#not that there’s something to do with three posts | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

carnalcrows · 1 day ago

Text

Terms and Conditions Applied

pariring: gangster! male OC x male reader [profile]

summary: You're a single dad, drowning in debt, barely holding it together for your daughter. But when loan collectors come knocking a little too hard, you find out your debt belongs to someone far more dangerous: Felix Marino, the quiet but infamous head of one of the most powerful mafia syndicates in the world. He makes you a deal—your freedom, for a job. One job. But nothing is ever that simple in his world. Especially when you're not sure what terrifies you more: the blood on your hands, or the way Felix looks at you like you belong to him.

content warnings: 18+, bottom male reader, explicit violence, blood and trauma aftermath, mild panic attack / dissociation, threats and coercion, organized crime themes, single parenthood under duress, mild sexual content, handjob (reader receiving), power imbalance, emotional manipulation, PTSD-like symptoms.

word count: 4.9k

The knocks came hard and fast.

They rattled the apartment door like gunfire—three hits, pause, two more, and a final slam that made the hinges groan. You froze mid-step, a half-unpacked grocery bag dangling from your fingers. Inside it, a bruised apple rolled to the floor.

Not again.

You scanned the room automatically, as if the act of tidying clutter might somehow soften the blow of reality. But the apartment was already bare. Sparse. Clean, in that way that says we don’t have much, but we’re trying.

A soft voice drifted from the hallway behind you. “Papa?”

You turned. There she was—your daughter. Four years old, hair mussed from a post-nap world, her favourite stuffed rabbit trailing from one hand. She rubbed her eyes with the other, blinking at you.

Your heart clenched.

“It’s okay, baby,” you said quietly. “Go back to your room, yeah? I’ll be right there.”

“But who—”

“Just the mailman,” you lied, kneeling down to smooth her hair. “He’s loud today.”

She stared up at you for a beat longer than usual, as if her tiny brain could already tell something wasn’t quite right. Then she nodded solemnly and padded back down the hallway, the rabbit dragging behind her like a weary soldier.

The knocking came again. Louder this time.

You straightened up, set the bag on the counter, and took a breath.

When you opened the door, the two men standing on the other side looked like they'd been born in leather jackets—one tall, one squat. Neither looked thrilled to be here, but they sure weren’t leaving empty-handed.

“Morning,” said the taller one, stepping forward without waiting for an invitation. “Nice day, huh?”

You didn’t respond. He took that as agreement.

“Mr. [Last Name],” said the shorter one. “We’re here about the debt.”

“I know.”

“Good.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Then you also know your payment was due four days ago.”

“I told you,” you said. “I’m working extra shifts. I’m doing what I can.”

The taller man walked a slow circle around your living room, peering at the cheap furniture like it offended him. “A place like this, I’m surprised you haven’t sold the kid’s toys yet.”

Your jaw tensed. “She’s four.”

The shorter man clucked his tongue. “And if you don’t have something by Friday, you’re going to be explaining that to the Boss in person. You know how he feels about delays.”

“I’m trying—”

“Try harder.”

They left without another word. The taller one flicked a crumpled cigarette onto your doormat and stomped it out as a parting gift.

You shut the door. Locked it. Then leaned against it with your eyes closed.

⋆｡°✩

The silence in the apartment returned slowly, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator and the soft patter of small feet against tile.

“Papa?”

You opened your eyes and looked down. She was back, rabbit in hand.

“Are you okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Just tired.”

She wrapped her little arms around your leg, hugging you as best she could. Her cheek pressed against your jeans. “You’re not sad?”

You knelt again and pulled her into your arms properly, breathing in the smell of strawberry shampoo and comfort.

“I’m okay now,” you whispered into her hair. “Because I have you.”

⋆｡°✩

You made pancakes for dinner.

It wasn’t your best work. The batter was too thin, the pan unevenly heated, and the only syrup left was the cheap, knockoff kind that smelled more like corn than maple. But she still grinned when you put the plate in front of her, legs swinging from the dining chair as she kicked at nothing in particular.

