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sonarspace · 6 months ago

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⋆⁺₊ HOLLY, JOLLY, SINFUL

꒰ synopsis. where the krampus you feared is far from the monster in the stories, and santa isn’t the saint you thought he was.

content. santa/krampus au. sukuna x fem!reader. nsfw. rough sēx, orāl (f! receiving), hair pulling, multiple orgāsms, size kink, and possessive sukuna.

wc. 6k

an. a little spin on a christmas tale, i hope you guys like it. happy early christmas to those who celebrate <3

the north pole buzzed with a frenzy unlike any december before. the workshop, usually a well-oiled machine of holiday cheer, was on the brink of chaos. elves darted across the floor, their faces pale, their hands trembling as they struggled to stay productive amidst the rising tension.

toys had disappeared. not just a few, but sleighs worth of carefully crafted gifts, all set to be delivered to children across the world.

“gone,” whispered a senior elf, his voice trembling as he held up an empty inventory list. “every last one.”

“how could this happen?” another elf demanded, their voice sharp with fear. “no one gets past santa’s wards. no one.”

you worked silently, sorting a batch of unfinished trains, though your hands trembled as much as theirs. the tension in the room was suffocating, each whispered fear clawing at the edges of your composure.

you weren’t the most experienced elf—far from it—but even you could sense the weight of what had happened. christmas wasn’t just a season; it was magic, a promise of joy to the world. and without the toys, that magic would crumble.

“it’s him,” someone whispered behind you, their voice low and ominous. “krampus.”

the name hung in the air like a curse.

you’d heard the stories growing up, tales of a monstrous being who lived in the frozen expanse of the south pole. krampus, they said, was the shadow of christmas, a creature who thrived on misery and chaos. his four arms were said to be lined with claws, his horns sharp enough to pierce steel.

but no one believed the stories. not really.

until now.

the grand hall was quieter than you’d ever heard it.

rows of elves stood shoulder to shoulder, their faces illuminated by the warm glow of the towering christmas tree. despite the festive decorations, the atmosphere was heavy, the usual cheer replaced by unease.

santa stood at the head of the room, his crimson coat gleaming in the firelight. his sharp crimson eyes swept over the crowd, and the tension in the room seemed to deepen.

“this was no accident,” santa said, his voice cutting through the silence. “the toys have been stolen. and the wards around the north pole have been breached.”

a ripple of shock ran through the crowd.

“krampus has made his move,” santa continued. “and if we don’t act quickly, christmas will be ruined.”

the whispers began again, this time louder, more frantic.

“he’s real?” someone asked, their voice tinged with disbelief.

“of course he’s real,” another snapped. “who else could have done this?”

you stayed silent, your heart pounding as santa’s words sank in.

“we must retrieve the gifts,” santa said. “but the south pole is treacherous, and krampus is no ordinary foe. this will require courage—and skill.”

his gaze swept over the crowd again, lingering on the senior elves who avoided his eyes.

“who will go?”

the room fell silent.

your hands clenched into fists.

you could feel the weight of your fellow elves’ fear, their unwillingness to step forward. the journey would be dangerous, and the thought of facing krampus—the supposed monster of legend—was enough to send even the bravest elves into hiding.

but as the silence stretched on, something inside you stirred.

if no one else would act, then who would?

before you could second-guess yourself, you stepped forward.

“i’ll do it.”

the words rang out in the hall, louder than you’d expected.

all eyes turned to you, a mix of admiration, surprise, and doubt flickering in their gazes.

santa’s sharp gaze settled on you, his expression unreadable.

“you’re brave,” he said after a moment, his tone even. “but this will not be easy.”

“i can handle it,” you said, forcing your voice to remain steady.

before santa could respond, the air changed.

a sudden chill swept through the hall, snuffing out the candles in an instant. the elves gasped, their breath visible in the freezing air.

the temperature plummeted, and an unnatural wind began to swirl, carrying with it a deep, mocking laugh.

“so this is the great north pole,” a voice boomed, the sound reverberating through the hall like thunder. it was smooth and resonant, laced with cruel amusement.

“weak, fragile, desperate,” the voice continued. “you send a mere elf to face me? is that the best you can do, kenjaku?”

the air seemed to pulse with the weight of the voice, a presence you could feel but not see.

you glanced at santa, your confusion growing. kenjaku? who was that?

“show yourself, krampus,” santa growled, his jaw tightening.

the voice laughed again, colder this time.

“you’d like that, wouldn’t you? but no, not yet,” krampus said, his tone dripping with mockery. “come to me, kenjaku. or are you too much of a coward to face what you stole?”

the words hung in the air, heavy with implication.

santa’s expression darkened, his crimson eyes narrowing.

“i’ll come,” he said finally, his voice tight with restrained anger.

the meeting ended in a flurry of nervous energy. elves whispered among themselves, their voices rising and falling like waves as they tried to make sense of what they’d just heard.

you stayed behind, packing supplies for the journey. the staff santa had given you—infused with ancient christmas magic—felt warm in your hands, a faint glow emanating from its carved surface.

“are you sure about this?” one of the senior elves asked, their voice hesitant as they approached you.

“i don’t have a choice,” you replied, your voice firm. “someone has to do it.”

they nodded, though their expression remained troubled. “be careful,” they said before turning to leave.

you glanced at santa, who stood by the fire, his gaze distant. his usual commanding presence felt… strained, as though the weight of krampus’s words had unsettled him.

you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to the story—something he wasn’t telling you.

but there was no time to dwell on it. the journey to the south pole awaited, and whatever lay ahead, you would face it head-on.

the journey to the south pole was grueling.

the snow felt sharper here, more like shards of glass than soft flakes. the bitter cold seemed to seep through every layer of clothing, chilling you to your bones. this wasn’t like the north pole—the light, the cheer, the magic. this place felt… wrong.

santa led the way, his crimson coat stark against the endless expanse of gray and white. the silence between you was heavy, broken only by the crunch of snow underfoot and the howling wind.

“are we close?” you asked, gripping your staff tightly as its faint glow pulsed in your hand.

“closer than i’d like,” santa replied, his tone clipped.

you frowned. his usual steady demeanor felt off. there was none of the quiet confidence you’d grown used to—just tension, coiled and sharp.

“what is this place?” you pressed, glancing at the jagged ice formations jutting out of the ground like broken glass.

“krampus’s domain,” santa said. “his influence twists the land. the closer we get, the more dangerous it becomes.”

a shiver ran down your spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

the attack came without warning.

the ground trembled beneath your feet, the snow cracking and shifting as shadowy figures emerged from the storm.

“what’s that?” you asked, panic rising in your chest.

“bandits,” santa said sharply, his hand tightening around his staff.

before you could respond, they were upon you. their movements were quick and unnatural, their jagged weapons carved from ice glinting in the dim light.

“stay close,” santa ordered.

you raised your staff, its glow flaring as the first bandit lunged toward you. the magic coursed through you, sending a pulse of energy that knocked them back.

but there were too many.

you swung the staff again, the force of the blow sending another bandit sprawling into the snow. but for every one you struck down, two more seemed to take their place.

a sharp blow to your side sent you stumbling, the staff slipping from your grasp. you fell to your knees, gasping for breath as pain radiated through your ribs.

“help me!” you shouted, turning to santa.

but he wasn’t there.

your heart sank as you scanned the storm, the wind tearing at your cloak. “santa!” you called again, desperation rising in your voice.

there was no answer.

the bandits closed in, their twisted faces leering down at you.

“still breathing, are you?”

the voice was deep, smooth, and laced with a hint of amusement.

you blinked, your vision blurry as the storm raged around you. a figure crouched beside you, his sharp features coming into focus as the wind whipped through his wild, pink hair.

“who…” you croaked, your voice barely audible.

“relax,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind.

he leaned closer, his crimson eyes scanning your face with an intensity that made your heart stutter.

“bandits,” he muttered, glancing at the torn fabric of your cloak. “you’re lucky they didn’t finish the job.”

before you could respond, he slipped a thick cloak around your trembling form, his four arms moving with surprising gentleness.

“can you stand?” he asked.

you shook your head weakly, your body refusing to cooperate.

“figured as much,” he said with a faint smirk.

before you could protest, he lifted you effortlessly, cradling you against his chest. the warmth of his skin seeped through the layers of fabric, and you found yourself leaning into him, unable to resist.

“who are you?” you asked weakly.

“someone who doesn’t leave people to die in the snow,” he replied dryly.

the warmth of his shelter was a shock after the brutal cold outside.

he set you down on a plush couch near the fire, his movements careful as he adjusted the blanket around your shoulders.

“drink this,” he said, handing you a steaming mug.

the spiced cider was rich and warm, flooding your senses with comfort. you sipped it cautiously, watching as he crouched beside you.

“what were you doing out there?” he asked, his crimson eyes sharp and searching.

you hesitated, glancing down at the mug in your hands. “you wouldn’t believe me if i told you.”

his lips curved into a faint smirk. “try me.”

you swallowed hard, trying to gather your thoughts. “i came here with santa claus,” you began hesitantly, watching his reaction.

his eyes widened slightly, but not with disbelief. there was something else in his gaze—an intensity you couldn’t quite place, as if he were seeing you for the first time.

you felt the need to explain, to justify yourself. “i know it sounds ridiculous,” you said quickly, the words tumbling out. “but… santa claus is real. he exists for those who choose to believe in him.”

to your surprise, his expression softened. the smirk faded, replaced by something quieter, almost contemplative.

“and you believe,” he said, his tone calm.

“i do,” you admitted. “it’s not just about the toys or the magic. it’s about hope. about believing that even in the darkest times, there’s something good in the world.”

he nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. “a rare thing, these days,” he said quietly.

his reaction surprised you. instead of mockery, there was understanding in his gaze, a warmth that made your chest tighten.

“so, you’re here with him,” he said after a moment.

“yes,” you replied. “santa sent me to find krampus and retrieve the stolen gifts.”

his eyes darkened slightly, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than felt natural. it wasn’t skepticism or anger—it was something deeper, more intense.

how could kenjaku have someone like you by his side? your quiet strength, your rare beauty, your unwavering belief in something so pure. the thought ignited something sharp and bitter in his chest.

you shifted under his gaze, mistaking his silence for doubt. “i know it sounds ridiculous,” you said quickly, your voice trembling slightly. “but i promise, it’s real. everything—santa, the north pole, the magic—it’s all real.”

“i don’t think it’s ridiculous,” he said, interrupting you gently.

you blinked, caught off guard. “you don’t?”

his lips curved into a faint, almost wistful smile. “not at all,” he said, his voice low. “some things are worth believing in, even if the rest of the world doesn’t understand.”

his words lingered in the air between you, and for a moment, the storm outside seemed to fade into the background.

“you’re not what i expected,” he said finally, his voice softer now.

neither was he.

the storm outside had grown fiercer, the wind howling against the walls of the shelter as if the very land were angry. inside, the fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows across the room.

you watched your rescuer as he paced near the hearth, his crimson eyes glowing faintly in the firelight. the tension in his movements was palpable, his four arms crossing and uncrossing as if he were fighting an internal battle.

“so,” he said, breaking the silence. “you came here with kenjaku.”

you frowned. “who?”

his gaze snapped to yours, sharp and incredulous. “kenjaku,” he repeated, his tone laced with disdain. “the man you call santa claus.”

your stomach twisted at his words, the weight of the name unfamiliar and wrong. “that’s not his name,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“it is,” he said firmly, stepping closer. “you’ve been lied to.”

you opened your mouth to argue, but the intensity in his gaze silenced you. there was no mockery, no smugness—only a simmering anger that made your breath catch.

“you don’t know, do you?” he asked, his voice dropping lower, softer. “what he’s done.”

“what are you talking about?” you said, your chest tightening as the weight of his words pressed down on you.

he sighed, running a hand through his pink hair, his tattoos glowing faintly as his anger simmered just beneath the surface.

“centuries ago,” he began, his voice steady but edged with bitterness, “i was chosen to bear the mantle of santa claus. the magic of christmas—the ancient power that keeps this world in balance—was mine by right. but kenjaku didn’t think i was fit for the role. he wanted it for himself.”

you stared at him, your mind reeling as his words sank in.

“he used forbidden magic,” sukuna continued, his voice darkening, “to seal me here, in the south pole. he took everything from me—my title, my power, my purpose—and left me to rot in this frozen wasteland.”

the crackle of the fire was the only sound as his words hung in the air, heavy and sharp.

“and now he sends you,” he said, his gaze narrowing. “to clean up his mess.”

“that’s not true,” you said, though your voice wavered. “he wouldn’t…”

“wouldn’t he?” sukuna interrupted, stepping closer. “then tell me, where is he now? why did he leave you to die?”

the question hit like a blow, the memory of the bandits and kenjaku’s disappearance flashing in your mind.

“maybe he had no choice,” you said weakly, though even you didn’t believe the words.

sukuna snorted, his expression twisting into a bitter smile. “you’re too kind for your own good.”

you looked away, the weight of his gaze too much to bear.

“you still don’t get it, do you?” he said, his voice softer now, almost gentle. “he’s been using you. just like he uses everyone else.”

the sound of approaching footsteps shattered the silence.

sukuna stiffened, his tattoos glowing brighter as he turned toward the door. his crimson eyes burned with anger, his four arms flexing as he prepared for what was coming.

“stay here,” he said, his voice low and commanding.

before you could respond, the door burst open, a gust of icy wind swirling into the room.

and there, standing in the doorway, was kenjaku—santa claus.

“so this is where you’ve been hiding,” kenjaku said, his voice smooth, almost amused.

sukuna’s growl rumbled through the room like distant thunder. “you’ve got some nerve showing your face here.”

kenjaku stepped inside, his crimson coat gleaming in the firelight. his gaze swept over the room, lingering on you for a moment before returning to sukuna.

“you always were dramatic,” kenjaku said, his tone sharp.

“and you always were a liar,” sukuna shot back, his voice venomous.

you stood frozen, your heart pounding as the tension between them crackled like static electricity.

“why did you leave me?” you demanded, your voice cutting through the standoff.

kenjaku’s gaze softened, though there was something calculating in his expression. “i had no choice,” he said smoothly. “the bandits were too many. if i’d stayed, we both would have died.”

“that’s bullshit,” sukuna spat, stepping forward. “you left her because she wasn’t worth the effort to you.”

“don’t listen to him,” kenjaku said, his voice soothing as he turned to you. “he’s krampus. he’s the reason we’re in this mess.”

“and you’re the reason she almost died,” sukuna growled, his voice low and dangerous.

kenjaku ignored him, his focus entirely on you. “he’s manipulating you,” he said, his tone firm but calm. “he wants you to trust him so he can use you against me.”

you hesitated, your gaze flickering between them.

“don’t listen to him,” sukuna said, his eyes burning as he looked at you. “you know the truth.”

you took a deep breath, the weight of the moment pressing down on you.

“you left me to die,” you said to kenjaku, your voice steady despite the tremor in your chest. “he didn’t.”

kenjaku’s expression faltered, the first crack in his calm facade.

“you don’t understand,” he began, but you didn’t let him finish.

raising your staff, you stepped closer to sukuna, the magic within it surging as you made your choice.

“she’s not yours to manipulate,” sukuna snarled, stepping in front of you as kenjaku’s face twisted in rage.

the fight was chaos.

magic crackled through the air, the room trembling as sukuna and kenjaku clashed. sukuna moved with raw power, his four arms striking with precision as his tattoos glowed with unrestrained energy. kenjaku countered with sharp, calculated attacks, his crimson coat billowing around him as he fought with a ruthless efficiency.

you held your ground, the staff in your hands glowing as you channeled your own magic. when kenjaku’s attacks threatened to overwhelm sukuna, you stepped in, the power of the north pole surging through you as you deflected the blows.

“stay out of this!” kenjaku snapped, his voice rising in frustration.

“no,” you said firmly, your gaze steady. “i’m done following your orders.”

sukuna smirked, his gaze flickering to you briefly before returning to kenjaku. “looks like you’ve lost your grip,” he taunted.

kenjaku roared, his attacks growing wilder, more desperate. but together, you and sukuna were unstoppable—a force that even the self-proclaimed santa couldn’t overcome.

the clash reached its peak with a deafening explosion of magic. sparks of crimson and gold danced through the air as sukuna’s raw power collided with kenjaku’s calculated strikes. the very walls of the shelter trembled under the weight of their battle, cracks snaking along the icy structure.

you gripped the staff tightly, its glow steady in your hands as you prepared to deflect another attack aimed at sukuna.

“is that all you’ve got?” sukuna snarled, his four arms moving with devastating precision as he sent a powerful strike toward kenjaku.

kenjaku staggered, his crimson coat scorched and torn, his sharp features twisted in frustration. his usual smug confidence had begun to falter, his attacks growing more desperate.

“this isn’t over,” kenjaku hissed, his voice laced with venom as he stepped back, his hands crackling with dark magic.

“oh, it is,” sukuna growled, his tattoos glowing brighter as he advanced. “you’re done hiding behind lies, kenjaku.”

you stepped forward, raising your staff. the magic within it surged, intertwining with sukuna’s energy as you sent a pulse of light toward kenjaku.

he barely had time to deflect it before sukuna was upon him, his fists slamming into kenjaku’s barrier with enough force to shatter it. the power of the strike sent kenjaku flying backward, crashing into the icy wall with a thunderous crack.

kenjaku struggled to rise, his movements slow and unsteady. his crimson eyes burned with rage as he glared at you and sukuna.

“you think this changes anything?” he spat, his voice trembling with anger. “you think you can take my place?”

“it was never your place to begin with,” sukuna said coldly, stepping forward.

you watched as sukuna loomed over kenjaku, his presence dominating the room. for a moment, you thought he might strike the final blow, but instead, he stepped back, his crimson eyes narrowing.

“you’re not worth it,” sukuna said, his voice low and sharp. “but you’re finished. you’ll never hold the mantle again.”

with a flick of his hand, sukuna unleashed a burst of energy that sent kenjaku hurtling out of the shelter and into the storm. the force of it was so immense that the very air seemed to ripple, the storm outside swallowing kenjaku whole.

silence followed, broken only by the crackle of the fire.

you lowered the staff, your hands trembling as the adrenaline began to fade.

“is it over?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

sukuna turned to you, his expression softer than you’d ever seen it. “it’s over,” he said, his voice steady.

the tension in your chest eased, and you sank onto the couch, exhaustion washing over you.

sukuna moved to the hearth, his four arms lowering as the glow of his tattoos dimmed. he leaned against the wall, his crimson eyes watching you closely.

“you fought well,” he said after a moment, his tone quiet.

“so did you,” you replied, offering him a small, tired smile.

his lips twitched into a faint smirk, though there was a warmth in his gaze that made your cheeks flush.

the journey back to the north pole was a blur of ice and wind, but this time, you weren’t alone.

sukuna walked beside you, his presence steady and protective. he carried the stolen gifts in a large sack slung over his shoulder, his four arms making the burden look effortless.

when you finally crossed the threshold of the north pole, the light and magic of the workshop washed over you like a wave. elves gathered in the grand hall, their faces alight with relief and joy as they saw the gifts restored.

but their excitement faltered when they saw sukuna. whispers rippled through the crowd, their eyes wide with fear and uncertainty.

“it’s okay,” you said, stepping forward. “he’s not our enemy.”

santa’s empty throne loomed at the head of the room, and sukuna’s gaze lingered on it, his expression unreadable.

“it’s yours now,” you said softly, your voice carrying only to him.

he glanced at you, his crimson eyes narrowing. “you think they’ll accept me?”

“they will,” you said, your voice firm. “because they’ll see what i see.”

his lips curved into a faint smile, and he stepped forward, his presence commanding as he approached the throne.

when he sat, the air seemed to shift, the ancient magic of christmas surging through the hall. the elves stared in awe as the throne’s glow brightened, its magic recognizing sukuna as the rightful santa.

the days that followed were a whirlwind of activity as christmas was saved and the gifts delivered. but when it was all over, and the workshop quieted for the long rest of the year, sukuna sought you out.

he found you in the quiet of your room, the glow of the north pole’s lights filtering through the window.

“come with me,” he said, his voice low and inviting.

you followed him without hesitation, his presence drawing you in like a magnet. he led you to his chambers—his now, as the new santa. the room was warm and inviting, the fire crackling softly in the hearth.

“you saved me,” he said, turning to face you. his crimson eyes softened, his tattoos glowing faintly in the dim light. “you trusted me when no one else would.”

“you deserved it,” you said quietly.

he stepped closer, his four arms wrapping around you as his lips curved into a smirk. “and now, i intend to thank you properly.”

the air between you seemed to hum with energy, his gaze locking onto yours as the distance between you disappeared.

his chambers were steeped in a heavy, intoxicating warmth, the flickering firelight reflecting off the deep crimson furnishings and casting shadows that seemed to breathe with the rhythm of the room. the air itself felt alive, humming with a raw energy that matched the man standing before you.

sukuna leaned casually against the ornate four-poster bed, his broad shoulders and muscular arms giving the impression of effortless power. his crimson eyes burned with an intensity that pinned you in place, their sharpness softened only slightly by the faint curl of his lips.

“you don’t need to stand there like a nervous little rabbit,” he said, his voice low and teasing, a delicious rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. “come here.”

the way he said it—smooth and commanding, with a promise of something that made your stomach flutter—left you no choice but to obey.

you stepped closer, your heart pounding with each step, until you were standing in front of him.

“you saved christmas,” he murmured, his gaze locking onto yours as his four arms moved to surround you. the first hand slid to your waist, his grip firm but not overbearing, while another rested gently on the small of your back, pulling you closer. “and more than that… you saved me.”

“i didn’t do it alone,” you replied, your voice a whisper under the weight of his attention.

he tilted his head, strands of soft pink hair falling into his face as his smirk widened. his thumb traced lazily over your cheek, the pad of it brushing just beneath your lips, lingering like he was daring you to take a bite. “always so modest,” he murmured, voice like velvet dragged over steel. “but tonight isn’t about me. it’s about you.”

his words settled low in your stomach, molten and heavy, and before you could think to reply, his lips were on yours.

the kiss wasn’t gentle. sukuna didn’t ask—he took. his mouth moved over yours with a slow, deliberate hunger that left no room for hesitation. his tongue brushed against your bottom lip before sliding inside, tasting you, claiming you with a heat that left you lightheaded.

his hands—strong, calloused, and just the right amount of rough—moved without direction, as if instinct alone drove them. one slid up the bare skin of your back, tugging you against him until there wasn’t an inch of space left between you. another drifted lower, fingers curving to squeeze your thigh, pulling it higher against his hip.

the third tangled into your hair, twisting at the roots with just enough pressure to make you whimper against his mouth. the way he touched you—too many hands, too much strength—left you dizzy and burning.

“fuck,” he muttered, pulling back just enough to catch your lower lip between his teeth, giving it a playful tug before releasing you. his voice was husky, breath ragged, but his smirk never faded. “already trembling?”

“maybe you should do something about it,” you shot back, though your voice barely rose above a whisper.

his gaze flicked over you, crimson eyes glinting with something darker.

“oh, i intend to.”

before you could react, sukuna swept you up—two hands beneath your thighs, one cradling your back, the last trailing teasingly down your spine. he carried you toward the bed like you weighed nothing, the heat of his body seeping through every layer between you.

when he dropped you onto the plush sheets, he hovered at the edge of the bed, gaze raking over you with the kind of attention that left your skin flushed.

“strip.”

the single word hung heavy in the air, rasping low and deep, more command than request.

your fingers trembled as you pulled at the fabric, peeling away each layer under his watchful eyes.

by the time the last piece fell to the floor, sukuna knelt between your legs, hands spreading your thighs apart with an ease that made your breath catch.

“look at you,” he murmured, his pink hair falling over his forehead as his gaze darkened. thick fingers traced a slow path along the soft skin of your inner thigh, rough fingertips catching on each sensitive dip. “all spread out for me.”

his breath was hot as he lowered his head, lips brushing feather-light kisses over the inside of your legs, leaving trails of heat in their wake.

when he finally reached your center, he paused—close enough for you to feel the soft puff of his exhale, but not enough to satisfy the ache blooming between your thighs.

“mine,” he growled, voice vibrating against your skin.

and then his mouth was on you.

his tongue traced a slow, deliberate line from your entrance to your clit, flicking over the sensitive nub with a precision that left your head spinning.

you gasped, fingers flying to his hair, tugging hard at the strands of pink that curled between your knuckles.

he groaned into you, the vibration of his voice sending another jolt straight through your core.

“so fucking sweet,” he muttered against you, the words muffled by the slick heat of his mouth.

his tongue lapped at you in slow, torturous circles, switching between soft flicks and hard strokes that left your thighs trembling.

when his finger pressed into you—thick and unrelenting—you couldn’t stop the moan that slipped out.

his crimson eyes flicked up, locking onto yours. “louder,” he commanded, curling his finger inside you until he found that spot that made your hips jerk.

“sukuna,” you gasped, nails digging into his scalp.

his smirk widened against you, but he didn’t relent. another finger joined the first, stretching you just enough to make your toes curl.

“that’s it,” he purred, dragging his tongue over your clit with every pulse of his fingers. “say my name again.”

your breath hitched as heat coiled low in your belly, winding tighter with each stroke.

“sukuna,” you whimpered, body arching into his touch as the pressure inside you built to the edge.

“good girl.”

his tongue moved faster, fingers thrusting deeper until the coil snapped, pleasure flooding your senses so sharply that you swore you saw white.

you writhed beneath him, body trembling with each wave of release, but sukuna didn’t stop. his mouth and hands dragged you through the aftershocks, prolonging the heat until your legs shook violently around his head.

when he finally pulled away, his lips and chin glistened, and the sight of him licking your slick from his fingers sent another rush of heat flooding your core.

“fuck, you’re perfect,” he rasped, his voice rough and low as he hovered over you, his cock pressing against your entrance.

you could feel him—hot, thick, and far too big.

“you’re gonna take every inch,” he growled, tilting your hips higher as he teased your entrance with the tip.

his cock dragged through your slick folds, each shallow thrust making you ache with want.

“look at me.”

your eyes snapped to his, and the sight of him left you breathless. his crimson gaze burned with possession, pink strands of hair falling into his face as he slowly sank inside, stretching you inch by inch.

your nails dug into his shoulders as your head fell back against the pillow.

“sukuna,” you gasped, breath breaking as he filled you completely.

his name spilled from your lips in a breathy moan as he bottomed out, the thick press of his cock stretching you to your limit. sukuna stilled, letting you adjust, his four hands roaming your body in slow, reverent strokes—calloused palms smoothing over your hips, thighs, and breasts as if to memorize every inch.

“fuck,” he rasped, one of his thumbs dragging lazily over your swollen clit. “you’re takin’ me so well. look how deep i am.”

your eyes fluttered open just in time to catch the glint in his gaze, his crimson irises smoldering as he pressed down on the slight bulge in your abdomen.

