Still nothing.

Imagine his whole body was just facing the Omega. Tension in every line of muscle. His hands clenched, then flexed, then reached forward.

"Caleb." You snapped. "Don't." That got his attention. But not like you hoped. He turned toward you. And for a second. Just for a second his eyes flashed with something animal. Not recognition. Not love. Threat. Then he lunged.

Imagine the moment he did that, you didn't think. You moved. You threw yourself between them. And it all happened too fast.

Imagine he hit you. Not a punch, not violent. But a shove so forceful it knocked the air from your lungs and sent your back into the wall. Your shoulder cracked against it. Pain spread down your arm.

Imagine Omega flinched behind you. Their scent flared. You stood again anyway, shaking and gasping. "Caleb. Look at me." Your voice broke. "It's me." And finally... Finally his eyes focused. Just a little.

Imagine could see the war inside him. Recognition crawling its way up through instinct. Through scent. Through everything screaming in his blood to claim the person behind you instead.

Imagine his body was trembling. He took a step forward again and you braced yourself. Not because you thought he'd hurt you. But because the truth already had. He wanted you gone. Not Caleb. The Caleb you knew wouldn't. But this thing inside him.

Imagine reaching out, hand against his chest, just over his heart. "Don't do this." You whispered, almost crying.

Imagine the way he twitched like it burned him. But just then was when the security team burst in. It happened do fast. The suppressants hitting him like ice water and he collapsed to his knees. Gasping. Clawing at the floor. His breath caught on sobs he wasn't fully conscious of.

Imagine all you could do was watch. You didn't go to him. You couldn't. Because it hurt. It hurts to see the person you trusted more than anything fall apart like that. Not because he stopped loving you. But because he couldn't even see you through the fog of what he was born to be.

Imagine as you stood still as they carried him away. The Omega too. Quiet. Unshaken. But no one looked at you. After all you weren't the one he tried to touch.

Imagine later on as you sat by his unconscious figure at the infirmary, they would call it an unfortunate misunderstanding. They'd tell you it wasn't his fault. That it was just biology. Stress. Poor timing.

Imagine you understand but none of that really mattered. Because for those few minutes... You were invisible. And love, the thing you built together so carefully broke under instincts weight. Not with a scream. Not with a goodbye. Just a shove. And silence.

Imagine wanting to scream. You wanting to stay. But more than anything, you wanted to believe that what you had could survive biology, tradition, and the crushing weight of instinct.

but Imagine, love doesn't erase the truth. It just delays it.

My love, Caleb,

I loved you fiercely and I never wanted to leave. But I saw it, what lives in you. What wakes when you're vulnerable. What you were built to be.

It's not your fault. This world was made for Alphas and Omegas, and I was foolish enough to think we could rewrite it.

You once told me I was your anchor. But I think I was just a rope tied to a storm.

When you wake up, please don’t come looking for me. Let this be mercy, not abandonment.

Yours, once.

Imagine, you left that night. Going through Skyheaven Academy gates unnoticed. Behind you, the sky burned with silver, and the man you loved slept alone, still dreaming of you. But dreams like love are fragile things in a world built on instinct.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

698 notes · View notes

neellscapsule · 2 days ago

Text

My Heart — Part Six

summary | your family realizes how much they have missed. the problem is that you are a grown up by now, and terrible hurt by their neglect.

pairing | platonic yandere batfam x batsis!neglected!reader. conner kent x reader.

warnings / tags | angst, hurt/little comfort, y/n is mentioned as a female, trauma, family issues, mostly trust and daddy issues. they all love each other (PLATONICALLY) they just don't know how to feel it and express it correctly. it gets darker

angsty chapter and reader is NOT happy. it is not implicated in the text but the tea is ADULTERED totally drugged.

word count | 4.6l

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :) please vote <3 dick is 28. jason is 23. reader will be 22 in a few months. cass is 21. tim is 20. duke is 18. damian is 13. conner looks 22 as well.

taglist | @cebrospudipudi @jjoppees @corvoqueen @nirvanaxx1942 @lilyalone @aixaingela @lettucel0ver @time-shardz @pix-stuff @galaxypurplerose @cupid73 @theproblemisthattimnotfictional @vanessa-boo @timebomb1101 @chemicalwindexbottle @chiizuluvr @ihavenomuse @mat5u0 @thismessyshe @lovebug-apple @myjumper @angwlart @esposadomd @nisarelle @mrmacwaffles @mazixxss @ememgl @naomi-xxi @bbmgirll @ash0-0ley @rowan-no-rizzz @hearts4mica @sillyheartmoonnyx @crumbs-and-covers @nininehaaa @ironsaladwitch @c4xcocoa @keyllsbk @welpthisisboring @redkarmakai @yuyuzi-ling @91-kya @mat5u0 @nymphzy0 @jeshomie @keysmashstuff @imsomniaccorner @rowan-no-rizzz @xoxoangellll @oliviaewl

previous. next.

It’s only been a few hours. Not even dinner yet. And your things — your life — are already bleeding back into the Manor like they never left.

Boxes stacked neatly by the stairs. Suitcases rolling in. Steph and Duke arguing softly over where to drop your art stuff. Cass ghosting through the hall, carrying your sketch portfolios like they weigh nothing. Tim? You don’t even know where he is, but you wouldn’t be surprised if he already hacked the Royal Resort, changed your room access code, and sent a digital notice of your “check out” to their front desk. Smug little bastard.

You aren’t even going to try fighting it. No one here listens to “no.”

Because the Waynes, God help you, never really ask for things. They consume them. They fold you back into the sharp jaws of their family, biting down until you realize that escape was never really an option.

You tend to forget you are a Wayne as well.

You stand in the middle of it all, arms crossed, jaw tight, watching them pull your belongings through the front doors like this is normal. Like they didn’t spend four years letting you stay gone.

“Annoyed?” Jason’s voice is far too entertained, standing beside you with a box balanced on one palm.

“Beyond,” you mutter, glaring as one of your easels is carried toward the stairs.

“You knew it was coming.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

Jason smirks but lets it drop, wandering off with the box. You sigh, shoulders slumping, and turn toward the wing where your room still waits. Untouched. Too familiar.

And it is… different. Familiar in the bones of it, but stripped of its soul. The walls are bare where posters and paintings used to hang. The shelves mostly empty, save for a few stubborn relics that Alfred clearly refused to toss — old books, a cracked snow globe, a tiny bronze bust of Athena from your first Gotham art exhibit.

Damian’s already there. Of course he is. Smaller than the others, but somehow taking up more space than all of them combined, hovering at your side like a shadow that refuses to detach itself.

The kid hovers near your bed, arms crossed behind his back like a tiny, overly proper soldier on duty. His green eyes flick to you, guarded but… softer than usual. Like he hasn’t quite figured out how to stop being angry at the world when it comes to you.

“Need help unpacking?” he asks, tone clipped, but there’s hope there. The kind that coils tight in your chest.

You hesitate, torn between instinct and guilt, then nod, stepping inside.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Sure.”

He follows, eager despite his mask of disinterest, helping you tug open bags, sort clothes, stack books. For a while, it’s… weirdly peaceful. The steady rustle of fabric. The faint creak of the floorboards. Damian brushing past you without biting words, his fingers tracing over your old framed photos on the shelves — ones you left behind because they hurt too much to take.

You catch him pausing at the piano music sheets tucked beside your nightstand. His brows furrow.

“You still play?”

“Not often.” You shrug. “More painting now.”

Damian hums, thoughtful, gaze lingering. “You should’ve stayed.”

You freeze, the words hanging in the air like smoke. You glance up, meeting his eyes — so green, so much like Bruce’s it physically aches. But they’re not cold, not like your father’s can be. They’re… fractured. Full of sharp edges and careful walls, yes, but under that?

Longing.

Guilt gnaws at your ribs.

“Didn’t know you existed yet,” you say softly, fingers curling around the strap of an old bag. “Not really.”

His mouth presses thin. “That doesn’t change it.”

You exhale, standing, brushing invisible dust from your jeans. “I left the Manor, Dami. I didn’t just… leave you.”

“You left me,” he says, blunt, young enough to say it like a wound, like a scar carved too deep. “You all did. But you… You weren’t supposed to.”

God, you hate how your throat tightens.

The bitter ache behind your ribs.

You hadn’t been prepared for him — for this — when you came back.

Your fingers reach for another box, peeling it open just to avoid his stare, but it doesn’t help. His presence is overwhelming. Silent and sharp like his mother’s. Possessive like his father’s.

“I didn’t even know you,” you murmur, voice rough. “I knew… of you. Little headlines. Files. Cass tried to tell me. But I—” You pause, eyes shutting briefly. “I was so angry. I couldn’t even… I couldn’t come back.”

“Because of him,” Damian says. It isn’t a question.

You nod.

Bruce Wayne. The great Dark Knight. The man you once idolized, once bled beside as Huntress, as his partner. The same man who never quite looked at you the way he looked at the others. Not the way you needed. Never the way you begged for as a kid with bruised knuckles and desperate, reaching hands.

“Because of a lot of things,” you correct gently, placing your sketchbook aside, the worn leather cover heavy with memories. “But yeah… mostly him.”

Damian’s jaw clenches, the muscle ticking. His arms uncross, falling at his sides. He looks…

Small.

Despite the bravado, the stiff lines, the name of the Demon Head running through his blood… He’s thirteen.

Your baby brother. One of your younger siblings. The one you abandoned before you even truly met him.

You weren’t there for the first bruises on his knuckles. You weren’t there for the first nights he slipped into patrol. You weren’t there for his first real battle, the first time he realized that Gotham’s love is sharp-edged and cruel.

You weren’t there. You left.

And it’s starting to suffocate you— the realization that this boy, this brother, had spent years carving out his place in the family you abandoned, while you disappeared into the art galleries and the high-rise studios of New York.

You curse under your breath, stepping forward before you can overthink it, cupping the back of his neck gently, tilting his head toward you.

“You shouldn’t want me here,” you whisper, honest, broken. “I don’t know how to do this anymore.”

His eyes glisten for a second, the weight of his walls faltering. But only for a moment. His hands lift, fisting in your shirt, his brow pressing against your shoulder in a rare, vulnerable gesture he’d never admit to.

“You’re my sister,” he mutters, the words muffled but steel-strong. “I don’t care how long it takes. You belong here. You were the only one who was mine. Blood. Sister. Everyone else is just… attached.”

You swallow thickly.

Damian, for all his sharp edges and biting remarks, was still just a boy looking for someone who belonged to him in the same undeniable way that blood does. He wasn’t just a Wayne. He was yours.

“I’m here now,” you promise, voice soft, fragile. “For as long as I can stand it.”

He gives a sharp little nod, like that’s acceptable.

But you both know the truth.

It’s then, when you pull another box from beneath the bed, that you find it — old, dusty, edges worn, but unmistakable.

The Box.

The one that started this whole spiral, even if you don't know it. You pop the lid, heart stumbling when you see your old notebooks stacked inside. Your sketch journals. Poetry. Music sheets. Little scraps of yourself you never let them see.

Damian watches, sharp-eyed. “You wrote a lot.”

You smile faintly, fingers ghosting over the familiar covers. “Started around your age. Couldn’t… couldn’t really talk to anyone. So, I wrote.”

For a second, there’s something bitter in your throat. The weight of all those words that never reached the right ears.

“I saw that box,” Damian says, breaking your thoughts. His lips press thin, voice low. “Grayson and Father had it.”

Your head jerks up.

“What?”

He nods, glancing toward the door like they’ll appear at any second. “They read your letters. The invitations. That’s why some of those are missing.”

You frown, rifling through the papers. Sure enough… gaps. Missing slips of faded cardstock, soft with time. The ones with their names.

You straighten abruptly, box in hand.

“I’ll be back,” you say tightly, already halfway out the door.

Damian follows to the threshold, but wisely stays behind.

You stalk down the halls, passing portraits and shelves that mock you with their polished familiarity. Your boots echo over the marble. Your heart pounds heavier. The box is tight in your arms, fingers curled so hard around the edges your knuckles burn white. You don’t even hesitate when you reach your father’s study. You shove the door open without knocking, the hinges groaning under the force.

Bruce looks up from behind his desk, the same goddamn desk that’s always separated him from you. His eyes lift slowly, unreadable behind that ever-present mask of indifference.