“Can I put peanut butter on it too?” she asked, already reaching for the jar.

“Only if you save a piece for Mr. Bun.”

“I always do,” she said with a solemn nod, as if it were some sacred pact between her and the stuffed rabbit.

You watched her eat, chewing slower than usual, trying to stall the moment. The kitchen light flickered overhead. The stack of unpaid bills on the counter seemed to grow by the day, and rent was due in less than a week. You didn’t know how you were going to pay off the collectors by Friday, let alone face the man behind them— the one they called their boss, in hushed, clipped tones.

A name you’d never heard until two weeks ago. A name that now haunted every idle moment.

You’d tried not to ask too many questions, but the way the others spoke about him made your skin crawl. Not loud, not showy — but dangerous. Not because of violence, but because of how controlled he was. And how rarely he needed to raise his voice to get things done.

You only owed him money because your original lender sold the debt off.

It wasn’t supposed to get this far.

“Papa?”

You blinked out of it. “Yeah, bug?”

She looked at you with peanut butter smeared on her chin. “Can we read the owl book again tonight?”

You smiled, even if it felt thin on your face. “Of course.”

⋆｡°✩

She fell asleep curled beside you on the couch, mid-sentence, head tucked against your arm. The copy of The Owl Who Wasn’t Afraid of the Dark lay open in your lap, thumb still pressed to the page.

You didn’t dare move her. Not yet.

The room was quiet now, except for the muffled hum of the hallway outside. You could still hear footsteps every now and then—neighbours coming home, doors opening and shutting. It was the kind of rundown apartment block where the walls had ears, but no one cared enough to listen.

You leaned your head back and stared at the ceiling, one hand gently smoothing your daughter’s hair.

Then came the buzz of your phone.

You fumbled for it quietly, careful not to wake her.

Unknown Number

You stared at it. A second buzz followed — a text.

[ The Boss would like a word. You’ll want to make yourself available.

Tomorrow. 10 PM. Zia’s Diner. Come alone. ]

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to. Whoever sent it would already know you’d be there.

⋆｡°✩

Zia’s Diner looked like it hadn’t changed since the '80s. Flickering neon sign. Red leather booths dulled from wear. Grease-stained menus laminated so many times the corners curled like dying leaves. It was the kind of place that smelled like burnt coffee and fried onions no matter what time of day you walked in. The kind of place where someone like you belonged.

Someone like the one you owe money to? Not so much.

You got there ten minutes early. Sat in the back corner booth, facing the entrance like you’d seen people do in mob movies. Ridiculous, really — like knowing who sat where would make any of this easier.

The waitress came by once, chewing gum and offering you a tired, sceptical look. “You ordering, or you waiting?”

“Just coffee,” you muttered, and she poured you a cup without a word.

You kept checking the time.

10:00 PM sharp, the bell above the door jingled.

He didn’t walk in with an entourage. No theatrics. No broad-shouldered bodyguards or gaudy suits. Just a man in a black wool coat, collar turned up against the wind, dark hair swept back with the ease of someone who didn’t need to try.

He didn’t look like a loan shark. He looked like he could be an architect. Or maybe a violinist. His features were clean-cut but strangely gentle, like someone who hadn’t always belonged to a world like this.

And then he looked at you.

A quick once-over. Not judgmental. Just... observant.

He made his way over with unhurried steps, slid into the booth across from you, and removed his gloves one finger at a time. The silence stretched, thick and taut.

“I’m glad you came,” he said at last. His voice was low, smooth, but not performative. Not like someone trying to play a role. “I didn’t want this to become unpleasant.”

You swallowed hard. “I figured it already was.”

He tilted his head slightly, almost like he was considering you. “It doesn’t have to be.”

You didn’t answer.

The waitress reappeared, looking more alert this time. “Coffee?”

“Tea,” he said, without looking at her. “Chamomile, if you have it.”

You blinked. Tea?