“you feel that?” he smirked, applying just enough pressure to make you keen. “so full of me already.”

your head fell back, a soft whimper tumbling from your throat as he rolled his hips, the slow drag of him pulling out leaving you trembling.

“stay with me, baby,” he growled, catching your chin between his fingers and tilting your head up, forcing you to meet his gaze. “i wanna see that pretty face while i fuck you.”

he snapped his hips forward again, the sudden force driving a gasp from your lips. sukuna’s smirk widened as he found his rhythm, each thrust harder, deeper—grinding against that sensitive spot inside that left your thighs trembling around his waist.

“goddamn,” he hissed, leaning down to bite at the curve of your shoulder, his teeth dragging against your flushed skin. “tight little thing. you were made for me.”

your nails raked down his back, desperate for something to hold onto as he drove you closer to the edge with every snap of his hips.

“sukuna—please,” you whimpered, not even sure what you were begging for.

“please what?” he teased, dipping his head to suck a bruise just above your collarbone, his tongue flicking over the mark. “you gotta use your words, sweetheart.”

“i—” your voice broke as he angled his thrusts, the head of his cock brushing against that spot so perfectly you thought you might unravel on the spot.

sukuna grinned, reading the desperation in your eyes as if it fueled him. “ah, there it is,” he murmured, lips brushing against your jaw. “that sweet little spot that makes you fall apart.”

his pace quickened, hips pistoning into you with a brutal precision that sent molten pleasure ripping through your veins.

“you close, baby?” he growled, his voice gravelly as his four hands anchored you to the bed—one pressing down against your lower stomach, two gripping your hips tight enough to bruise, and the last tangling in your hair, tugging gently as he sucked at the curve of your throat.

you could only nod, your breath catching as the tension in your core coiled tighter, dangerously close to snapping.

“then cum for me,” he ordered, dragging his thumb over your clit in tight, merciless circles. “let me feel you.”

his words were all it took—your body arched off the bed, a sharp cry tearing from your throat as your orgasm crashed over you, white-hot and all-consuming.

sukuna groaned low in his chest, his thrusts growing rougher, sloppier as your walls pulsed around him, milking him for all he was worth.

“fuck, baby,” he snarled, burying himself to the hilt one last time as he came, the heat of his release flooding you, leaving you trembling beneath him.

for a moment, neither of you moved, the only sound between you the ragged cadence of your breathing and the faint crackle of the fire.

sukuna leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips—a stark contrast to the bruising way he’d just taken you. his hands, once gripping you with unrelenting force, now traced gentle patterns along your waist, grounding you in the quiet intimacy that followed.

“an elf always belongs with santa,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough yet tender, as if the words carried a weight neither of you fully understood until now.

your heart skipped at the quiet conviction in his tone, warmth spreading through your chest that had nothing to do with the fire crackling in the hearth.

you brushed a hand through his pink hair, letting the strands curl around your fingers as you smiled softly. “guess that makes me yours then.”

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noirscript · 4 months ago

Text

in the lion's keep

WARNING/S: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT. Yandere. Noncon. Dubcon. Power Imbalance. Forced Pregnancy. Captivity. Manipulation. Psychological and Physical Control. Violence. Emotional Distress. Character/s: King Callixto x Servant!Reader Note/s: A commission for @violetvase. I hope you enjoy this one!

From this series: Silent Servitude [pt. 1] | The Lion's Shadow [pt. 3]

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Your mother has always been your biggest supporter.

She never once stifled your dreams, no matter how small or ambitious they were. When you insisted on selling flowers in the town square on behalf of the old florist to earn your own keep, she worried, but she did not stop you. Your parents feared for your safety, but your older siblings watched over you, making sure no harm would come your way.

It lasted for months—until children your age began disappearing, vanishing one after another without a trace.

Your siblings stopped letting you leave the house after that. The warm sun, the scent of fresh bread in the marketplace, the laughter of the townsfolk—it all became distant, mere memories behind locked doors. You were forced to watch the world from behind wooden shutters, longing for the life you had barely begun to taste.

Years passed before they finally deemed it safe enough for you to step outside again. And when you did, you threw yourself into rebuilding.

With what little savings you had, you opened a food stall in the marketplace, selling treats that made both children and adults smile. Your business thrived. Customers returned with praises, telling you how much they enjoyed your cooking. It gave you a sense of purpose, a taste of the independence you had long craved.

Then, one night, your stall was stolen

Not just stolen—destroyed. Burned to ashes near the town's tavern.

No one saw anything. No one heard anything. No one even smelled the smoke.

The loss devastated you, snuffing out the fragile hope you had so desperately clung to. When you fell deeper into despair, your mother was the one who lifted you back up. She taught you the skills she had learned from years of working in the palace—how to clean, how to serve, how to navigate the world of nobility without drawing attention to yourself. You listened. You learned. And when she deemed you ready, you followed in her footsteps.

You had thought you were stepping toward a new beginning.

Instead, you walked straight into a gilded cage.

A warm calloused hand rubs slow circles over your bare stomach. Your body is sore, ruined, yet the touch is deceptively gentle—reverent even.

Callixto.

The King.

The man who had stolen you, body and soul, and refused to let go.

His breath is hot against your neck as he presses his lips there, inhaling you like a man intoxicated. He traces his fingers up your stomach, over your ribs, cupping your breast with possessive ease. You squeeze your eyes shut, bile rising in your throat as last night's memories resurface—the way he held you down, the way he filled you over and over until you were too weak to fight him.

“You're perfect,” he murmurs, rolling his hips against your back. “You'll be a wonderful mother to our children. The mother of my heirs… My queen.”

No.

Your breath shudders as you push weakly at his arm, but you might as well be trying to move stone. Your body betrays you—limp exhausted, drained of all strength.

How long has it been?

Days? Weeks?

You can't tell. The chamber windows are tinted, making it impossible to see the sun or the moon. And Callixto… Callixto never leaves your side for long. He lingers, watching you, touching you, whispering sweet, poisonous words into your ear.

The chambermaid is no help, either.

She either glares at you with thinly veiled disdain or ignores you completely, doing only what is required of her. You don't know why she hates you, but it doesn't matter. She's your warden all the same.

There's no one here for you. No mother, no siblings. No bustling marketplace or warm, flickering hearth waiting for you at home.

There's only this prison.

And him.

“Your Majesty,” the chambermaid's voice cuts through the heavy silence. “Lord Soleil awaits you at the gates.”

Callixto tenses, as if irritated by the reminder that the outside world still exists beyond these walls. His fingers dig into your hip as he thrusts forward once more, a sharp, punishing movement that sends a fresh wave of nausea rolling through you.

He finishes deep inside you, groaning against your skin. For a moment, he stays there, reveling in the feeling. Then, with agonizing care, he pulls out—only to press his fingers back inside, pushing his seed deeper.

A shiver wracks your body.

“I suppose I've stolen enough time for myself,” he murmurs, brushing damp hair away from your face.

You force yourself not to flinch.

Callixto cups your chin, tilting your face towards his. His golden eyes burn with something twisted, something sickeningly sweet. Then, he kisses you. A deep, lingering kiss that suffocates you more than any chain ever could.

“Stay here and be good,” he orders, his lips still brushing yours. “Let the chambermaid take care of you until I return.”

As if you have a choice.

As if you ever had a choice.

And when the doors finally close behind him, your body sags into the mattress, silent tears slipping down your cheeks.

Not just for yourself.

But for the family you may never see again.

For the freedom that may never return.

And for the life that is no longer your own.

The towering walls of the chateau couldn't keep the rumors from reaching you. They were the only thing that kept you sane while you waited for him to return.

You heard whispers about a grand ball the Prime Minister held a few nights ago. It should've been a night of celebration, but instead, it ended in scandal. His wife, a noble woman and the daughter of a count, was caught in bed with a mere footman—nothing more than a commoner.

Lord Soleil, the Prime Minister, himself had walked in on them. The punishment was swift.

The footman was cast out with nothing, and the Prime Minister cut all ties with his wife and her family, erasing them from his life as if they had never existed.

A cruel fate.

And yet you wondered…

Was it any crueler than yours?

“Perhaps this is why Lord Soleil was so determined to keep His Majesty away from the chateau—away from me. Not just to protect the royal bloodline, but to stop him from making the same mistake his wife did.” You sighed, your breath barely disturbing the still air.

“I can't even blame him. If I were in his position, I wouldn't want a common-born woman anywhere near the throne either. And yet, here I am—trapped in these gilded walls, reduced to nothing more than a vessel, waiting for the day my body finally serves its purpose.”

You leaned against the cool stone wall near the tinted windows, listening to the little birds outside as they carried rumors flitting between the flower beds. Their chatter was a fleeting distraction, a fragile moment of stolen peace—until it was shattered by the sound of heavy boots echoing through the halls.

The doors flew open, and there he stood. The King. Furious.

He called out your name—sharp, urgent, unrelenting—his voice slicing through the chateau hollow corridors like a blade. You didn't move. You barely even breathed. Instead, you pressed yourself against the cold stone wall, your fingers curling into your dress as his footsteps thundered across the marble floors.

He ran upstairs, frantic, taking the steps two at a time. He hadn't even noticed you standing near the windows, so close yet unseen. But you knew it wouldn't last. He always found you in the end.

Outside, the world had fallen eerily silent. The chattering birds had already fled the vicinity, as if sensing the storm brewing within these walls—taking their half-spun whispers with them. The rumor of the king's impending nuptials to a high-ranking noble still lingered in the air, unspoken yet suffocating.

And soon, he would come back down. And this time, he would see you.

Your name tore from his lips again—a furious, desperate plea. Before you could react, his hands found you, his grip ironclad around your arms.

“Where have you been?” His voice was raw, unsteady. His fingers dug in. “Didn't you hear me calling for you?”

“Y-Your Majesty…”

He shook his head. “No—my name.”

Bloodshot, unfocused eyes bore into you. Something was wrong. His gaze sent a slow, creeping dread up your spine.

“Say it.”

“C-Callixto…”

A slow nod. Then, his arms crushed you against him. “You're mine,” he murmured against your hair, his breath searing against your skin. “Forever mine. And I will be forever yours.”

The walls seemed to shrink around you.

“Callixto… Your Majesty… I can't breathe—” you rasped, struggling against his suffocating embrace.

He didn't let go.

“Please…”

A beat of silence. Then, at last, he loosened his grip—but only slightly.

“Apologies, my queen,” he murmured, lifting your trembling hand to his lips.

Your pulse pounded in your ears. You had to calm him. You had to survive this.

You recalled your mother's old ways—how she soothed your father's anger, how she tamed your brothers’ tempers. Slowly, carefully, you reached for his cheek, brushing your fingers against his skin.

“Tell me your worries…”

“The royal court has been trying to push this woman onto me for as long as I can remember—something about securing the heir to the throne’s bloodline. The nerve of those fools,” he muttered, absently running his fingers through your hair as you lay atop him.

“If I wanted to, I could trace your family's lineage—alter it if necessary— and keep them out of our way.”

Listening to his monologue as you drift in and out of consciousness feels more exhausting than it should. You know you should try to persuade him to accept the will of his people, to yield to their demands—but deep down, you wonder if it would be easier if someone else had his full attention instead. If only he'd let you go.

“Perhaps we should secure an heir to the throne first… then we can look into your lineage…” he whispered, thrusting into you once more. His seed spilled from you as his movements grew more intense with every passing second.

Since then, it had become his ritual to fill you to the brim, keeping you in place—stuffed, trembling, and utterly his— until he was satisfied. Only then would he leave to rule his kingdom, but never without ensuring you remained exactly as he left you, his claim unmistakable. He controlled everything—the meals you ate, the tonics you drank—all carefully chosen to prepare your body for the sole purpose of carrying his heir.

You were his, and soon, you would bear proof of it.

It didn't take long for the signs to show.

The nausea. The exhaustion. The unbearable weight in your lower belly that told you something had taken root inside you.

And yet, luck has not abandoned you entirely.

Your chambermaid—a woman whose disdain for you was only rivaled by her loyalty to the royal court—had noticed. She must have. But instead of betraying your condition, she pressed a cold cloth to your forehead and muttered, “A commoner’s flu. Nothing more.”

A lie. A calculated one.

The King believed her.

But belief was fragile in a mind like his. It splintered easily.

His golden eyes flicked between the chambermaid and the royal physician, narrowed and gleaming, hungry for an answer that neither of them dared to give.

“Her color is pale,” Callixto murmured, pacing your chambers. His fingers twitched—fidgeting, trembling, curling into claws before stretching straight again. “She barely eats, barely moves. And yet you say it is nothing?”

The physician bowed his head. “It is a seasonal illness, Your Majesty. A touch of fever, some exhaustion—nothing that cannot be cured with rest.”

Callixto laughed—a dry, humorless sound. His nails dug into his palms, leaving little crescent moons of pain.

“Rest,” he echoed. His voice was a whisper of rage, of something darker crawling beneath his skin. “You think I have not noticed? She wilts before my very eyes, and you tell me to wait?”

The chambermaid stepped forward then, expression schooled into reluctant sympathy. “Your Majesty, she is weak. He kind does not fare well in the colder months. It is not surprising.”

Callixto stilled. His breathing slowed, deliberate, controlled—but his eyes never left her face.

“Weak?” The word came soft, almost thoughtful. “Is that what you believed?”

The chambermaid hesitated.

Something in the air shifted.

A warning.

Callixto's lips twitched—not in a smile, no. In something sharper. Something that showed his teeth.

“Fine,” he murmured. “If she must rest, then she will do so under your watchful eye. I want no one else near her.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.”

But as the King turned away, the chambermaid gaze flicked down—her fingers twitching at the pouch hidden beneath her apron. The weight of the promised coin.

The chateau felt emptier than ever one evening. The halls echoed with the distant clatter of preparations from the palace—the banquet, the foreign dignitaries, the noble guests.

A distraction.

And when the chambermaid entered your chambers, her usual sneer was absent. Instead, she carried a bundle of clothing.

“You need to leave tonight.”

Your stomach twisted. “Why?”

“Because I tire of wiping your sweat.” She threw the bundle onto your bed. “Because I want you gone.”

You swallowed hard. “And that's all?”

The chambermaid exhaled sharply. Something in her posture—something tired and worn—hinted at an answer she would never give.

“The palace gates will be open for the banquet. No one will be watching the chateau. Take the back corridors, follow the outer gardens. You are not important enough to be noticed.”

“What do you gain from this?”

A smirk tugged at her lips. “What I was promised.”

You should've asked by whom. But you didn't.

The scream shattered the night.

“WHERE IS SHE?”

The chambermaid barely had time to compose herself before the doors to your chambers slammed open, cracking wood against stone.

Callixto stood in the doorway, his chest rising and falling with each uneven breath. His pupils had swallowed the gold of his irises, leaving only thin rings of amber around black pits. His fingers curled at his sides, nails digging into his own skin, but he did not seem to notice the blood welling beneath them.

His gaze snapped to the bed. Empty.

Something inside him snapped with it.

“Where is she?” he repeated, stepping forward, his voice no longer a demand but a plea.

The chambermaid bowed, but her voice was steady. “Resting, Your Majesty. The fever worsened—”

“Liar.”

The word cut through the room like a blade. The chambermaid flinched.

Callixto's hands trembled. “She would not leave her bed unless someone forced her to,” he whispered. His tongue darted out, wetting his dry lips. “Unless someone… took her from me.”

He turned, suddenly—too suddenly—and grabbed the chambermaid’s wrist.

“You would not betray me, would you?”

The chambermaid swallowed.

“Of course not, Your Majesty.”

His grip tightened. Bones creaked.

“No, of course not,” he echoed, smiling now—serpentine, sharp. His head tilted. “Because if you had…” he leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. “I would tear this palace apart. Brick by brick. And when I found her—oh, when I found her—”

He released her.

“Find her,” he murmured. “Or I will find you instead.”

The chambermaid bowed, stepping backward toward the door. “As you command.”

But she didn't turn fast enough to see his lips curl into something… inhuman.

He turned back to the empty bed, trailing a hand over the sheets as if he could still feel you there. His fingers ghosted over where your head had once rested, then curled into the pillow, dragging it close. He inhaled—deeply, desperately—like a starving man before a feast.

His eyes fluttered shut.

“Oh, my love,” he whispered to no one. “You can run, but you cannot hide.”

The night air was crip—freezing against your cheeks, but blissfully free.

You ran. Through the outer gardens, past the dim lanterns, past the drunken guards too enamored with wine and revelry to notice a shadow slipping past them.

You ran until the scent of the palace faded into the trees.

Home. You had to go home.

But when you reached the village outskirts, you stopped.

Guards. Stationed outside your family's home.

You shrank into the shadows, heart hammering against your ribs. From where you hid, you could see the single candle in the window—dim, unmoving.

Not flickering.

Not alive.

A silent warning: Do not return.

Tears burned your eyes, but you forced yourself to turn away.

Not toward another village. Not toward a stranger's mercy.

But deeper into the forest.

Through the twisting paths only you knew, past the moss-covered stones and the brook where you once dipped your toes in summer. Past the memories. Past the ghosts.

And there, hidden beneath the tangle of overgrown branches, the shack still stood.

You and your siblings built it once—when you were small, when the world was gentler. A childish hideaway, pieced together from stolen nails and planks too weathered to be missed. A place of whispered secrets and stolen sweets, of giggling beneath a roof that bare kept the rain out.

It was nothing.

But it was enough.

You pushed the warped door open and stepped inside, the scent of damp wood wrapping around you like an old embrace. The cold bit at your skin, but you knew how to survive here. You always had.

With shaking hands, you pressed your back against the wall and slid to the floor.

Outside, the trees whispered.

Somewhere beyond them, the King was hunting.

But you would not be an easy prey.

Not here. Not yet.

—

tbc.

—

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purplereina11 · 27 days ago

Text

You spent your childhood drifting through foster homes, with nothing but a worn photo of two little girls and a note on the back: Your sisters, Alexia and Alba. You never imagined that at 25, after starting a new job, you'd meet them, through your boss who was your sister's girlfriend.

Wordcount: 15.8k

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

You’re two months in, and you’re still not sure how Olga Rios manages to be everywhere at once.

She’s answering emails while editing a reel. She’s sketching out a content calendar with one hand and handing you a matcha latte with the other because she remembers that you don’t do coffee, and that still surprises you a little.

Her loft-office smells like lavender and old books, even though the work is anything but quiet. There’s a gentle hum of creativity in the air half Spotify playlists, half the occasional bark from her dog, Nala, who has her own Instagram account with better engagement than most influencers you know.

You sit across from her at a wide wooden table covered in sticky notes, open laptops, two ring lights, and exactly one succulent that’s definitely fake but somehow not thriving. She’s got that kind of energy, Olga. She makes things grow, unless you're fake.

“You’re getting faster,” she says without looking up from her screen. Her voice is warm, honeyed, soft in the way that makes you want to lean closer, like she’s letting you in on something. “The captions today? I liked them. You’re starting to sound less like a brand, and more like a human. That’s good.”

You try not to grin too much, but it’s hard not to. Praise from Olga is never handed out like candy it’s measured, genuine, and usually comes with a Post-it note suggestion five minutes later, but when she says something’s good, she means it.

You glance at your own screen three drafts open, analytics humming in a separate tab. You're starting to notice patterns, pick up her shorthand, even anticipate when she’s about to say, “We can do better.” You’re getting the rhythm now. It feels like learning a dance. Awkward at first, but now... now you’re finding your footing.

“Do you ever sleep?” you ask, half-joking, because she’s been up since six and somehow still looks like she floated here on a sunbeam.

She laughs, a soft, melodic thing that fills the loft. “Only when a campaign’s not launching. So… not often. But I love this. I love seeing things come to life.” She sips her tea, eyes crinkling at the corners. “And I think you’re going to be really good at this.” Something about the way she says it makes your heart lift. A couple of month in, and you’re already certain, this isn’t just an internship. This is the beginning of something.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

It’s a quiet afternoon, the kind that settles like soft dust. The usual buzz of Olga’s workspace is muted no clients calling, no urgent edits, just the rhythmic clack of keys and the occasional sigh from Nala, curled up under the table like she owns the place.

You’re working side by side on a campaign for a small bookstore that’s trying to grow its online presence. Olga is fine-tuning the carousel post for tomorrow, and you’re adjusting the tone of the captions trying to thread that fine line between charming and trying-too-hard. It’s nice. Peaceful, even.

Olga breaks the silence without looking away from her screen. “Do you have anyone in your family who loves books like this?”

You pause. The cursor blinks in front of you. The question is soft, casual, not meant to dig but it hits something that feels like hollow wood. “I…” You swallow. “I don’t know.”

Olga looks up immediately.

You don’t say anything else at first. The words stall. It’s not that you haven’t talked about it before it’s just that people usually don’t ask, not really.

She tilts her head slightly, brows gently furrowed. Her voice lowers. “Hey. You okay?”

You nod automatically, out of habit. But then, without quite meaning to, you add, “I didn’t grow up with a family. I was left at a children’s home when I was a baby.”

The air in the room shifts not heavier, exactly, just… slower. Softer.

Olga doesn’t gasp, or overreact, or flood you with sympathy that feels too bright and uncomfortable. She just sets her phone down and gives you her full attention.

“I’m sorry,” she says. Quiet. Real.

You shrug, though it feels awkward. “It’s fine. I mean, it’s just… how it was. I don't really think about it much now. I just… didn’t have anyone to ask questions like that about.”

Olga nods slowly, like she’s letting your words settle inside her before responding. Then, gently “Well, just so you know any time you want to say, ‘My 'mentor' once told me this,’ you can go ahead and start with me.”

You let out a soft laugh, surprised.

She smiles, warm and a little wistful. “I know it’s not the same. But you’re not on your own here, okay? Not while you’re working with me.”

For a moment, you’re not thinking about metrics or content calendars or trending audios. You’re just sitting across from someone who sees you not just as an assistant or intern, but as a person.

The knock on the door is light but confident. You barely register it at first lost in the middle of scheduling posts for a new client who sells handmade ceramic earrings until Olga perks up with that unmistakable sparkle in her eyes.

She glances at the clock, then at you. “That’ll be Alexia.”

You blink. “Alexia…?”

Before she can answer, the door swings open and there she is.

Alexia Putellas. That Alexia Putellas.

Even if you don’t follow football religiously, her face is familiar. The captain, the icon, the Ballon d'Or winner. The kind of person whose highlight reels show up on your feed whether you asked for them or not. And now she’s in Olga’s office, wearing a simple hoodie, black joggers, and the kind of calm confidence that doesn't need to shout to be heard.

She smiles when she sees Olga, and everything about Olga posture, eyes, even the way she exhales shifts in the softest way. Like a house when someone finally comes home.

Olga stands, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Ale, this is the one I’ve been telling you about.”

You freeze. Alexia’s gaze lands on you, kind and curious. “So you’re the apprentice,” she says, her accent smooth but clear, the kind that could make any sentence feel like a secret. “Olga’s been bragging.”

You blink again. “She—she has?”

Olga shrugs like it’s nothing. “Only a little. Maybe a lot.”

Alexia steps forward and offers her hand. “It’s really nice to meet you. I’ve heard you’re doing great work.”

You shake her hand her grip is strong, grounded and try not to look like you’re meeting a living legend, because you are. But she’s also incredibly down-to-earth, her presence somehow both intimidating and totally easy to be around.

Olga comes around the desk and gently bumps Alexia’s shoulder with hers. “She only comes here to raid my snack drawer and steal my playlists,” she says, teasing.

Alexia grins. “Also because I love you.”

There’s a beat of warmth between them that you feel rather than see, like watching sunlight fall through a window. “Do you want me to go?” you ask, half-joking.

Olga laughs. “No way. Ale's just here to say hi before training. You’re family now. Might as well meet the boss.”

Alexia raises an eyebrow. “I’m the boss?”

Olga winks. “In football, yes. In here, you just eat all my almonds.”

You watch them and feel something shift inside you again like the quiet redefinition of what ‘family’ might look like. Not always blood. Sometimes it's someone who believes in you. Someone who shares their space with you. Someone who brings light with them, just by walking through the door.

You glance at your screen, then back at the two of them.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

You invite Olga over to work because it feels normal now. Familiar. Safe, even.

It’s late almost midnight. You’ve both been bouncing between drafts for a new campaign and clips from a client shoot. Nala is curled up on your bed, half-snoring, and there’s the comfort of shared silence between you, broken only by the occasional sound of keys or a soft “Wait, this transition’s better” from Olga.

She gets up to stretch, as she often does when she’s been sitting too long. Paces a little. You barely notice her eyes scanning your bookshelf until you hear her voice. Low. Surprised. “…Wait. What?”

You glance over. She’s holding the small, slightly curled photo that’s been with you for as long as you can remember. You’ve had it since before you could read. Two little girls. One smiling, the other not so much.

You never knew their names. Never knew why the photo was with your things. It was just… always there. Something old, something yours, but now Olga is frozen, staring at it. “Why do you have this?” she asks, but the softness in her voice is already cracking.

You sit up straighter. “What do you mean?”

She turns the frame toward you, her eyes sharp now. “This is Alexia. And her sister Alba. This photo’s from when they were kids. I’ve never seen this before, how do you have this?.”

Your mouth opens slowly. “What?”

She steps closer. “Don’t play dumb.”

You shake your head, heart beginning to pound. “I’m not. I didn’t know who they were. I’ve had that photo since I was dropped off at the home. It was in a box with my baby things, I never even knew there names.”

Olga stares at you like she doesn’t believe you.

“I swear,” you say, voice trembling now. “I never knew. I didn’t know.”

But she isn’t hearing you. Not fully. Her jaw clenches. “So you mean to tell me this is just some random coincidence? You had a photo of my girlfriend and her sister, and you never knew?”

“I didn’t know!” you say louder now, trying to push through the panic rising in your chest. “Olga, I didn’t. They were just two girls in a picture I’ve had it since I was a baby! One of my foster parents told me they were my sisters once but I could never see the resemblance but I, I don't know I just could never throw it away, it was left with me for a reason, I couldn't-”

“You expect me to believe that?” she snaps interrupting, eyes suddenly fierce. “You knew who Alexia was. Everyone does. You had the photo, you applied for this job, and you never once thought to say a word.”

Your breath catches. “I didn’t even connect them to say something. Please why would I lie to you?”

But she’s shaking her head, stepping back, betrayal flashing in her eyes. “I trusted you. I let you into my space. My life. And now I find this?”

She turns, grabs the frame, and holds it tightly like she’s afraid it might disappear. You stand, reaching toward her helplessly. “Please, Olga. I’m not using you. I didn’t know. I swear to you.”

But her voice cuts through the air like glass. “Don’t say another word.”

She storms toward the door. “Olga—please!”

Her hand is on the knob already. “Do not tell anyone about this. Not Alexia. Not anyone. I mean it.” And just like that, she’s gone door slamming behind her, the photo still clutched in her hand.