“Y/N,” he greets simply, setting down a pen.

You march in, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling with the weight of it all, and slam the box down onto the dark wood of his desk.

“They’re mine,” you snap, teeth bared around every syllable. “The invitations. The letters. The pieces of me you ignored for years. Give them back.”

His gaze drops to the box, lids lowering slightly. Calm. Too calm. Always calm when you’re coming undone.

“You left them here,” he says quietly, like that’s supposed to be some kind of explanation.

“That doesn’t mean you get to—” your voice cracks— “to keep them. To— to read them like you suddenly give a damn.”

“I’ve always cared.”

The words are so simple. So detached.

It’s laughable.

You laugh— bitter, sharp, ugly.

“Yeah? You cared while I was bleeding under that Huntress mask? You cared when I was fourteen, fifteen, sixteen— when I was killing myself trying to be enough for you? I was practically breaking my ribs to breathe in this house, Bruce—”

You use his name like a blade.

And for the first time, his expression shifts. The faintest flicker of hurt behind those unreadable eyes.

“Don’t—” he starts, but you’re already unraveling.

“No, I’m talking,” you hiss, voice cracking with the sheer force of holding it together for too long. “I begged for your attention. I broke myself for your pride. I learned to throw knives before I learned to drive, I broke bones before I got my period, and the only thing I ever wanted—” your throat tightens, eyes burning— “was for my dad to fucking look at me like I mattered.”

His mouth parts— an interruption, maybe. You don’t let him.

“You looked at Dick,” you spit, pacing now, heat climbing under your skin, nails digging crescent moons into your palms. “At Jason. At Tim. Hell, you adopted half the city because they were broken and brave and you saw them. But me?” Your voice cracks, and it slices through the room. “I was standing right here. Your kid. Your first daughter. And you never— you never looked.”

“I saw you.”

The words fall from his mouth like they should mean something.

You stare at him, chest heaving, that dangerous, shaking, bitter-laced laugh creeping out of your throat.

“You saw me when it was convenient. At galas. On patrol. When I played the part. But you didn’t see me when I cried myself to sleep in this house. When I begged Alfred to remind me why I even existed in this family.”

“Y/N—”

“No!” Your fist slams onto the desk, rattling the box, the notebooks inside shuddering under the force. Your shoulders curl forward, that trembling, raw ache choking every syllable. “You read my words, Bruce. You read every pathetic, desperate thing I wrote to get your attention, and you didn’t say a damn thing. You just kept them. Like— like souvenirs of how badly you failed me.”

He stands now, slow, careful, like he’s trying not to spook a wounded animal.

“I kept them because they mattered.”

You flinch. Because that— that doesn’t make it better. That makes it worse.

“Then why didn’t I?” you whisper, voice cracking so thin it’s barely audible.

His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. And for once, Batman looks speechless.

The lump in your throat crawls higher, the weight of everything clawing through your ribs until you can’t stand it. Your vision blurs with unshed tears, the room suffocating, the walls pressing in—

Jason’s voice cuts through the static, smooth but laced with warning, not to you.

“Hey— hey, sweetheart—” His hand catches your elbow, tugging you gently away from the desk, away from the storm brewing in your chest. His eyes flick to Bruce, sharp, protective. “That’s enough.”

Your father doesn’t stop you.

Doesn’t argue.

“Later,” he murmurs, tugging you. “Let’s not explode the whole house on your first day back, yeah?”

You let him guide you, too raw, too frayed at the edges to resist, the box clutched to your chest like it holds your last shred of pride.

He doesn’t take you far. Just out, through the side door, past the old stone threshold that still smells faintly of ivy and rainwater. The gardens stretch ahead of you, green and alive, overgrown in some parts, perfectly manicured in others. Like everything in this family — halfway wild, halfway curated.

The cold air bites when the door to the garden swings open. The scent of wet grass and the sweetness of the last lingering roses hit you like a ghost. The gardens haven’t changed. You could close your eyes and walk these paths blind, could still find the cracked stone where you used to sit, where you used to hide.

It shouldn’t affect you the way it does. But it’s been years. Years since your boots walked these cobbled paths. Since you brushed your fingers along the rosebushes, memorized the stone statues of long-dead Waynes, listened to the wind thread through the hedges and wondered if maybe, just maybe, you belonged here.

You stop by the little wrought-iron bench. The one you used to curl up on with a book or sketchpad when Alfred scolded you for pacing the halls like a restless cat. Your knees threaten to buckle.

Jason’s still beside you. Silent for a beat, his blue eyes scanning your face like he’s cataloging every fracture in your armor.

“You good to sit?” he asks finally, voice stripped of its usual cocky charm, softer, older, gentler.

You nod, throat tight, and collapse onto the bench. The box lands beside you, your arms falling limp at your sides as exhaustion crawls under your skin like a sickness.

Jason leans against the backrest, arms crossed, one leg kicked out lazily in front of him. But his gaze never leaves you.

“I thought you’d punch him,” he says after a moment, like it’s some normal conversation.

“I thought so too,” you rasp, voice barely holding steady. Your fingers twitch, nails biting into your palms.

Silence settles between you, heavy and humming with unsaid things. The garden is quiet, save for the rustle of leaves in the warm Gotham breeze and the faint chirp of birds that have somehow not abandoned this cursed place.

You bite your cheek, hard, tasting iron at the back of your tongue. The weight in your chest grows unbearable.

“He had no right to keep them,” you whisper, more to yourself than him. “Those letters—those words were mine, Jay.”

Jason nods, slow, his eyes dark with understanding. He tilts his head, letting the silence stretch, giving you room.

It cracks something in you. Your walls cave in on themselves, and the words spill out, raw and broken.

“You’re my family,” you breathe, voice cracking on the confession. “And I love you. I love all of you. But you’re— you’re terrible.” You swallow around the knot in your throat, eyes burning, vision swimming with tears you’ve tried so hard to swallow. “You’re all terrible.”

Jason’s brows pull together, faint lines creasing between them, but he doesn’t interrupt. He exhales slowly, raking a hand through his hair. “Yeah. We are.”

“It’s not fair,” you choke, the sob clawing its way up your throat, unstoppable now. Your hands cover your face, shoulders shaking, breath hitching as it pours out of you, ugly and too real. “It’s not fair— I was here. I was here and I tried— I tried so damn hard to make him proud. And he— he just—”

You can’t finish the sentence. It shatters in your chest before it reaches your lips.

Jason exhales softly, the sound rough at the edges. Then, gently, he shifts, his hand reaching to curl around the back of your neck, tugging you toward him.

You resist for half a second, pride prickling. But you’re exhausted. Hollow. And there’s something in Jason’s touch — that stubborn, protective, reckless love he’s always carried for you — that breaks you down completely.

Your forehead bumps against his shoulder. You curl into him, tears spilling freely now, staining the worn fabric of his jacket. His hand stays at your nape, grounding you, his other arm curling protectively around your frame.

“I know,” he murmurs, chin resting against your temple. “I know, Birdie.”

“It’s not fair,” you croak, rubbing your palms over your eyes, as if that can stop the burning. “It’s not fair that I spent years begging for you all to see me, to just—just be there. And now you’re all here like you never left. Like you didn’t forget me.”

Jason tilts his head toward the sky, his lips twisting like he wants to argue, but he can’t.

You don’t let him. The flood’s coming now, and you can’t hold it back.

“You died, Jason.” Your voice sharpens, cuts through the garden like glass underfoot. “You died, and it ruined me.”

His head snaps down to you, breath caught in his throat.

“I was fourteen. I was fourteen and you were dead and no one—no one even noticed that it broke me.” You glare at him through the blur, the tears slipping, unwanted and hot. “And then you came back, and you—you didn’t come to me. You stayed away. You built walls. You left me behind again.”

Jason’s throat bobs. “I didn’t know how to come back to you.”

You shove your hands into your hair, tugging hard at the roots like it can ground you, like it can make you stop shaking. “I waited for you.”

“I know.”

“You were my favourite person,” you choke, the words ragged and small. “You were my brother and you were my best friend and you just—just left.”

His breath trembles out of him like a cracked apology.

“I didn’t mean to leave you,” he says, and his voice sounds like it’s breaking. “I didn’t mean to die on you.”

“But you did. I needed you,” you whisper, voice fraying apart at the edges. “I needed you and you— you just disappeared.”

Jason’s hand tightens slightly at the back of your neck.

“I know,” he says again, pained and low. “I’m sorry.”

You stay like that for a while. Your breathing slows, the storm inside your chest quieting to a simmer, though the ache never fully leaves. Jason lets you cry, lets you shake, doesn’t rush you to pull yourself together like the others always do.

hated myself for staying away from you when I came back. I thought—I thought you’d hate me for what I became. I didn’t want you to see me like that.”

Your breath shudders out, a laugh cracked in half by grief. “I’ve always seen you. Always.”

He finally, finally looks at you, really looks, his eyes raw, his walls caved in.

“You were the only one who ever really saw me,” he admits, a little too late, a little too soft.

Your ribs collapse under the weight of it. “And you left me anyway.”

Eventually, you straighten, wiping at your face with the sleeve of your sweater, sniffling quietly. Your throat is raw, your eyes glassy.

Jason watches you, patient, still.

“Not exactly the grand return I wanted,” you mutter bitterly, half a laugh, half a sob.

Jason snorts softly. “No one expected you to waltz in all sunshine and rainbows, Birdie. You’re still a Wayne.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch faintly, the first ghost of a smile threatening to break through the grief.

Jason taps the box at your side. “You keeping those?”

“Yeah.” You brush your fingers along the worn cardboard, the ache settling in your chest like an old friend. “They’re mine.”

“Good.” He pushes off the bench, offering his hand. “C’mon. You’ve caused enough drama for one morning.”

You hesitate, eyes flitting to the Manor behind him. The looming walls, the endless expectations, the memories stitched into every corner.

Jason squeezes your hand gently.

“We’ll figure it out,” he promises, eyes steady, blue and familiar. “I’ve got you.”

“. . . You’re not allowed to leave me again,” you mumble, voice raw.

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

You kick at his boot, just enough to make him huff a little more. “Promise.”

His gaze flicks down to you, and there’s something fierce, something broken in the way he answers. “Promise.”

And you believe him. You have to.

Even if it’s not fair. Even if you still want to scream. Even if the ache never quite leaves.

You love them.

They’re terrible.

But they’re yours.

You don’t eat dinner with the rest. You don’t have the energy to push yourself into another room where their eyes would watch you like you’re some fragile puzzle they’re trying to solve. You don’t want to play at the table, pretend you belong there just yet.

The library is quiet, save for the low, steady crackle of the fire devouring its own weight in the hearth. Shadows climb the walls, curling over the spines of leather-bound books, tracing old portraits, creeping across the floorboards like they know this house better than anyone ever could. You don’t bother to look up when you hear the door open. You already know who it is.

The sketchbook rests on your lap, half-finished lines scrawled across the page—limbs bent in motion, a face tilted in anguish, the sharp angles of a cathedral stitched into human skin. You’ve been working on it for hours, your pencil dancing through the strokes like your hands know grief better than your head does.

Lines bleed from your fingers, chaotic and gentle all at once, spinning a face you can’t quite hold in your head, features that slip just as you start to form them. Maybe it’s Jason’s nose. Maybe it’s Bruce’s jaw. Maybe it’s no one.

Bruce says nothing as he crosses the room. His footsteps are quieter now than they were when you were a child. Lighter. Older. Worn thin by years of carrying everything and everyone but you.

You still don’t look up.

The cushion beside you shifts when he sits, the same space on the same old couch where he used to read to you, back when things were simpler. Back when you thought love came in the shape of bedtime stories and scraped knees bandaged with rough, clumsy hands.

A porcelain cup clicks gently against the coffee table. You glance at it, finally, the faintest twitch in your brow when you notice the color of the tea, the faint aroma curling toward you.

“Raspberry,” Bruce says quietly, settling back into his seat, eyes fixed on the fire. “Three sugar cubes.”

You stare at the cup, steam curling like ghosts into the dim light, and then at him. His jaw is sharp in the flicker of flames, his mouth set in that unreadable line. You don’t thank him.

For a while, neither of you speak. The silence settles, heavy and familiar, stitched together with old tension and years of too much and not enough.