Once she left, he turned his gaze back to you. “You’re a difficult man to track down, considering you haven’t left your apartment in three days.”

Your jaw clenched. “I’ve been with my daughter.”

“I know.” His tone didn’t change, but there was something in his eyes now. Not softness — but interest. “She’s the one who likes the owl book, right?”

You stiffened. “You’ve been watching us?”

“I have people. They were concerned. It’s their job.”

“Concerned about what?”

He paused. Then: “About how a man ends up this deep in debt when he’s clearly not reckless.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that. Because the worst part was— he wasn’t wrong.

He leaned back, resting his hands on the table. His fingers were long, elegant— with tattoos running across them.

“I didn’t call you here to threaten you,” he said calmly. “If I wanted to scare you, I’d have sent someone else.”

“So why did you call me here?”

His lips parted slightly, like he was about to answer. But then the tea arrived. He thanked the waitress with a quiet nod, waited until she was gone again.

And then he said:

“Because I don’t think you belong in this mess. And I’m interested in seeing how you get out of it.”

You stared at him, not sure if it was a trap. A test. Some kind of manipulation.

“Why?” you asked, voice quiet now. Honest.

He stirred a packet of honey into his tea. No rush. No tension. “You remind me of someone.”

That shut you up.

Not because you knew what it meant, but because of how he said it. Like it hurt to say. Like the memory was still raw, even if the delivery wasn’t.

He took a sip of his tea, eyes never leaving yours.

“Let’s talk about your debt,” he said.

⋆｡°✩

You tried to read him. Failed.

Everything about him was composed — the measured way he spoke, the way he held his tea with both hands like it was a habit rather than a choice. His voice was quiet but sure, like he’d never once had to raise it to be heard.

He didn’t move like a man used to violence, but you knew better than to trust that.

“You said you wanted to talk about my debt,” you said after a beat, keeping your voice steady. “So talk.”

He gave a soft hum, almost amused. “Alright.”

From the inside pocket of his coat, he pulled out a thin leather folio and opened it on the table. You caught your name on one of the papers. Your signature on another. A string of numbers you didn’t want to look too closely at.

“I assume you know how much you owe.”

You nodded once. “Too much.”

“You’re not wrong.” He tapped a finger against the paper, not unkindly. “You took out the first loan eighteen months ago. Medical bills, yes?”

You stiffened. “My daughter was in the hospital. Pneumonia. We didn’t have insurance.”

He nodded like he already knew, which he probably did.

“And the second loan,” he continued, “was for rent, food, and utilities. You were out of work.”

“My hours got cut,” you muttered.

“And the third?”

You looked away. “Funeral expenses.”

Silence settled again. Not judgmental. Just quiet.

He closed the folder gently and folded his hands on top of it. “There are… less generous men you could’ve borrowed from. Men who would’ve already left a message on your doorstep. Or through your window.”

“I didn’t exactly get a choice in where the loans came from,” you snapped, sharper than you meant to.

He didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. Just watched you like he’d been expecting that edge to come out eventually.

“You’re right,” he said. “You didn’t. But you have one now.”

That gave you pause. “…What’s that supposed to mean?”

He leaned back, eyes steady.

“It means I’m offering to restructure your debt. Reduce the interest. Extend the timeline. Provide resources, if you need them.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why?”

He didn’t smile — but his mouth twitched, like he almost did.

“I told you. You remind me of someone.”

“That’s not a reason.”

“It is to me.”

You didn’t know what to do with that. Couldn’t decide if this was some twisted act of pity or a long con. But you weren’t used to people giving you anything. Especially not someone with this much power—with hands that clean, a gaze that calm, and a reputation like his.

He took another sip of his tea.

“I don’t expect you to trust me,” he said, almost kindly. “I wouldn’t, if I were you. But I want you to understand— I’m not doing this to trap you.”

“Then what do you want?”

His fingers paused on the edge of the cup.

“I want you to keep your daughter,” he said simply. “I want her to grow up safe. With her father.”

Something in your chest twisted. You looked down, jaw tight.