You stand frozen in your tiny apartment, the silence left in her wake louder than anything you've ever heard.

You don’t remember sitting down. Just that suddenly you’re on the floor, legs folded awkwardly beneath you, and the room feels too still.

The candle you lit earlier is still flickering on the desk, scenting the air with warm vanilla, like any normal night, but everything has changed.

The photo’s gone. She took it.

You wrap your arms around yourself, unsure if you’re cold or just empty. Your hands are shaking. Your chest feels tight, like someone filled it with wet sand. You can’t stop replaying the last ten minutes Olga’s face, the anger, the betrayal in her voice. The way she looked at you like you were a stranger. Worse—like a lie.

“I didn’t know,” you whisper, to no one. Your own voice sounds small, cracked open. “I didn’t know.” But the silence doesn’t answer. It just presses in around you.

You don’t know how that photo ended up with your baby things. You never questioned it. It was just… part of the mystery of you. You’d imagined a hundred stories for it as a kid. A fantasy life you were left out of. Two unknown little girls you'd prop up when you had tea parties alone, two faces you talked to when no one else would listen but it never felt real. Not like this.

You wipe at your face and realise you’ve been crying without noticing, not loudly, just slow, quiet tears that slip out like steam from a cracked mug.

You try to work. To check a calendar, finish a caption, edit a reel, but everything blurs. Your fingers hover over the keys, useless. More tears come. Not steady, but suddenly rising without warning like waves. You press your hand to your mouth, like that might stop the sob that’s already too far out to swallow back.

You don’t know what hurts more: the fear that she won’t believe you or the feeling that she already doesn’t, and underneath that, a newer, stranger thought creeps in:

What if the photo really does mean something? What if you're connected to them in some way you never imagined?

You don’t know how to hold that. You don’t even know if you want to.

The night stretches long and quiet. You cry again, not always with sound. Sometimes just with breath that shakes too hard, or thoughts that spiral too fast. You think about messaging Olga. You almost do, but what would you say that you haven’t already begged her to believe?

Eventually, curled in bed, your chest aching and eyes sore, the exhaustion takes over.

You fall asleep and as your breathing evens out in the dark, the photo lives somewhere else now, in her hands.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

You shouldn’t go in to work, you know that.

You didn’t sleep more than a couple of hours, and when you looked in the mirror this morning, your reflection startled you, pale, red-eyed, shadows under your eyes like bruises that haven’t fully bloomed. You look like someone who’s been crying on and off for eight hours, because you have, but not going in make it look like you had something to hide, and you loved your job.

So you pull yourself together barely. Tie your hair back. Splash water on your face. Avoid your own eyes as you grab your bag and head out the door.

The walk to Olga’s office feels longer than usual. Everything’s sharp, the sound of your own footsteps, the brightness of the morning, the hum of people who don’t know your world just came apart. You keep your head down.

When you get there, the door is already unlocked, she was here already, you step inside slowly. Olga’s at her desk. Laptop open, headphones around her neck, Nala curled up on the rug at her feet. She looks up instinctively when you enter.

For a moment, nothing moves, then her eyes scan your face and she sees it. The red around your eyes. The way your shoulders hang. The hollow tiredness you didn’t have to fake.

Her mouth parts slightly, like she might say something, but she doesn’t. Instead, she looks back down at her screen.

You nod stiffly, not that she’s looking, and cross the room to your usual seat. Every movement feels brittle. Too careful. You place your laptop on the table as quietly as you can, like noise might crack what’s left between you.

You don’t speak. Neither does she.

The silence is different today. Not the peaceful kind. It’s tight. Pressurised. You can feel her not looking at you, can feel her tension radiating from behind her screen like heat.

Your stomach twists. You open your laptop. Try to focus on the client folder. Everything blurs.

You can’t stop thinking about the way she stormed out. The photo in her hand. The fear in her eyes. The disbelief in her voice.

And now, she’s right there but she may as well be a hundred miles away. You steal a glance at her. She’s typing something. Her jaw is tight. Her ponytail is a little messy, like she didn’t sleep well either.

You want to say something. Apologise again. Explain again. Beg if you have to, but the air around her says not to.

So you sit in the quiet. Trying to work. Trying not to cry. Trying not to lose the one place that ever felt like it might become home.

You’re halfway through pretending to work when the door clicks open behind you. Your heart stops, you know that sound now. You know who it is before she says a word.

“Hola,” Alexia calls out gently, cheerful but quiet, as if she’s stepping into a place where someone might be asleep or upset.

You stay frozen for a half second too long, then shift your body slightly in your chair. Not enough to seem rude, but just enough to make your back the most visible part of you.

Don’t make eye contact. Don’t breathe too loudly. Don’t be more than necessary.

Olga looks up, and the change in her voice is immediate.

“Ale…”

Alexia steps in fully now, holding a brown paper bag and a takeaway cup tray. “You were tossing all night,” she says softly, “so I figured you could use some sugar and espresso.” She walks over, places the treats beside Olga with care. “I got that oat milk one you like. And a croissant, because I know you never remember to eat when you’re stressed.”

Her voice is so easy. So full of quiet affection. It makes your throat tighten. Olga stares at the bag for a moment before letting out a breath you didn’t know she was holding. She smiles, faint but real, and says, “Thanks.”

Alexia leans down and kisses her cheek. It’s a small, domestic gesture. One that would’ve felt sweet yesterday.

Now it’s a stone in your stomach.

They talk for a minute, low and warm too low for you to hear clearly. It sounds like a small exchange about sleep, and schedules, and if Olga’s eaten yet. You keep your eyes fixed on your screen, even though the words are swimming and nothing’s going in.

Then Alexia shifts, you feel her glance in your direction. “Hey,” she says kindly, and you can hear the smile in her voice. “Nice to see you again.”

You muster every scrap of civility you can find and turn your head slightly, just enough to meet her eyes for a breath of a second.

You smile a tiny, exhausted curve of your mouth and lift your hand in a half-wave.

She nods back, just as polite. Just as unaware. “Bueno,” she says, brushing her hand against Olga’s arm. “I’ll leave you both to it.”

Olga doesn’t look at you as Alexia turns to go. She just murmurs a soft, “Thank you,”

"How do you take your coffee?" Alexia stops at your desk, she swallow as you look up at her, Olga watching intently.

"I um. I don't drink coffee"

"How come? Don't like it?"

"No.. I um, I can't have caffeine at all.. I um, its complicated but I have a heart condition so I-"

"My papa was the same," she nodded and your heart pulled, Olga must of sensed it and she spoke

"Amor, Y/N and I are very busy"

Alexia held her hands up, bid you both a goodbye, Olga eyed you before she watches her leave.

The door clicks shut. You exhale through your nose, slow and quiet.

Olga says nothing. She unwraps the croissant with deliberate care, and takes a small bite, her eyes still on the table, on her work, on anywhere but you and the silence that follows is full of everything neither of you are ready to say.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

Olga doesn’t go straight home after work, she drives in silence. No music. No podcast. Just the low hum of the road beneath her tires and the sound of her own pulse in her ears.

She should’ve gone home, she doesn’t go to the flat she shares with Alexia, or to a café to decompress, or even to the beach where she sometimes walks when her mind needs quiet.

She drives, to a quiet cul-de-sac on the outskirts of Mollet, where the streetlights buzz low and orange, and the houses are tucked behind tired gardens and climbing vines. She parks without turning off the engine at first. Just sits there, heart tapping a steady, uneven rhythm behind her ribs.

Eli’s car is in the driveway. She’s home. Alone. Just like Olga knew she would be. Olga takes the photo from the glove compartment. It’s still in its cracked, worn frame. She hasn’t looked at it since that night in the apartment. She doesn’t need to. She remembers it perfectly.

She breathes in. Breathes out. Kills the engine.

Then knocks on the door, it opens almost immediately, Eli answers the door in slippers and a cardigan.

“Olga?” Eli’s face brightens with warm surprise. “Qué haces aquí, cariño? Alexia isn’t with you?”

“No,” Olga says quietly. “She’s at home.”

Eli frowns a little. “Is everything alright?”

“I just…” Olga hesitates, standing just beyond the threshold. Then says, “Can I come in?”

Eli steps aside, instantly serious. “Of course, hija. You’re always welcome.”

The house smells the same as always lavender, old wood, something faintly sweet in the kitchen. A candle flickers on the sideboard. Family photos line the shelves, birthdays, holidays, the girls growing older in frames that haven’t moved in years.

They sit in the living room. Olga perches on the edge of the couch, she doesn’t take off her coat, her fingers are tight around something in her bag. Eli watches her closely now, concern pinching the corners of her mouth.

“I have to ask you something,” Olga says, voice steady but low. “And if it’s nothing then we never have to talk about it again. I’ll forget it. We’ll both forget it.”

Eli nods, cautious. “Okay…” Eli’s brow furrows. “What is it?”

Olga doesn’t speak. She just reaches into her bag and pulls out the frame. Holds it gently in both hands and turns it around. Eli’s breath stops halfway through her chest. The change in her is instant so small and devastating you’d miss it if you weren’t looking for it. Her hands freeze on her knees. Her face goes white, then pale-blue cold, like all the warmth was drained out in an instant.

Her lips part, but no sound comes. The silence says everything. Olga watches her. Doesn’t blink. Eli’s hand, which had been loosely curled around her teacup, goes limp. Her entire face drains of colour not just pale, but hollow, like a piece of her just dropped through the floor.

Olga doesn’t move. She watches the shift. The silence that thickens around it.

“Where.. Where did you get this?”

Olga doesn’t answer, she just says, “You know who this has come from don’t you”

“I’ve not seen that in twenty five years,” Her voice catches, “After.. After” Olga nods once, jaw tight. Her throat burns with questions, but she asks none of them and still, Eli presses gently, almost begging, “Olga. Please. Where did this come from?”

“It’s true isn’t it,” Olga whispers. “You have another daughter”

Eli closes her eyes. A beat. A breath and then, very softly, very brokenly, “Yes” Olga’s throat tightens. Eli’s voice is barely there. “We left that with her”

“I don’t understand how you could do it!” Eli sits frozen on the couch, hands clasped tightly in her lap. She looks older than she did twenty minutes ago. Like every word being spoken is peeling something back she’s kept buried too long. “You gave up your own daughter,” Olga spits, gesturing wildly to the photo still lying on the coffee table like it’s cursed. “And just carried on like she didn’t exist? How?”

“I didn’t carry on,” Eli says, voice low and shaking. “Don’t you dare think it didn’t break me.”

“Then why?” Olga demands. “Why didn’t you fight for her? Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Olga’s voice cracks, sharp with disbelief, her hands clenched at her sides. She’s standing now, breath short, pacing Eli’s living room like she’s trying to outrun what she just heard. She hadn’t planned to stay only to ask one question, but the answer shattered everything.

Eli is curled forward on the couch, her hands white-knuckled in her lap, her eyes wide and shining. “You don’t understand what it was like,” she says quietly, pleading. “She was born with a heart condition. We didn’t know what it was at first, she was so small always struggling to breathe. She couldn’t even cry properly with out her lips turning blue.”

Olga stares at her, hollowed out. “So you gave her away.”

“I thought she’d get help,” Eli whispers. “We couldn’t afford the surgeries. We didn’t have insurance or savings, I wasn’t working at the time. My parents wouldn’t help. We thought… we thought someone else could save her. I loved her enough to let her go.”

Olga’s breath catches, just for a second, because she knows Eli means that. And still, it’s not enough. “She grew up in multiple children’s home,” she says bitterly. “With no one.” Eli flinches like she’s been slapped. “You’re the one who taught Alexia how to be gentle,” Olga says, voice shaking. “You tell everyone family is everything. You cry at Christmas commercials, for God’s sake. And now I find out that there was another child and you just… gave her up?”

Eli’s eyes are glassy. Her face is pale. “You think that was easy for me?” she says, hoarse. “You think I didn’t wake up every night for years hearing her cry even though I hadn’t seen her since she was—”

“Don’t,” Olga snaps, tears brimming. “Don’t make yourself the victim in this. I think about her alone every night now,” Olga goes on, tears clinging to her lashes. “I see her sitting in that place, wondering why no one ever came back for her. Why her parents the people who are meant to love her unconditionally let her go.”

“Stop,” Eli whispers. “Please, stop.”

Olga stares at her, breathing hard, voice strangled. “And you never told Alexia. Or Alba.”

Eli looks down at the floor like it might save her. “They were so young they didn’t need to know, have that burden.”

“You gave up your baby,” Olga says, gesturing to the photo on the table between them. “You let her disappear into the system, and you never looked for her. Never even told your daughters they had a sister.”

“I didn’t let her disappear,” Eli says, voice shaking. “She was born sick. Her heart Olga, she needed something me and her father couldn’t give her! We did what we thought was best for her!”

Olga stops in her tracks, eyes wide with pain. “So you just gave her away and pretended she never existed?”

“She would’ve died if I’d kept her!” Eli cries. “We couldn’t afford treatment we thought a hospital might place her with someone who could help. It wasn’t abandonment, it was the only mercy I had left to give her.”

Olga’s voice rises. “And you’ve told no one. For twenty-five years. No one.”

Eli’s hands shake now. “Because I didn’t want this. This moment. This shame. This wreckage.”

“Well, it’s here now,” Olga whispers. “She grew up in a children’s home, Eli. Alone. She had no one, she doesn’t understand the meaning of family, I don’t even think she’s ever felt what it’s like to be loved. Do you understand that?”

Eli explodes raw, desperate. “Leave it alone!” The words come like a slap, louder than anything yet. “Just—shut up!” she screams. “You don’t understand what it cost me! You don’t get to stand there judging when you weren’t there!”

The front door slams open. “What the hell is going on?” Alba’s voice slices through the room like lightning. She’s standing in the doorway, flushed from running, alarmed and out of breath. “I could hear you both shouting from the street.” She looks from Eli, who is crumbling in her chair, to Olga, who’s barely holding herself upright. “What the hell is going on?”

Olga turns away, shoulders hunched, face blotched with tears. She’s trying to breathe, but she can’t steady herself. She just shakes her head, mutely.

Eli goes silent, too. Like she forgot anyone else existed. Her face folds in on itself caught red-handed by her own daughter. “Why were you yelling at her?” Alba asks, stepping in, confused and suddenly afraid. “What did she do?”

“She didn’t do anything,” Eli croaks out, broken.

“Then what—?” Alba’s voice wavers. “Why is everyone crying?” No one answers.

Olga breathes in sharply through her nose, sinks onto the armrest of the sofa, her shoulders shaking, barely holding in the sobs now.

Alba doesn’t understand what this is, what it means but something in her bones tells her exactly what to do. She pulls her phone from her pocket, thumb trembling as she finds her sister’s name. She steps back into the hallway and presses the call.

Alexia answers almost instantly. “Albs?”

Her voice is warm, calm, but Alba’s isn’t.

“Ale,” she says quickly, “you need to come to mamá’s. Now.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I—I don’t know, but Olga’s here, and she’s crying, and mamá’s… something’s wrong. I think it’s big mamá was screaming at her I heard her from the street”

There’s a pause. Then, “I’m on my way,” Alexia says, sharp and sure. Alba hangs up, heart pounding, and returns to the living room where the air feels too heavy to breathe. Olga is quiet now, face buried in her hands. Eli sits motionless and Alba stands between them, caught in the middle of a secret she doesn’t yet understand only knowing that whatever it is, her sister will make sense of it.

The knock is soft, but the tension in the room makes it sound like thunder. Alba leaps to open the door, her heart in her throat. Alexia steps inside, face creased with concern, eyes sharp, already scanning the room like something in her gut told her this wasn’t just a misunderstanding.

She’s still in joggers and a hoodie, her hair tied back loosely, eyes sharp and searching. She takes one look at her sister and then scans the room freezes when she sees her mother, crumpled on the sofa. Her gaze lands first on her mother, who’s slumped on the sofa, visibly shaken, hands clasped tightly in her lap like she’s bracing for something else to hit. Then her eyes flick to Olga standing stiff and silent by the window, her back half-turned, her coat still on.

“Olga?” Alexia says gently, walking toward her. Olga doesn't turn. Her arms are crossed tight, like she's holding herself together by sheer will.

“What happened?” Alexia asks again, slower now, as her eyes dart back to her mother. “Is someone hurt? What—?”

She steps closer, reaches out, instinctively placing her hand on Olga’s arm but Olga flinches. Not dramatically. Just enough and then she pulls away. Alexia’s breath catches. She stares at her, confused hurt.

“Olga…” No response.

Alexia’s eyes flick between them again her partner and her mother, both visibly wrecked.

“Will someone please tell me what’s going on?” she says, louder now, tension rising in her voice. “Mamá? Olga? Talk to me.” Still, no one speaks.

Olga finally moves. Slowly, she reaches for the door, her hand trembling just slightly. “I need some air,” she mutters, almost to herself.

Eli rises instinctively. “Olga please, wait—”

Olga stops, her hand still on the doorknob. She turns slowly and what’s on her face is something Alexia’s never seen before. Grief. Betrayal. Disgust. “I can’t even look at you right now,” Olga says, her voice hollow, strained. Her eyes fixed on Eli, who seems to shrink under the weight of it. “You are not the person I thought you were.”

Alexia’s breath hitches, heart pounding. She looks at her mother, sees the quiet devastation spreading across her face, and she’s suddenly terrified. “Wait—Olga, please—just… what happened?” Alexia pleads, reaching after her again, but the door opens and Olga is gone.

Silence crashes back in. Alexia stands frozen, her hand still in the air, her heart breaking without knowing why. She turns to her mother. “Mamá,” she says, voice trembling. “What did you do?”

Eli doesn’t answer, she sinks down slowly, like the weight of those words took her legs out from under her. She covers her mouth with her hands, eyes spilling over with silent tears.

And Alexia stuck between the two most important women in her life—feels the walls close in, a thousand questions pressing against her chest. Alba looks at her sister, whose hands are balled into fists at her sides. Alexia is staring at the door, stunned, shaken, she’s never seen Olga like that. Never seen her walk away and whatever happened here, whatever broke her, Alexia knows it isn’t just something they can fix. It’s something that changed everything.

The cool night air hits Olga’s face like a slap sharp and biting. She walks until the porch ends, then stops, clutching the railing with both hands, trying to breathe past the chaos inside her.

She hears the door creak open behind her, soft footsteps following.

“Olga,” Eli calls gently. “Please. Just come inside. Let’s talk, mi amor.” Olga doesn’t turn. Her knuckles are white on the railing. A long silence stretches between them.

Then quietly, without venom, only pain Olga speaks. “Please tell me… their father at least knew.”

Eli stands still behind her, silence falling heavy again. Then a nod.

“Yes,” Eli whispers. “He knew.”

Olga finally turns, slow and rigid, her eyes burning. “And he still let her go?”

Eli’s voice cracks. “He didn’t want to. God, Olga, he held her all night the day she was born. He cried like I’d never seen before, he just he knew we couldn’t give to her what she needed. We didn’t have the money, or the support. We thought it was the only way she had a chance. Giving her up broke him Olga, he was never the same after that day, his spirit, his health, everything”

Olga presses her lips together, shaking her head, tears gathering again. “They lost him when they were barely out of childhood, god Alba was a child” she says hoarsely. Eli nods, tears now running freely. Olga blinks through the tears. “So you gave away your baby and because of that, you think it eventually killed your husband.”

Eli swallows a sob, covering her mouth, Olga turns away again, shoulders rising and falling, behind her, Eli stands on the threshold exposed, crumbling and inside the house, through the windows, Alexia is still watching, not understanding everything, but beginning to feel how deep this fracture runs.

The living room is too quiet when they step back inside. Eli gently closes the door behind Olga, whose eyes are red and raw. She doesn’t move far from the entryway. Her arms are crossed tightly again, a self-made cage.

Alexia is still standing, tense, waiting. Alba sits curled up in the corner of the sofa, chewing the inside of her cheek, a nervous habit from childhood.

Eli breathes in deep like the confession she’s about to make might crush her lungs if she doesn’t hold herself steady. “Sit down,” she says softly, looking to both daughters.

Alexia hesitates. “Mamá, what is this?”

“Please,” Eli says. “Just… sit.” Reluctantly, Alexia lowers herself onto the arm of the sofa, her eyes locked on Olga on the way she trembles. She’s crying again, and that frightens her more than anything. Eli moves to stand in front of them, hands clasped like she’s in church, waiting to confess. “I never thought I’d have to say this out loud,” she begins, voice shaking. “I thought I had buried it deep enough that none of you would ever know.”

Alba shifts uncomfortably. “What do you mean?”

Eli’s lips tremble, but she goes on. “You had a sister. A younger one, she was born 3 years after you Alba”

The silence detonates. Alba blinks. “What? You… you’re joking, right?” she asks, glancing at Alexia and then back to Eli. “Is this some weird joke or—?”

“No,” Eli says. “It’s not a joke.”

Alba’s face falls. “No. No, that can’t be true. I don’t remember—”

“You wouldn’t,” Eli cuts in gently. “You were just a toddler, Alba. We, your father and I, gave her up. She was born with a heart condition. We couldn’t afford the care she needed. We thought it was the only way she’d survive.”

Alba stares at her, blinking hard like the words won’t compute. “No,” she whispers again. “No. That’s not—you wouldn’t do that. You’re not like that.”

“I did,” Eli says, her voice cracking. “We made the only choice we thought we had.”

Alba suddenly covers her mouth, her eyes wide and brimming with tears. She makes a small, broken sound as if something inside her just split clean down the middle.

Alexia, meanwhile, is still too still, she stares at her mother, jaw tight, eyes sharp with disbelief. “You lied to us,” she says, flat and cold. “Our whole lives.”

Eli looks up, stricken. “Alexia—”

“You let us grow up thinking we were the only ones. Thinking that Dad died with no secrets. That we came from love. From honesty.”

“You did,” Eli pleads. “I loved you every day of your lives.”

Alexia stands suddenly, shaking her head. “But not her.”

“No,” Eli whispers, ashamed. “Not like I should have.”

Alba sobs now, curling into herself on the sofa, shaking. Olga breaks down again. She tries to wipe her face but can’t stop the tears. “I didn’t want this,” she says hoarsely. “I didn’t want to be the one who broke you. I’m so sorry.”

Alexia looks at her, confused, wounded. “You knew?”

Olga opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. “I found out by accident,” she finally manages. “I-I—God, Alexia, I didn’t want to know.”

Alexia’s eyes narrow slightly, not in cruelty but in disbelief. She looks like someone just pulled the rug from beneath her entire identity.

And still, Alba cries softly in the corner, whispering, “A little sister... we had a little sister…” And across from her, Olga thinks of you. Alone in your apartment. Crying into the quiet, not knowing that the truth is finally breaking wide open—and that it’s going to change everything.

The room feels heavy, thick with silence and unsaid things. Alba sits on the sofa, knees pulled close to her chest, eyes fixed on the floor. She doesn’t cry anymore just quiet. Unreachable, curled inward, eyes fixed on the floor, refusing comfort when Olga cautiously reaches out.

“No,” Alba murmurs, voice barely audible. “Not now.” Olga pulls back, defeated, sitting down quietly a few feet away.

Alexia, however, is a storm, pacing, fists clenched, voice rising, “How could you know and say nothing?” she snaps at Olga, eyes burning. “You found out and just kept it to yourself? Do you have any idea how long we lived in the dark? How much this changes everything?”

Olga meets her gaze, her own eyes shining with tears. “I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure. Until I spoke to Eli and confirmed it. Like you, I had a hard time believing it myself.”

Eli steps forward, voice pleading. “Alexia, please. Olga didn’t keep this from you to hurt you—”

Alexia was now directing her frustration at her mother, firing questions at Eli with a mix of desperation and anger.

“Why didn’t you tell us? How could you keep this from us for so long? Why didn’t you try harder? What about Dad, did he know everything? Did you ever try to find her again? What—what was her name?”

Eli swallows, unable to meet any of Alexia’s eyes. “I—I don’t know,” she admits finally. “We… we thought it was better to keep it quiet. We gave her a name but the home just called her ‘Baby Girl.’ It’s probably been changed”

Alexia stops pacing, stunned by the silence, the gaps in answers.

Eli has tears pooling again. Alexia looks at Olga, whose face is streaked with fresh tears. Then Alba remains silent, distant, lost somewhere inside herself. The room is fractured everyone aching, separated by secrets and grief, caught in a web of loss no one can untangle yet, and Alexia can’t see her family healing from this.

The room is heavy with silence. Alba hasn’t moved from her place on the sofa, arms wrapped tightly around herself. She’s staring into some unseen distance, tears dried on her cheeks, her expression blank.

Alexia still stands, breath shallow, torn between betrayal and sorrow.

Then, quietly, she moves.

She walks over and sits down beside Olga, not saying a word. The weight of her presence is everything and nothing at all. Her shoulder barely brushes Olga’s. The contact is light, but to Olga, it’s enough to keep her breathing.

“I need to see her,” Alexia says suddenly, softly. “I need to know she was real.”

Her voice cracks on the last word. Eli blinks, startled. “What?”

“A photo,” Alexia says, turning slowly to her mother. “Do you have one? Anything?”

Eli stares at her daughters one silent and broken, the other just barely holding herself together then nods. She disappears into the hallway. For a long while, the only sounds are Alba’s sniffles and the soft creak of the floorboards as Eli moves in the other room. Then she returns. In her arms is an old, battered shoebox edges torn, the lid soft with age.

She kneels in front of the girls and opens it slowly, like unsealing a grave.

Inside theres a small bundle of ultrasound scans, worn at the corners, black-and-white ghosts of a baby not yet born. A tiny, creased hospital card with faded blue ink: "Baby Girl Putellas Segura." Her weight. Her length. The time she arrived. A white card stamped with one perfect footprint and one tiny handprint, pink and curled like a blossom. And then the photos.

There aren’t many. The first few show Eli and her husband in the hospital room, holding a swaddled newborn between them. They're smiling, tentatively, cautiously, but with something fragile and full in their eyes.

In the next few, the smiles are gone. Eli looks down at the baby with red-rimmed eyes. Her husband kisses the baby’s forehead, his face twisted into something halfway between a smile and a sob.

In the last photo, Eli is no longer holding the baby. She is standing by the hospital bed, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her husband has one hand on her back, but his other is empty. They both look like people trying to memorise the little girl on the bed before it’s taken away.

No one speaks. Olga covers her mouth with her hand, tears falling silently, the pain was radiating from the photos.

Alexia reaches forward, touching the photo gently with her fingertips, like she’s afraid it might disappear. “She looks like, us,” she whispers. “Her nose. The shape of her eyes.”

Eli nods, wiping her face. “I only looked at these once,” she says. “Then I put them in a box. I never looked at them again. I couldn’t.”

Alexia glances at her mother eyes still confused, still hurt but quieter now. “She was real,” she says, mostly to herself. “She was ours.” next to her, Olga presses her hand against her chest, trying to breathe through the ache.