You sip the tea anyway. It’s perfect. Just how you’ve always taken it. It only makes you angrier.

Bruce leans his elbows onto his knees, watching the fire like it holds all the answers he never found in you. “You used to climb onto the piano bench before you could even walk properly,” he says, voice low, rough with memory. “Alfred was terrified you’d fall. But you never did.”

You don’t interrupt, fingers tightening around the sketchbook, pencil still clutched between them like a weapon.

“You’d sit there,” he continues, “banging on the keys with your little hands. No sense of melody. Just noise. But God, you looked… happy.”

Your jaw locks. You keep your eyes on the flames. Let him speak.

He exhales slowly, shoulders heavier than you remember them. “You always found ways to make your presence known.”

You laugh once, quiet and bitter. “Didn’t seem to work very well.”

You can feel his eyes on you, waiting, holding, but you keep your gaze fixed on the flame. You don’t want to see his face. You don’t want to see the weight he carries, because it’s the same one suffocating you.

“I do not forgive you,” you murmur, voice soft but sharp enough to draw blood. The fire crackles, swallowing the quiet like kindling.

His eyes don’t flinch. His mouth doesn’t twist. He just nods, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening. “I know.”

The admission sits heavy between you, thick as the smoke curling from the hearth.

For a long time, the only sound is the breathing of the house itself. Old beams creaking. The pop of burning wood. The distant hum of the world outside, too far removed from this broken little moment.

Bruce’s voice, when it comes again, is quieter. Almost lost to the flame. “Is there anything so undoing as a daughter?”

You blink, startled by the words. His eyes drift back to the fire. “Alfred said that,” he adds, lips curving faintly at the memory. “When you were a baby. You’d cry in my arms and quiet the second I’d hold you close. Clung to me like you never planned to let go.” His throat works. “I didn’t know then how much I’d… ruin that.”

You stare at the flames, but your mind drifts elsewhere—to the old halls of this house, to the forgotten rooms and creaking stairwells, to the years spent watching the people you love blaze bright for the world while you flickered, silent, unseen.

The halls, the rooms, the garden paths—they carry your shape, your scent, the laughter you left behind. But it’s not you who haunts them. It’s them who haunt you, the people, the memories, the versions of yourself that used to dream inside these walls.

You are not a house haunted by a ghost. You are a ghost haunted by a house.

Every corner of this place still echoes with pieces of you. The forgotten toys buried in the attic. The old recital photos tucked between bookshelves. The faint scratch on the bannister from your first Huntress grappling hook, never sanded out, never fixed.

And yet, it was never your home the same way it was theirs.

You breathe in deep, the warmth of the tea settling in your hands, doing little to thaw the cold buried deep in your chest.

“I’m tired,” you say at last, the words stripped bare of all the fight. “I’m so tired, Bruce.”

His eyes soften. His posture shifts, the wall of Batman faltering, the edges cracking just enough to let the father show through.

“You don’t have to stay,” he tells you quietly. “Not if it hurts you.”

You snort under your breath, shaking your head. “You all made that decision for me already.”

His jaw clenches. You don’t let him argue.

The fire burns, and the house breathes, and for a little while, you both just sit there, surrounded by everything unsaid.

“He was right,” Bruce adds, voice low, fractured at the edges. “Nothing in my life has… undone me the way you have.”

Your chest twists, breath catching, vision blurring faintly at the corners. But your expression doesn’t break. Not in front of him.

You sip your tea again, letting the warmth sting your throat, drowning the lump rising there.

The room stretches long with silence. The fire burns. The shadows breathe. The ghosts stay quiet, for now.

Neither of you apologize. Neither of you move. But for the first time in years, you sit in the same room, quiet together. And maybe, for now, that’s enough.

For now, you let the halls remember you again.

For now, you let the ghost haunt its house.

You blink once, twice, before your lids drop against your cheeks — exhaustion pushing you into silence, into sleep, into the soft surrender of someone who trusted again.

In the flicker of the firelight, you drift. Eyelids flutter as you realize you’re curled on the sofa — the sketchbook clutched loosely, the fire dimming, the tea unmoved. Bruce’s silhouette stands guard in the shadows, and you breathe — finally — like you’re safe.

#batfam x reader #batfamily x reader #batsis #batfam x neglected reader #batsis reader #platonic yandere #yandere batfam x reader #yandere batfam #yandere batboys #neglected reader #yandere batfam x neglected reader #my heart #conner kent x reader

454 notes · View notes

purplereina11 · 2 days ago

Text

Part 2

You go to your cousins wedding in Spain, and you catch the eye of the Alexia Putellas, she unintentionally becomes your plus one

Wordcount: 13.7k

It had been a few weeks since Carmen’s wedding.

A few blurry, grey skied, coffee fuelled weeks of trying to convince yourself you hadn’t romanticised the whole thing. That it wasn’t just the Spanish sun and wine and heat of the moment. That the version of her you’d held onto in your head, sharp-m eyed, smug, soft when no one else was looking wasn’t just some dream your brain stitched together in the haze.

London felt particularly grey today. The sky was heavy with that pre-storm pressure, and your scarf kept sliding off your shoulder as you wandered through Soho with a paper bag full of takeaway dumplings and zero plans for the evening.

You were halfway to the tube when your phone buzzed in your coat pocket. You didn’t think anything of it at first just another group chat, probably Carmen sending details of the girls trip you’d been invited to. Hen do 2.0 for one of her friends who couldn’t make either, but when you glanced down at the screen, your feet actually stopped moving.

alexiaputellas followed you

You blinked looked again. Yup. Still there.

Your heart jumped in your chest in a way you hated admitting to some involuntary thrill you couldn’t quite suppress, like your body had been waiting for it even when your mind had given up hope.

You tapped the notification like it might vanish if you waited too long.

There it was, her profile, blue tick a thousand posts and now, that tiny line of text at the top

Follows you

You stared at it for a moment, standing on the edge of the pavement as people brushed past, your dumplings going lukewarm in the paper bag.

It wasn’t a message, It wasn’t a like from 2019, but still.

Your thumb hovered, then you flicked back to her profile, stared at that stupidly cute profile picture, and smiled before muttering under your breath “…Took your time, menace.”

You waited, not because you wanted to play games, but because the tube was packed and you were standing elbow to elbow with a man chewing gum like it owed him money, and it didn’t feel right not the moment you wanted to follow her back in.

So you waited, walked home, scarf looped twice around your neck, headphones in, the sky cracking open just a little on the walk from the station. You could still smell the rain on the concrete by the time you unlocked your flat door and dropped your keys into the bowl.

And then you did it casually, quietly. Followed her back.

You threw your coat over the chair, kicked off your shoes, turned toward the kitchen and Ping.

Your phone lit up almost instantly.

One message.

alexiaputellas: Hola, Muppet 🧡

You stopped right in the middle of your kitchen and let out a breath of a laugh. Of course she messaged first, you stared at the screen like it might wink at you.

You typed… and deleted. Typed again. Paused, then finally sent

Didn’t know Barça did background checks that slow.

Another couple messages appeared in quick suggestion,

alexiaputellas: We had to run yours twice alexiaputellas: Very suspicious. alexiaputellas: Too pretty to be trusted.

Your heart stuttered a little at that one. You took a slow step back until you were leaning back against the counter, the phone warm in your hand.

You still owe me translations, you know.

alexiaputellas: No alexiaputellas: I said… in England alexiaputellas: You home now, no?

Are you tracking me??

alexiaputellas: Romantic. Not weird.

You snorted, fingers flying now before you could second guess it,

What’s the Spanish for cocky bastard?

There was a pause, you could picture her face so clearly the slow grin, the narrowed eyes, probably showing her phone to someone smugly like she knew she had you hooked.

alexiaputellas: Translate it yourself alexiaputellas: Google. Later. In bed. Alone. alexiaputellas: Like you did with very beautiful 👀

You paused, feeling the blush creep to your ears,

Can I ask you something?

alexiaputellas: You already are alexiaputellas: But okay alexiaputellas: Yes alexiaputellas: I think about you too alexiaputellas: Was that the question or no?

You covered your mouth with your hand, like that might keep the grin from splitting wider, no, it hadn’t been but it worked just the same.

You toss your phone onto your bed, half-laughing, half-panicking at that last message. Yes. I think about you too. It stares up at you from your duvet like it’s dared you to reply and now you have to pretend you’re calm.

You turn on your bedside lamp, take off your socks, and tug your hair up into a messy bun as you pad to the bathroom, phone in hand. The screen keeps lighting up as you turn the tap on to wash your face.

Another message flashes,

alexiaputellas: Are you blushing?

You lean on the sink, dripping, as you type with your pinky,

Obviously not. I’m completely composed. Washing my face like a normal person. Not pacing. Not checking the mirror, not smiling.

Your phone buzzes again as you’re dabbing at your face with a towel.

alexiaputellas: You are cute when you lie alexiaputellas: I can feel it alexiaputellas: Like heat waves

You laugh, shaking your head, your smile caught in the mirror.

Back in your bedroom, you pull your tank top over your head and swap it for a worn hoodie, tugging it on with one hand while still typing with the other.

What are you doing right now then, poet?

alexiaputellas: Stretching alexiaputellas: not a joke alexiaputellas: Recovery session in the morning alexiaputellas: We have yoga alexiaputellas: I’m very bendy

You stop mid-motion, one knee on the bed as you read that.

…Is this your version of flirting?

alexiaputellas: What gave me away 😇

You snort and shake your head, crawling under your duvet with your phone still in hand. You reply,

I liked you better when you were grumpy losing at beer pong.

alexiaputellas: Liar. alexiaputellas: You like me more now. alexiaputellas: Admit it

You pause.

Roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling for a second, lips pressed together in a half-smile, wondering if maybe this isn’t just harmless fun.

Then, you type

I admit… I liked you then I like you now

Another pause.

But I still would’ve crushed you in a rematch.

This time it takes a little longer for her to reply.

alexiaputellas: I want to see you again. alexiaputellas: I mean it.

Your stomach dips a little. You sit up slightly in bed.

You type slowly

I’d like that.

alexiaputellas: Then we’ll make it happen. alexiaputellas: I’ll find an excuse to be in London alexiaputellas: Or you come back to Spain alexiaputellas: Or we meet halfway alexiaputellas: but somewhere with beer pong

You laugh, biting your lip.

You look around your room soft lamp glow, quiet hum of the city through your window, the warmth under the blanket flicking on your TV to watch the latest episode of love island from the comfort of your bed.

☀️

You didn’t think turbulence could last an entire flight, and yet.

By the time the plane finally skidded onto the runway in Mallorca, your arms were stiff from white knuckling the armrest and your mouth tasted like overpriced airport coffee and regret. You hadn’t slept, the man behind you had sneezed every five minutes without covering his mouth, and the toddler across the aisle had kicked the seat rhythmically, like a metronome designed by Satan.

You were not your most glamorous self as you trudged through arrivals, hoodie creased, suitcase wheel squeaking every few steps and then you saw Patri.

Leaning casually against a pillar just past the barriers, sunglasses perched on her head, holding up a cardboard sign that read,

Muppet the beer pong queen

You burst out laughing the moment your eyes landed on it and her face lit up. She grinned as she shoved the sign behind her back and opened her arms wide. You didn’t hesitate you walked straight into the hug.

She pulled back and looked you over. “You look like hell.”

“Gracias.”

“De nada.” She smirked and took your suitcase from you. “Come on. Carmen’s already on the yacht. I left her with too much rosé and too few snacks, so we’ve probably got a tipsy captain situation by now.”

The warmth of the island wrapped around you as soon as the terminal doors opened not just the heat, but the hum of Spain again. Loud voices, the smell of sunscreen and ocean and that undercurrent of something fizzy and alive.

You glanced sideways at Patri as you walked toward the car. “So. This whole thing’s just a bonus hen do for the friend who couldn't make either of the first two?”

Patri shrugged, loading your bag into the boot. “Any excuse, really. We don’t need much.”

“Clearly.”

“And…” She glanced at you quickly before slipping into the driver’s seat. “Carmen said you needed a break.”

You raised an eyebrow. “From what?”

Patri grinned. “London. Work. Thinking too much.”

You shook your head and climbed in beside her, but she wasn’t wrong, snd as she pulled out onto the sunlit coastal road, your phone buzzed softly in your pocket.

You didn’t need to check.