“That’s not your business.”

“Maybe not. But I’ve made it mine.”

You looked up again, and this time, there was no softness in your voice. “What do you get out of it?”

A longer pause.

He studied you, not like a man considering what to say, but like he was wondering how much you could handle. Like he’d already made up his mind.

“I’m not the villain you think I am,” he said finally. “But I’ve been one before. I know what it takes to get out.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Your hands curled around your coffee cup, suddenly aware of the chipped ceramic, the cool air from the vents brushing your neck. A waitress refilled a glass of soda at another table. The world kept moving.

He stood slowly, gathering the folder and slipping it back into his coat.

“You don’t have to decide anything tonight,” he said. “But I’ll have someone drop off the new terms tomorrow. Look them over. Think about your kid.”

He turned to leave, then paused and glanced back at you one last time.

“And think about who you want to be when she looks back on this.”

And then he was gone.

Just like that.

⋆｡°✩

You didn’t expect it to come in an envelope.

White. Thick. No return address.

It was on your doorstep when you got home from picking Nora up from daycare — tucked under the welcome mat like some dead thing left by a cat. You stared at it for a full minute before bending to pick it up, heart low in your chest.

She tugged on your sleeve. “What’s that, Daddy?”

“Nothing, bug.” You smiled, but your voice didn’t rise with it. “Go on in. I’ll be right there.”

She slipped past you with a squeal, barreling into the apartment and tossing her little backpack onto the floor. You shut the door behind her, thumb tracing the edge of the envelope as you walked to the kitchen. The light through the window was already fading to that washed-out grey of too-late afternoons. You tore it open without ceremony.

Inside: four pages, paper thick enough to feel expensive. No header, no signature — but you recognised the same smooth, sparse formatting from the mans’s folder at Zia’s—the new terms.

You skimmed.

Then read slower.

Then stopped.

He was serious.

�� Outstanding balance: reduced by 40%. — Interest: frozen, pending further review. — Monthly payments: deferred for 3 months. — Conditions:

That last part made your stomach twist.

1. You will be reachable at all times. 2. You will submit proof of employment weekly. 3. You will meet with Mr. Marino in person at a time and place of his choosing. Frequency: open. 4. You will not attempt to renegotiate through any party other than Mr. Marino himself. 5. You will not disappear.

Regards,

Felix Marino

That last line wasn’t underlined. But it didn’t need to be.

You sat down, the chair scraping across the tile.

It was clean. Too clean. He’d carved out the brutality and left behind something you could stomach — just enough rope to pull yourself up. Or hang yourself with.

In the distance, you heard Nora humming a song from her cartoons.

And you realised: you were already considering it.

⋆｡°✩

The house is quiet after Nora falls asleep, sprawled out in her tiny bed with her stuffed rabbit tucked under her chin. You'd cleaned the chocolate from her face, tucked her in, and kissed her forehead like always. Pretended like nothing was wrong. Like there wasn’t a folded letter in your coat pocket that felt like it weighed more than your whole damn life.

You sit at the kitchen table, hands steepled, staring down at it again.

Felix Marino’s terms are clear:

Six months of contracted work

Weekly check-ins at a private location downtown

No questions asked about the nature of the work.

No outside contact with “competing interests”

Nora is off-limits. Her name isn’t even mentioned.

That part almost makes it worse.

Because you don’t think Felix left her out of the contract out of kindness.

You think it’s because he sees her as yours. And what belongs to you, by extension, belongs to him now.

You grip the paper until the crease deepens. This is a deal with the devil, no matter how cleanly it’s written. Still, you’ve seen worse. You’ve lived worse. And if this means keeping Nora safe—keeping your home, your job, your sanity—then what choice do you really have?

You’ll meet his terms. But you won’t let him sink his claws in.

You won’t let him think he has you.

Your phone buzzes on the table. A message. Just a location, a time.

[ Tomorrow, 11 AM.