Alexia holds the photo delicately, as though it might crumble if she breathes too hard. Her thumb hovers over the image her parents, younger and terrified, their arms newly empty.

She glances sideways. Alba hasn’t moved. She’s still curled in on herself, her chin on her knees, her arms wrapped tight like a shield. Her eyes are open but empty, staring into the middle of the floor, if she’s heard anything, it’s impossible to tell.

“Alba…” Alexia says softly. No response, she turns more fully, holding the photo just a little closer in Alba’s direction. “Do you want to see her?” Her voice is quiet, careful. Not pushing. Just offering.

Alba doesn’t answer. For a long moment, she doesn’t even blink, but then her eyes flicker, just barely, toward the photo in Alexia’s hand. She doesn’t reach for it. Doesn’t move, but that one glance is enough to crack something.

Alexia sees it. She leans a little closer. “She looks like you,” she whispers. “When you were little.”

Alba’s lower lip trembles. Her breath shudders out of her like it physically hurts to take in air. “Why didn’t she get to stay?” she says finally, voice fragile and small.

Eli’s breath catches in her throat. She opens her mouth to answer but no words come. Olga whispers for her, “She was sick, your parents did what they thought was best for her”

Alba turns slowly toward the photo, then reaches out, her hand trembling as she takes it. She looks at it for a long time and then, in a barely-there voice that cracks in the middle, she whispers, “She had Papa's chin.”

It breaks Eli. She covers her mouth, sobbing quietly, and Olga gently moves to wrap her arm around her. Alba doesn’t cry. She just keeps looking, at the baby, at the past, at the sister she never got to love. 🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

You sit on the floor of your apartment, your laptop closed on the coffee table, long forgotten. The untouched sandwich from earlier is still in its wrapper, resting near your elbow. You haven’t moved much since you got home. Haven’t wanted to.

The apartment feels emptier than usual. Not just quiet but hollow. Like something inside you cracked open when Olga left, and now the silence has a place to live.

You’ve replayed that moment over and over. The look in her eyes when she saw the photo. The way she snapped. The disbelief. The accusation.

You’d tried to speak, to explain, but she wouldn’t let you. Wouldn’t hear you. She thought you’d used her. That you’d known. That the photo meant something you’d kept hidden, but you hadn’t known. You still don’t know.

That picture had always been a strange little mystery to you. Left in the file the home had when you were a baby. Just two smiling girls, a sense of something warm and long-lost. You’d stared at it often growing up. Not because you knew who they were but because they felt like a possibility. Like maybe, once, someone had loved you and now that photo’s gone. Torn out of your hands and taken into someone else’s truth.

You wipe at your eyes again, but they won’t stop watering. Your throat aches from holding back sobs that keep forcing their way through.

You don’t know what’s happening.

You don’t know what to do.

You just keep sitting there, waiting for a knock that might never come. A message. A clue. Something, but there’s nothing. Just the faint hum of your fridge and the quiet ache in your chest.

It’s almost midnight by the time you stop pacing your apartment. Your hands shake as you hold the phone. You scroll past a few names none feel right. Not now. Not after everything.

Then your thumb hovers over hers. Patri 💕

You haven’t told anyone about her. Not even Olga. It was easier that way kept things uncomplicated. Casual. Hidden, but now… nothing feels simple or safe.

You press call.

She picks up quickly. “Hey,” she says, voice warm and soft.“Everything okay, you never call this late?”

You don’t answer right away. Your throat’s too tight. “Can you come over?” you manage. “Please?”

She hears it. Whatever's in your voice. “I’m on my way.”

You don’t move from your spot near the window until you hear her knock. When you open the door, she doesn’t ask questions. She just sees your face red-eyed, exhausted, cracked wide open and steps in with arms that don’t hesitate.

You fall into her without a word. Her hand runs gently down your back, grounding you.

Minutes pass before you pull away, wiping your face with your sleeve. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I just… I didn’t know who else to call.”

Patri nods, patient. “You can always call me. You know that.”

You sit on the couch. She sits beside you, close but not crowding you. Waiting. You breathe in deep. Out. And then, “I think…” You pause, heart hammering. “I think Alexia Putellas is my sister.”

Silence. Patri doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t flinch. Her brow furrows, but her eyes stay soft.

You look down at your hands. “There was this photo. Two girls. I had it my whole life it was left with me when I was dropped off at the children's home. I never knew who they were” You shake your head, tears rising again. “Olga saw it and lost it. Thought I’d known all along it was Alexia and her sister. Took the photo. Stormed out. She hasn’t answered my messages. I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t even know if I’m going crazy.”

Patri takes your hand in both of hers. “You’re not crazy,” she says softly. “And even if it sounds impossible… it might not be.”

“I don’t want anything from them,” you say quickly. “I didn’t even know. I just… I want to understand. Why I was left. Who I was before I was just… no one.”

You’re crying again, but you don’t try to stop it now, Patri squeezes your hand, steady and sure, you don’t say anything, but when you lean your head on her shoulder, it’s the first moment you’ve felt even a little less alone.

Patri’s fingers thread gently through yours, her thumb brushing your knuckles. Your eyes are swollen, throat raw, barely holding it together. Then, in the quiet, she leans a little closer. Her voice barely above a whisper, warm and solid against the chaos inside you. “You’re not no one to me.”

It stops your breath, you lift your head just slightly, eyes meeting hers. There’s no pity in her face. No fear. Just quiet certainty.

“You hear me?” she says again, firmer now. “You’re not nothing. I don’t care if you don’t know who you were before. I care who you are now and I see you.”

Your eyes fill again, but this time, the tears feel different. Not jagged or spiralling just full.

You nod. A small one. But it’s real. “Thank you,” you manage, your voice breaking.

Patri leans in, gently presses her lips to your forehead. “We’ll figure this out,” she says. “Together. Okay?” And in that moment, just for a heartbeat, you believe her. 🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The sun creeps in slowly through your curtains, tracing thin golden lines across the floor. You barely slept, but with Patri beside you, the night didn’t feel quite as endless. She stirs first, brushing a strand of hair from your face. You open your eyes to find her watching you, soft and steady.

“Come on,” she says gently. “I’m taking you to breakfast before we face the world.”

You want to protest, you don’t look like yourself, your stomach is a knot, and the idea of being in public right now feels impossible but she’s already pulling the covers back and reaching for your pre hung up work clothes like it’s not up for debate.

So you let her.

The café is small, tucked on a quiet corner near the training grounds and your office with Olga. No jerseys, no fans. Just warmth, fresh bread, and the clink of mugs being set on tables.

You sit across from her, both of you nursing hot drinks. Patri tears a croissant in half and sets one piece on your plate without asking after you said you didn't want anything.

“You don’t have to talk,” she says, watching you. “Just eat something. One small normal thing before everything gets… complicated again.”

You nod, barely able to hold her gaze, but grateful, after a few bites that were dry, tasteless in your mouth, you whisper, “What if she never forgives me?”

Patri doesn’t hesitate. “Then she doesn’t deserve to be in your life." You blink at her. “She’s hurt,” Patri adds, softening. “I get that, but if she can’t believe you, if she won’t even try to, then that’s on her. Not you.”

You glance down at your coffee. “It just… it meant something working with her, i thought I finally had… something that made sense.”

Patri reaches across the table, hooks her pinky around yours. “You do,” she says. “You have me and I’m not going anywhere.”

You nod, holding onto that, even if everything else is spinning, this feels real. When you check the time, you realise it's almost time to head in. Patri downs the rest of her coffee and stands.

She pulls you up with her, smooths your jacket at the shoulders, and presses a quick kiss to your temple. “You’ve got this,” she whispers. “Text me when you’re done. No matter how it goes.”

You nod. She squeezes your hand once before heading toward the training facility down the block. You turn toward the office. Stomach heavy. Heart heavier but not quite as alone.

You step away from the café, the last of Patri’s warmth still clinging to your jacket like a hug that hasn't fully let go. The morning air is cool, quiet. You take a breath, try to let the calm hold for just a second longer. Then you see her, Olga, she’s over the road, leaning against the side of a closed bookstore, arms crossed tight, shoulders hunched like she hasn’t slept either. You freeze mid-step, her eyes are on you, it hits you like a punch. She saw. She was watching, maybe the whole time.

You don’t know what she saw exactly, but in your gut it doesn’t matter whatever flicker of healing you’d just started to believe in crumbles under your feet.

She looks up, your eyes meet, her expression doesn’t shift. No relief. No kindness. No fury either just something unreadable, and somehow that’s worse.

You almost step toward her, almost say her name, but the shame wraps around your ribs like wire. The same helpless, spiralling thought churns, I’ve made it worse.

You lower your eyes, quicken your pace, and cross the street without another glance back, by the time you reach the office door, your hands are shaking again.

The walls have started to ease back up, the ache in your chest back in full force and the photo, the truth, all of it… still just out of reach.

The office is cold when you step in, or maybe it’s just you. Either way, you don’t take off your coat.

You slide into your desk, boot up your laptop, and stare at the screen without seeing a word. You hear her before you see her, the soft click of the door, the measured steps. She moves past without a glance. You hold your breath.

She settles into her chair, the rustle of fabric as she crosses one leg over the other, her keys clinking gently on her desk. Then after what feels like an entire hour folded into thirty seconds "How did you meet Patri?"

Her voice is calm, almost too calm, you glance over. She’s not looking at you, her fingers are gently tapping her mug, as though it’s just any other morning.

You swallow. “I, um…” Your throat is dry. “I met her in a bar. A few weeks ago. After work.”

You watch her profile, trying to read her, but she gives you nothing.

“She didn’t know who I was,” you add. “To you. I didn’t tell her. At first”

Silence, you brace for something accusation, coldness, anything, but all she says is, “Do you love her?”

The question stuns you, not because you hadn’t thought about it, but because you never expected her to ask. “I don’t know,” you say honestly. “Maybe. It’s a bit early for that yet. We've not even had sex”

Another beat of silence. Then Olga nods, just once, like she’s filing it away somewhere.

You sit there, confused, the tension still knotted in your chest, but she doesn’t push. Doesn’t snap, just sips from her mug and opens her inbox like this conversation never happened and somehow… that quiet is the most painful sound of all.

The silence between you stretches thin but neither of you moves.

You pretend to work, Olga pretends not to notice your shaking hands. Then she speaks, her voice soft. Measured. “I spoke to Alexia’s mami.”

You freeze, your cursor blinks on the screen, forgotten.

You turn slowly, but she’s not looking at you. Her eyes are locked on the mug in her hands, fingers curling tight around the ceramic like she needs to anchor herself to something.

Your voice barely makes it out. “You did?”

She nods once. “Yeah.”

You wait. The silence stretches again, heavy with everything she hasn’t said yet. “I showed her the photo,” Olga continues, still soft. “The one you had. She went pale. I didn’t even have to ask anything. I knew just by her reaction to the photo.”

A breath shudders out of you. “I didn’t know,” you whisper. “Olga, I swear to you—”

“I know,” she cuts in.

Your eyes snap to hers, she's finally looking at you and in that look is a whole storm grief, disbelief, pain, exhaustion.

“You were just a baby,” she says quietly. “Left with a photo and nothing else.”

You blink back fresh tears. “Then it’s true.”

Olga nods, slowly. “They gave you up, because of your heart, because they couldn’t afford the care you needed. Your—” She pauses, breath catching. “—your father… he knew. He died when Alexia and Alba were teenagers.”

You cover your mouth with your hand, the ache in your chest pulsing to life again.

“They loved you,” Olga says. “You were their baby. I saw the pictures. The scans. A card with your footprints. They held you. Smiled with you.” She swallows hard, and now it’s her turn to look away. “But they left the hospital without you because they thought that would give you the best chance in life.”

The room is still. The weight of twenty-five years settling over your shoulders like fog.

You whisper, “What was my name?”

Olga’s voice trembles. “They didn't get to name you.”

You close your eyes, it doesn’t feel real and yet it explains everything.

Olga stands. You watch her cross the room slowly, quietly, something reverent in the way she moves as if she’s carrying something sacred and she is.

She reaches into her bag, then gently places the photo frame down on your desk in front of you. The same one that had once been your only clue to anything real. It feels heavier now.

“They know,” she says, barely above a whisper. “Alexia. Alba.”

You stare at the photo. Two little girls. You touch the glass. Your fingers don’t shake this time, but your breath catches.

“I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure,” Olga continues. “Until I had the truth.”

“And now they know.” You say it aloud. Like you’re testing it. Like it might disappear.

Olga nods.

“They didn’t before?” you ask.

She shakes her head slowly. “They had no idea. Eli kept it from them all this time.”

You stare at her. “What did they say?”

Her lips press together for a moment. “Alba was… broken. She didn’t believe it at first, then she just went quiet, typically her.”

Your chest tightens.

“And Alexia…” Olga’s voice trails off, her gaze dropping. “She was angry. Confused. At Eli. At me.”

You wince. “At you?”

Olga meets your eyes. “She didn’t understand why I didn’t tell her soon as I found the picture. Why I didn’t come to her the second I suspected.”

You nod slowly, taking that in.

“I told her I needed to be sure,” Olga says softly. “I owed that to everyone.”

Something cracks in your chest at that. You look down at the photo again, then whisper, “Do they… want to see me?”

There’s a pause and then “Yes,” Olga says. “They do.”

You look up at her. You nod, blinking fast. You stare down at the photo. Your throat tightens as you try to find the words that don’t sound like a betrayal of how much this means, how much it changes. You swallow hard, your voice barely there. “I need time.”

Olga doesn’t speak, so you glance up half-expecting disappointment, or worse, pity, but there’s none, she just nods. “Of course,” she says gently.

“I just…” you start, then stop. Try again. “It’s a lot. I’m still trying to believe it’s real.”

Her eyes soften, her shoulders releasing tension you didn’t realise she’d been holding. “You don’t owe anyone speed,” she says, and again, that name hits different. Warmer now. Anchoring.

You nod slowly.

Olga walks back to her desk, sits quietly, like she’s giving you both physical and emotional space. No pushing. No pressure.

Just… waiting.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

Patri’s apartment smells faintly of rosemary and whatever candle she always has burning. It’s quiet except for the soft sound of her socks on the wood floors and the occasional clink of mugs as she makes tea without asking like she already knows you won’t have the appetite for anything more.

You’re curled on her couch, legs pulled to your chest, the familiar soft throw blanket wrapped tight around you. The photo’s not in your bag anymore, but it may as well be it’s burned into your thoughts.

Patri walks over, hands you a mug you barely manage to hold, then settles beside you without touching close enough to feel, but not crowding.

You stare down at the tea. “I have family.”

The words barely leave your mouth. They feel surreal still, like you’re saying them for someone else. Patri doesn’t speak. She waits.

You exhale shakily. “People I’m related to. By blood. I’ve never had that before, never even let myself imagine what it could be like.”

She glances at you, softly, kindly.

You keep going, voice fragile. “They want to meet me. Alexia. Alba. My sisters.” You taste the word, and it stings and warms at the same time. “But I don’t know if I can do it.”

Patri tilts her head. “Why?”

You blink hard. “Because I’m not who they think they lost. I grew up different to them. I have… pieces, but they don’t fit right. What if I’m a disappointment? What if they only want who I could’ve been, not who I actually am?”

The tears come quick this time. Quiet and raw.

“I don’t know how to be someone’s sister. I don’t even know how to be someone’s daughter.”

Patri shifts closer, gently, until your knee brushes hers. She doesn't reach for your hand just gives you space to fall apart without pressure.

When you finally look up at her, eyes glassy, voice cracking, you whisper, “What if I ruin it just by showing up?”

She leans forward then, soft but certain. “Baby,” she says slow, “You ruin nothing by existing. If anything, you’re the one thing that might put something broken back together.”

You don’t reply, but you lean against her, and when she wraps her arms around you, you let yourself fall into the quiet. Not healed. Not ready, but no longer alone.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The bedroom is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the city outside filtering through sheer curtains. Alexia is already in bed, lying on her side, scrolling idly through her phone. Her hair’s a little damp from the shower, and the covers are pulled up around her shoulders like she’s cocooning herself from the day.

Olga steps in quietly, brushing her teeth finished, sleep tugging at her limbs but her thoughts too loud for rest.

She climbs into bed slowly, careful not to disturb the peace too much.

Alexia hums, sensing something. “Everything okay?”

Olga hesitates, settles on her side to face her, elbow bent, cheek resting against her hand. “I need to tell you something,” she says softly. "It's been eating me all day and I just need to off load it to someone"

Alexia’s eyes flick up from her phone. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Olga assures quickly. “Just… weird and you have to promise not to freak out.”

Alexia raises a brow. “That’s never a comforting preface.”

Olga gives her a tired, warning look. “I’m serious. No confronting anyone. No speeches. Just… listen.”

Alexia sets her phone down. She shifts onto her back, sighs dramatically. “Fine. I solemnly swear. Go.”

Olga stares at the ceiling for a second. Then “My assistant, the one you met at the office… she’s the girl Patri’s been seeing.”

Alexia blinks. “Wait. What?”

“Shh,” Olga hushes quickly, placing a hand gently on Alexia’s arm. “You promised. No freaking out.”

Alexia sits up a little against the headboard, clearly working through it. “Wait. Your assistant is Patri’s girl? She's the one who everyone’s been speculating about in the locker room for weeks?”

Olga nods slowly. “Yeah. I saw them this morning. Having breakfast together. Just… looked like a date.”

Alexia stares at her, mouth open slightly. “And you’re just telling me this now?”

Olga shrugs. “I didn’t know until today. I wasn’t spying. I was just... walking. Processing.”

Alexia laughs once, disbelieving. “Dios. Patri and your assistant. That’s… wow.” She pauses. Then narrows her eyes. “Is she even Patri’s type?”

Olga gives her a flat look. “You’ve met her once, and all you said was she seemed ‘too polite.’”

Alexia shrugs, but she’s smiling now. “Polite and dating Patri? That girl must have hidden layers.”

Olga hums. She rests her head on Alexia’s shoulder, a little quieter again.

After a beat, Alexia asks, “Is that all? Or is there a reason you brought it up now?”

Olga closes her eyes. “There’s more to it… just not for tonight.”

Alexia tilts her head, trying to read her. “Okay…”

Olga squeezes her hand gently. “Just don’t mention anything at training. Let Patri have her privacy.”

Alexia rolls her eyes. “You act like I’m the drama.”

Olga just smiles, eyes still closed. “You’re the captain and the drama.”

Alexia laughs softly and presses a kiss to Olga’s forehead. “Fine. I’ll behave.”

But even as they settle into silence, you linger in Alexia’s thoughts just a little longer than before.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

You’re mid-call, headset on, trying to sound confident while walking a particularly demanding client through a social rollout calendar. Your laptop is open, filled with colour-coded chaos, and you’re scribbling notes on a pad beside you.

Patri is lounging, because that’s the only word for it, in the visitor’s chair next to your desk. She’s got one ankle lazily hooked over her knee, phone in hand, sunglasses perched on her nose even though you’re indoors. She hasn’t said a word in ten minutes, just keeping you company like some smirking silent bodyguard.

You flick your eyes toward her for a second and she just wiggles her eyebrows. You try not to laugh but the door clicks open.

Olga strides in, crisp and purposeful, folders tucked under her arm and a cappuccino in hand. She looks up, clearly expecting her usual quiet workspace and then spots Patri.

She stops Patri glances up from her phone, sees her, and grins “Hola, jefa.”

Olga narrows her eyes. “Patri.”

You freeze mid-sentence on your call. “—Yes, we’ll have the draft by Friday, absolutely. Thank you, I’ll follow up with the design team. Okay. Bye now.”

You click off and rip off the headset, slowly swivelling toward Olga

“Hey,” you say, cautiously.

Olga looks between the two of you, arms crossed, brow lifted in that unimpressed way that’s both maternal and mildly terrifying. “You know this isn’t a café, right?” she says to Patri, deadpan.

Patri shrugs, completely unbothered. “Had the morning off. Thought I’d escort your best employee through their incredibly stressful workday.”

Olga glances at you, unamused. “Is that true?”

You give her a tight, sheepish smile. “I didn’t know she was coming.”

Patri snorts, Olga sets her folders down on her desk, sipping her coffee. “Well, now that you’re here, maybe you’d like to help sort through thirty Instagram DMs from a dog food sponsor who doesn’t understand what a brand kit is.”

Patri puts a hand to her heart, mock-wounded. “That sounds horrifying.”

Olga deadpans, “Welcome to my life.”

You try not to smile but fail miserably, and Olga catches it her expression softening just for a second.

“Fifteen more minutes,” she says to Patri. “Then she’s mine again.”

Patri gives you a wink. “I’ll take what I can get.”

Olga rolls her eyes and turns back to her desk, but not before you catch the tiniest smirk twitch at the corner of her mouth.

The office quiets again after Patri leaves she kisses your temple before she goes, murmuring something only for you, and you hold onto the warmth of it like a tether. But it fades fast once the door closes behind her.

Olga doesn’t look at you right away. She’s working or pretending to. You sit for a while. Typing. Staring. Breathing. Trying to decide if the knot in your chest will ever untangle itself.

You think about the photo. About the scans in the box. About Eli’s face when she realised who you were. About Olga saying your sisters know now. That they want to meet you.

You think about what you said to Patri and then, softly, “Olga?”

She looks up immediately, her eyes are calm, steady gentle in the way only someone who’s known heartbreak can manage.

You clear your throat. Your hands tremble a little in your lap. “I think…” You hesitate, then push through. “I want to meet them.”

Olga doesn't move for a second. Then she slowly exhales, and something loosens in her shoulders. Not relief something quieter. Respect, maybe. Care. “Okay,” she says, her voice low, warm. “I’ll let them know.”

You nod, once. It still scares you. You’re still not sure who you’ll be to them or who they’ll be to you. Sisters. Strangers. Something in between, but you’re ready to try and maybe, for now, that’s enough.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The home Olga and Alexia share is quiet and vast, tucked away, the kind of place with balconies full of trailing plants and old tiled floors. Olga brings you up the driveway, but she doesn’t say much. Just walks beside you, shoulder brushing yours once or twice, letting the silence be whatever you need it to be.

You stop in front of the door, your hands are cold, you didn’t realise you were shaking until you saw the key tremble in Olga’s hand. She glances at you. “They’re all here.”

You nod once. Like if you say anything, you’ll turn around and run Olga squeezes your shoulder gently. Then opens the door.

The flat smells like coffee and lavender. Eli’s sitting at the dining table. She rises when she sees you, hands twitching like she wants to reach for you but she doesn’t. Not yet. Behind her, Alba leans in a doorway, arms folded tight, guarded and uncertain. Her expression is blank but her eyes are anything but, and then there’s Alexia.

She’s sitting on the sofa. Casual, almost too casual hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair tied back, one leg bouncing anxiously. She stands up when you come in, and for a second, nobody breathes.

This is it. You’ve imagined this moment so many times and never, not once, like this.

Alexia speaks first. “Hi.” Just that. One syllable, but her voice is soft.

You nod. “Hi.”

Olga touches your back gently, guiding you toward the sofa. You perch on the edge, knees close together, hands tight in your lap.

Alba stays back.

Alesia sits back down and studies you like she’s trying to make sense of what’s right in front of her and still can’t believe it. “I didn’t know,” she says. “Until last week, I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t either,” you whisper.

You look at her really look at her. She’s familiar in ways that don’t make sense. The shape of her nose. The arch of her brow. The curve of her mouth when she frowns like yours in the mirror.

Eli clears her throat. “This is yours,” she says quietly, and sets the shoebox down on the table in front of you.

You don’t open it yet. You’re too afraid of what it is will make real, and you really didn't want to cry in front of these people.

Instead, you look at Alexia again and then to Alba, whose jaw is clenched, whose arms are still crossed like armour.

“I’m not here to take anything,” you say, your voice shaking. “I’m not trying to force myself into your lives. I don’t even know how to do this. I just… I wanted to meet you.”

Alba looks away, Alexia doesn’t, she leans forward and when she speaks again, it’s quieter. “I don’t know how to do this either,” she says. “But I want to try.”

Your breath hitches. You nod. Once and when she reaches out, you let her take your hand and time passes in silence, Olga offers you a drink, and the only noise is clanking of glasses in the kitchen,

Alexia hasn’t let go of your hand even when Olga puts your drink on the coffee table in front of you.

It rests between hers, light but sure, a quiet anchor as you sit across from her on the low coffee table. She doesn’t look like a football legend right now. She looks like someone trying not to break apart a thousand different ways.

Olga sits beside you right beside you. So close her thigh presses against yours, one of her hands resting on your back as if she’s afraid you might suddenly vanish.

You feel both of them, like weights you can lean on. Eli sits a few feet away, silent, hands clasped in her lap. Her eyes are rimmed with red, lips pressed in a line. Alba leans against the far wall, arms still crossed, distant but listening.

The shoebox sits unopened on the table. Alexia breaks the silence first.

“So…” she starts, glancing between you and Olga, “You work for my girlfriend. That’s wild.”

You blink, a little startled by the shift but you’re grateful for comfortable small talk. It’s a rope thrown into the storm. You nod. “Yeah. Almost three months now.”

Olga leans in just enough for her temple to graze your shoulder. “She’s brilliant,” she murmurs. “Takes her job too seriously, though.”

You roll your eyes, a small smile tugging at your lips despite everything. “Says the woman who once scheduled tweets from the bathtub.”

Alexia barks a laugh genuine, caught off guard. “She would.”

“She did,” "I did" you and Olga say in unison, and for a beat, it feels like a normal moment between friends.

Then silence creeps in again, you fiddle with the hem of your sleeve.

“You guys are close,” Alexia says softly, looking between you and Olga.

You nod. “She’s been… I don’t even know what I’d call it. Kind. Patient. The first person who made me feel like I wasn’t just… passing through.”

You feel Olga’s fingers tighten briefly at your back. A silent I’m still here. Alexia’s expression softens. “I get that,” she murmurs.

You look at her carefully. “Is that why you’re… so good to Alba?”

She looks over at her little sister still silent, still watching and her whole face changes. It’s not obvious, not loud, but it’s there the sharp tenderness, the unspoken devotion.

“She’s mine,” Alexia says simply. “Always has been.”

You nod slowly, your throat tightens, and suddenly you can’t speak Olga shifts beside you, gently leaning into your side, just enough to steady you.

You don’t say anything more, neither does Alexia, not right away, but something’s changing in the room. Not resolved not fixed but thawing.

Across the space, Alba watches it all with unreadable eyes and Eli quiet and still presses a hand to her mouth, as if afraid her emotions might spill out and ruin this fragile moment.

You look at your sister, she smiles at you. Small. Real and you smile back.

It’s quiet again now, not the awkward kind it’s something else. Something rawer.

You feel Olga still beside you, warm and steady. Alexia hasn’t moved far either, perched on the sofa her fingers tap silently against her knee, like she wants to speak but knows this moment isn’t hers.