You had a feeling who it might be, you pulled it out, the screen lighting up with a message from Alexia.

alexiaputellas: Hola, muppet. alexiaputellas: Did you survive the flight? alexiaputellas: I was going to say I missed you but that might be too much for one message.

You smiled, fingers already moving.

You’re too smooth. But yes. I survived. Barely. And I missed you. But that’s definitely too much for one message.

Her reply came almost instantly.

alexiaputellas: Good. alexiaputellas: Because I’m counting on seeing you again soon. alexiaputellas: You better not be hiding in a hoodie and avoiding me.

You laughed softly to yourself as you typed back.

Hoodie is essential armor, you should know that. But maybe I’ll risk it. Depends on how convincing your ‘counting on’ is.

Her response was quick, teasing.

alexiaputellas: Very convincing. alexiaputellas: Also, I’ve been practicing my English so I insult you better next time.

You grinned.

Can’t wait, but you’re already winning at that.

You tucked your phone away, heart fluttering just a little.

Patri glanced over with a knowing smile. “Someone’s got you grinning like a fool,” she said.

You shook your head, trying to look casual. “Just a friend.”

☀️

The yacht rocked gently beneath your feet as you stepped aboard, the sun hanging high in the sky, casting a glow over the turquoise water. Laughter spilled from the deck, mixing with the faint clink of glasses and the distant call of seagulls.

Carmen was already there, perched on the edge of the boat, her smile bright and effortless as she greeted you with a quick hug. Around her, the group buzzed with energy friends from Spain, England, and everywhere in between, all gathered for one last celebration.

Carmen waved you over, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “You made it! Finally! We thought you’d been eaten by the airport demons.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled. “Barely survived.”

The day unfolded with sun drenched swims, shared stories, and endless rounds of sangria. Someone started a playlist, and soon the deck was alive with music.

You found yourself talking to one of Carmen’s teammates, swapping funny wedding stories and learning a few Spanish phrases that made everyone laugh when you butchered them spectacularly.

Between the chatter and the splash of waves, you caught a glimpse of Carmen watching you with an amused expression, shaking her head but clearly pleased you were slotting into her group despite your apprehension to come.

You’re sitting on the deck in your shorts and bikini top, the sun warming your skin as you hold your glass of wine loosely in one hand. The laughter from the girls playing games in the ocean drifts up to you, carefree and infectious. You smile, watching them splash and compete, their joy contagious.

You glance down at your phone and realise it’s the quietest it’s been all week. You scroll through your messages, but nothing new from Alexia. You sigh softly, almost disappointed, 4 hours was the longest you'd gone without hearing from her, she always found a reason to message you. The silence was noticeable but suddenly, the volume level spikes dramatically, breaking through the relaxed atmosphere. You look up, squinting toward the dock, and spot Alexia striding confidently toward the yacht with a few of her teammates trailing behind her. Your heart skips a beat, you had no idea she was coming.

You lean on the railing, taking a slow sip of your wine to steady yourself, trying to play it cool. Carmen catches sight of Alexia and moves over to greet her warmly. You can’t hear their conversation over the hum of the party, but you notice Carmen’s eyes flick up to you and a small smile plays on her lips as she points you out.

Alexia’s gaze follows, and for a moment your eyes meet. She offers a quick, teasing smirk before turning back to Carmen, who nods and gestures for her to go join you. Your pulse quickens as she makes her way across the deck, and you feel the familiar flutter of excitement mingled with nerves.

She’s going to come up the stairs, you don’t even pretend not to notice, she saw you watching her. One hand curled around your wine glass, the other resting casually against the warm railing, eyes fixed subtly, you hope, as Alexia moves across the lower deck, sun lighting up the streaks in her hair and that chain she seems to always wears catching the light with every step.

She laughs at something one of her teammates says effortless, that low, raspy kind of laugh that carries and then she glances up.

Right at you.

Your stomach dips, sharp and sudden, and you almost choke on the last sip of your wine. She takes the stairs slowly, deliberately, her hand sliding along the rail as she climbs. Her top is simple, black, paired with loose cream shorts that hang low on her hips. She’s tanned, relaxed, glowing in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with the Mallorca sun.

Your grip tightens slightly on your glass as she reaches the top deck and stops in front of you. She grins and then, with that accent that makes the word softer, almost affectionate, she says, "Hola, muppet."

Your laugh slips out before you can stop it. “Do you ever greet anyone normally?”

She shrugs, brushing hair off her shoulder. “Only the boring ones.”

You tip your glass at her. “Lucky me.”

“Very,” she says, stepping closer. Her eyes scan your face, like she’s making sure this is real, like she didn’t just spend days talking to you but still needed to see you to believe it.

It’s quiet up here, just the breeze, the water, distant shouting and music below. You feel like you're standing in a bubble with her like time’s paused for a second. You smirk. “You didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“You didn’t either.”

Touché. You lift a brow. “Are we keeping secrets now?”

Alexia smiles, slow and unreadable. “Surprises,” she corrects. “Better word.”

You look at her for a beat longer. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Some are.”

Alexia tilts her head slightly, her eyes flicking down subtle, but not that subtle. You watch her take you in.

From your loose shorts, to the bikini top clinging to your sun-warmed skin, to the lazy way your wine glass tilts in your hand. Her gaze lingers just long enough to make your chest feel a little tighter. You shift your weight, heat blooming under your skin not from the sun.

“Have I passed inspection?” you tease, lifting your brow.

Her eyes meet yours again, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “I already knew what I’d find.”

That makes you grin surprised, flustered, flattered all at once. She steps beside you, close enough that you feel the brush of her bare shoulder when the wind tugs her hair across her face. She tucks it behind her ear, then glances at you.

“I didn’t think you’d be here,” she says quietly.

“Neither did I,” you admit. “Last minute decision.”

She nods, gaze still on you. “Good decision.”

Your heart kicks hard against your ribs, as there’s a beat of silence between you, and then she adds, more lightly, “Though… I was not told about the uniform.” She gestures toward your bikini top. “You’re showing off. Is this on purpose?”

You laugh, playful but a little breathless. “We're on a yacht in Mallorca don’t pretend this is a surprise.”

“It is,” she says, deadpan. “Because now I have to focus.”

You bite your lip to stop the grin from spreading. “Focus on what exactly?” you ask, sipping your wine, eyes on hers.

She shrugs. “Not falling in love.”

You choke on your wine actually choke, coughing once into your shoulder as she smirks, completely unbothered. “Oh my God,” you say, wiping your mouth, laughing. “That was so corny.”

Alexia shrugs. “You like it.”

You narrow your eyes, trying to hide the smile now clawing at your cheeks. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

Her smirk softens, just slightly. “You think I'm pretty?”

“Shut up menace.” you mutter before sipping your wine trying to deflect, but there’s a moment where her eyes hold yours, and neither of you says anything.

“Do you want to stay up here?” she asks, after a beat. “Avoid the chaos for a little longer?”

You nod. “Yeah. I think I do.” You’re thinking up something sarcastic about her 'not falling in love' comment, because you will get the last word when a voice bellows as someone's rushing up the stairs behind you.

“OI!” Carmen’s voice barrels across the top deck, followed by a chorus of laughter and the unmistakable sound of flip-flops slapping wood. “Are we boring you two? Or are we witnessing a seduction?”

You roll your eyes, groaning under your breath as you turn around, “Absolutely nothing’s happening,” you say, a little too quickly.

Carmen arches a brow. “Hmm. Your body language says something is.”

Alexia, maddeningly unbothered, just leans back against the railing with her arms crossed, smirking as the others begin to flood the space towels draped over shoulders, glasses clinking, swimsuits still dripping from the sea.

Patri trails in behind them, eyes immediately darting between you and Alexia before she sidles up to your side and whispers, not nearly quietly enough, “So. Just friends, huh?”

You glare at her. “I hate you.”

She clinks her glass against yours. “No you don't”

You look at Patri as Alexia walks to go claim a spot on the large day bed, "Can two gay girls not just have a conversation now?"

Patri smirked leaning in, "What were you talking about?"

You stared at Patri plotting your get out strategy, your brain was short wiring so all you could think of was to say, "Shut up!" like a petulant teenager and walk away.

Someone’s dragged a speaker up, shouting about needing 'a proper playlist,' and another girl is rifling through the drinks cooler like she’s on a timed challenge show. Just like that, the top deck is full of voices bouncing, music swelling, feet kicking off wet sandals and hands reaching for sangria.

You should feel annoyed, maybe, or self-conscious, but you don’t.

Alexia’s still watching you. Even as she talks briefly with one of her teammates, her gaze keeps sliding back to you like a thread pulling taut. She catches your eye and gives you the smallest, most knowing smile and your stomach turns to glitter.

Carmen’s holding court, retelling the story of how Patri somehow fell into the sea while trying to take a selfie, when you catch her eye and lift a flat, hand-decorated box from under the table like you’re revealing buried treasure.

“What is that?” she asks, narrowing her eyes suspiciously.

You grin. “Something I made.”

You set the box down and lift the lid. Inside: twenty-eight little printed cards, all neatly laminated, and a matching board fitted with tiny windows. All the cards are photos of players Spanish players, Carmens brow furrows as you wait for a reaction you deemed worthy for the effort

“…Is that—?”

“Spanish Women’s Football Guess Who,” you announce proudly, like it’s your greatest achievement to date. “I spent hours printing and cutting these out. Don’t act like this isn’t impressive.”

There’s a beat of silence, then Carmen shrieks with laughter, immediately grabbing the board and turning it to show the rest of the girls. Patri gasps, someone yells “NO WAY,” and another yells back

“Oh my god look at Pina’s face on this one!”

“I’m obsessed with you,” Carmen says, genuinely delighted. “You are so unserious and I love it.”

Behind her, Alexia appears, casually glancing over Carmen’s shoulder, her mouth twitches as she spots the game.

She locks eyes with you and smirks. “Is that another game for me to beat you at, muppet?”

You shoot her a bored look, resting your chin in your hand. “This again?”

Alexia walks forward, slow and theatrical, pulling out a chair across from you. She sits, tilts her head slightly, and pats the table between you. “Set them up,” she says with mock authority. “I make it quick and painless for you.”

You raise a brow as you reach for the second board. “You’re awfully confident for someone who still thinks the wind sabotaged her at beer pong.”

“It did,” she says, deadpan. “You saw no?.”

You’re grinning as you slide the windows up, your board clicking into place. Around you, the noise has shifted Carmen’s taking pictures, Patri’s already trying to look over your shoulder, and someone is calling for drinks to be refilled because “this is about to get serious.”

Alexia leans forward, resting her elbows on the table as you shuffle the deck between you.

She picks her card, eyes scanning it before she places it facedown.

Then looks up at you, all confidence and challenge.

“Preparada?” she asks, low and smug.

You smirk, "Vamos"

The corner of her twitches as her eyes lower, "You ask first"

“How kind,” you deadpan. You glance down at the grid of faces, flicking through potential eliminations. "Does your player have blonde hair?"

"Si"

Alexia watches with mild alarm as you flick down the first row. Then the second. Then half of the third.

“Qué?” she blurts, leaning forward to look at your board like you’ve just performed some sort of witchcraft. “Wait, wait, how many gone?”

You give her a smug look as you sip from your drink, board now nearly bare. “Math’s not your strong suit, huh?”

She narrows her eyes at you like she’s already plotting revenge, “Okay,” she mutters, dragging her finger across the little plastic windows of her own board, clearly stalling. “Hmm. Let see…” She looks up at you with a glint in her eye. “Do yours…” she draws out the pause, “…have tattoos?”

You grin. “Yes.”

“Ha!” she exclaims, flicking down a measly five faces, the rest still proudly standing. She glares at the board like it betrayed her. “There are too many tattoos on this team.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

Patri snorts from the side, muttering something in Spanish you don’t understand but makes Carmen nearly choke on her drink laughing.

Your turn again.

You squint at your board, already whittled down to six faces.

You glance at her across the table, feigning sweetness. “Is your player wearing a headband?”

Alexia’s mouth pulls into a tight line. She doesn't answer right away, Carmen groans. “Just say goodbye, Ale.”

Alexia sighs, “Yes.”

You flick down two more windows. “Three left,” you announce, smug as hell.