Wear something decent. ]

You stare at the screen for a while before flipping it over and standing up. You clean the counter. Rinse the mugs. Check the locks on the doors twice. It’s routine, but you do it slower tonight.

Just before bed, you peek in on Nora one more time.

Her tiny chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. There’s drool on her pillow. You swallow the knot in your throat.

You hope to god she never has to know how close you came to losing everything.

⋆｡°✩

The address Felix gave leads to a storefront with blackout windows and no signage. Inside, it's cleaner than expected. Sleek. Minimal. You’re greeted by a man in a tailored suit who doesn’t ask your name — just waves you through with a nod like you’re already known here.

You are, apparently.

A hallway. A door. A quiet room with a view of the city skyline. Felix is seated behind a polished desk, flipping lazily through a folder.

He doesn’t look up when he says, “You came.”

“Not like I had a choice.”

“Sure you did. You just didn’t like the alternatives.”

He gestures to the chair across from him. You sit, tense.

He finally lifts his gaze, eyes still unreadable. “How’s Nora?”

You narrow your eyes. “Fine. And she’s not part of this.”

“I never said she was.” He leans back, steepling his fingers. “Though you should know, this isn’t charity. You’ll work. I’ll watch. If I don’t like what I see, the terms change.”

“And if I don’t like what I see?”

“Then I’ll be disappointed,” Felix says, smooth as silk. “And trust me — you don’t want that.”

There’s a pause. You hate how calm he is. Like this is all part of some carefully laid plan. Maybe it is.

“You always recruit desperate dads into your service?”

“Only the interesting ones.”

You clench your jaw. “Why me?”

Felix shrugs, almost too casually. “Doesn’t matter.”

But it does matter. You can feel it.

The way he looks at you sometimes. Like he’s trying to find someone else in your face. Like you’re unfinished business.

You stand. “I’ll do what you asked. But keep the personal shit out of it.”

Felix watches you with that same unreadable gaze. “Whatever you say.”

But you can tell he’s already rewriting the rules.

⋆｡°✩

You’d expected something bloodier.

Maybe it was the envelope. Maybe it was Felix’s eyes, the way he looked at you like you were already halfway his. Or maybe it was just the way his name lingered like a shadow behind every line of those new “terms.” Whatever it was, you thought there’d be blood. Screaming. A pipe wrench. Something straight out of a bad movie.

Instead, you’re standing outside a warehouse that looks too clean to be dangerous, which somehow makes it worse.

You glance down at the slip of paper again. One name. One address. Gallo. That’s all he gave you. No instructions. No backup. Just the duffel bag in your hand and a phone in your pocket that vibrated exactly once with a location pin and then went dead silent.

You should walk away. You should. But you think of Nora. Think of the groceries on the table this morning — not from your wallet. Think of the sharp suits you saw at your building’s entrance yesterday. Men who didn’t belong there. Men who made eye contact just long enough to remind you that you were being watched.

So you step inside.

The warehouse isn’t abandoned, but it’s not busy either. The air smells like oil and dust, and the lights overhead buzz faintly with age. You follow the sound of metal scraping across concrete until you see him — mid-40s, thick arms, cigarette tucked into the side of his mouth like it’s permanent.

“You Gallo?” you ask.

He looks up, unimpressed. “Who’s asking?”

You don’t answer. Just unzip the duffel and pull out the envelope inside — thick, sealed, and marked with the same insignia that was embossed into Felix’s letterhead.

He snorts. “About time.”

You hand it over. He rips it open, eyes scanning quickly. You can’t see the paper, but whatever’s written on it makes his jaw twitch.

“I paid last week,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

You don’t move. Felix never said what to do after delivering the message. But you know better than to leave right away.

Gallo crumples the paper. “Son of a bitch,” he mutters. Then louder, “Tell Marino if he wants more outta me, he can come collect it himself.”

You exhale slowly. “I don’t think that’s how this works.”

He steps forward, chest puffed. “No? Then how does it work, ragazzo di merda?”