You’re looking at Eli. She hasn’t looked at you once. Not really. Not since you walked through the door. She sits rigid in her chair, her body folded in on itself like she’s trying to be smaller, her hands twist in her lap, restless and unanchored. Her lips are pressed together like she’s keeping a dam sealed with sheer will.

You watch the way her thumbs rub over one another.

You do that.

You watch the way her brow creases when she’s thinking too loud to speak.

You do that too.

It strikes you all at once not in your chest but in your gut, like something old and invisible pulling taut.

You’re hers you always have been, your voice, when it breaks the silence, surprises even you. Soft. Uncertain. “You look like you need a hug.”

Her head lifts, slowly, slowly, she meets your eyes.

Everything in her face is shaking. Guilt. Hope. Fear. Regret. Love, too but buried beneath years of silence and sorrow.

Her mouth parts, but no words come out, the others don’t move. Not Alba. Not Alexia. Not even Olga.

You don’t push her, you just let the words sit in the space between you Eli swallows. Her eyes fill before a single tear escapes. Her hands go still and then quietly, brokenly “I do”

You stand placing your bag down, she seems surprised by your action but she stands and when you take steps forward she meets you halfway.

She hugs you like she’s terrified you’ll disappear again, her arms wrap around you, trembling, and your face presses into her shoulder. You breathe her in lavender and something warm beneath it. Something familiar you didn’t even know you missed.

Her whole body shudders as she quietly cries, you don’t say anything, you just hold her back, you don’t know what you’re forgiving. There was nothing to forgive for you, you don’t know what still needs to be mended, but in this moment, you’re not lost. You’re held.

The security buzzer goes, you swallow as you and Eli pull away at the same time, "I'll get it that, that'll be" Olga stops herself she knew Patri was coming for you, but she didn't know whether you wanted everyone knowing.

You nod with a little smile, you look to Alexia, "I take it you know"

She nods, "She talks about you a lot, I just didn't know, you were, you, until yesterday"

Patri’s car pulls up as the door is opened just as the sky softens into twilight you stand near the door, jacket pulled around your shoulders, feeling the air shift as the visit comes to a close.

Olga helps you gather your things gentle, wordless, still keeping close like she’s afraid too much space might crack something in you. Alexia lingers near Patri's car they have a quiet conversation you don't catch, her arms folded but her expression soft, uncertain when it turns back to you. Alba follows behind at a distance, watching still wary, still processing, but here that was something.

Eli hasn’t said much since the hug. She’s been quieter than ever, her movements slowed like the emotion has worn her thin, but she’s remained close, watching you with eyes too full for casual conversation.

You hold the letter in your hand for a long time before you finally turn to her.

It’s folded neatly. Ink smudged in one corner from where your hand trembled. You hadn’t planned to give it to her but there were too many things you couldn’t get out in front of everyone. Things too complicated. Too raw. And you wrote it for that circumstance.

You step closer. Offer it with both hands. She looks down at the paper like it might burn her fingers.

You speak quietly, for her only. “I didn’t know how to say it all. So I wrote it instead.”

Eli’s hand reaches out slowly, like she’s afraid if she moves too fast you’ll vanish again. She takes the letter her fingers press around it like it’s fragile like you are.

She nods, eyes shining, lips parting but she doesn’t speak. Just holds it close to her chest.

"Ready to go babe?" Patri smiles, "Pina and her sister are already there"

You nod and turn, your eyes meet Alexia’s, she gives you the faintest smile, then steps aside to let you go. Olga brushes her hand over your back as you move past her, a silent I’m proud of yo and as you walk around Patri's car to get in, Alba finally looks up.

She doesn’t say anything but for the first time, she doesn’t look away.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The front door clicked shut behind you, and with it goes the last of the tension you carried into this house hours ago. The echo of your presence lingers in the room, the kind that doesn’t fade easily. The kind that changes things.

Eli stands where you left her, still holding the letter like it’s made of glass.

Her eyes don’t lift from it Alexia gently steps toward her. “Mami?" but Eli barely hears. Her lips move, soundless.

“I can’t,” she whispers finally. “I can’t read it. I don’t know if I can take what it says.”

Olga watches her closely, her fingers curled around the hem of her jumper, but she doesn’t interrupt. She’s already said what she needed to say today.

Alba, who hasn’t said a word in what feels like forever, finally pushes off the arm of the couch. Her voice is soft, a little raspy.

“Do you want me to read it to you?”

Eli looks up, startled, Alba doesn’t smile. Doesn’t flinch. She just holds out her hand. Eli hesitates for a moment, eyes searching her daughter’s face. And then, wordlessly, she presses the letter into her youngest’s palm.

Alba walks to the center of the room and sits down on the couch, tucking one leg beneath her. She opens the paper carefully, smoothing the creases with tender fingers.

She clears her throat as everyone takes a seat and begins.

I don't even know where to start with this I feel for years of my life I always wanted this moment, the opportunity to have my say, so this probably won't flow or make much sense but I'm going to vulnerably honest and true to myself.

I never blamed you, growing up I never resented you, disliked you, or hated you for the decision you made. I would always wonder what I did wrong. Why I wasn't good enough. The reason you couldn't keep me and love me like parents should, I was always focused on me and my short comings, I never spoke or thought negatively for the decision you made.

I saw everyday the pain giving a child up caused, I heard my carers talk of the despair and sheer pain they would witness when children were removed from the care of their parents. I would hope you didn't ever have to feel that because it wasn't a choice you had made but I understand the gravity of the decision that was made to leave me at the hospital for you and your husband.

I obviously now know the reason for your decision, and I think it's important for you to know, I did get that help I needed and that you may be interested in the journey that took. I had five surgeries before my second birthday, to try and mend the heart I have, I spent the first three years of my life living in the hospital you left me at, before I was discharged to my first foster family but I had very complex medical needs and they couldn't deal with that so I was moved on. I moved I think 5 times before I was 10 and deemed fit enough to live in a communal home where I stayed until I was 12 but then I needed to move again due to my age to what they call a half way house until I was 18.

Tangent lol, back to the heart, its never going to be a fully working healthy heart, I can't eat certain foods I can't have certain drinks and I work everyday to just be the healthiest I can be to give my heart the best chance of being able to sustain me and make the need for a transplant stayed off for as long as possible. That's a case of when and not if.

Olga explained to me of the passing of your husband, I am truly sorry for you Alexia and Alba's loss, I couldn't begin to imagine the pain it caused to loose such a big part of your lives.

I'm not here to ask anything from any of you, I don't know what any of us want from what we've learned, or what any of us expect to happen.

I just hope that this doesn't affect the relationship you have with your daughters because even before I learned what I know now, from the stories I heard from Olga you sounded like such a warm loving tight nit family. It may not be my place to say but I hope it doesn't change what they think and see of you, you are still the mother they know and love that hasn't changed because they learned of me. You are still that same person, and if anything it just shows what strength you have to make the hardest decision a parent can make along with your husband and carry on and raise two amazing people.

I hope you can begin to heal and most of all forgive yourself for the decision you made all those years ago.

You made the right decision, for me and for your family.

I wouldn't be here today without the decision and sacrifice you made so,

Thank You

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

You’re not expecting her.

The quiet of the office is a comfort today, Olga’s out in meetings, the afternoon sun is casting soft shadows across your desk, and the rhythm of your tasks is keeping your mind anchored. Or at leas distracted.

Then the bell above the door chimes, you glance up.

Alba lingers awkwardly by the entrance, her eyes scanning the space like she might still change her mind. She’s dressed simply jeans, oversized tee, hair up in a messy knot and something about her posture makes her look younger than she is. Vulnerable.

You stand slowly, heart thudding. “Hey…”

Alba walks in a few paces, stopping near the front counter. Her hands are shoved deep in her pockets. “I know Olga’s not here,” she says quickly, like a disclaimer. “I waited. I didn’t want to… ambush or anything.”

You nod, unsure what to say yet. She’s clearly nervous, more than you thought she would be from the stories you'd heard of her from Olga.

“I just…” She exhales through her nose, avoiding your eyes. “I wanted to talk. To you. If that’s okay.”

You gesture gently toward the small seating area. “Of course.”

You both sit, but she perches on the edge of the chair, like she’s ready to bolt. She doesn’t look at you, not directly, but her voice is soft and unfiltered. “I don’t know how to do this,” she admits. “I’ve been all messed up since we found out. It’s like everything I ever knew just cracked and now I keep wondering what it means. For me. For us.”

You nod, letting her speak without interruption.

“I guess I just…” She finally glances at you. Her eyes are rimmed red. “I want to get to know you, because out of anyone it's really not your fault, but I don’t know where to start.”

Your voice is quiet but steady. “Maybe we don’t have to know. Maybe we just try.” Alba blinks. You smile, just a little. “We could… start with dinner? No pressure. No heavy talks unless you want to. Just two people who might be something to each other, seeing what that feels like.”

Alba gives the tiniest laugh, almost a scoff at herself. “I haven’t felt this nervous about dinner since my first crush in high school.”

You grin. “Should I be flattered or terrified?”

She laughs again, fuller this time. “Maybe both.”

You reach for your notebook, tearing off a corner and scribbling. You hand it to her a small list of places you can eat in the city and your phone number"

“Pick one. You text me when you're ready. No pressure. Just… dinner.”

Alba looks at the paper in her hands like it’s more than just ink and names. She nods slowly. “Okay,” she says, quieter now. “Okay.” She stands after a moment, lingers at the door again like she’s debating something. Then she turns back. “Thank you. For not making it harder.”

You offer her a warm, careful smile. “We’ve both had hard. I’d rather try something else.”

She nods and then she’s gone.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The restaurant is quiet and tucked away one of those cozy little places with exposed brick, warm lighting, and waitstaff that treat you like family. You’re early. You’d rather wait than arrive to faces you’re not quite sure how to greet yet, but you don’t wait long.

Alba arrives first.

She spots you at the table and offers a small, shy smile as she slides into the seat across from you. She’s dressed casually, but there's something softer in her eyes than the last time less guarded.

You’re about to say something when you hear a familiar voice at the hostess stand. “Alba!”

Alexia. Your heart stutters. You weren’t expecting her. Alba glances at you, a half-smile creeping in. “I may have… invited someone.”

Alexia arrives at the table with a warm grin and no hesitation at all as she kisses both your cheeks like she’s always done it. “Hi,” she says, taking the seat beside you. “I figured, three sisters is better than two, no?”

It’s strange how easy the word sisters rolls out of her mouth. You blink at her, then at Alba, then you smile. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

The conversation starts simple, menus, drinks, Alexia teasing Alba about how she always orders the same pasta everywhere she goes. You laugh when Alexia makes a terrible pun in Spanish that Alba groans at. You’re hesitant at first, still watching the way they interact like a spectator, until Alba nudges your arm and mimics your confused face when you try to translate the joke. You burst out laughing.

It surprises even you.

A bottle of wine appears. Glasses are poured. Somewhere between the bread basket and the main course, something shifts. It’s light, natural, unforced.

You find yourself talking, not deeply, not yet, but honestly. Sharing silly work stories, how you met Patri—

“Okay, wait,” Alba cuts in, grinning now, fork paused mid-air. “You’re the secret girl Patri’s been sneaking around with all this time?”

Your face heats instantly. “It wasn’t sneaking,” you say through a laugh. “She just wasn't exactly wanting it announcing it to the locker room.”

Alexia shakes her head, amused. “Patri is awful at subtle. She was glowing at training after she met you. G-L-O-W-I-N-G.”

You laugh, covering your face for a second. “Oh god.”

Alba leans in slightly, her tone playful but with an edge of sincerity. “Just so you know… if she hurts you, I’ll kick her ass.”

You snort into your wine.

Alexia raises a brow. “Alba, Patri is my teammate.”

Alba shrugs, utterly unbothered. “Don’t care. I like her, but blood is blood.”

You’re laughing now, genuinely, shaking your head. “I’ll be sure to tell her she’s been warned.”

Alba points at you with her fork. “Do that. I want her scared.”

Alexia mutters something about drama queen, and Alba throws a breadstick at her. It misses, barely.

You’re still smiling, Alba leans back in her seat, glass in hand, her grin a little wicked.

“So…” she begins slowly, eyeing you over the rim of her glass, “how’s the sex with Patri?”

Alexia nearly chokes on her wine.

You blink, stunned, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Alba!”

“What?” she laughs. “I’m curious!”

Alexia looks horrified. “You can’t ask her that!”

“I just did,” Alba smirks.

You’re giggling now, one hand covering your face as you try to recover. “God, okay, um… we haven’t… actually done that yet.”

Alba’s face flickers with surprise. “Really?”

You nod, a little shy but honest. “Yeah. She’s been… really respectful. Which is kind of adorable.”

Alexia leans back, visibly relaxing. “That’s sweet. Patri’s always been a softie underneath the sarcasm.”

You bite your lip, then laugh quietly. “It is sweet. But sometimes I just… want to be disrespected, you know?”

There’s a moment of silence, Alexia’s eyes go wide, Alba hollers with laughter and you shrink back slightly, eyes darting between them realising who they are to you as your face burns. “Oh my God wait. I can’t talk like that in front of you, can I?”

Alexia makes a strangled noise, waving her hand like she needs to shut her ears. “No. You absolutely cannot. Your my baby sister”

Alba wipes a tear from her eye. “Too late.”

You all dissolve into laughter, the kind that makes your ribs hurt. The kind that breaks through walls you didn’t even realise were still up. You glance at them Alexia still slightly horrified, Alba grinning like she won the lottery.

Alexia rests her chin in her hand, watching the two of you with a soft, content look on her face. “You know,” she says, her voice quieter now, “I really didn’t know what to expect when I found out. I was angry. Hurt. But right now?” She looks between you both. “This feels right.”

You meet her gaze. “It does.”

Alba’s smile isn’t wide, but it’s real. There’s still so much to say, still so much to feel, still so much to learn, but for now, there’s wine, warmth, and the first real night where you don’t feel like a stranger.

Just a sister.

#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

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tteokdoroki · 9 months ago

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˗ˏˋ 💎 JJK MEN AS OVERPROTECTIVE GIRL DADS gojo, sukuna & geto .ᐟ

⋆˙ ᯓ★ about ! “a little girl’s first love will always be her father." three scenarios in which the daughters of three jjk men introduce their boyfriends to their fathers. ( 5.7K )

warnings ! minors blank and ageless blogs do not interact. video banner. not beta read. sfw, fluff, angst if you squint, no-curses!au, mentions of pregnancy, children and babies, the children have no names, some family issues, married life, domestic bliss, husband + father!jjk men, mother + fem!reader.

sonic says ! hello everyone !! i wanted to try my hand at some head canons and scenarios, i couldn’t get this idea out of my head so put a pause on working on kinktober to write it lol!! hope you enjoy <3 - m.list ⋆ read on ao3 ! ִ ࣪𖤐₊

ᯓ★ SATORU GOJO:

before meeting you, satoru gojo had never been fond of a family dinner.

in his childhood home — they were cold and quiet, pockets of clattering cutlery would cut through painstaking silence and distract from the loud emptiness of the seat at the head of the table where his own father was supposed to be. his mother, often solemn and sunken in the shoulders, never spoke. never cooked and slipped small bites to her son in between preparation or steps.

they had staff for that, they had staff for everything.

to keep the household clean and together. to keep him fed and breathing. to keep him alive. all requirements felt almost clinical, the environment in which he was raised almost like the white walls of a hospital — without a trace of love needed for a child like satoru gojo needed to thrive.

even if he had all the money in the world, he hadn’t a drop of love. he wasn’t ever sure if he was capable of the warm and fuzzy emotion, didn’t know if it was something his heart could ever open up to — sealed in by layers of cool, cold concrete and cement. kept in a safe without a key. at least until you miraculously found it and melted the thick layers of ice blocking satoru’s veins. you brought back colour to his cheeks and light to his eyes, taking up the space in his heart where his family had left a swirling, black void.

to satoru, you were a saving grace. his everything… and he swore he’d never be like his father; who left his wife unhappy and empty, like a abandoned shell. he promised; he’d do much better than his parents ever did. especially when you found out you were pregnant, even more so when your little girl came into the world with plentiful white curls and lashes, screaming at the top of her teeny tiny lungs.

at the time, you were sure you’d never seen satoru gojo so in love ( and so teary eyed too ) — but you knew what becoming a parent meant to him. what it meant for the new life you now shared.

but now, having met you and married you and created life with you — satoru had found a new appreciation for family dinners. they were a sacred event, a special time for him to keep up with the lives of his children and let them know he was there. present.

it wasn’t a time to be imposed on and certainly not by meddlesome boyfriends brought home by sixteen year old daughters.

“so kid, what’s your 401K look like?”

satoru carries a look of disdain, his nostrils flared, blue eyes narrowed and perfect pink lips curled in an unhappy frown.

the young boy opposite him, a little scrawny and awkward, shrinks underneath the white haired man’s intense gaze — if you squinted, you could probably see him shaking like a little leaf in the intense wind from across the table “um… i don’t know?”

“hear that little guy? no 401K… how’s he meant to take care of your sister. yeah, yeah.

you’re right, i’ll give him a chance,” he mutters to the baby boy snoozing happily in his arms under his breath, engaging in a one sided conversation before switching his focus back to his daughter’s…sorry excuse for a partner. “okay then… finances, clearly not. academics and common sense —“ pausing, the white haired father of two clicks his tongue, pushing it into the soft flesh on the inside of his cheek as if to feel his next words out in his mouth. “do you even know what a bouquet of flowers is, kid? a corsage? gojo women don’t play about their flowers, yanno.”

“sir—“

without giving the boy a chance to speak, gojo drops his intrusive gaze under the table and back up again — pointing an accusatory finger at his little girl’s partner. “your top button’s undone and your shoe laces are untied. you might wanna fix that! if you care about my daughter’s safety!” he turns his nose up all petulant like a picky toddler being forced to eat his veggies, he even sticks his tongue out for good measure. gojo’s eccentric movements nearly jostle his sleepy son in place. the baby whines and gurgles a little bit, only soothed by a pat to his back from dad — who repositions him to snooze over his shoulder.

in a silent, quieter gesture, satoru uses two fingers to point between his eyes and the boy’s. almost as if to say ‘i’m watching you.’

catching him in the act, the eldest gojo daughter bounces into the room carrying plates of steaming hot food, exhaling with worm down patience evident in her body language. “daddy please, you don’t act like this normally. stop messing around.” rolling her eyes, she sets the dishes down, freeing up her hand to smack the back of her dad’s clearly empty skull. just like her mother.

“well sooooorrry for being a good dad and caring about your wellbeing! who you’re dating! who you’re bringing into our bloodline!” gojo rebuttals with petish grunts, unable to cradle the back of his injured head like he does with his son.

and as if by magic, you, his beautiful and loving and gorgeous wife appear with dinner plates in hand to double down on a scolding the white haired man. amused, you also swat at your husband’s head and tut down at him. “satoru? what are you doing?” there’s something about the way you tease and tell gojo off that always makes his heart race, even after all these years of marriage and raising his kids. he loves you, his family so much. he almost keens into your touch like a pathetic dog, until your daughter starts gagging at the sight — slipping into her set. you were supposed to be watching the baby. not interrogating the poor kid.”

“we’re having a heart to heart, babe,” gojo swoons, clearing his throat as his head bobs in the direction of his daughter’s boyfriend. “jimbob here was just telling me about his 3.4% grade point average.”

“it’s hiro sir! and uh… 3.5% sir.” the boyfriend in question chirps shyly.

you know that your husband feels… almost threatened by another man entering your daughter’s life — they’ve been practically inseparable since the moment she first opened her eyes. to give up the duty of loving and protecting her and pass it onto someone else is probably what scares him the most. “that’s pretty good hun!” you comment absentmindedly, hoping to pull satoru away from the conversation.

“no it’s not! our daughter has a 4.0%.”

“s-she was failing in math, i was tutoring her.” the boyfriend hopefully interjects again, whispering next when the baby stirs at the dining table. “i hope that makes up for my 401K sir. i-i also work part time to save for college and—!”

“haha — no i wasn’t!” the younger gojo girl tenses in place, elbowing her date in the ribs not so discretely from under the table. it’s this interaction that makes her father smile, only briefly, before you scowl his way.

“i thought you told them we met at a tutoring session.”

“you were failing?” you raise a brow, taking your own seat beside her father.

“see! this boy failure is a bad influence on our daughter!” a glare settles on the slopes of satoru’s angelic features, mirrored by your child’s unimpressed expression across the table. in his arms, your youngest fusses about as if he senses the mounting tension at the table — earning a bounce or two from daddy, who turns your way all matter-of-factly like. “see, this why he doesn’t have a 401K”

“why would a teenager have a 401k, satoru!” comes your exasperated sigh.

“i had one when i was his age.” satoru shoots back and the kid sinks nervously in his seat. the poor boy looks as though he wants to disappear, squirming in place like he’s no better than a worm on a bait hook — it’s torture being interrogated and inspected by someone so close to the person you love most, but even he knows how important satoru’s approval is to your daughter.

she wouldn’t say it now, not when she was all grown up and finding her way out in the world — but she idolised gojo, all of her fondest memories are painted in his colours. shades of sapphire and azure like his vivid eyes, snowy white from his hair that almost rivals the clouds in the sky — the backdrop to days spent riding her father’s shoulders through the big wide world, racing down grassy green hills and wasting the hours away. she wouldn’t admit it here, today, but she never wanted to leave those memories. leave her father behind in her youth — it was written on each dip and curve and highlight on her youthful face, she wanted her father to move into this next phase of life with her too.

“daddy, you were a trust fund baby with shit grades and no prospects until you met mum,” she huffs but her words hold no malice, even if the sass brims over the edge of her tone like an emotionally charged, overflowing glass of water. you’d chide her for cursing — but you know she means well, stubbornly expressing her desire for approval to her man child of a father. “a loser, if you will.”

gojo slumps, the rosey petals of his plump lips pushing into an age old pout. “how could you say that about dear old dad?” he whines, as though he’s a wounded animal.

“well she’s not wrong, baby. you were a loser satoru, you still are.” the words are fond and light hearted on your tongue, a similar state to the wisps of a smile that trace over your own lips. leaning in close, you tickle the nose of the gurgling baby boy in his arms, heart heavy with affection — grateful that the one interaction you had with your husband all those years ago ( when he was a scrapier and misunderstood ) led you both to the beautiful chaotic family you have together now. “a hot one at least.”

“gross.” your daughter groans and buries her embarrassed gaze in the spread of food on the neatly laid table — grabbing a plate and piling it high to cope.

her boyfriend chuckles nervously, wanting nothing more but to eat and do the same. desperate to hide from gojo’s intimidating aura, but too afraid to cross another one of his ridiculous invisible lines. “i think that’s very sweet mrs gojo!”

the brief moment of peace in the war of dad v boyfriend is then interrupted by the white haired man’s temper tantrum, realising that his only daughter is still in the room. “don’t push it kid.” the father of your children all but wails and finds something else about the young couple to pick apart. “you’re sitting too close together! move apart!”

“daddy—!”

“w-what?”

“i said move it or lose it kid, before i keel over and die of heartbreak.” “betrayal. my own daughter, leaving me for someone else.”

the two separate, shifting their chairs away from one another despite never actually being too close. you share an empathetic look with your eldest, empathetic to your husband’s actions. you both knew he wouldn’t handle the meeting well, but this was beyond your whilst dreams. the young couple’s hands remain intertwined under the table cloth as the meal begins properly, and when satoru notices, he doesn’t comment — biting down hard on his unhappy tongue. he knows all too well what it’s like to love against the odds, his father in law hardly wanted him around you. it’s not like he wasn’t aware how bad he was for you, how your standards might have even dropped for the man to be with him. but you loved satoru with your entire being, wholly and against all of your own parent’s wishes.

in a way, the dinner tonight reminds him of himself meeting your father for the first time — how he had to work for his approval too. prove that he was more than just a spoilt brat. too caught up in the memories, the odd sense of loss threaded between his every breath and the love he holds for his daughter settled in his lungs — gojo almost kissed the way you whisper to him adoringly, head drooping to rest on his shoulder mostly to look at your baby but partly to comfort him. “you’re being dramatic satoru. look at them, don’t you just love young love.”

and he does, he looks, really looks — softly staring across the table and through the haze of his own judgement, noticing how happy his little girl looks all wrapped up with her boyfriend. all he’s ever wanted is to keep her smiling, give her a life that his parents couldn’t give him, he feels all of his resentment and fear or losing his daughter melt away like a plain sheet of paper dissolving in water. he loves her too much to not let her be happy, his baby. his little girl.

“no, not at all,” satoru finally relents with a wobbling voice and silvery tears that dot his vision — shaking his head back and forth to stop them from dropping onto his sleeping son gathered in his arms. “w-why would you say that? god, is it allergy season? my eyes are killing me. they’re not cute at all, why would you say that i’m crying?”

your teenage daughter glances over, relief evident in all of her identical gojo features. “no one mentioned you crying, daddy.” she coos softly in an attempt to console satoru.

it doesn’t work, he starts dry heaving and sobbing. which is new for her, he hasn’t cried this hard since her baby brother was born.

the kid scrambles into his pocket and damn near stumbles over the table in order to hand your white haired lover a tissue. “i don’t think you’re crying sir!”

“shut up!” gojo sniffles dramatically, putting on his best theatre kid act and drapes himself ( and the baby ) all over you. “shit, is this cushioned tissue? three ply?” pale, deft fingers swipe at the blue pools of eyes which well with tears while the kid nods over enthusiastically — desperate to please his girlfriend’s guardian. “good stuff this is… but this doesn’t mean i approve of you for my daughter!”

“gojo!”

“whaaaaat!? he doesn’t have a 401K!”

ᯓ★ RYOMEN SUKUNA:

if you’d told sukuna, almost a decade and a half ago, that he would end up with a life shrouded in domestic bliss — he would have laughed in your face. maybe even called you a cunt whilst telling you to fuck off. back then, when he was younger and the spirit of ambitious fire burned brightly in his veins as though he had petroleum for blood, the pink haired man never dreamed of settling down. buying a house. getting married. or having kids.

he was as untameable as a wild horse, with only one goal in mind. to open up his restaurant and get his family out of that shithole town by all and any means. he’d cross whatever rivers he had to, climb whatever mountains he needed to — push past societal hurdles that judged him for the pink in his hair and the thick ink on his body. ryomen sukuna did not care. not about anyone else, only about his goals.

at least, until he met you.

in many ways, you were a blessing to the world where sukuna was a curse. his complete opposite, the day to his night. though the worlds and lives you came from were completely different —

nowadays, the man is a little softer around the edges and weaker in the heart — they say that’s what true love does to you.

a set of keys jingle at the front door, followed by the dull thud of trainers on the shoe rack and footsteps on the mahogany wood floor. sukuna hardly looks up from the article he’s reading — something about the best recipes for autumnal vegetables. who would have thought, ryomen sukuna, reading up on gardening. he would tell anyone who asked it was for his restaurant, not because he actually enjoyed it. would make him look soft.