Alexia squints at you, eyes narrowed. “You cheat"

“Oh I’m sorry,” you say, leaning across the table like you’re letting her in on a secret. “I thought you were gonna make it quick and painless for me?”

The table explodes with laughter Alexia kicks at your foot under the table, which only makes you laugh harder. “Alright,” she says, determined now. “Is yours… defender?”

You consider, then look at Patri over your shoulder who smiles and shakes her head. “Nope.”

Alexia groans and dramatically flicks down another few faces, her confidence has officially cracked.

You stare at your board, three faces left, you look at her, she’s chewing the inside of her cheek now, watching you too carefully. You smile sweetly. “Is your player…” You draw out the tension, grinning. “Is your player... Ona?” You glance to Ona standing mere feet away.

She stares you down. You stare right back, then she exhales sharply, slapping her card face up.

Ona.

You raise your arms in victory. “YES!”

Alexia collapses back in her chair, groaning as the girls around you burst into applause and jeers. Someone starts clapping slow and mocking and Patri reaches over to high-five you.

“You’re so dramatic when you lose,” you tease.

Alexia shakes her head, but she’s smiling as she points at you. “You are not allowed to make games anymore.”

“Oh, I’m making every game now.”

She leans in, smirk pulling wider. “Muppet, I destroy you next time"

“You already tried.”

“I was distracted.”

You give her a look. “By what?”

Alexia just shrugs, nonchalant, eyes dancing as she holds your gaze and your heart does something stupid again. You shuffle the selection deck, "You really should know your team better capitana"

She leans forward again, resting her arms on the table, a cocky tilt to her chin. “I know my team,” she replies, slow and sure, the accent curling soft at the edges of each word. “Just… not with your face smiling all the time.”

You freeze halfway through shuffling the deck. “What?”

Alexia grins wider, clearly proud of herself for making that land. “You are” she waves a finger at you, squinting like she’s trying to translate something in her head “how do I say… not helpful for brain.”

You laugh, caught off guard. “Not helpful for brain?”

She nods firmly. “Exact.”

Carmen passes behind you and drapes an arm dramatically around your shoulders. “Ay dios mío, are you two flirting or arguing, I can’t tell anymore.”

“Both,” you and Alexia say at the same time, and Carmen just laughs and ruffles your hair before disappearing again.

You slide her a new draw card from the deck. “Here, distraction. Try again.”

Alexia picks it up without looking, tapping the back of it against the table like she’s preparing for war. “Okay, but… you do not smile so much now,” she warns, deadly serious. “No smile. Very serious.”

“I’m always serious.”

“You are never serious,” she shoots back, grinning.

You glance around most of the group has now filtered toward the bow of the boat, distracted by music and the sudden reappearance of food. The buzz of conversation shifts away from your table, leaving a small pocket of quiet between you two again.

Alexia rests her chin in her hand, watching you with soft eyes that still hold something sharp underneath. “Okay, you ask.”

You lift your brows. “Oh, so we’re playing again?”

“I must win,” she says with mock solemnity, placing her hand over her chest. “For… pride. For Spain. For… honour.”

You smile, propping your chin on your fist. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You are ridiculous,” she says back, lips twitching. “But… maybe cute also.”

Your pulse kicks up a little. You shake your head and look down at the board, trying not to give her the satisfaction of seeing the effect she’s having.

You flick the first card down, but your focus is all wrong now. The air between you has changed quieter, softer, charged with something unspoken.

Alexia’s watching you, head tilted slightly, fingers idly tapping the table like she’s not entirely sure whether to keep playing or say something else. Her knees nudge against yours beneath the table, barely there, but she doesn’t move them. Neither do you.

You clear your throat, trying to sound casual. “Alright. Blonde hair?”

Alexia glances down at her card, then back up at you. “No.”

You flick a few cards, but there’s no rhythm to it. Your hands move slower now. She notices because of course she does. “You okay?” she asks, voice low and quiet.

You look up, and something in her expression hits you harder than it should, concern, but not just that. Curiosity, a kind of tenderness that doesn’t match the teasing grin she usually throws around. You nod, offering a little smile. “Yeah.”

A pause, then, softly, “Are you sure?”

Your throat tightens. “I just… forgot how warm Spain is,” you joke, but your voice doesn’t quite carry the joke.

Alexia hums, not calling you out, not pushing, but her eyes stay on yours, steady and searching.

After a beat, you look down at the table, trying to collect yourself. “I didn’t expect you to be here,” you admit, quietly again, "It never crossed my mind to be honest"

“Mallorca?” she says, her accent turning the word into something prettier. She shrugs. “Carmen say come.”

“I thought you had… training"

“I ask.”

You blink. “You asked to come?”

Her mouth curves. “Carmen said you be here. I say… okay, maybe I have time.”

Something in your chest tightens, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s something sweeter. You look at her for a long moment, sunlight catching on the gold chain around her neck and the small curl of hair escaping the bun at the nape of her neck. “I don't think this trip is going to be what I expected it to be,” you murmur.

Alexia smirks. “Good?”

You smile faintly. “Yeah. Good.”

She leans in again, conspiratorial now, like you’re sharing something secret. “Wanna know something?” You nod. “I don’t care about, game,” she says. “Just wanted to sit here. With you.”

Your breath catches slightly at the bluntness of it how honest she is, even with broken English. You look down at the game between you and then back up at her. “Well,” you say, your voice soft, “we can stop pretending, then.”

Alexia reaches over, slow and deliberate, and flicks all the tiles on your board down. “I win,” she says, but it’s a whisper now.

You laugh, barely, under your breath. “Sure you did, Capitana.”

She nods, "Si, you forfeit" you giggle sitting back as she smoothes her loose hair watching you

Neither of you move, you just sit like that close, quiet, the rest of the world soft and far away until a shout from the other end of the yacht cuts through the moment.

“Y/N ALE WE LEAVE IN TEN MINUTES!” someone screams.

Alexia groans, leaning her forehead against her hand. “I must win again!,” she says dramatically.

You stand slowly, grabbing your drink, and glance at her over your shoulder. “Yeah?” you smirk. “You’ll need all the help you can get later" and when you walk away, you don’t have to look back to know she’s following.

☀️

You step off the boat and onto the pier, shoes in hand, the heat still clinging to your skin from the sun-soaked deck. The group’s laughter carries through the breeze as you all wander barefoot up a dusty path, Carmen leading the way like she’s got some grand surprise up her sleeve.

You follow, sipping what’s left of your drink, eyes squinting against the late afternoon light until, the path opens up.

A football field, real grass, proper goals, painted lines, you stop dead in your tracks.

“…Are you actually kidding me?” you ask, blinking at the sight of several girls already kicking a ball around. Your gaze sweeps over the pitch like maybe it’ll magically disappear if you blink enough times. “You’re on a hen party and you want to train?”

Alexia jogs past you in shorts and a tank top, ball at her feet, ponytail swinging. “I warm up only,” she calls, not even glancing back, like that somehow makes this more normal.

You look to Carmen. “Seriously?”

Carmen just grins, shrugging like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “What? We got itchy feet. You don’t keep a player still too long.”

You shake your head slowly, dragging your towel out of your bag and dropping it right there at the edge of the pitch. “You lot are actually insane.” Then you flop down onto the grass, stretching out dramatically. “I’m sunbathing,” you declare, lying back with an exaggerated sigh. “Y’all can kick each other and pretend this is 'just a warm up'. I’m getting a tan and minding my business.”

You hear Patri laugh somewhere nearby, the sharp thud of a ball being passed between feet. Then Alexia’s voice drifts over again, “Muppet is scared.”

You lift your head, squinting toward her. “I’m not scared, I’m sane.”

“Same, same,” she says, but the grin she throws you is anything but innocent. She spins the ball on one finger before catching it again and pointing it toward you. “One shot. If you score… we no run.”

You raise your brows. “If I score, you wait on me this entire trip.”

Alexia’s grin widens. “Deal.”

You groan, pushing yourself up slowly, “Fine, but after this, I’m retiring.”

You pad barefoot onto the pitch, knowing full well it’s a trap, but you’re already smiling. You trudge reluctantly onto the pitch, wiping your palms on your thighs as Alexia spins the ball lazily in her hands, waiting for you. Just as you reach her, she looks past you, calling out, “Patri, muppet on your team!”

Your head snaps toward her, scandalised. “Are you serious? I thought we had something special.”

Alexia just smiles sweetly, tossing you the ball like she didn’t just betray your trust in broad daylight.

Patri jogs over, already amused. “Perfect. Y/N, you’re in defence.”

You blink. “Defence? That’s… near the back, right?”

“I need you to man mark Alexia.”

You stare blankly. “Cool, yes, because I totally understand what that means.”

Alexia steps in, hand brushing your arm as she leans close enough that her voice rumbles just by your ear. “You follow me. Always.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “Like… wherever you go?”

She grins. “Yes.”

“Oh.” You smirk. “So like a shadow, but annoying.”

“Exact,” she says, eyes gleaming, "You just be yourself"

Your mouth drops as the game kicks off, "You'll regret that comment Putellas"

You immediately ignore the ball and just wrap your arms around Alexia like you’re a child latching onto its mother's side. “How’s this for marking?”

She bursts out laughing, twisting as you cling to her like Velcro. “You are bad at this.”

“I’m great at this,” you say, tightening your grip as she tries to step around you. “You’re just mad because I’m winning.”

“There is no ball,” she points out, wheezing through her laughter.

“Semantics,” you reply, as she breaks into a short sprint and you trip slightly trying to keep hold.

The ball does finally roll your way, and just as you’re about to shout something vaguely helpful, Alexia turns, grabs you by the waist, and lifts you clean off the ground like you’re made of feathers.

“WHY ARE YOU SO STRONG?!” you shout, kicking your feet mid-air.

She laughs, breathless. “You are small!”

You flail as she sets you back down, ball already passed off. “That’s rude. I am compact.”

“You are problem,” she says through a grin, nudging your hip with hers.

You stumble, but catch yourself, grinning. “Still man marking though. Pretty sure I’m nailing it.”

She steps closer, that same familiar glint in her eye. “You are not football player.”

“No,” you agree. “But I’m very talented at being annoying.”

“You are… very good, yes.”

And neither of you notice the goal scored behind you, too busy laughing, limbs tangled and rules forgotten just you, Alexia, and the kind of game that doesn’t need scoreboards.

You’re both still half-heartedly pretending to play football, but really it’s devolved into something much sillier wrestling like kids, arms looping and dodging, feet tripping over each other as the rest of the pitch carries on the actual game somewhere in the distance.

You’ve been holding your own surprisingly well, mostly by using the tactic of clinging to Alexia and refusing to let go but she’s sneaky. Smirking like she’s up to something, like she’s winding herself up for revenge, her fingers drift too casually to your side and then disaster.

You squeal, loud, louder than necessary really, it escapes you like an involuntary alarm, sharp and high and completely humiliating, as her fingers graze just under your ribcage. That awful, ticklish spot you forgot even existed until she found it with sniper precision.

You jump back like she’s electrocuted you, eyes wide in betrayal, “Don’t!”

But it’s already too late Alexia’s gone. She doubles over, laughter cracking out of her like thunder, stumbling in a circle before crouching down to the grass, arm wrapped around her middle as she practically sobs with laughter at the noise you made.

You stand there, half horrified, half laughing yourself, cheeks flushed. “It wasn’t that funny!”

Alexia gasps for breath, eyes watery, voice cracking. “You scream, like, pequeña rata!”

“Like a what?”

“Little rat!” she manages through tears, curling forward again, face flushed and delighted.

You pout, crossing your arms. “I cannot believe this. You’re bullying me on a field. There are witnesses.”

“No,” she wheezes. “Just me. Just you.”

You glance around none of the others are even paying attention, too busy actually playing. Of course they are. It’s just you two, tangled in your own private chaos on the edge of the pitch.

Alexia looks up from where she’s crouched, wiping tears away with the back of her hand, still grinning. “I win.”

You drop beside her, breathless. “You cheated.”

She shrugs innocently. “Is not in rules. I check.”

“Yeah, well,” you mutter, leaning back onto your elbows as you breathe in the sunset-warm air beside her, “you keep playing like this, I'll get you back.”

Alexia flashes you that cheeky, dimpled grin. “Promise?”

Patri scores with a clean shot, and the others on the pitch let out a chorus of cheers, but she barely celebrates she throws a hand up, exasperated but smiling. “Look at these two.”