There’s a tension now — heavy and tight, like the moment before thunder. You don’t flinch, even when he gets close enough for you to smell the smoke on his breath. But your fingers twitch.

This isn’t a test of violence. It’s a test of restraint.

And you’re not sure which you’re worse at.

He laughs like he’s already won. Then, just when the silence threatens to stretch too far, he spits — right at your shoes.

You move fast. Maybe too fast. You don’t pull the knife, don’t throw a punch, but your hands are around his throat in a blink, and you shove him back hard enough that he slams against a shelf with a clang. A box of screws topples somewhere behind him.

“Try it again,” you say, low and even. “See what happens.”

You don’t remember drawing the knife.

All you remember is the way the air changed — thick, metallic, sharp with panic. One moment, Gallo’s guys were just shouting, posturing like men with too much testosterone and not enough brains. The next one of them rushed you. Pulled a gun. A warning shot, maybe. But it grazed your arm, and that was all it took to tip something inside you.

The rest is a blur. Screaming. A crash. A warm spray across your face that wasn’t your own.

You’re not trained for this.

You’re not supposed to be the guy standing in a warehouse full of broken bones and gasping, bloodied men, clutching a blade that’s slippery in your hand. You were a barista three years ago. A father. A husband, once.

But right now, you’re just a wreck. Shaking, breath jagged, body slick with sweat and blood — most of it not yours. The knife hits the floor with a metallic clatter. Your legs feel like paper.

The phone in your pocket buzzes once.

A location pin.

No words.

Your hands are still trembling as you stumble out into the alley, back pressed to the cool brick wall as your knees threaten to buckle. You press your palm to the wound on your arm, but you can’t even tell if it’s deep. All you can feel is the adrenaline, burning like acid through your veins.

The car pulls up exactly two minutes later.

Sleek. Black. Expensive in the quiet, menacing kind of way.

The passenger door opens, and Felix is already waiting inside.

You hesitate. Just for a second.

Then you climb in, dragging the bloodied duffel with you. You don’t speak. You can’t.

He says nothing at first. Just watches. His gaze skims your face, your hands, the splotches on your shirt. His nostrils flare, faintly. His jaw clenches.

Then his voice comes, low and velvety.

“You did well.”

You flinch.

Well?

Is this what “well” looks like?

You open your mouth to say something — anything — but it all dies on your tongue. You feel like you're floating outside yourself, like your body isn’t quite yours. Like you're going to pass out.

Felix notices. Of course he does.

He leans in, slow and deliberate. His hand moves to your jaw— firm, and tilts your face toward him.

“You’re shaking.”

No shit. You laugh — a broken, awful sound that doesn’t feel real.

Felix hums, then shifts in his seat. The partition behind you slides up without a sound, cloaking the two of you in soft shadows.

“I told you I wanted to see what you could handle,” he murmurs. “You didn’t disappoint.”

“I almost died,” you manage to whisper.

“Mm,” he says, thumb brushing along your cheek. “But you didn’t.”

You don’t realise your hands are clenched in your lap until he notices. He undoes your seatbelt. Leans down.

“I can help,” he says softly, fingers already trailing down your thigh. “Let me.”

You’re still bloodstained. You still feel sick. But your cock betrays you — twitching in your jeans under his touch like it doesn’t care that you’re half-feral from adrenaline and trauma.

He smiles faintly. Like he expected that.

“Poor thing,” Felix says, voice thick with amusement and something deeper. “All wound up. All that fear. All that pressure.”

His hand slides over the bulge in your pants, slow and possessive. Your breath catches.

“You’re shaking so much,” he murmurs. “You need to calm down. Just relax.”

You don’t. Can’t. But your hips twitch anyway.

Felix is patient. Cruel in his gentleness. His fingers undo your jeans with practised ease, and the second he wraps his hand around your cock— warm, firm, steady— you nearly choke on a gasp. The pleasure spikes sharply and fast, edged with guilt and something darker.

You shouldn’t want this. Not now. Not here. Not after—

“Don’t think,” he says quietly. “Just feel.”