“hey, i’m home!” the voice that calls to him is sweet and youthful, a dulcet symphony that tugs paternally at the pink haired man’s heart strings. “is ma here?”

sukuna smiles to himself behind the newspaper, inhaling its fresh ink scent. “in the kitchen, workin’,” he replies absentmindedly, listening to his daughter skid down the hall after dropping her backpack. “oi squirt, you ain’t slick. you know what day it is, report card. now.”

there’s a dramatic sigh that follows footsteps trailing back into the living room. sukuna’s daughter, his pride and joy clings onto the doorframe with a scowl that could very well rival his own, ruby red eyes twinkling with annoyance — she’s in a rush to chat with her mother after school, he knows, but he can’t help but to tease her just a bit. “s’in my bag, can i go now?” she whines impatiently but takes off at the first gentle nod from her father in reply.

but the pink haired parent’s peaceful evening is quickly turned upside down at the discovery he makes in the bottom of his pride and joy’s bag. no matter how much time has passed, how many decades have gone by in which he’s been a father — nothing could prepare him for this new challenge, the new wave of emotions that come with having a tween daughter and swirl hotly in his chest.

“what the fuck is this?” he announces with a foul snarl, slipping into the kitchen where his girls chitchat idly over a test batch of cookies sukuna had made earlier in the day. for his restaurant of course. not because he’s a doting husband or loving father. he’s got an image to uphold and it’s not one of domestic bliss.

his daughter chirps, not looking up from the sweet treat she picks apart and pops into her mouth — seated on the kitchen island while you work away on your laptop. “what’s what, daddy?” her innocent nonchalance about the older sukuna’s discovery almost makes him pop a vein. “also, ma told you to stop saying the f-word. so, swear jar.”

the hulking man with the contrastingly soft pink pokes his tongue into the soft epithelium of his cheek, his jaw ticks and a playful frustration tingles throughout all four of his limbs. the swear jar was something you’d brought into play as soon as [daughter name] had learned how to talk, afraid that your rough and rugged husband’s potty mouth would rub off on her young impressionable mind. every time a cursed word falls from between ryomen sukuna’s lips, a couple hundred yen is popped into the jar as punishment. the thing was practically full by your baby’s third birthday, so you’ve been putting it down as her college fund ever since.

paper rustles between deft and tattooed fingers as sukuna reveals not a report card, but a crinkled note like the kind passed back and forth between distracted kids in the middle of that one class before lunch. “don’t play dumb with me, squirt.” ryomen holds the note up to the light so that both of his girls can see, blood diamond eyes squinting so he can inspect it better. somebody get this guy his glasses. “‘do you want to go out with me? tick for yes, cross for no.’” he reads out loud, each word leaving a bitter taste on his tongue, his frown so deep that lines of disapproval form on his well-aged face.

thoughts of the once all-important report card vanish into thin air, the relaxed aura in the room replaced with a palatable tension that not even your husband’s finest knives could cut. your precious baby girl shoots up from the counter to scramble with her dad over the note in hand. he holds her back with a large palm to the forehead.

“oh my god! you weren’t supposed to see that! daddy, give it here. please!”

“fat chance, squirt,” the tattooed man retorts. “you passin’ notes in class? that why you’re hidin’ your report card?”

“you can have my report card, when you give that back!”

with the two standing side by side, the resemblance strikes you as clear as day. they share the same hair, same scowl and same rugged intonation to their voices. they’re both yours, your entire world under one roof. before they can blow said root off, you stand between the elder and younger sukuna — turning to your husband with hooded eyes and a gentle hand on the centre of his broad chest. “oh ryo,” you coo in flirtation, slowing his train of thought as you sneakily swipe the crushed paper from his grip. “shut up ‘n let me see that.”

your daughter gags behind you at the display of affection, contrasting with the amused smirk you share with your long time lover. after all this time, marriage and the perfect kid, you’re still able to make a fool out of him — make sukuna’s heart skip a beat and a heat he refuses to acknowledge crawl up the back of his neck. he’s gone soft, for you and his family. for now, for you, he relents on taunting his precious little girl.

casting your gaze over the note, you grin at the pink-ink chicken scratch scribbled across the page. it’s sweet and endearing, reminding you of young love. “did atsushi finally ask you out?” you ask tenderly, handing the paper back to your daughter who cuddles it to her chest like the physical version of a precious memory.

a bashful expression lines the contours of her face, seeping into features you’d recognise from your husband on her. sukuna would argue that she has the shape of your eyes and your beauty too — but all you see is a culmination of love. “ma you were so totally right, playing hard to get really works!”

she gushes dreamily over her crush like it’s puppy love, biting her lip and bouncing on the spot.

“like a charm, every time.” comes your entertained response, much to your husband’s dismay.

“you weren’t playin’ hard to get with me…” sukuna questions rather than states, trying to piece together parts of the gossip that he’s missed. an anxiety corners the beat of his heart at the thought of his daughter dating, something in which the burly man never thought he would be afraid of. the world had been hard on sukuna; he only worries that it’s not as safe for his pride and joy as it were for him. “never mind that; the brat asked you out with a piece of paper? y’better not have said yes. we have standards here.”

his words make you roll your eyes with the hint of a smile. ryomen almost reminding you of your own father around the time you’d met him.

your daughter scrunches her nose petulantly, gearing herself up for a witty reply. “well ma married you, so her standards can’t be that high.” she snaps, earning a stifled laugh from you and an unimpressed grunt from her hardheaded dad. “and no, i didn’t. told him he needed to ask me out properly. face to face. with words. he said to meet him on the running track tomorrow at lunch for a surprise!”

pulling her into a hug, you kiss her round youthful cheek. “oh baby, i'm so happy for you!”

“well i ain’t! show me the damn kid, need to see what kind of pitiful brat wants to ask out my little girl,” sukuna crosses his arms and grumbles to himself, black ink tattoos flexing menacingly as he does so. almost as if he’s preparing to threaten the kid before even meeting him. “whatever happened to askin’ for permission to court or whatever. he should have been on my doorstep asking for your hand.”

“firstly you would have said no, and secondly this isn’t the olden days, dad. nobody does that anymore.” your cheeky daughter chides him loudly, her words slipping over her snarky little tongue. like father like daughter, the way they snip and snap at one another has an uncanny resemblance.

tilting your head upwards towards your fuming husband, you laugh breathlessly in a way that washes away his anger.“she’s right ryo; though my dad hardly approved of you either.” you say softly. even now, you make him feel weak in the knees and dizzy in the mind, like he’s so anything for you. whoever dates his daughter should feel the same about her.

“i freakin’ earned it, didn’t i?

“just barely.”

sukuna huffs but settles a hand on your waist from behind and his head atop yours. he needs to soothe himself somehow, his daughter is growing too fast. “stop ganging up on me and lemme see the damn kid.”

“here, isn’t he cute.”

lips downturned, sukuna craned his neck to look at your daughter’s phone from over your shoulder — scrutinising the instagram page that she’s opened now offering the kid his only child has taken an interest in like a lamb at the slaughterhouse. “brat looks like a noodle.” haughty laughter fills the kitchen, reverberating against the bones and organs in ryomen’s chest and buzzing right though your back. “you’re right i woulda said no as soon as he fuckin’ turned up!”

two sets of scolding eyes similar in shape, belonging to the two girls he loves the most swivel around to face the pink haired man disapprovingly.

“ryomen sukuna!”

“daddy!”

“yeah yeah, i know. swear jar.”

ᯓ★ SUGURU GETO:

“my love, were you aware that our little munchkin has a boyfriend?”

suguru looks up from the bubbling pot of child friendly pasta sauce on the stove. if it were just the two of you having dinner tonight, like it was merely three (nearly four) years ago — he would have planned for a more adventurous meal. perhaps sought out a bottle of fine aged wine for you both to enjoy on the balcony and even gotten a dessert to sweeten the date in. but now, you both had more than two hungry tummies to worry about, and bottles of wine could only be purchased when the little one was off with her uncle satoru.

“no, i wasnt. i don't believe that’s come up in discussion before,” your dark haired lover turns his narrow gaze to the giggly little girl swaddled in your arms — her chubby cheeks and dark, curious eyes just peeking out of the fluffy duck-themed towel you’ve wrapped her in. bath time is usually after bed, but someone got into the paint pots at nursery school and managed to get blotches of blue streaked through her hair and under her fingernails. “care to elaborate sweetheart?”

suguru taps the wooden sauce spoon against the side of the pot and swipes his hands on a nearby tea towel before allowing them to rest on his hips, look of faux irritation settling on the contours of his face and slopes of his features. thin brows draw together like closed gates in the middle of his forehead — the expression earning airy light and squealed laughter from your baby girl.

“nuh uhhh! not my boy-fend!” she babbles her way through the big girl word, missing a few syllables here and there, but geto still grins with pride — happily leaning forward to press enthusiastic kisses to his little angel’s damp forehead. “no boy-fend papa!

bouncing your daughter slightly, you cock your hip out to hold her weight and cheekily roll your eyes. “such a daddy’s girl, lying to him already? he’ll let you get away with anything if you keep that up,” though you muster up a pout to rival the toddler’s, the uncanny resemblance warming the cockles or your husband’s heart, your tone is playful and adoring — it’s lilt full of love for the baby girl you made together. you pinch her chubby cheek, waggling it from side to side as more of her childlike laughter tangles with the scent of pasta in the air. “we bumped into the fujioka boy and his mother at the gates this morning, he held her hand all the way up to the classroom. it was quite cute. you had to be there, love.”

“i’m sure,” he responds, gentle mirth and protectiveness swirling in dark framed eyes.

you relay the information to your husband as though it’s hot gossip fresh from the press, whispering over your dark-haired daughter’s head not so secretly. even with the hair and eyes to match suguru’s, she’s still just as much your carbon copy as she is his — he tends to say all of her spirit comes from you, not to mention the way she laughs and smiles.

shaking her head between you, both — your baby chimes in brightly. “noooo mama!! boys are gross, i don’ hold hands with boys.”

this time suguru manoeuvres to pinch her other chubby cheek, clicking his tongue as he does so. “not even papa?” he pretends to pout, crouching down with his hands on his knees to coo into her sweet little face.

“nuhhh, papa isn’t gross!! papa is my favourite boy!” she quickly tacks on with a dribbly smile.

“that’s right. i’ll be the only boy in your life always, just you and i princess,” your husband reaffirms with a firm shake of his head and presses a promise in the form of a kiss to your daughter’s nose. her chubby little hands, still wet from bath time, smack either side of suguru’s face and keep him close — close enough for her to plant a soggy smooch onto his forehead affectionately. a wet kiss only a father could love. “that settles it, i’m no longer sharing my kisses. papa says no boyfriends until you’re ninety.”

once your two loves are done sharing their candied affections, you seat your daughter on the edge of the kitchen table to allow geto the room to finish up with dinner. the comforting symphony of baby babbles and kitchen utensils clanking and food boiling fills the steamy air, it makes you smile. it feels like home. “oh come on suguru, they’re only three. don’t you think it’s the tiniest bit adorable?” you say with a sing-songy voice, entertaining both your little one and her father.“they even share their animal crackers during break time and crayons when it’s time to colour, one of the supervisors told me.”

with his back now to you as he stirs through the pasta sauce one final time, you hardly miss the way suguru’s shoulders tense at the mention of the little boy your girl has taken a liking to. he wouldn’t dare frown about it in front of her, what upsets daddy upsets baby too. that’s why he’s always smiling for her, and you find the man’s subtle jealousy endearing. it’s always supposed to be suguru and his princess, with no room for anyone else ( aside from you, of course )

“nope, no boyfriends. no amount of cuteness can convince me otherwise.” voice falling tight and flat, suguru reaches into the cupboards for plates and bowls to dish up his lovingly prepared home cooked meal, slamming them into place at the table with a little less patience than before.

the idea of some… little boy chasing after his daughter’s heart? over his dead body.

“boy-fends are gross!” but your daughter is forever a daddy’s girl, furrowing her brow and crossing her tiny arms in an act of defiance — supporting her papa’s cause. boyfriends are bad!

fuelling her excitement and even more support for papa — food is served shortly by your husband, who plates up as best as he can with toddler safe dinnerware. you adjust your little girl into her high chair at the table, giggling to yourself softly when she cranes her neck to keep an eye on suguru. “does that mean papa’s gross? he’s technically mama’s boyfriend.”

“husband, love, there’s a difference.”

three plates of hot, aromatic spaghetti are organised in a table — each a domestic reminder of the family suguru geto has been blessed with. in that moment, he thinks he would be happy if he spent the rest of his life as just the three of you. briefly his mind wonders to setting a fourth place at the table in a decade or so’s time, once his daughter truly is old enough to date. the very thought makes him feel ill.

round, doe eyes dart between you and suguru as you take your seats either side of your darling daughter at the table — she mimics you both with fumbling little fingers that reach for her baby fork and concentrates as she attempts to repeat your husband’s words. “can i have a husbsband-love?”

you laugh and kiss her cheek, helping her to gather a bite of pasta on the full end of her fork. “husband. just husband, my love. make sure you blow on your food please!” she follows your instructions with a comical air, cheeks puffing and breath huffing while you explain why her father is a second away from blowing his top. “good girl. husband’s aren’t for babies, baby. and i think papa might not like it if you got one now.”

“if you got one ever!” suguru interjects, eyes narrowing while he fights with his lips to avoid a scowl. “the answer is still no, princess. no husbands and no boyfriends until papa is old, cold and in the ground.”

now that your hands are free, you grab the nearest tea towel and wind it up in your grip — launching its tail end at geto as though to swat at him. he jumps in surprise and your daughter shrieks in amusement as she begins babbling again. “don worry, papa!. fujioka is no my boy-fend!!” she says over food in her mouth and happy tummy. geto wipes over her face again. she’ll definitely need another bath later. “hasegawa is!!”

the pair of you share a look and this time, you really think suguru might just throw in the towel.

how could he compete with pre-school love and paint pots shared over playtime gossip?

“two boyfriends? oh god, love… i think need some air.”

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stellarsecrets86 · 20 days ago

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Venus In Signs In Groom Persona Chart

✮⋆˙Venus in Aries

Future spouse is direct, brave, and doesn't mess aroundexcept perhaps when he's messing around at love or humor. He's got a rough, boyish form of charm and probably fell in love with you immediately and without second thought. There is a quality of his confidence that is irresistible and an added measure of the hero complex: he'd like to rescue, pursue, and conquer. He loves with passion and intensity, sometimes close to a fault of impulsiveness. He's the one who skydives and proposes or composes 3 a.m. poetry readings with guitar accompaniment. Marry him, and get ready for spurts of romance, passionate fights (and passionate makeup sessions), and a desire to go out there and conquer the world. He likes to have a partner who allows him to take charge but also keeps him intellectually engaged. Quickness to anger or jealousy may be the areas on which he needs to work. This is a husband who has to feel alive in love if it's not exciting, then he questions whether it's worth it. Passion and spontaneity are his default settings, and slow love is his secret ingredient.

✮⋆˙ Venus in Taurus

Meet the man who does slow love, deep foundations, and lasting pleasures. He is not flashy, but he is consistent and possesses a voice that can lull you to sleep after a long day. His sensual quality is secure and tangible; he loves to touch, snuggle, cook for you, and spoil you in little but sensual ways. He's the husband who arrives home with flowers at random, or knows exactly how to have your tea. He's not a hurrier-he's a constructor. Security draws him in. He may be possessive or resistant, but his commitment runs deep. With marriage, he likely cherishes creature comforts: comfortable home, quality time, security, and physical bond that improves with age. He is not necessarily über-verbal, but every action is a silent vow. He works on trust, reliability, and sensuality. He's the protector.

✮⋆˙Venus in Gemini

Your future spouse is witty, smart, and endlessly curious. He might have been attracted to your brain first and face second or maybe your sense of humor regarding punning at a party. He demonstrates love in the form of talking: texts, jokes, thoughts, and constant questions. He's a gabby flirt with a cheeky, young heart, age aside. And diversity is his oxygen; if the relationship becomes stale, he'll psychologically leave before he physically does. He needs in marriage a companion who will facilitate his duality he's there and agitated, intensely concentrated and occasionally unfocused. Intellectual closeness is simpler than emotional depth. He might surprise you with spontaneous new hobbies, pursuits, or trips. Novelty matters in the relationship: mix up the routine, stimulate his intellect, laugh a lot together. He's not clingy but thrives when he is intellectually and socially challenged by his partner. Boredom is the foe banter is the love language.

✮⋆˙Venus in Cancer

This guy leads from the heart and protects what he loves like a crab protects a velvet shell. He's highly nurturing, emotionally attuned, and yearns to build a home not just cohabitate one. He's the one who remembers your notes, remembers your grandmother's birthday, and cries when your dog dies. Marriage to him is coming home. He's emotionally invested from the start and seeks a marriage with emotional security and shared values. He may lean towards traditional roles, especially if that's what he learned growing up, but his caregiving nature keeps him emotionally present and committed. But he's moody and sensitive, requiring reassurance and routine. He's not flashy, however: he enjoys intimate gestures such as hand-holding, home cooked meals, and gentle affirmations. He's the type of companion who wishes to raise children, enjoy holidays, and grow old together watching birds eat in your yard. You can expect warmth, protection, and the fullest emotional fidelity.

✮⋆˙Venus in Leo

Your fs is destined to love like royalty. He's melodramatic with affection, extravagant with love, and perhaps slightly addicted to applause. He's proud and charismatic, and must be worshiped but he spends worship lavishly as well. His ideal relationship is one that's epic and heroic, with a hint of romance, loyalty, and theatrics. He's generous with compliments and energy; he might overwhelm you with presents or stage dramatic nights on the town. He's the kind of man who'll pen a love letter and recite it in moonlight. But he has a giant heart behind the drama he wants someone with whom he can glow, not merely shine alone. Loyalty is paramount in marriage. Betrayal wounds horribly, and disrespect can generate deafening drama. But love him publicly, honor his pride, and he'll be your greatest cheerleader, protector, and snugglebug. He's the husband who will build your love into something of a legacy and a perfect Instagram one at that.

✮⋆˙ Venus in Virgo

He's not flashy and dramatic, perhaps, but he shows love in the most dependable ways: being there, fixing what is broken, and planning ten steps ahead of what you'll need. He loves through actions, not declarations he’ll alphabetize your spice rack but may forget to say “I love you” unless prompted. He may be modest or even shy at first, but beneath that calm exterior is a deeply devoted partner. He holds himself to high standards and may expect the same sometimes too much so. In marriage, he's the one who remembers appointments, refills your prescriptions, and teases your coffee making abilities with affection. He is a critic, but usually out of concern and a desire to improve things. Emotional vulnerability is something he learns over time, usually through trust. Give him safety, routine, and appreciation, and he'll be the kind of husband who improves with age: plain but valuable.

✮⋆˙ Venus in Libra

Your fs shows up in a tuxedo, flowers, and probably with a sonnet already composed. He's the gentleman sophisticated, romantic, and obsessed with fairness and beauty. For him, love is something idealized and sacred. He's drawn to equity, beauty, and gracious give-and-take in relationships. He wants a true partner in every sense equal, elegant, and emotionally perceptive. In marriage, he's the one who plans anniversaries, negotiates with wardrobe, and makes sure both are heard. He can sidestep conflict like the plague and overcompromise, so resentment is pent up. But he deeply does crave peace and intimacy. Watch for elegant courtship, heavy emotional diplomacy, and long-term concern to keep romance alive. He's a "us" believer as a unit and will give up more than he should to maintain harmony. Spoil him like both your best friend and sweetheart, and he'll be loyal through every high and every low just make sure to keep things reasonably nice and relaxed.

✮⋆˙Venus in Scorpio

This man doesn't fall in love he plunges. Rich, deep, and intense, he's drawn to transmuting, all consuming connection. He wants to know every single nook of your head and can't abide superficial relationships. There's something mysteriously seductive about him picture smoldering eyes and a secret he'll never really reveal. He is hugely devoted and fiercely protective within marriage, but needs emotional integrity and trust above all else. Betrayal is an atom bomb. He may have jealousy issues or control tendencies, but this stems from deepest fear of loss. It's an epic romance novel, not a casual romance, to be in love with him. If you can do the work, get in touch with your shadows, and hold space for each other, he'll give you a loyalty that's unbreakable. But don't do it with emotional dishonesty, he can sniff out lies like a psychic bloodhound. For wishy-washy love, swipe left. He's the ultimate ride or die with a Scorpio smirk.

✮⋆˙Venus in Sagittarius

Your future husband is half philosopher, half wanderer, his heart beating to the rhythm of curiosity and laughter. He's a big-lover, loud-laugher, and most drawn to open-minded, adventurous, and spirited partners. He requires intellectual challenge and liberty like oxygen. Don't put him in a cage he'll begin plotting an escape route. In marriage, he's the playfully supportive man who wishes to grow, discover, and develop together. He may avoid intense emotional drama but will arrive with energy, hope, and great respect for your uniqueness. He's committed when inspired and honored. Laughter, shared growth, and a vow of shared liberty open the door to his heart. He shines with travel, meaningful conversation, and common purposes. He's the husband who inspires you in your passions and challenges you to see the world in a new way. With him, love is a journey never captivity.

✮⋆˙ Venus in Capricorn

Your man is the solid, reliable, driven one. He won't show up with flowers but he'll show up on time, every time, with a 10-year plan and your insurance policy filed. To him, romance is less about frills and more about foundations. He takes love in earnest and may wait until he's "ready" to settle down with a relationship. But when he does settle down, it's for life. In marriage, he's protective, possibly old fashioned, and always future-oriented. He loves by duty: doing, arranging, and being grounded. He might struggle with emotional displays, preferring physical expressions of love. But get past his defenses, and he softens up, showing a vulnerable side that few people ever see. His loyalty is zealous, and he works hard to maintain harmony. If you want a partner who's substance over flash and who'll build an empire with you this is your guy.

✮⋆˙Venus in Aquarius

This man is intellectual, quirky, and remarkably impersonal when it comes to love. He's not clingy he's too busy plotting how to build a utopia with solar panels and a retro jazz club. He's a believer in equality, freedom, and mental connection first and foremost. When he does get married, he wants a best friend to begin with and then a romantic partner preferably in one deal. Although he may not be heterosexually hyperemotional, he's incredibly loyal in his own rule-bending way. He needs room, experimental architecture, and a mate who respects his independence. Get ready for offbeat evening outings, cerebral arguments, and a romance more like artistic collaboration. He is attracted to the intellect first, and if you respect his ideals, he'll be hopelessly besotted with you. Don't expect gooey sweetness, though he's Tesla coil, not teddy bear.

✮⋆˙ Venus in Pisces

He is romantic, dreamy, and sentimental. He may live half in this world and half in a fantasy world. He's empathetic, emotionally expressive, and sensitive to the unspoken needs of his spouse. He loves extravagantly and may even get lost in it. Marriage to him is a mystical experience, where love becomes healing, transcendental, and sacrificial at times. He might struggle with boundaries or idealize you so much that he ignores warning signs. But when grounded, his love is remarkably moving. He'll write songs for you, cry at movies, and sit with you in silence when words fail. The catch is keeping him earthed and validating his rich inner life. With this type of husband, love is not necessarily emotional it's paranormal.

[PS: For entertainment purposes only. Enjoy! ]

#astro community #astrology #astro observations #astro notes #birth chart #horoscope #persona chart #groom persona chart

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star-anise · 1 year ago

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Warnings: Doomerism, climate grief, child death

The thing about having studied history and the psychology of trauma so much is that I can't pretend to myself that the world used to be better at sometime in the past.

Don't get me wrong; things are absolutely terrible right now and need to change, quickly.

But also, they're better than they've ever been for us as a species. It is literally mindblowing how much worse life was for us historically.

Have you seen one of those charts of the human population over time? Have you thought about what it actually means?

Because here's what I see: Humans have always loved things like living to old age, like having sex, like raising babies. Those are things we have always wanted to do. It's not like pre-industrial humans were giant pandas like, "Nah, rather not reproduce as a species. No thanks," and suddenly the Victorians discovered horniness.

Instead, for most of human history, we have died. At terrifically young ages. The few who made it to adulthood could make babies as much as they liked, and then overwhelmingly watched pregnancies miscarry, births end in tragedy, or babies die. Their own lives were constantly at the mercy of a world that could kill them without a second thought. To be human meant to live in a world full of a million little tragedies, all the goddamn time.

And then what happened was: The babies stopped dying. The effects of a lot of things from higher agricultural yields to public health efforts to mass communications made us the master over the diseases and maladies that once had us by the throat.

When we look ahead at catastrophe and terrors, yes, they're bad. But they'd have to be extremely bad indeed to measure up to the number of people who wouldn't even be alive in any other century.

And even the obvious bogeyman then, overpopulation—did you notice what's already happened? On that chart, there's the green measure of total population, but the thin purple line is the rate of population growth. Please notice that it peaked in 1968. It is, in fact, projected as entirely possible that within a century it could go lower than it was twelve thousand years ago, at the end of the last big ice age.

The moment babies started to live longer, people went, "That is too many babies. An absolutely unsustainable number of babies. People are crying out for help because taking care of that many children is completely overwhelming. We need to be able to fix this problem," and they invented birth control and fought to get it legalized. It hit the market in the late 1950s and in less than a decade, it had caught on like wildfire.

To me, this is the absolute opposite of an argument for passivity and political inaction. It's not that everything's going to be okay so why even try. It's that as it turns out, the human capacity to grow and thrive and make the world better is absolutely reality-defying. I don't have faith that all of our problems will be solved, but I do have faith that those problems are all the subject of passionate obsession of millions of people.

And apparently we have a really strong track record at that kind of thing already.

#staranise original

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unkn0wng1rly · 11 days ago

Text

ryomen sukuna

smut.

you were lucky enough that sukuna gave you one child. surprisingly enough you didn’t have to beg or grovel.

he’d just seen how much you wanted one, a mini demon he referred to them as.

it truly irked him how much it was everywhere. all over your phone, over the tv and your face in public whenever a baby or child came up to you.

it kept pissing him off knowing that you wanted a child so desperately that he caved, giving you a little gremlin to shut you up.

he tried to pretend like he hated it but he fooled nobody.

his little boy meant a lot more to him than he would of liked. his hair and eyes were just like yours. he also did this stupid thing where he tried to mock his laugh which he found amusing.

he found himself harbouring the same protectiveness over him as he did with you.

but he could tell you wanted a daughter, knew you secretly always would’ve love a little girl to dress up and do girly things with. and he’d be damned but he wanted one too.

he was supposed to hate children, insufferable little crybabies who did nothing but sniffle everywhere and cause a mess.

but he’d just put down your toddler for the night which wasn’t common but it entirely uncommon either, if you were too tired or sometimes if he genuinely just wanted to, he would.

though the bedtime stories sukuna read him were slightly questionable and often had him asking questions about whether a monster would crawl out of his bed or not, it was still nice to see.

it was to your shock that sukuna had located you in your bedroom putting away the drying, shutting the door behind him and pinning you to the bed with efficiency that had you gasping.