Everyone glances over.

There you are, perched back on your hands in the grass, face tilted toward Alexia, who’s lying on her side next to you like it’s a picnic, not a football game. You’re both in your own world, grinning, animated, lost in some conversation that clearly has nothing to do with football. You laugh at something she says, shoulders shaking, and Alexia’s eyes light up like she’s never heard a better sound in her life.

“You think they know we’re still playing?” Ona says, arms crossed, amused.

“They don’t even know we exist,” Patri replies, shaking her head with a fond sigh. “We could light fireworks over their heads and they’d still be like, ‘Anyway, do you put ketchup on pasta in England?’”

On the pitch’s far edge, you shift your weight and bump her with your knee playfully Alexia nudges back with her foot and you both laugh again. Totally oblivious.

“I’m telling you,” Patri adds, glancing at the others, “we could call full-time, go back to the yacht sail off, and they’d still be lying there an hour from now, pretending to argue about who's more competitive.”

Behind her, Carmen just smirks knowingly. “Leave them. They’ll figure it out.”

Alexia turns her head then, just for a second, catching Patri’s gaze across the field. Patri raises her eyebrows pointedly and gestures at the ball like, hello? remember this?

Alexia waves her off without even hiding her grin, then turns back to you, you’re still smiling, still talking, still utterly unaware of the small audience watching you like a romcom scene they never agreed to be extras in.

The girls come wandering over, the game having naturally fizzled out because honestly, what was the point when their star striker and your half-baked defender were giggling in the grass like it was a sleepover?

Patri folds her arms, looking directly at you, mock stern. “Seriously?”

You blink up at her, all wide eyes and fake innocence. “What?”

She points at Alexia, who’s now lazily tossing blades of grass at your knee like she hasn’t a care in the world. “You told me you didn’t know football.”

“I don’t,” you protest, brushing off a bit of grass. “But you told me to man mark her and I did exactly that. I think I’ve been incredible, honestly. She’s been absolutely useless this entire game. I think you should be thanking me.”

Alexia lets out a breath of laughter beside you, not even trying to defend herself.

“I’m the best defender you’ve got,” you continue confidently. “Better than Ona running around like a lunatic.”

“Oye!” Ona calls out, laughing but offended enough to squint at you. “I’ve been playing two positions!”

You grin. “Yeah and I’ve been playing Alexia out of the game. I’d say we’re even.”

“She didn’t even touch the ball after the first five minutes,” Carmen says, trying not to smile.

“Exactly!” you shrug, “I was just doing my job very well. I was basically Velcro.”

Carmen’s shaking her head, laughing as she throws an arm around Ona. “Honestly, I’m giving Y/N player of the match just for commitment.”

Alexia finally chimes in, glancing up at Patri with a smug little smirk. “She is very... sticky.”

You hold your hand up for a high five. “Thank you. I take that as a compliment. I think”

Ona narrows her eyes playfully. “I will nutmeg you next time.”

“Wouldn’t even notice,” you grin, “I’ll be busy man marking the captain.”

Alexia leans in, voice low with a smirk, “You like to follow me, eh?”

You flash her a grin. “You wish.”

Patri groans. “Dios mío, we’re not playing football anymore, we’re watching flirting with extra steps.”

Carmen’s laughing. “That’s generous. There were no steps. Just vibes and poor defending.”

The sun had started to dip lower in the sky, as the impromptu match fizzled out into nothing but laughs, teasing, and sweat-slicked hair clinging to sun-kissed skin. Someone shouted something about drinks and showers back on the yacht, and slowly everyone began to head for the gate.

You stretched your arms overhead, groaning dramatically. “That was exhausting. I was man-marking the most chaotic player on this field. I deserve an award.”

“You did nothing,” Ona called over her shoulder with a grin.

“I did plenty, I rendered your captain useless,” you said, tossing a thumb toward Alexia beside you.

Alexia, still glowing with that half-smirk of hers, crouched slightly in front of you, glancing back over her shoulder. “Get on, Muppet. You cry too much.”

You blinked. “Wait—seriously?”

She didn’t answer, just wiggled her fingers expectantly and without thinking you grinned, ran a few steps, and hopped onto her back, arms slinging around her shoulders.

She rose with ease, steady, strong, her hands slipping to your thighs to hold you in place as she began to walk back with the others.

You let out a surprised little laugh. “You’re going to regret this when your legs give out.”

“I carry trophies,” she said smugly. “You are lighter than Champions League.”

You tried not to let that go straight to your chest. “Well then, I’m honoured. Shall I sing as we go? Serenade you?”

“Please don’t,” she muttered, but her voice was smiling.

You rested your chin on her shoulder, eyes closing for a second, just feeling the sun on your back, her warmth under your hands, the rumble of her laugh in her chest as someone ahead cracked a joke you didn’t catch.

“Is this a normal hen party tradition in Spain?” you asked, lifting your head. “Kidnap your opponent and carry them to sea?”

“No,” she said. “Just for you.”

You rolled your eyes, but the blush crept up your neck all the same, behind you, Carmen was definitely watching and smiling. A picture secured for future use.

☀️

The sun was melting into the horizon now, all burnt orange streaking across the sea like someone had taken a paintbrush to the sky. The heat of the day had cooled into something softer, and the laughter had quieted down to that mellow kind of content that follows a good meal and too much wine.

You were stretched out along the cushioned area at the back of the boat, legs pulled up, arms folded loosely across your chest. You’d only thrown your bikini top back on after the shower and were still in your shorts, goosebumps forming slowly on your arms with every passing minute. The sea breeze picked up, curling around you and making you shiver slightly not enough to get up and change, but just enough that you rubbed your hands over your arms absentmindedly.

Carmen sat beside you, legs folded beneath her, drink in hand. The others, Patri, Pina, Ona, Jana were still up front somewhere, music playing low and distant. Only a couple of Carmen’s old friends lingered nearby, chatting quietly, a couple of metres away.

Which is probably why Carmen struck now. She leaned in, elbow on the back of the seat. “So.”

You turned your head lazily. “So…?”

She gave you a look, the older cousin one. “Are we going to talk about the fact you’ve been glued to Alexia’s side since she got here?”

You blinked. “Glued is a strong word.”

Carmen arched a brow. “She gave you a piggyback. You’re not ten.”

You laughed, cheeks warming. “Okay, that was a little unhinged.”

“And sweet,” Carmen added, voice softening. “Very her, too. She's quiet, but when she decides to like someone…”

You blinked, caught off guard. “You think she likes me?”

Carmen tilted her head. “Do you?”

You didn’t answer right away. You bit the inside of your cheek, then glanced down at your fingers where they were tangled in your shorts’ drawstring. “I don’t know. She’s fun. Surprising. Funny even though we barely understand each other half the time and it’s been nice... being around her.”

Carmen smiled, her tone gentle now. “That didn’t sound unsure.”

You gave a small, helpless laugh. “It’s just… this bubble. The wedding, the yacht, the Spanish sun. It doesn’t feel like real life.”

“But you wish it was?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

You didn’t say anything, you didn’t have to, she reached over, squeezing your knee gently. “Well, if anything were to happen... she’s one of the good ones.”

You smiled, something soft in your chest stirring, before you could say more, footsteps sounded behind you.

You turned slightly Alexia stood at the edge of the deck, a soft hoodie in her hand.

She didn’t say anything as she stepped forward and gently draped it over your shoulders, her touch feather-light.

You looked up at her, eyes wide, and she just said, “You cold.”

Not a question, just a quiet statement of fact you nodded once, lips quirking. “A little.”

She smiled, just barely. “Better.” she sat beside you, her thigh brushing yours.

Carmen, without a word, stood up and slipped away into the shadows of the boat, leaving you two alone beneath the glowing sky.

You slipped your arms into the sleeves of the hoodie, the fabric warm. It smelled faintly like salt, sunscreen, and something distinctly her. It hung off you like a blanket, the sleeves far too long, but you didn't care.

Alexia didn’t say anything, she just sat beside you, close but not overwhelming, the two of you facing out over the sea in a rare, easy silence. You scrolled lazily on your phone, the gentle sway of the boat and the last gold streaks on the water lulling you into a kind of soft quiet that made everything else, London, real life, feel impossibly far away.

She shifted beside you a moment later, sitting forward to grab a cushion from in front of her. As she moved, you got the first clear look at her back tattoos. You tilted your head a little, curious.

“What’s this one?” you asked gently, reaching forward without thinking.

Your fingers brushed her lower back, just along the ink, and you didn’t miss the way her skin instantly prickled beneath your touch goosebumps, but she didn’t flinch or move away.

You ran your fingers lightly over the edge of the tattoo, a detailed little portrait. the lines were delicate, fine, intimate.

“That’s you?” you asked, tilting your head. “As a baby?”

Alexia nodded, glancing over her shoulder. “Mm. Me and my papa.”

You stilled a little. The way she said it, my papa, soft and full of something deeper, something quieter.

“From a photo,” she continued. “I was maybe… couple weeks old?”

You smiled, fingers still resting lightly against her skin. “It’s a beautiful tribute.”

She hummed, a small smile tugging at her mouth, but she didn’t speak. You didn’t ask more, you just let your hand fall gently away, giving her space, but your knee bumped hers again like a silent reassurance.

She sat back again, hugging the cushion to her chest this time, the hush between you settled like a blanket, you sat still, scrolling idly on your phone, though your attention wasn’t really on the screen. The hoodie helped, but your legs were still curled tight to your chest, your arms wrapped around them. You were colder than you wanted to admit, but you didn’t say anything, didn’t want to ruin the quiet.

But Alexia noticed, of course she did. She shifted slightly beside you, and without a word, her hands touched your knees, nudging them gently. You let her move you, slowly, without hesitation, until your back pressed lightly into her chest, your body guided to rest between her legs. She was warm against you, solid and unhurried, and she wrapped her arms around you without asking, one resting across your stomach, the other looping just under your shoulders.

“You’ll be warmer like this,” she murmured, her voice low against your ear.

You exhaled softly, something unspoken settling in your chest, “Is this part of the captain’s duties?” you teased, voice quiet, eyes still fixed on the water.

“Only… special cases,” she replied, her English slow but sure, the smallest smile in her voice.

You could feel the steady rhythm of her breathing behind you, the faint brush of her knuckles against your side. You leaned back just a little more, letting yourself melt into her, hoodie sleeves pulled down over your hands now, her warmth seeping into your skin, your chest, your thoughts.

From the far end of the boat, tucked in a corner of the upper deck just out of view, Carmen leaned against the railing with a glass of sangria in hand. Patri stood beside her, sipping hers more slowly, while Ona and a couple of the other girls lounged nearby, all of them speaking in quiet voices now that the sun had dipped and the air had settled into a cooler, calmer stillness.

Their attention wasn’t on the water, or the music, or even their own conversation anymore. It was on the back of the boat, on the two of you.

You, leaned into Alexia, her arms wrapped around you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her chin rested lightly against your shoulder, no kissing, no obvious display just quiet closeness. The kind that said more than loud affection ever could.

“They’ve been like that for almost half an hour,” Ona whispered, smiling into her drink.

“She looks so smug,” Jana muttered playfully. “Like she won something.”

“She did,” Carmen said under her breath, but there was a fondness in her voice.

Patri glanced at her. “They both did. Not that either of them would admit it.”

Carmen huffed a laugh, brushing her fingers over the rim of her glass. “You know what’s funny? They both really like each other… and yet somehow both are completely convinced the other doesn’t.”

Patri raised an eyebrow. “You’ve spoken to both of them about it?”

“I don’t need to. You can see it.” Carmen gestured with her glass. “Y/N acts like it’s just wedding bubble magic and Ale? She’s all nerves under that whole too cool to care thing. We've known her for years when have we ever seen her like this with anyone.”

Ona gave a knowing smirk. “She didn’t even bring her phone to dinner. You know how rare that is?”

“She’s pretending to play it cool,” Carmen said, half-laughing. “But then she shows up with her hoodie, sits behind her like a human radiator, and acts like that’s normal.”

They all looked over again.

Alexia was now leaning in slightly, saying something low near your ear. You smiled, eyes closing briefly as you shook your head in amusement. Whatever she said, it made you laugh soft and genuine. She rested her chin back on your shoulder, her eyes still on you like she was watching something she couldn’t quite believe was real.