Your head hits the seat behind you. Your hands tremble uselessly in your lap as he strokes you—not fast, not slow, just right. His thumb circles the head on every upward pull, milking soft, breathless moans out of you.

“You’ve been good,” he whispers, voice like velvet steel. “Brave. I take care of what’s mine.”

You don’t know when that happened — when you became his. But it’s too late now. His hand keeps working you through it, coaxing you toward a high you didn’t ask for but can’t stop chasing. Heat pools low in your belly. Your eyes squeeze shut. You’re going to—

“Come for me,” he breathes, leaning in. “That’s it. Let go.”

And you do.

It rips out of you like a sob. Messy. Shuddering. You curl in on yourself as your body wracks with release, nerves flayed raw.

Felix doesn’t flinch at the mess. He just wipes his hand, then guides your head down to rest against his shoulder. You’re still panting, still dazed, blood drying on your clothes — and he strokes your hair like you’re something precious.

Like you're his favourite broken thing.

⋆｡°✩

You leave the bathroom light on.

Not because Nora’s scared of the dark anymore. She’s been sleeping through the night since she was three. It’s for you.

You’re the one who wakes up in cold sweats now. You’re the one who flinches at door hinges creaking and cars idling too long outside the window. You’re the one staring at the nursery monitor like something might crawl through it.

There’s no crying. Just the soft hum of static.

She’s curled up on her side, one arm flung above her head, mouth open in that completely unselfconscious way only kids manage. Her stuffed bear is trapped beneath her chest like a casualty, and you don’t dare move it. You don’t dare move anything.

You sit on the edge of your bed, clothes still crusted in spots with things you scrubbed off hours ago. You’re not sure how you’re still breathing. Or why you are.

Your hands shake. Not like before—this is quieter. Numb.

Your phone buzzes once on the nightstand. You don’t check it. You already know who it is.

You already know what he’ll say. Good work. I told you you could handle it. You’re not sure if that’s supposed to be a compliment or a warning.

The monitor hisses softly, then goes silent. You keep watching it anyway.

Taglist: @zolass @edensrose @tamias-wrld @ilovesugurugeto69 @planetxella @mazettns @longlivegojo @midnight-138 @literallyrousseau @vimademedoitt @useless-n-clueless @flatl1n3 @hikaurbae @lexkou @razefxylorf @abrielletargaryen @coco-145 @eagleeyedbitch @deathofacupid @gayaristocrat @porcalinecunt @whatsaheartxx @thecringes2000 @sageofspades @g4vcat @itsrandompersonyall @blvdprn @blueemochii @sappychat @onyxxxxqq @axetivev @s1llygo0s3 @crazydirectioner2000-blog @thestarsallowed @honey-valentin3 @academiq @gaozorous-rex-blog @idkmissgurl @sooniebby @seomn

545 notes · View notes

likeumeanit9497 · 2 days ago

Text

hop on | m.s. |

matt sturniolo x fem!reader

summary: a dare is just a dare, until it isn't. until your breath hitches in your throat. until your body stirs with need. until your drunk mind blurs the line between dare and desire.

warnings: smut; established friendship; unprotected p in v; oral (f receiving); fingering; handjob; teasing; dirty talk; cream pie; mentions of alcohol; 18+

notes: for my matt girls since ive been non-stop posting my chris series. honestly even though ive been spending so much time writing ab chris im currently in a matt era (THE BEARD THE BEARD OH MY FUCKING GOD) so this one shot is as much for me as it is for u lmao. love u all so so so much!! ps no ftb chapter tonight but will post one very soon!! <333

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

The triplet’s house was buzzing around you — tipsy chattering, loud music, and the sound of cans cracking open creating the familiar symphony of a party. You felt lighter than usual — likely from both the alcohol in your system and the pleasure of the night so far. After years of being close friends with the triplets, you had attended many of their parties. But tonight something felt different. Not in a very prominent way, but there was a certain energy lingering in the air. Something so subtle you couldn’t quite decipher it, but its presence was noticeable enough to cause a strange fluttering in your stomach.