“kuna?” you questioned, squealing when he ripped down your sweats, bunching up your shirt and bringing his thumbs to your nipples, rolling the bud in between his fingers which were hardening to the touch.

he didn’t say anything, only grunt as he came to kiss your neck fiercely, teeth baring down on the skin, daring to pierce the delicate surface as he intended to leave bruises, his marks on his wife.

“damn brats.” he gnarled, licking at the purpling skin beneath his mouth, his thigh coming and pressing between your legs, driving them apart as he knee nudging into your crotch, he could feel your panties, they were damp already.

poor you was just trying to figure out what had gotten into sukuna to pounce on you like this, not that you were complaining anyways.

“baby wha—” he swallows your words in a kiss. it’s certainly a sukuna kiss, hungry, passionate, thriving for control. he bit down on your lip, drawing blood which made you mewl.

one hand is gripping your jaw, the other is fumbling with your panties, pushing them to the side as he brings one finger to you cunt, pushing it through your slick hole, engulfed by warmth.

you moan and he adds two more without a second thought, pulling away from the kiss as he looks down at your sopping mess, pads of his fingers driving upwards and curling against that delicious cushiony spot which had your legs shaking.

“kuna, whaat are you doin?” trying to speak normally is an impossible mission when he’s scissoring his fingers and you already know he’s prepping you to take his cock.

“you still got that implant?” he asked and your mind was blank, save for the way his fingers were pumping into you, but you wanted more, way more.

you shake your head no, you’d gotten it taken out yesterday and was scheduled for your next one in 2 days, you’d forgotten to tell him so that this exact situation could be avoided.

instead of the reaction you’d expected, he pulled out his digits with a slick ‘pop’, shamelessly licking your essence which coated his fingers.

“good..” you blinked rapidly, trying to process what he’d just said.

in an attempt to sit up, you prop yourself on your elbows but sukuna pushed you back down, with a careless shove.

the words were struggling to form on your lips, your eyes trailing as he pushed down his joggers, his aching cock free from its confines, beads of pre-cum drooling down the veiny girth.

“didn’t you always want a girl?” he asks lazily, holding onto his base and his other coming to hold firm against your hip, bringing his fat mushroom tip to your pussy, teasing the slit and dragging it up slowly, mercilessly, catching against your clit which made you freeze.

“ye-yeah,” you’re breathing heavy in anticipation, waiting, begging from him to sink in, you’re coating him in your arousal as he teases your entrance a little more, bringing a whine out you.

it’s the first time he looks at you dead on, the crimson eyes that held so much hatred towards everyone else in the world were showcasing desire and his own personal version of love.

the hooded lids give you chills, but at the same time undoubtedly made you wetter, he could feel it too and a smirk curled on his lips.

“how ‘bout i stuff you up nice and full, maybe this time you’ll pop a little girl out.” he doesn’t wait any longer, sheathing himself into you with one deep thrust.

you cry out, tears threatening to spill over, bottoming out almost immediately, his tip fighting its way to rub against your cervix.

you’d been so sure he wanted no kids to begin with, then he gave you your first and now he’s willingly giving you a second.

“you’re heaving for it aren’t cha’, desperate for me to fill you up so much you’ll be swollen from it.” sukuna’s voice is a cruel gravel, hands tightening on your hips as he begins to pull back setting a brutal pace.

“you want a girl so bad, can see it in your fuckin’ eyes, s’bout time i give you one.”

he was never one to be kind or be soft, and he didn’t carry that trait to the bedroom either. there was sure to be indents from his fingers by your hips.

you’re struggling to get the words out, you nod instead, moaning like a mess as his balls slap against your ass with each thrust, the lewd sounds skin against skin, your moans and cries has his cock throbbing.

“say it.” sukuna growls, swearing under his breath. he couldn’t believe he was doing this, going to make you pregnant again, he didn’t know what came over him but he wasn’t stopping now.

“want you to—haah! breed me, pump me with your kids s’kuna, pleasee.” god he’s never getting over how pretty you beg for him.

sukuna was a big advocate against begging and hated the sound of people snivelling for their lives or something they wanted. it was irritable and annoying

but when you were begging for his cum like this? it was music to his ears.

he brings a hand down, slapping your clit which gave a filthy squelch and you sobbed instantly, the sting leaving an aftertaste of pleasure. “fuck!”

“s’pussy is so tight, fucking squeezing around me so damn hard.” sukuna’s voice is guttural, coming straight from the pools of pleasure within his body as he brings your thighs up, pushing them against your body to give him more room to annihilate you.

at this new and improved angle, he’s easily hitting the spot that makes you lose all feeling, your hands clutching the bed intensely.

“tryna fuckin’ milk me already, huh y/n? s’that it, you desperate for my cum?”

you can’t even think anymore, everything is gone. all you can see is those beady red eyes looking down at you ravishingly.

legs trembling, your abdomen tightens almost painfully, every tale tell sign of your orgasm approaching going off. his cock only punishing that spongey spot inside of you.

“c-coming~” it’s the only word you can sound out, even then it’s barely legible, but sukuna knows, he knows you so well that he knew you were close before it even registered in your brain.

he chuckled, low reverberating sound that went straight to your clit. “go on, cum on my cock, show me just how dirty my wife is.”

your back shoots off the bed as you clamp down on him like some sort of molten vice, silky walls rippling around him unforgivingly.

a voiceless scream left you, despite how gone you were, you still attempted to keep it down for the sake of your son.

“good fucking girl, gonna fill you up, j’s like i promised.” the sensation pushed sukuna over the edge, he struggled to not let out a whimper, and he was so, so close to letting you hear it.

sukuna thrusted his hips one, two, three more times before he hilted himself entirely. “fuckkk, take it all.” his head is thrown back as thick, steaming ropes of his cum burst from his tip, filling up the deepest parts of your womb within.

he could still feel you convulsing around him, milking him for every drop he was worth, his abs tensing from the intensity of his orgasm.

as the last dregs of his cum filled you, he quickly, he flipped you over, collapsing onto the bed so that you were straddling his body, his cock still plugged up inside you.

you’re only just coming down from your high, eyes un-blurring as you look down at him, your sweat slicked bodies glueing to eachother.

“th—thought you hated kids, thought one was enough.” you try and joke, your breath coming in shorts huffs as you lay against his broad chest.

sukuna grunts, hand coming down to your ass, squeezing the soft globe firmly.

“yeah? thought it’d be nice to raise an army of mini me’s, knowing my legacy will continue.” you scoff, finger coming to trace the hard lines of his abs.

“and just who is providing you with said army? i feel like two is my capacity.”

he grabs your chin and forces you to look at him, that evil glint twinkling in his eye whenever he was up to something mischievous.

now that you think about it, his cock hadn’t softened at all, he was still hard, infact he was twitching inside of you.

a yelp rips from you when he grinds himself lazily over your swollen clit, stirring all the spunk stuffed inside of you, a lewd noise emitting as cum leaked out of your frothy pussy.

“blame yourself, you’re the reason we’re here. time to face the consequences of your actions.”

#not proofread #married #jjk #anime #sukuna #ryomen sukuna #smut #idk what else to tag #2 uploads in a day #can u tell im bored #take this #i’m tired #jujutsu kaisen #sukuna x reader #sukuna smut #king of curses #daddy sukuna #married life #yeah ok bye

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theastrohub · 10 months ago

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what city you should live in based on your moon sign ⏾

astrology can help you make an informed decision for something as significant as where one will live. and especially if you are a more hedonistic person like myself, choosing a place to live with a focus on personal satisfaction is a guaranteed upgrade in quality of life. it also helps you narrow down what your true emotional needs are and live a life more in alignment with your truest self.

choosing what city to live in based on your moon sign helps an individual with emotional fulfillment, being able to create a sense of belonging, stress reduction, enhanced creativity and productivity, better romantic and platonic relationships, and so much more.

here are my thoughts on your ideal city based on your moon sign:

一

⏾ virgo moon 一

kobe, japan + washington, D.C. (USA) + zurich, switzerland

you likely prefer a clean, walkable city that is health-conscious. ideal cities have paved roads, a lack of industrial machines or well-regulated factories, and a structured, straightforward urban planning model. a city safe enough to raise babies and young children is your benchmark. you value a city that emphasizes logical aspects of life. air pollution and trash management are crucial, so you'd thrive in cities with high air quality indexes, like those mentioned above.

一

⏾ libra moon 一

florence, italy + brooklyn, new york + capetown, south africa + amsterdam, netherlands + paris, france

as one of my favorite moon signs, you truly appreciate beauty, harmony, and aesthetics in where and how you live. you love cultured cities with plenty of artistic experiences. perhaps you're an artist yourself, seeking communities where you can express that creativity. a city that offers a balance of cityscape, mountainscape, and access to bodies of water appeals to your sense of harmony. you’re drawn to colorful, multicultural environments where you can accumulate luxury goods.

一

⏾ scorpio moon 一

new orleans, louisiana + mumbai, india + providence, rhode island

this one is tricky because scorpio Moons are known for being extremely intense and private, which doesn't always translate to a livable city (think Bermuda Triangle). however, you likely value transformative experiences and a form of social power. you want to be in a city that matches your intensity—a place that might be politically involved, spiritually inclined, or even part of some controversy. communities where you can explore taboo subjects or rise within social hierarchies are ideal for you.

一

⏾ sagittarius moon 一

toronto, canada + prage, czech republic + krabi, thailand + dubai, UAE

as one of the more hedonistic moon signs, you crave freedom—to be, to do, to have, etc. you prefer cities with a lot of versatility for living, offering options like big homes, sprawling lofts, small cozy one-bedrooms, and everything in between. cultured and religious cities appeal to your belief system, which is crucial to you. You need a place where you can live your philosophies freely and have fun. a city with many opportunities for adventure and easy access to other exciting places is essential. think road trips, bungee jumping, scuba diving.

一

⏾ capricorn moon 一

london, england + manhattan, new york + melbourne, australia

one word: old-fashioned. capricorns are often seen as traditional, and there's a reason for that. as a capricorn moon, you value cities that operate like institutions—places that have stood the test of time without much change to their foundation. ambition and hard work are of utmost importance, so cities with a professional or hustle culture appeal to you. you are drawn to cities in countries with a strong identity or culture that gratify your sense of tradition. cities where you can network, accumulate wealth, and indulge in luxuries are your ideal.

一

⏾ aquarius moon 一

san francisco, california + rome, italy + new orleans, louisiana + portland, oregon

with pluto in aquarius, I anticipate more moves for aquarius moons, which is great because this is the most community-centered sign in my opinion. aquarius moons value living in cities where they can positively contribute, socialize, and build relationships based on shared interests. you are drawn to innovative, creative cities that are always ahead of trends. you also appreciate cities that are civically mindful and contribute to humanitarian efforts on both local and grand scales.

一

⏾ pisces moon 一

bali, indonesia + bora bora, french polynesia + rome, italy + paris, france

pisces moons are one of the moon signs that truly need to feel "drawn" to a place before visiting or residing there. emotional fulfillment, romance, and creativity are non-negotiable for pisces moons. because of this, beautiful, artistic cities with many opportunities to be near bodies of water are ideal. beach cities and honeymoon destinations are perfect for pisces Moons' empathic and sensitive nature. A city with a calm undercurrent is essential to satisfy your need for rest and peace.

一

⏾ aries moon 一

rome, italy + los angeles, california + tokyo, japan + cairo, egypt + mumbai, india

similar to capricorn moon, its cardinal sibling, aries moons need the opportunity to keep on the go wherever they live. For this reason, you're best suited to "cities that never sleep"—places where you can stay active, compete in major global industries, and reach newer heights. you're drawn to cities with fiery traditions and those that excel in national rankings. you also appreciate cities that are vocal about their value systems and embrace trends.

一

⏾ taurus moon 一

honolulu, hawaii + havana, cuba + las vegas, nevada + ibiza, spain + tokyo, japan

much like libra moons, venus-ruled moons love venus-ruled cities. taurus moons enjoy cities that are comfortable in every sense—materially, socially, politically, and aesthetically. you appreciate cities that are openly hedonistic—notorious vacation spots are actually great places for you to establish yourself. cities with strong tourism markets are good for your desire for material success as they are epicenters of culture and attract people from all walks of life.

一

⏾ gemini moon 一

chicago, illinois + boston, massachusetts + cairo, egypt + lisbon, portugal

as a gemini moon, cities that are versatile, education-centered, and logical are appealing to you. you thrive in places where "everyone knows everyone" and socializing is a priority. cities known for their educational institutions and vibrant social life satisfy your need for variety and communication. cities with a strong tourist presence are also appealing, as you enjoy the ability to feel like a tourist in your own city at any time.

一

⏾ cancer moon 一

sydney, australia + niagara falls , new york + instanbul, turkey + berne, switzerland + mogadishu, somalia

cancer moons love domestic cities that are more feminine in nature. Like their sister sign capricorn, they strongly value traditions, both cultural and social, but in a softer manner. they prefer cities with a strong influence by women and things traditionally associated with women, like fashion, beauty, and the arts. cities with beaches and a strong luminary presence are essential, as they are the water-bearers of the zodiac. cities with a balance between domesticity and capitalism appeal to their need for material security and a good home. a city with a strong real estate market and that is ideal for newlyweds and families is also preferred.

一

⏾ leo moon 一

los angeles, california + miami, florida + mexico city, mexico + marrakesh, morocco + ibiza, spain

much like aquarius moons, the need to be around people is prominent with leo moons. leo moons value being in cities that honor appearance and aesthetics. being seen, being talked about, romance, and play are priority for a leo moon when moving. a city where they can explore artistic pursuits and new cultures. cities that promote health and wellness and image. cities with social hierarchies and strong social networks. cities that are "popular" with the whole world. also cities that are known for night-life and social life. cities where you can regularly rub elbows with important people and indulge in the grandiosities of life.

⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎⁎

the moon in astrology is a gateway to a deeper understanding of one's desires, needs, and motivations which can help in making better-informed decisions on where to move or establish a life. I highly suggest you take this into consideration on your next trip or relocation.

thank you for reading 💋

@astrobaeza

for more: [ paidservices ₊ masterlist ₊ tips ]

#astrobae #astro community #astrology tumblr #astrology #astro notes #astro observations #astrobaeza #astrology community #astrology notes #astrology observations #moon signs #fire moon #air moon #earth moon #water moon

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stylesispunk · 3 months ago

Text

Blind faith | part ii

priest! Joel miller x night club dancer!reader

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter |

summary: Priest Joel feels a strong need to get to know you better and help you, soon he would end up finding out more of you than he thought.

wc: 8,4k (i think)

warnings: age gap (joel is in his late 40s and reader last 20s), angst, fluff, mutual pining, women being misogynist towards reader, forbidden relationship. All topics will be addressed with all the respect.

a/n: The picture of him smoking was for a scene when reader finds him smoking, hidden behind the church but i forgot to write it I'm sorry for taking so long with this chapter, I've had a thousand of intrusive thoughts and no time to think. I hope you like this one and how is being built. Reblogs and comments are really appreciated. Happy reading! 💌

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

In the warm sunny spring of May when the night met the dark and lights reflected on the streets bustled with kids playing and families enjoyed meals. Joel was thinking about you. The cold had been replaced by the warmth irradiating from your smiled when you passed by, the way you spoke to him.

The cold had left him on May 3rd, the night you walked into town with the kind of presence that made people take a second look without knowing why. Since then, things had shifted in ways Joel hadn’t expected.

He felt it now, watching the world outside from the steps of the church. The night was warm, carrying the scent of fresh bread from the bakery down the street. Laughter echoed as children played in the dim glow of streetlights, their voices mixing with the low murmur of families gathered at restaurants.

But Joel wasn’t thinking about any of them. He was thinking about you.

Again, and again.

He caught himself doing that more than he should. Thinking about the way your smile softened the sharp edges of this town. The way you spoke to him—teasing, light, but never unkind. You had a way of making silence feel like something shared instead of something empty.

Joel sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t let his mind wander to you the way it did. Shouldn’t let himself anticipate the moment he’d see you again, even if it was just in passing.

But it was too late for that, wasn’t it?

Because two weeks had passed, and somewhere along the way, he had stopped feeling cold.

Joel stepped out of the Langdons’ house, nodding his thanks as Mrs. Langdon insisted, as always, that he take some leftovers home. He tucked the small bundle of bread and stew under his arm, offering her husband a firm handshake before stepping out into the warm May night.

Every Friday was the same—dinner at the Langdons'. Their children had all gone off to college, and the quiet of their home had settled into something heavy. He wasn’t sure if it was duty or habit that kept him coming back, but he knew what loneliness looked like, and he could never turn away from it.

The streets were lively tonight. Laughter spilled from open windows, the scent of grilled meat from the food stalls blending with the floral perfume of spring. Joel walked the familiar path home, nodding at those who greeted him. He offered quiet blessings to the older folks who still stopped to ask for them, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries as he always did.

Then he reached The Paradise.

Joel never lingered near that place. The club sat at the edge of town like it had been dropped there by mistake, neon lights flickering against the darkened street. Tonight, it was more crowded than he’d ever seen. People lined up outside, men and women laughing, their faces half-lit by the pink glow of the sign above the door.

He tried not to judge. He really tried. But that place—it didn’t belong here. Not in a town where everything else was measured and quiet, where folks prided themselves on tradition. And yet, it stood, thriving in the shadows of the life he knew.

Joel kept walking, pushing it from his mind.

Then he thought about you.

You hadn’t come by the church in three days. He told himself it wasn’t strange. You were new in town, surely busy settling in. Maybe you had no reason to stop by.

But the thought sat heavy in his chest. Where were you now? Were you sleeping well? Joel shook his head. No. It wasn’t his place to wonder. It wasn’t his place to care.

And yet, as he turned onto his street, the question lingered in his head.

At Sunday, Joel stood in the pulpit, his voice echoing through the church with measure in his words. The warmth sunlight filtered through the glass windows, painting soft color along the wooden benches where people sat on. It was a beautiful morning, the church was full of families gathering, elders sitting in their usual spot, and children sitting beside their parents.

His preaching was about peace, about opening their hearts to love, forgiveness, to the unexpected kindness the world could offer to us when we pay attention.

"And sometimes," Joel preached, his gaze sweeping over the congregation, and people "beautiful things come when we least expect them. When we stop fighting, when we stop closing ourselves off… we find grace in the most unlikely places, like sunlight bathing our faces in a cold a day."

He had meant it as a general message, something for people to take home, to reflect on. But the moment the words left his lips; his breath came in short.

The moment you walked in.

The church doors let in a slant of golden morning light, and in the middle of it, there you were. It was almost cruel, the way you looked in that moment, how you fitted to his own words, like the light itself had been waiting to land on your skin. His breath hitched, his fingers tightening against the pulpit.

You scanned the room, looking for a seat, completely unaware of the way his entire body had gone still. When you finally settled in a pew at the back, he forced himself to swallow, to look away, to breathe.

The sight of you, bathed in the warm glow of the morning sun, framed by the high arch of the

Joel took a slow breath.

Joel had led countless sermons before, stood in front of his congregation so many times he could do it with his eyes closed. But now? Now, every word felt like it was meant for you.

“Beautiful things,” he said, his voice quieter now, rougher, “they come when you least expect them. They show up in places you never thought to look. And sometimes… sometimes, they scare us. Because letting them in means changing something in ourselves.”

Your eyes met his. Joel’s grip on the pulpit tightened.

You held his gaze, unmoving, unblinking, like you knew, like you could hear what he wasn’t saying.

He exhaled slowly.

“And when they come,” he murmured, the weight of you pressing against his chest from across the room, “it’s up to us whether we let them stay.”

The room was silent, save for the occasional rustle of people’s steps, the quiet shifting of bodies in the pews. But Joel only saw you.

Your lips parted slightly, your fingers clutching at the hem of your dress, and the air between you felt charged, thick with something unsaid. His heart slammed against his ribs, and he knew, he knew, you understood what he meant.

He forced himself to finish the sermon, though the words blurred together, though his mouth felt dry. When it was over, he lingered longer than usual, shaking hands, nodding along to pleasantries, but his mind was elsewhere. It was on you.

Who was there, standing by the door, waiting.

He gathered all his courage, to go and find you outside, standing near the side of the church, your arms wrapped around yourself, as if bracing against the warmth of the sun. You didn’t look at him right away, but when you did, your expression was kind.

“That was a nice sermon,” you murmured when he stood, I front of you.

Joel huffed out something like a laugh, but there was no humor in it. “You think so?”

You nodded, but your gaze was unreadable, cutting through him in a way that made his stomach tighten. “I think you were talking about me.”

He swallowed. “Maybe.”

You let out a breath, slow and measured, before stepping closer, close enough that he could see the gold flecks in your eyes, close enough that he caught the faintest hint of something sweet on your skin.

“Thank you, for trying to be kind and spread it” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Joel searched your face, his jaw tightening, like he was fighting something within himself. The way you looked at him, it made him uneasy, like you could see right through him. Like you could see the way he was holding himself back.

He exhaled sharply, glancing around to make sure no one was lingering before lowering his voice. “Do you wanna talk?”

Your brows lifted slightly, like you hadn’t expected it.

“Talk?” you repeated, almost testing the word, rolling it over your tongue.

Joel shifted on his feet. “Yeah. If you want.”

You hesitated, but only for a moment before nodding, laughing a bit “I actually came here to talk to you. I’m just nervous about people on here.”

“Why?” He asked

“I don’t belong here and I can feel it.”

“You belong where I am as long as you need” He reassured, looking at you with the kindness you were craving for weeks.

“Thank you, father.” you replied, smiling shyly at him.

“Do you want to come inside?”

You nodded.

Joel signaled towards the door, letting you step inside first. The church was quiet now, emptied of its congregation, save for the lingering scent of incense and the dim glow of candles flickering near the altar.

You walked slowly down the aisle, your footsteps echoing in the vast space. The glass windows painted soft colors onto the worn pews that you hadn’t noticed before, casting patterns of blues and golds across the floor.

Joel watched as you moved, your fingers ghosting over the smooth wood of the benches, your gaze lifting toward the high ceiling. There was something in your expression, something lost, something looking for an answer.

“Have you ever prayed before?” he asked, his voice quiet in the stillness.

You turned slightly, your eyes meeting his. “I haven’t. Not in a long time, at least.”

He nodded, stepping closer, his presence warm, grounding. “You don’t have to do it now if you don’t want to.”

You exhaled softly, looking away. “I wouldn’t know what to say.”

Joel tilted his head. “Then don’t say anything.”

You swallowed, pressing your lips together, feeling the weight of his words settle deep in your chest.

Slowly, you lowered yourself onto a pew, your hands clasped in your lap. Joel sat beside you, close enough that you could feel his warmth but not touching.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

“Are you gonna tell me why you ended up here?” He asked.

You stiffed slightly, “I can’t tell you that.”

Joel studied you for a moment, his gaze steady but unreadable. He didn’t push; didn’t press for answers you weren’t ready to give. Instead, he exhaled through his nose, leaning back slightly against the pew.

"Alright," he murmured. "I won’t ask."

You turned your head toward him, surprised by his easy acceptance. You had been waiting for more questions, for suspicion, for doubt. Instead, you were met with something else entirely, understanding.

"You’re not curious?" you asked, voice quieter now.

Joel’s fingers drummed lightly against his knee before he sighed. "‘Course I am. But if you ain’t ready, you ain’t ready."

You swallowed hard, glancing down at your hands. No one had ever let you keep your secrets without demanding something in return.

For a moment, the only sound in the church was the faint crackle of the candles burning near the altar.

Then, hesitantly, you spoke. "It’s not that I don’t want to tell you."

Joel turned his head slightly, waiting.

You inhaled, steadying yourself. "It’s just… if I say it out loud, it makes it real and I don’t want you to be tangled in my mess, you don’t deserve it."

Joel’s jaw clenched, something flickering in his expression. His voice was lower when he finally answered, rough around the edges.

"It’s already real, darling."

Your breath caught. It has been a really long time since someone had called you “Darling” and the way the nickname had come out his lips made it feel softer, more real.

You turned to face him fully now, heart pounding just a little too hard in your chest. "Father…"

He held your gaze, and for the first time since you had met, he looked like he was fighting something strong, something he wasn’t sure he should want.

And then, just as quickly as the moment came, he looked away.

"You are not gonna tell me, ”He murmured. "Just know that if you ever do… I’ll listen."

Your throat tightened, the warmth in your chest warring with the fear still tangled around your ribs.

"Okay, thank you" you whispered.

And for now, that was enough.

Joel hesitated only for a second before he reached out, offering you his hand.

You stared at it, his rough, calloused fingers, inviting you to hold it. For a moment, you didn’t move. Then, slowly, you placed your hand in his.

Warm. Solid. Protective.

Your fingers curled slightly around his, and Joel squeezed, just once, gentle and grounding, like he was telling you that he meant what he said. That he’d listen, that he’d be there.

The weight in your chest didn’t feel so heavy anymore. You felt light as a feather, and safe.

But then, the sound of the church doors creaking open shattered the moment.

Joel let go of your hand instantly, straightening, his expression shifting into something unreadable as footsteps echoed down the aisle.

A woman dressed in a modest blue dress, dark hair pinned neatly back, and the look in her eyes as she saw you sent a chill down your spine.

Her gaze flicked between you and Joel before she spoke, her voice tight. "Father Miller."

You recognized her. You’d seen her in town before, always watching, always whispering with the others when you passed.

Joel stiffened beside you. "Miss Elizabeth."

She barely acknowledged him before turning her sharp gaze to you. "You should go; I want to talk to the father privately. " she said flatly.

Something hot curled in your stomach, shame and sadness hitting at once.

"I was just leaving," you bit out, standing. You didn’t look at Joel as you stepped past him, willing your face to stay unreadable, unwilling to let this woman see how easily she could cut you down.

But just as you reached the door, you heard her voice again.

"You shouldn’t let her stay around you, Father," Evelyn said, her tone full of quiet disapproval. "She’s a bad influence."

Your breath hitched. You pushed the church doors open, stepping into the cool evening air. Your breath was unsteady, your pulse thrumming with anger, with hurt. You shouldn’t have let it get to you. You knew what people thought, what they whispered when they saw you. But hearing it out loud, hearing it in his presence, it stung more than you wanted to admit.

You didn’t know why, but what the priest thought about you was important.

Inside the church, Evelyn watched you go, her lips pressed into a thin line before she turned back to Joel.

Joel exhaled through his nose, his jaw tightening. "That so?" he pressed.

Evelyn nodded, stepping closer. "We all see it. You see it too. She doesn’t belong here. She is sin."

Joel’s fingers curled against the wooden pew. His shoulders were tense, a muscle twitching in his jaw as he considered his next words.