Patri tilted her head. “You think either of them will say anything?”

Carmen let out a quiet sigh, eyes never leaving the two of you. “Honestly? I don’t know, but I hope so. They look like they forgot the rest of us exist.”

“Yeah,” Ona agreed, almost wistful. “They look happy.”

☀️

The night had fully draped itself around the yacht, the stars scattered across the sky, the only sounds now the gentle lap of the water against the hull.

The others had gone to bed or slipped inside, but neither of you had moved. You stayed out at the back of the boat, still resting against Alexia who was know laying down, her ribs your pillow. The string lights above cast a warm glow across her face, softening the sharp lines, making her look almost unreal. She still hadn’t asked for her hoodie back, and you had no plans to give it up.

“You’re very quiet,” she said suddenly, her Spanish accent curling around the words.

You looked over at her, the smallest smirk tugging at your lips. “Maybe I’m just shy.”

Alexia raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “No. No shy. Liar.”

You laughed, shifting slightly so your knees brushed. “I’m not lying. I’m just… mysterious.”

She leaned in a little, eyes narrowing like she was studying you. “Mysterious. Hm.”

You nodded solemnly. “Exactly. Deep, complicated, unreadable.”

Alexia hummed, unconvinced. “No. You are… how do you say…” she paused, thinking, then pointed a finger at you, “Trouble.”

That made you grin. “I’ve been called worse.”

Her smirk widened, and she looked far too pleased with herself. “You like when I call you that.”

“You call me a muppet most of the time.”

“Because you are.” She shrugged, casual, but her eyes were gleaming. “But… pretty muppet.”

You gave her a look, trying not to laugh. “Wow. That’s the smoothest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Wait,” she said, holding up a finger. “I have better.”

You leaned in, amused. “Do you?”

Alexia shifted so she was facing you more directly. “Tu… eres muy bonita.”

You blinked, smiling slow. “That’s the same one you wouldn’t translate last time.”

She just gave a lazy shrug. “Still won’t.”

You tilted your head. “Why not?”

“You already know.” The air stretched between you, electric and easy all at once.

“I think you like being mysterious too,” you said softly.

“I think…” she began, then reached forward to tug playfully at the hoodie sleeve, “you like me.”

You raised a brow, pretending to consider it, lips barely hiding your smirk. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” she echoed, mock-offended, hand to her chest. “After you stole my hoodie?”

“You never stole it,” you said, nudging her leg with yours. “You gave it to me."

She grinned, leaned up on her hands, your head naturally moving to rest on her stomach. “Still counts.”

You tilted your head, letting your eyes linger on her. “What are you going to do if I don’t give it back?”

Alexia’s gaze flicked to your lips, then up to your eyes. “I come to London.”

Your heart stuttered but you didn’t let it show, you only smiled wider. “Just for your hoodie?”

“Maybe.” She grinned, eyes dancing. “Or maybe for the trouble.”

You leaned back beside her, bumping her shoulder. “You’re such a flirt.”

“You love it,” she said, barely above a whisper and God help you, because you really did.

The hours slipped by unnoticed, as if time had stepped back to give the two of you space.

You and Alexia stayed there, tucked into the back of the boat beneath the stars, the yacht swaying gently on the dark sea. The air had gone cool but not uncomfortable, and you were still wearing her hoodie, legs pulled up beneath you as you sat facing her, a blanket shared between you.

The flirty energy had quietened into something softer intimate, you’d both stopped trying to impress each other. You were just talking, learning, listening.

She spoke slowly, sometimes pausing to find the English, other times slipping into Spanish when her emotions outran her vocabulary and you didn’t mind. You were patient, you’d ask again if you needed to, or you’d just watch her hands move as she tried to explain. Sometimes the way her eyes lit up said more than her words could.

She told you about her family how close she was to her mum, her sister, the memories that came sharp when she talked about her dad.

“I was eighteen,” she said, staring out at the water, her voice quieter now. “He… he loved football. He is why I love football.” She glanced over at you. “He never see me play for Barça, he love Barca, he wanted me to play for Barca”

You didn’t interrupt, just gently reached out, your hand brushing over hers where it rested between you.

“But… I feel him,” she added, tapping her chest lightly. “Always.”

You nodded, your throat a little tight. “I think he’d be proud. Probably wouldn’t believe what you’ve done.”

She smiled, soft and knowing. “Sometimes, I don’t believe.”

Then she told you about when she was little playing with boys in the street, ruining shoes, getting in trouble for coming home muddy. About her first time putting on a professional jersey, about the World Cup both the heartbreak and the victory. How it felt to wear the armband for Barcelona.

“You make it look so easy,” you murmured.

“It’s not,” she said honestly. “But… it’s my life.”

You admired that about her how she never glamorised it. She wasn’t chasing fame, it was about the game, the work, the love, to you it came across that the fame was a burden she bore to enhance the game.

Between the heavier parts, there were moments of laughter, she told you a story about her first red card how it was completely unnecessary and she’d gotten sent off because of a stupid tackle when they were already winning by four.

“I was… how do you say… idiota.” She laughed, rubbing her hands over her face.

“You still are,” you teased. “But like, in a charming way.”

Her smile came easy now. “Muppet.”

Eventually she leaned her head back, eyes closed as she breathed in the sea air. “It’s late.”

You nodded. “Very.”

“Still want to talk.”

“So do I.”

Alexia cracked an eye open and looked at you, her voice a little hoarse now from hours of talking. “You make me… feel calm. It’s… strange.”

You smiled, your hand finding hers again without thinking, “Not strange,” you said. “Just rare.” You don’t know how it happened but at some point, you both burst into quiet, tired laughter, faces lit by the first pale strokes of dawn brushing across the sea.

“The sun is rising,” you whisper, eyes wide with disbelief as you glance out toward the horizon. “We’ve literally talked the entire night.”

Alexia leans her head on your shoulder, yawning softly. “Oops.”

You laugh again. “I can’t believe neither of us noticed.”

She turns slightly, "I never see sunrise before,” she says, like it’s nothing, like she hasn’t just dropped a little bomb into the moment.

You pull back slightly, looking at her. “Wait. Never?”

Alexia shakes her head, sleepy eyes blinking. “Always… sleep. Or travel. Or game. Never this.”

You gape at her, exaggerated. “You’ve never stayed up and watched the sun rise?”

She shrugs. “Maybe from plane. But not… like this.”

You glance back at the soft glow pushing up over the edge of the sea, golden light washing everything in soft, dreamy colour. The water glistens, the world still, quiet, and unreal. “Well,” you say gently, nudging her side. “Now you will.”

You lay in silence for a few minutes, shoulders touching, eyes fixed on the horizon. Eventually, Alexia lets out a sigh so relaxed it almost sounds like a lullaby. “This is nice.”

“It really is.” You glance at her to find her blinking slower, lashes heavy over her eyes. She’s trying to stay awake, but failing beautifully. She tilts further toward you, head resting just beside your shoulder as she moves to lay on her side. “Don’t fall asleep on me,” you whisper, even though your own eyelids are heavy now too.

“I stay… for sunrise,” she mumbles, already halfway gone.

You smile, your cheek resting on your own shoulder toward her, the suns slowly climbing higher, but your eyes flutter shut. There, in the soft orange glow of a brand new day, with Alexia’s slow, steady breathing warming your shoulder, you both fall asleep, the sound of the sea your lullaby.

☀️

The sound of footsteps and soft chatter starts to filter into your half-dreaming mind, but you're too comfortable too warm and weightless in the cocoon of Alexia’s arms to really react.

Up the steps come Carmen, Patri, and a few of the other girls, all blinking against the light and clutching coffees in oversized mugs.

Carmen stops first, mouth parting in quiet disbelief as she nudges Patri. “Are you seeing this?”

Patri follows her gaze and lets out a sleepy laugh. “No jodas… they’ve been there all night?”

“Still in the exact same spot,” Ona adds, sounding both amused and concerned. “Have they moved at all?”

“Nope,” says Pina, peeking around Carmen. “Same position.”

Carmen crosses her arms, a wide grin forming as she takes in the sight of you, curled gently away from Alexia, her arm wrapped securely around your waist, her head nestled perfectly behind yours. There’s a cushion half-draped over both of you and her hoodie still snug on your frame.

“I said they liked each other,” Carmen mutters, shaking her head. “They just don’t believe it yet.”

“Should we wake them?” Patri asks, raising an eyebrow.

Carmen smirks. “Let them sleep. They’ve clearly had more important things to do than sleeping anyway.”

“Talking?” Ona suggests.

Another round of quiet laughter rolls through the group as they move quietly past, trying not to disturb you. But one of the girls, Jana probably whispers a little too loud,

“I give it two days before they finally kiss.”

Still half-asleep, Alexia shifts a little behind you, burying her face more against your shoulder.

You mumble, barely conscious, “Is someone talking?”

“Shhh,” Alexia says, her voice groggy but affectionate. “Ignore. Dreaming.” And with that, you both drift right back off, leaving the girls now above deck in collective awe and maybe a little smugness as they head for coffee and breakfast, quietly placing bets on how long it’ll take for the two of you to finally admit what everyone else already knows.

☀️

The sun is high and unforgiving now, glinting off the calm sea and warming every surface of the yacht. You step out from below deck in nothing but a bikini, your hair piled messily on top of your head, sunglasses half-slipped down your nose as you squint into the light.

Patri's the first to spot you and waves you over. “You finally ready for the day, sleeping beauty,” she grins, sipping her iced drink.

You roll your eyes playfully. “I blame your captain. She talks so much.” You stretch your arms overhead with a quiet groan, and the motion draws more than just a few eyes not that you notice.

You walk over and join Carmen, chatting softly as the two of you start to wander toward the front of the boat, leaving the others behind, but the others are watching.

Patri’s smirk is practically feral as she nudges Alexia, who hasn’t even tried to hide the fact that she’s staring and not in a subtle way, no, Alexia’s eyes have been shamelessly following the sway of your hips, the line of your spine down the middle of your back, the way your laugh lingers in the air behind you.

“She is walking away,” Jana mutters behind her shades. “You want to follow with tongue dragging or...?”

“Shut up,” Alexia murmurs, finally blinking and tearing her eyes away.

“She’s hot, we get it,” Ona adds, grinning. “But so are you. Go talk to her.”

“I did talk,” Alexia says, crossing her arms like it’s a winning argument.

Ona, lying stretched out in the sun nearby, scoffs, “You fell asleep with her. That counts as more than talking.”

“It was just… talking,” Alexia mutters, cheeks pinking.

“No, no. That was emotional intimacy, amiga,” Patri chimes in. “You two are dangerously close to soft launch territory and you haven’t even kissed her yet?”

“She’s British,” Alexia argues weakly, still watching the direction you walked in. “They flirt like… like joke. You know? Maybe it’s not real.”

Patri squints. “She literally fell asleep in your arms and was walking around in your hoodie like it’s her favourite possession.”

“She’s not wearing the hoodie right now,” Alexia says quickly.

Pina raises a brow. “But you noticed.” That shuts her up Patri leans in, serious now. “Ale, she’s not playing with you. I saw how she looks at you. If you like her… just do something.”

Alexia hesitates, glancing again toward the bow of the boat where you and Carmen have disappeared behind the sunshade and she doesn’t say it out loud but her mind is already made up.

She just needs the right moment.

☀️

You’re sat on the curved white cushion at the very front of the yacht, knees pulled up loosely to your chest, sunglasses still perched on your nose as the wind tousles strands of your hair. Carmen lies next to you, propped up on one elbow, eyes scanning the horizon but her attention keeps flicking back to you.

“You’ve gone quiet,” she says, nudging your foot with hers. “That usually means something’s brewing.”

You shrug, smiling faintly. “Just thinking.”

“About football?”

You snort. “When have I ever been thinking about football?”

She raises a brow. “About a footballer, then?” You give her a look, biting your lower lip to hide your smile, Carmen laughs knowingly, tipping her head back. “Right, there it is.”

“It’s stupid,” you murmur, fingers tracing absent circles over your shin. “We barely know each other. It’s all wedding magic and sea air and too much rosé. That’s not… real.”

Carmen shifts a little closer, eyes narrowed in mock scolding. “Don’t be thick. You think I haven’t seen the way you two look at each other?”

You roll your eyes behind your glasses. “We flirt. That’s not the same thing.”

Carmen tilts her head. “No, but the way she looks at you when you’re not even talking! That’s not just flirting.” You fall silent, staring out to sea. You hadn’t thought anyone had noticed. You didn’t think she would actually, “She told me she’s nervous,” Carmen continues gently. “Which is wild, because I’ve seen her captain Spain in a World Cup and she didn’t blink, but with you? She’s clueless.”

Your stomach twists in that infuriating, wonderful way it always does when Alexia’s name comes up now. “So what do I do?” you ask, voice quieter, unsure.

Carmen smiles. “Be honest. She’s not going to risk something unless she knows it’s safe.”

You exhale, leaning your head back against the sun-warmed railing behind you. “She makes me feel like a teenager.”

“That’s probably a good sign,” Carmen says, nudging your foot again with hers. “Or a terrible one. Either way, you’re in trouble.” You laugh despite yourself, Carmen grins. “And now I’m going to leave you right here so you can figure out what you want.”

You glance sideways. “You’re abandoning me?”

“Absolutely,” she says, standing up and stretching, “I’ve done my part. I’m going to pretend I need a drink and let you sit with your feelings.”

She pats your shoulder, dramatic like she’s imparting some ancient wisdom, and walks off, leaving you alone with the breeze, the sun, and a head that suddenly feels too full.

You pull your sunglasses back down and lean into the railing again, watching the water sparkle.

Something makes you glance over your shoulder just a flicker of instinct, Alexia’s there, by the side rail on the mid deck. She’s got a bottle of water in one hand, talking casually with Ona and Jana, but her eyes flick to you and linger. Only for a second. Just enough for your breath to catch, then she looks away with a small smile, brushing hair behind her ear as she says something to Jana, and you watch the way her shoulders shake lightly with laughter.

☀️

The sun is at its highest point in the sky now, casting everything in a warmth, glittering across the waves around the yacht. The music has mellowed, some of the girls are dozing in the sun or sipping drinks, and you’re back near the railing, lazily watching the sea roll beneath you.

You hear the soft patter of feet before you feel the light splash of water flicked your way.

“Hey,” Alexia says, her voice a little breathless. She’s slightly damp, her hair messy from the salt water, a towel thrown over one shoulder. “Come swim.”

You tilt your head. “Your friends stop playing with you?”

She shrugs, smirking. “Yes. Jump with me.”

You glance at the ocean, then back at her. “You’re not gonna throw me in or something stupid, are you?”

Alexia holds up both hands innocently. “I swear. Together. Come.”

You hesitate for only a second. “Fine, but if I belly flop it’s your fault.”

Alexia laughs. “No belly flop. I teach you perfect jump.”

You both climb to the top deck railing, she stands close, shoulder brushing yours, both of you looking down at the water below.

“On three?” you ask, your heart kicking up.

She grins. “Uno, dos… tres!”

You jump. For a second there’s only the sound of rushing air, then the cold, wild shock of the sea and it swallows you whole. You surface with a gasp, blinking away water, laughing breathlessly as you smooth your hair from your eyes, but she’s not next to you.

You spin in the water, treading, scanning, “Alexia?” Then you feel it her hand grabbing your thigh underwater, lightning quick. You yelp, nearly jumping out of your skin and suddenly she bursts up in front of you, close, eyes bright, laughing with reckless joy.

“Muppet!” she says between laughs, wiping water from her face. “You scream like little child!”

You swat water at her. “You psycho! You scared the life out of me!”

Her grin only widens. “Worth it.”

The two of you float closer together, feet kicking lazily beneath the surface, the water cradles you both, the laughter fades, leaving behind the hush of waves and your quiet, steady breaths.

Alexia floats closer, eyes never leaving yours. You don’t speak neither of you needs to. Her hand finds your hip beneath the surface, fingers light but certain, and your breath hitches.

There’s a stillness between you now, a moment stretched thin like glass, you glance down her mouth, then up again and she sees it.

Her brow lifts a fraction, asking permission without words and when you don’t pull away, when your fingers lightly skim the water between you, her head tilts forward until her lips touch your own.

The kiss is slow, warm, her lips soft and unsure at first, like she can’t quite believe you’re letting her, but then she deepens it, just slightly, and it feels like you’ve never been kissed properly before this.

There’s nothing urgent, nothing messy, just the sun, the sea, her hand on your hip, and that one perfect, heart stopping kiss sweet and surprising and unbelievably careful.

When she finally pulls back, eyes still half-closed, she exhales softly like she’d been holding her breath the whole time and you’re smiling.

You’re still close, water lapping gently around you, your heart doing wild, clumsy things in your chest. You try to play it cool, but the warmth blooming across your cheeks gives you away.

Alexia notices instantly, her lips twitch, the corner of her mouth pulling into a soft, amused smirk. “Ay,” she says, voice low, teasing, “you shy now?”

You glance away, biting your lip, trying not to grin. “I’m not shy.”

She raises an eyebrow. “No?” You shake your head, even though you absolutely are. Alexia hums, brushing a wet strand of hair from your face, fingers feather light against your cheek. “Muppet… you are very red.”

You splash water at her face. “I hate you.”

She wipes her face dramatically, laughing. “No, no… no you don't.”

You squeal as a splash of water hits your face way too aggressive to be accidental. “Alexia!” you cry, laughing as you swipe water from your eyes, spinning in the sea. “I’m literally not bothering you!”

She’s already grinning, smug, floating a few feet away now with her brows raised like she’s done nothing wrong. “What? I swim. The water is free.”

“You’re so annoying.”

Before you can splash her back, she darts forward, faster than you expect, and suddenly both her arms are around your waist from behind after she turned you, lifting you slightly in the water as you shriek and kick.

“Muppet, stop crying,” she laughs in your ear, holding on tightly while you flail in her grip. “So dramatic.”

“You’re a menace,” you giggle, wriggling but not really trying to get away. “I’m gonna drown and it’s gonna be your fault.”

“You don’t drown. You float,” she says, her lips brushing close to your temple, voice warm with laughter. “You float and complain.”

You laugh harder, leaning back into her slightly, your hands resting over hers as she holds you above the gentle sway of the sea. The water sparkles around you, her chest pressed to your back, both of you breathless and giddy.

She rests her chin on your shoulder for a beat. “You’re really fun,” she says, more quietly this time, like it slipped out by accident.

Your smile softens. “You’re really annoying.”

Alexia just squeezes you gently in response. “Still… you don’t let go.”

You’re still in her grip, laughing and kicking lazily, the warmth of her breath near your ear making it far too easy to forget you're supposed to be retaliating.

So, you strike. Quickly twisting in her arms, you push down on her shoulders and dunk her under with a triumphant shout. “That’s what you get!” But the moment her head disappears beneath the surface, something shifts. You know that you’ve made a huge mistake, you feel it a second later, her hands sliding firmly up your legs under the water, gripping your thighs. Then your hips and waist, she uses your body for leverage and shoots up with shocking strength, resurfacing right in front of you, water dripping from her face, eyes sharp and locked on yours.

Your breath hitches, because you felt all of it, every inch of her touch. The way her fingers trailed, the way your skin lit up like fire when she moved. Alexia’s close now you’re treading water but it feels like you're floating without control.

She pushes wet hair back, smirking. “Bad move, muy mal.”

You’re still catching your breath, blinking at her. “I… yeah. Regret.”

Her grin spreads, lazy and far too knowing. “You okay, muppet? You look…”

“Don’t say it.”

She leans closer, brushing her nose against yours playfully. “Nerviosa.”

You groan, half embarrassed, half giddy. “I hate you.”

She hums like she doesn’t believe you at all and she’s right, because right now, all you want is to dunk her again… or kiss her again, maybe both.

☀️

You’re sprawled out on the lounger, sunglasses on, drink in hand, all the ingredients of relaxation at your disposal and yet, you are absolutely not relaxed.

The girls have discovered the makeshift shower hose at the back of the yacht, and one by one they’ve started copying your photos Carmen was taking from earlier. You watch them giggle and pose dramatically under the stream of water, the whole scene chaotic in the most endearing way.

But now it’s her turn, you’d clocked Alexia’s bikini hours ago, burnt orange, minimal, and devastating but now, standing under the soft arc of the shower hose at the back of the yacht, she’s basically committed a personal attack.

Your stomach tightens, you sip your drink, but it might as well be sand with how dry your mouth suddenly is.

She moves slowly at first, fixing the hose, laughing as Jana gives her chaotic instructions in a mix of Spanish and Catalan. You watch a droplet run down the slope of her collarbone, between her breasts, and lower, okay, yeah, this isn’t just heat from the sun.

Her front is mostly to you, all smooth skin and muscles shifting gently beneath golden tan, the curve of her waist impossible to ignore. The bikini bottoms sit low on her hips, and the top, it clings in a way that makes you cross your legs without thinking.

You can’t look away, like your brain is gone and all that’s left is instinct and want.

You fan your neck with your free hand, entirely defeated by how smug she somehow looks while doing absolutely nothing. Her stance is casual, but confident one hand lost in her hair, the other adjusting the water flow, the tattoo on her ribs catching glints of light.

It should be illegal and then her laugh rings out, husky and sudden, like someone had said something actually funny, you feel that sound. Deep in your chest, like a ripple of heat.

Carmen catches your expression, you glance at her, and she just raises her brows like, yeah. I know.

You flush, but don’t deny it. How could you? The woman looks like she was carved by Mediterranean gods and dipped in sunlight and now she’s refusing to smile for the camera.

You sit up a little straighter, pressing your thighs together and calling out, “Smile, Alexia!”

She doesn’t, just tosses you a glare over one perfect shoulder, eyes shaded by wet strands of hair, the sun catching the droplets still clinging to her skin.

She doesn’t smile, so you make her. “Alexia, smile, it’s cute!” you call again, biting your lip as she visibly tries to suppress it. Still nothing, you swing your legs off the lounger, leaning forward. “You're cute when you smile!"

Still nothing and so you do it, loud and unapologetic, with all the flair of a karaoke queen with no shame,

"Hey sexy lady, I like your flow, your body's bangin', out of control!"

The girls burst into laughter Patri actually collapses against the railing Alexia turns, giving you the most unimpressed look she can muster but her mouth twitches, the corners betray her and there it is, the smile, soft, beautiful and real.

It curls across her face and your heart actually skips. You soak it in, her lips, parted slightly, the dimples you hadn’t let yourself stare at too hard before, the gentle crinkle at the corner of her eyes.

You want to bottle the image, or maybe frame it, or possibly throw yourself overboard to cool off. She shakes her head at you, the hose forgotten. “Muppet,” she mutters, that smile still dancing there like she can’t get rid of it even if she tried.

You grin, cheeks burning, probably blushing head to toe, she turns back to pose, more relaxed now, a little sassier, and maybe her next smile is for the camera, but you swear the one before it was just for you.

Jana’s still directing, crouched low to get the angle just right, Alexia tipping her chin, shifting her weight like she doesn’t know how good she looks which somehow only makes it worse.

She’s standing under the shower again, rinsing off salt and sun, water gliding across the dip of her waist, tracing the lines of her abdomen, catching on the hem of her bikini bottoms.

Your throat tightens and it hits you, just like that, what happens after this?

The laughter, the sun, the sweet kisses, the way her hand had fit on your waist like it had always been meant to be there. The flirting, the games, the look she gives you when she thinks you’re not watching.

It’s all happening in this capsule of perfect time, but what happens after? After the yacht docks, after the bags are packed, after you’re back in London, and she’s in Barcelona living her life with cameras in her face and teammates who see her every day. You're just the girl she met at a wedding.

You shift your weight, uncomfortable under the weight of a thought you didn’t want to have.

Will I get to see her again?

You don’t dare say it aloud, not to Carmen, not even to yourself.

You feel it instead in the way you try to commit every detail to memory. The way Alexia leans into the sun, half smiling. The outline of her tattoos scattered over her back. The way she laughs when Jana nearly drops the phone.

You want to press pause, to stretch this moment just a little longer, because what if this is the last time?

---

Where do you think these two would meet again?

#alexia x reader #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas fanfic #woso fanfics #alexia putellas #woso #barca femeni #barcelona femeni #alexia putellas imagine #woso imagine #alexia putellas x y/n #alexia putellas one shot #fcb femeni

514 notes · View notes