"Think that’s for me to decide," he said, his voice steady, but there was anger beneath it. “You cannot come to a church and preach bad things about someone. That’s sin.”

Evelyn scoffed, unimpressed. "I only hope you don’t regret it."

“What?”

“When she ruined the reputation, you hold on this place.” She warned.

Joel didn’t answer. He just watched the space you had left, sitting as a void on his heart.

“I have no reputation to keep on. I’m simply a priest, I offer help and guidance to people, so if you came here to spread bad words on someone, I would kindly ask you to leave.”

Evelyn’s expression hardened, her lips pressing into a thin line. “I’m only looking out for you, Father. And for this town.”

Joel’s jaw tensed, his patience wearing thin. “You look out for yourself, Evelyn. I’ll look after the people who need it.”

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “People talk, Joel. They see the way you look at her.”

His chest tightened. “Then they should mind their own business.”

Evelyn’s mouth parted slightly, as if she wasn’t expecting him to be so blunt. But she recovered quickly, straightening her spine. “Suit yourself,” she muttered before turning on her heel and striding out of the church.

The heavy doors groaned as they shut behind her, leaving Joel in silence. But he didn’t feel peaceful. He felt rage.

His fists curled against his sides, his pulse still thrumming from the conversation, from the way Evelyn had spat those words like they were undeniable truths. Like he didn’t know what was best for himself.

And maybe he didn’t. Maybe he didn’t want to know it.

Joel exhaled slowly, running a hand over his face, cursing. He couldn’t let you to carry the whispers alone.

Later, at night you were nursing a cup of tea, trying to erase the memories and the twisting feeling inside your stomach. The truth was that you weren’t used to this, to be point out all the time or to receive glance and stares as if you were a witch waiting to be eliminated.

Without even wanting, your mind drifted to the priest, Joel. To his kindness, to his scent, or the warmth touch of his hands fitting yours. You smiled a bit at the memory, not even knowing why it was so special.

You noticed Carmen adjusting her dress in the small mirror by the door, smoothing the fabric over her hips before reaching for her earrings. The dim light of the house cast shadows on the walls, the air full with the scent of her perfume.

“You know,” she mused, glancing at you with a smirk, “ever since you got here, the club’s been busier.”

You looked up from where you sat on the worn-out couch, your arms wrapped around your knees. “What do you mean?”

Carmen chuckled, slipping her earrings on. “Men are curious creatures. They see something new, something mysterious, and they can’t help themselves.” She gave you a knowing look. “Some of them come just hoping to catch a glimpse of you.”

Your stomach twisted. You didn’t like that idea at all “I don’t—”

“I’m not saying you did anything.” She waved a hand. “You barely speak to them, barely even look at them. And that’s what makes them even more interested.”

You swallowed, shifting uncomfortably. “That’s not a thing I feel proud of.”

Carmen shrugged, grabbing her shawl. “It’s business. And business is good.” She studied you for a moment before softening. “Look, I know you don’t love this place, but you have a way of drawing people in, chiquita.”

You exhaled, rubbing at your arms. “That’s not what I want.”

Carmen sighed, walking over and perching on the arm of the couch beside you. “Then what do you want?”

You hesitated. If you had been asked that question a few weeks ago, the answer would have been simple. You wanted to dance. You wanted to teach. You wanted a quiet, normal life, away from the danger.

Now? Now, you didn’t know.

Carmen must have seen the struggle on your face because she reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “You don’t have to stay here forever, you know.”

You blinked up at her. “Then why does it feel like I do?”

She sighed, squeezing your shoulder before standing up. “Because you haven’t figured out where else you want to be.”

You sat there, watching her drape her shawl over her shoulders, watching as she gave herself one last glance in the mirror before heading toward the door.

“I’ll be back late,” she called over her shoulder. “Get some rest.”

“Where are you going?”

“I have a date!” She told, opening the door, and then she was gone.

The silence that followed was heavy, pressing against your chest. You sat there for a long moment before finally pushing yourself up, grabbing your coat, and stepping out into the fresh night.

You needed air. You needed to think. You need to dismiss the longing feeling settled on your chest.

And before you even realized where your feet had carried you, you were standing at the street corner. You caressed your arms to keep yourself warm form the chilly cold air of the night, as you walked to the public telephone stood at the corner of the street, its metal surface cool against your fingers as you picked up the receiver and fed in the coins with shaking hands.

The dial tone buzzed in your ear, and then—

"Hola?"

Your chest tightened with sadness at the familiar voice. “Mateo,” you breathed.

"Hermana.” (sister) Relief laced his voice. “¿Dónde has estado? ¿Estás bien? (Where have you been? Are you okay?)

You swallowed hard, gripping the phone tighter. “Lo sé..Yo…” (I know…I-) You hesitated, your eyes darting around the empty street. “¿Cómo están las cosas? ¿Cómo está mi mamá y mi papá? (How are things going? How are mom and dad?)

There was silence on the other end, then a heavy sigh. "Preguntando por ti cada día. Están preocupados.” (They ask for you every day. They’re worried about you)

Guilt curled in your stomach. “Estoy bien, te lo juro.” (I swear I’m fine)

"¿Segura?” (Are you sure?) Mateo’s voice was softer now, filled with something you didn’t want to name. "Suenas diferente.” (You sounds different)

You exhaled, closing your eyes for a moment. “Es obvio que lo estoy, mateo.” (That’s obvious, Mateo) Your grip on the phone tightened. “No puedo ir a casa, ¿Cómo crees que me siento?” (I can’t go back home, How do you think that makes me feel?)

Because you had nothing to return to. Because the life you had before was gone.

Mateo sighed "¿Estás Segura que estás bien?" (Are you sure you’re okay?)

“¿Siguen buscándome?” you asked. (Are they still looking for me?)

Silence stretched between you both, thick with things left unsaid. “Vinieron a casa hace unos días” (They came home a few days ago)

Your throat tightened. “¿Encontraron algo?” (Did the find something?)

“No” he replied, “No hay rastro de ti.” (No, there´s no trace of you)

You hesitated before whispering, “Te extraño.” (I miss you)

"Yo también, hermana” (I miss you too, sister)

The line went dead. You stood there for a moment, the receiver still pressed to your ear, as if you could will his voice back. You hang up the phone with force.

“Damn it!”

Joel had been walking back from the church, his mind tangled in thoughts he didn't want to face. The night air was cool against his skin, the quiet hum of the town settling into its usual lull. He didn’t expect to see you.

At least not like this.

He slowed when he caught sight of you by the public telephone, shoulders hunched, one hand still gripping the receiver like you wanted to crush it. Even from a distance, he could tell something was wrong.

Then you hung up the phone, hard, the sound of plastic smacking against metal sharp in the empty street.

“Damn it,” you hissed again, under your breath, pressing the heels of your palms against your eyes.

Joel hesitated for only a moment before stepping closer. “You alright?”

You startled slightly, turning to look at him, eyes glassy, lips parted as if you wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words.

Joel took in the sight of you—the way your face was drawn tight, the way your hands trembled at your sides. Something twisted deep in his chest.

“Hey,” he said, softer this time, “what happened?”

You shook your head quickly, taking a step back as if trying to put space between you and the concern in his eyes. “It’s nothing.”

Joel’s gaze flickered to the telephone, “Don’t look like nothing.”

You wiped at your eyes, like that could erase the evidence of your tears. “I just—” You swallowed hard, glancing away. “I was talking to my brother.”

Joel frowned, watching the way your jaw tightened, the way your fingers clenched at your sides.

“Do you have a brother?”

You let out a hollow laugh, nodding your head. “Yes,” You exhaled sharply, wrapping your arms around yourself. “He just reminds me how much I miss him and I can’t go back.”

Joel felt something in his chest pull at that.

He took a step closer to you, closing the space between you.

“You are not alone,” he said quietly.

You blinked up at him, your expression unreadable. “I’m pretty much I am”

Joel exhaled, then, without thinking, without second-guessing, he reached out for you.

His fingers brushed over your elbow first, just the faintest touch, before he slid his hand down, wrapping around yours.

You didn’t pull away.

Instead, your fingers tightened around his, just enough that he could feel the warmth of your skin, the way you were holding onto him like you weren’t sure if you should—but you needed to.

And maybe he needed to, too.

“Come on” he murmured. “Let’s get you something warm.”

For a moment, you just looked at him in awe, then, slowly, you nodded.

Joel didn’t let go of your hand as he led you away from the phone booth, his grip firm but gentle, like he wasn’t about to let you disappear into the night.

The town was quiet this late, the streets empty except for the occasional glow of a porch light. The fresh night air bit at your skin, but Joel’s warmth beside you made it bearable.

His house wasn’t far. A modest place, tucked behind a small white picket fence, next to the church, the porch light flickering softly. He pushed open the front door, stepping aside to let you in first.

Inside, it smelled like vanilla and something faintly familiar, leather, soap, a trace of coffee lingering in the air. It was tidy but lived-in, books stacked on a side table, a jacket slung over a chair. The kind of place that felt like it had roots.

Joel shut the door behind you, locking it out of habit.

“You sit,” he murmured, nodding toward the couch. “I’ll make you some tea.”

You hesitated for a second before sinking onto the couch, your hands still curled into fists in your lap. You felt exposed. Like if he asked the right question, everything would spill out.

Joel disappeared into the kitchen, and you listened to the quiet clatter of cups, the whistle of the kettle warming up. It was strangely intimate, this moment. Like you belonged here. Like he wanted you here.

He returned after a moment, two mugs in his hands. He passed one to you before lowering himself onto the couch beside you, close but not too close.

“Hope chamomile’s alright,” he said. “Don’t got much else. I have to buy groceries.”

You wrapped your hands around the warmth of the cup, staring down into the steam. “Chamomile’s good.”

Joel hummed, watching you. You could feel his gaze on you, like he was waiting for you to say something.

Instead, you lifted the cup and took a sip. The warmth spread through your chest, soothing the tightness that had been there all night.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

“Do you want to tell me what’s really going on?” His voice was gentle, but there was an edge of something else. Something protective.

You exhaled, staring down into your tea. And then, in the quiet of Joel’s home, in the safety of his presence, you whispered—

“I don’t feel like it yet” you said.

Joel didn’t push, just nodded, leaning back against the couch with his own mug in hand. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it felt steady. Like you didn’t have to fill it with words just to be understood.

The tea warmed your hands, and for the first time in what felt like days, you didn’t feel like you had to keep your guard up.

Joel watched you for a moment, then exhaled softly. “Alright,” he said. “If you change your mind, there’s food in the kitchen.”

You nodded, taking another slow sip.

“You can stay as long as you need,” he added. His voice was softer now, carrying something else beneath it. Something unspoken.

You swallowed. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

Joel let out a quiet scoff, shaking his head. “You’re not.”

Your chest tightened at that. At the quiet conviction in his voice. You glanced at him, finding his gaze already on you, steady and unwavering. You opened your mouth, then closed it, unsure of what you even wanted to say.

Instead, you just nodded again, gripping your mug a little tighter.

Joel didn’t push. He just sat there, sipping his tea, letting the night settle around you both.

Joel took another slow sip of his tea before setting the cup down on the table. His voice was quiet when he spoke again.

“What was it like? When you were a kid?”

You blinked, surprised by the question. “Why do you want to know?”

He shrugged. “Figured it might be nice to talk about something else.”

You hesitated, fingers tightening around the warm mug, but then you sighed, letting your shoulders relax just a little.

“I used to climb trees,” you admitted after a moment. “There was this big one near our house. My brother and I would spend hours up there, making up stories, pretending we were somewhere else.” A soft smile tugged at your lips, the memory warming something deep inside you. “My mom used to scold me for coming home with dirt all over my clothes.”

Joel chuckled, the sound deep and warm. “Bet you gave her hell.”

You laughed softly. “I did.”

He was quiet for a moment, then asked, “And your best memory?”

You thought about it, searching through years of moments before settling on one. “Oh, I remember my dad took me to the ocean once. Just him and me. It was the first time I ever saw it. I remember how endless it felt, how small I was standing next to it.” You swallowed, fingers tracing the rim of your cup. “It was the first time I really felt there was a world beyond my home.”

Joel nodded, like he understood that feeling more than you realized.

“What about you?” you asked. “What was your childhood like?”

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Simple, I guess. Spent most of it in Texas, running around with my brother. We’d get into all kinds of trouble, nothing too bad, but enough to keep our mom on edge.” A fond look crossed his face. “She worked hard. Did her best to raise us right.”

You tilted your head. “And when did you decide to become a priest?”

Joel exhaled slowly, like he’d been expecting the question but still needed a moment to gather his thoughts. “Took me a long time,” he admitted. “Wasn’t always on this path. But after losing some people I cared about… I guess I needed something to hold onto. Something to believe in.”

You studied him, the flickering candlelight on his center table casting soft shadows over his face. There was something heavy in his voice, a weight he carried that you didn’t dare press into.

You hummed softly, resting your head against the back of the couch. “Sounds like you were looking for some peace.”

Joel glanced at you; his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Yeah. I guess I was.”

A comfortable silence settled between you. The warmth of the tea, the dim glow of the room, the safety around Joel’s presence was all too much, too soothing for you. It didn’t take you so much time for your eyelids grew heavier, and before you realized it, your head had dipped onto his shoulder.

Your face was softened in the dim glow of the room, free of the tension that had been clinging to you all night. Your breathing was steady, your lips slightly parted, your lashes resting gently against your cheeks.

Joel swallowed hard. His heart felt heavy with something towards you.

He shouldn’t be looking at you like this. Shouldn’t be feeling the warmth of you against him like it was something sacred, something meant for him. But he couldn’t stop.

Carefully, he shifted, reaching for the blanket draped over the back of the couch. He hesitated, watching the way a strand of hair had fallen over your face, the way your fingers twitched slightly in sleep. Then, with a slow movement, he pulled the blanket over you, tucking it carefully around your shoulders.

Still, he didn’t move away. His eyes traced your features, the soft curve of your cheek, the way your lashes fluttered briefly like you were dreaming. He wondered what kind of dreams you had. If they were peaceful. If they ever brought you the comfort you seemed to be searching for.

Joel exhaled, a long, quiet breath. He knew he should get up. Should put some distance between you. But instead, he stayed and his exhaustion eventually crept in. The steady rhythm of your breathing beside him pulled him under like a tide.

His head tilted slightly, his body instinctively leaning toward yours. His shoulder pressed more firmly against you, the weight of you grounding him in a way he hadn’t felt in years.

Sleep came slowly, but when it did, it was deep. Joel didn’t dream of regret, or of things lost.

Instead, he dreamed of warmth. Of something soft, something that smelled faintly sweet. Something that, for the first time in forever, didn’t feel so far out of reach.

The morning came too soon, with light filtering softly through the curtains, making you stir first, shifting slightly, only to realize you were pressed against someone.

Joel.

His arms were wrapped around you, one draped loosely over your waist, the other resting near your shoulder. His breathing was deep and steady, his body relaxed in a way you’d never seen before.

Your heart pounded as you stayed still, unsure of what to do. But the moment stretched too long, and eventually, Joel shifted, a low hum escaping his throat as he woke.

His grip on you tightened instinctively before realization dawned. His breath hitched. Slowly, he pulled back, his arms withdrawing as if burned. His eyes met yours, still heavy with sleep but now filled with something else, something hesitant and vulnerable.

“Morning,” he murmured, his voice rough, laced with something softer beneath.

You swallowed, your voice barely above a whisper. “Morning.”

Neither of you moved. Neither of you looked away.

You swallowed, suddenly hyperaware of the warmth that still clung to your skin, of the way Joel was looking at you, like he wasn’t sure if he should apologize or pull you closer or even touch fire.

“I should get going,” you murmured, your voice quieter than you intended.

Joel’s jaw tensed, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just studied you, like he was trying to memorize something. Then, finally, he nodded. “Yeah… yeah, you should.”

You sat up slowly, letting the blanket slip from your shoulders. The absence of his warmth made the morning chill settle deeper into your bones.

Joel rubbed the back of his neck, still watching you. “You—uh—need me to walk you back?”

You shook your head. “I’ll be fine.”

But neither of you moved.

Joel’s fingers tapped against his knee, restless. “Did you sleep, okay?”

You nodded, offering the smallest of smiles. “Yeah. Better than I have in a while.”

Something flickered in his expression, something almost like relief. He exhaled through his nose, then stood, running a hand through his hair. “Good.”

You forced yourself to move, to put distance between you both before you did something reckless. Like staying. Like telling him how safe you felt with him around.

You reached the door, hesitating with your hand on the knob. You glanced back at him, at the way he was still standing there, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

You offered a quiet, “See you around, father.”

“Joel” he said, “Just call me by my name.”

You froze for a moment, your hand still on the door, the weight of his words sinking into you. Just call me by my name.

It was simple, but it felt like a shift, like something important was happening without either of you fully understanding it.

You nodded slowly, the softest of smiles curving your lips. “Okay. See you around, Joel.”

His gaze softened, just a little, but you could see the conflict in his eyes, the same conflict that had been there since the first day you'd met. It was like he was trying to find a way to make things simpler, even though neither of you were sure how.

You opened the door, stepping out into the morning, but for a moment, you stood there, just outside, with your back to him. The silence between you stretched, and in the stillness, you almost expected him to call out to you.

But he didn’t.

You swallowed and took a step away, then another. Each step felt heavier than the last. You didn’t want to go. But you knew you had to.

And Joel? How could he even stop thinking about you when you had turned this town technicolor after ages of scarlet rusting maroon. How he could even stop thinking about the way your eyes wrinkled when you smiled, how they shone under the lights, or how you felt against his chest?

You had turned his life upside down the moment he saw you there, sleeping the church pew. You had settled a warm feeling on his chest, stuck there strangling his heart in a way he feared. He hadn’t felt like this before your orbit crashed into his.

Joel sat quietly in the church, his hands clasped in his lap, his gaze fixed on the altar. He couldn’t help but think about you, how you had walked out of his house that morning, and how your absence already felt like a quiet ache in the pit of his chest.

His thoughts were interrupted by the soft murmur of voices coming from the entrance. A group of ladies from the town had entered, their soft footsteps echoing in the vast space. They gathered near the back, speaking in low tones. Joel, still lost in his thoughts, didn’t immediately notice them approaching.

One of the women, Evelyn, caught his attention first. Her eyes were sharp, her smile polite but lacking warmth. She was one of the more outspoken people in the town—always quick to comment on matters she found troubling.

“Father Joel,” she called out, her voice cutting through the quiet.

He turned toward them, nodding in greeting. “Good morning, Evelyn. Ladies, How are you today?”

Evelyn gave a tight smile, but there was something in her eyes that made Joel wary. She wasn’t here for a casual conversation.

“We’re doing well, Father. Just came to see you,” she said, her gaze flickering briefly to the side before returning to him. “I heard something troubling... about you spending time with that girl.” Her tone was deliberate, like she wanted to plant a seed of doubt.

Joel’s stomach tightened, but he kept his voice steady. “What exactly are you referring to?”

“The new girl in town,” Evelyn continued, her voice lowering as if sharing a secret. “You know, the one who came in from out of nowhere. We’ve all seen the way she’s been acting, and we’re concerned, Father. You’ve always been such a pillar in this community... we don’t want to see you caught up in anything... inappropriate.”

The words hit him like a cold gust of wind, but he didn’t show it. Instead, he stared at her, his jaw clenched. “She’s a member of this town now,” he said, his voice firm, but controlled. “She’s just as much a part of this community as anyone else, and she deserves kindness and support, just like everyone else.”

Evelyn’s smile faltered for a moment, but she quickly recovered, her voice laced with venom. “Of course, Father. But kindness and support don’t always mean turning a blind eye to things that don’t belong. We just want to make sure you're not... getting too close to someone who might cause trouble for you.”

The group of women exchanged glances, their murmurs growing louder now, but Joel didn’t care. He could feel the sting of their judgment, but he wasn’t about to let it change him. Not today. Not after everything he’d felt in the past few days.

“What do you mean?” He asked, looking at them.

“Do you know the reason why there are so many people going to that club? The paradise?” Evely asked, testing the waters. “It’s her! She dances there, she is seducing men and perhaps women too, who knows?”

Joel's body stiffened at the words, a cold wave of anger sweeping through him, but he kept his face neutral, not allowing them the satisfaction of seeing how deeply their accusations cut. The audacity of the women to come into his sacred space, spreading lies about you.

"That’s a serious accusation," he said, his voice dangerously calm, his eyes narrowing slightly as he stared at Evelyn. "And it's based on nothing but rumors and gossip."

Evelyn smirked, clearly pleased by the effect her words had. "Rumors? You know as well as we do that the truth isn’t always so clean. She came here from nowhere, and now look—more men are visiting the club than ever before. It's obvious. You might be blind to it, Father, but we're not."

Joel took a deep breath, willing himself to remain composed, but inside, he was seething. He could feel the lies curling around his chest, suffocating him. How dare they accuse you like that, especially when they had no idea what you were going through? He had seen you at your lowest, and not once had he seen any evidence of the things they claimed.

"What you’re saying is based on assumptions," Joel replied evenly. "You don’t know her. You don’t know what she’s been through. And as for what happens in the club, it’s not for any of you to judge." He took a step forward, his voice rising slightly, but still under control. "I will not stand here and listen to these baseless accusations. You know nothing of her, and you certainly know nothing about me."

The women were silent for a moment, unsure of how to respond. Evelyn’s smile slipped, but she quickly recovered, trying to keep control of the conversation. "We’re just worried, Father. We want what’s best for you. We care about you."

Joel didn’t respond immediately. He couldn’t bring himself to care about their concern when they were so willing to tear down someone he had come to care for. Instead, he stood his ground, the weight of his words hanging in the air between them.

“I don’t need you to protect me,” he said finally, his voice firm. “And I don’t need you to make decisions about who I spend time with. I will not be part of any of this. If you want to continue to talk about people behind their backs, you can do it without me.”

Without waiting for another word, he turned and walked away from them, his footsteps echoing through the church. He didn't look back as he left, the sense of their eyes on his back weighing heavily, but he refused to let it break him.

He didn’t want to believe it.

But the thought lingered on his head the whole day.

So, when the night came and it felt darker than usual, Joel walked through the quiet streets. He had changed into a worn-out jacket and a baseball cap, trying to blend into the shadows, to not be seen. He couldn’t bear the idea of anyone recognizing him, not in a place like this. The rumors had been eating at him all day, and he couldn’t ignore the need to see for himself, to find the truth.

His footsteps were almost silent as he approached the entrance of The Paradise. The neon lights flickered, casting an eerie glow over the sidewalk, and the sound of muffled bass and chatter seeped through the walls. As he stepped inside, the dimness hit him first, the low, seductive hum of the music, the scent of alcohol and smoke lingering in the air. The people inside were lost in their own worlds, laughing, shouting, and watching the stage with eager anticipation.

He stood still for a moment, taking in the scene. His heart pounded in his chest, and he swallowed hard. The place was everything he had imagined, and yet it felt so foreign to him. He never thought he would set foot in a club like this, let alone come to watch you perform.

The house lights dimmed, and a hush fell over the crowd. The host’s voice echoed through the speakers presenting the next dancer.

Joel’s breath caught in his throat as the music shifted, slow and sultry. He watched as the spotlight flickered, landing on the stage just in time for you to emerge from the shadows. The crowd erupted into applause, but to Joel, it felt like the world had stopped.

You appeared, standing in the center of the stage, your silhouette framed by the soft red glow of the lights. You were wearing a red lace outfit, the fabric clinging to your body in all the right places. For a moment, Joel couldn’t breathe. The way you moved, the way you owned the space, graceful, mesmerizing, and completely unbothered by the eyes that followed your every step.

The applause from the crowd blurred into background noise as Joel’s gaze locked on you. Every motion you made was fluid, confident, hypnotic. His eyes traced the curve of your body as you moved with a sensuality that made his heart race, his mind spinning. There was something about the way you held yourself, the way you seemed so comfortable in your own skin, that had him entranced.

This was different from the woman he had get to know. This was you, unapologetically owning the stage, every movement a story, every sway of your hips a command. He had never seen you like this before.

Joel’s body tensed as he watched, his heart beating faster than he could keep up with. He tried to remind himself that this wasn’t you, this was just the person you had created, the role you were playing.

The music pulsed through you, guiding your movements as you danced. The crowd's cheers and whistles blended into the background, but all you could focus on was the rhythm of your body and the heat in the air. Every step, every sway was a release, a moment to escape. You had become this character, this untouchable, confident woman who commanded the stage. It was easy to disappear into it.

But then, amidst the sea of faces, your eyes found his.

Joel’s presence felt like a sudden pull, a gravity you hadn’t prepared for. You froze, your body stilling mid-motion as your gaze locked with his. His dark eyes, usually so calm and guarded, were wide with something raw, something you couldn't quite name. The moment seemed to stretch, as if the world around you had disappeared, leaving just the two of you in a charged uncomfortable silence.

For a split second, everything around you was muffled, the music, the applause, the cheering, none of it mattered anymore. The only thing that mattered was the look on his face, the way he stood there, frozen, watching you. And the shock in your chest came crashing in, like a wave pulling you under.

Your heart skipped, the rhythm of your dance faltering. Your breath hitched as you felt your skin flush, your mind racing. You hadn’t expected him to be here, not like this. You hadn’t expected him to be watching you, not with that look on his face. And yet, there he was, standing in the darkened corner, his eyes wide, his body rigid, as if he had been caught in a moment he hadn’t anticipated.

For a moment, you couldn’t move. It was as though your body had forgotten how to do anything but stare back at him.

Joel didn’t look away. His eyes didn’t flicker. There was no mask of indifference this time. The look he gave you was so intense, so filled with something, disappointment, perhaps. It made your heart race and your legs feel weak. It was like you had broken through some invisible barrier between you, and for a moment, you weren’t the dancer on stage, you weren’t the woman who hid behind this person. You were just…you. And he could see it.

You blinked, your breath catching. And then, before you could stop yourself, you took a step back, your mind fighting against the weight of the moment. The music swirled around you again, but you couldn’t focus on it anymore. You felt like you were suffocating under the weight of his gaze.

Forcing yourself to continue, you tried to pick up the rhythm, but the fluidity of your movements had disappeared. The grace, the confidence, it was all gone. All that was left was the shock of that moment, the stunned recognition that maybe, just maybe, you had let him in. And he had seen more than you had ever intended.

The music seemed to echo louder now, a backdrop to the chaos in your head. You couldn’t shake the feeling of his eyes on you, burning through your every motion.

The song neared its end, and as you finished the routine, you stood still for a moment, your eyes once again locking with his across the room. The crowd erupted in applause, but you didn’t hear it. All you heard was the rapid beat of your own heart and the thoughts racing in your mind.

His heart raced as he turned and walked quickly toward the exit, avoiding the curious glances of the people around him. He pushed the door open to the night air, stepping out into the dimly lit street, his thoughts in a chaotic spiral.

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