Your phone read 12:58, and the party was in full swing. There were people scattered all across the triplet’s main floor, but you were sitting with the triplets and a handful of your other friends, creating a loose circle around the coffee table; cluttered with empty bottles, solo cups, and a half-completed stack of Do or Drink cards. You were seated between Nick and Matt, legs tucked comfortably beneath you, cocooned in the safety of two of your closest friends. Although you were good friends with all three triplets, your relationship with Matt was different in a way that neither of you had ever tried to define.

With Nick, things were fast and funny, a friendship built on shared jokes and late-night texts full of chaotic gossip. Chris had always brought the noise. Startlingly magnetic and charming, he had a habit of tossing you into the middle of whatever absurd plans he came up with. But Matt. He was the one who would stand beside you at a crowded event and lean down to ask if you needed air, and then lead you out into the quiet like he already knew the answer.

Over the years, your friendship with him had blossomed into something easy. That rare kind of comfort that never needed to be tended to or explained. You trusted him without effort. You could be with him for hours, half-watching a movie or each reading a book, and not feel the need to fill the air with chatter. Matt never asked you to perform, never made you feel like you couldn’t just be yourself.

As Nick had his turn picking up a card and completing the dare, you reached for your drink — feeling the warmth of the rum as it spread through you. Your eyes were hazy, your limbs were lose, and your mind was numbed by the night spent drinking. Matt noticed, and with a quiet chuckle, took the drink from your hand and placed it on the coffee table — not wanting you to overdo it.

“Your turn, Y/n.” Chris called out from his place across from you, grabbing your attention with his signature charming, bordering on dirty, smile. You offered him a lazy smile of your own before pushing yourself forward to reach a card. “It’s a red card.” You muttered, flicking the card and letting it land haphazardly on the ground before leaning forward again to grab a card from the shorter, though more intimidating pile. As soon as you read the dare on the red card, a squeak escaped your lips. “What does it say?” Prodded Nick, leaning over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of the card. You watched his eyes travel across the phrase before widening as he released a taunting cackle. “Have fun with that, diva.”

“What is it?” Whined Chris, reaching across the coffee table for the card. Rolling your eyes, you held the card away from him before grabbing the rum and coke that Matt had taken from you moments before. Taking a quick chug, you read from the card. “Sit on the lap of the person to your right for the rest of this round.” The circle buzzed with laughter, all eyes scanning between you and the person to your right — who just happened to be Matt. You turned to look at him with a nervous laugh, and his gaze caught onto yours before he offered a quick shrug. He adjusted himself on the couch, widening his legs slightly before softly patting his lap with a smile. “Hop on,” He encouraged, his tone nonchalant as though it was the most normal thing in the world for the two of you to do.

You hesitated for a brief moment, feeling the pressure of ten pairs of eyes burning into you. Matt offered you a reassuring smile and jerked his head to the side to encourage you over to him. Before you could lose your nerve, you shifted, turning to face him as you placed your hand on his shoulder for balance. He didn’t move from under your touch — just shot an exaggerated raised-brow look at Chris from over your shoulder as he leaned back to make more space for you. Your knee brushed his thigh as you straddled him — the circle erupting into obnoxious hollers once you did.

Your weight hovered over his lap, one of your hands braced on the back of the couch to keep you from making complete contact with his waist. Even still, you felt the heat radiating from his body into yours — causing an unfamiliar feeling begin to rise in your chest. As soon as your body settled, his hand moved almost instinctively to your outer thigh — settling against your bare skin without a thought. Your eyes shifted down to his face, but thankfully he was already adjusted to your new position and was back to having a conversation with the person to his right as though nothing abnormal was occurring on top of him.

The circle eased back into normal motion around you, comfortable chatter flooding your ears as you joined in on the conversation with Matt and his friend. You tried to shift subtly, your weight adjusting forward slightly to hover just enough to avoid fully sinking into him without making your awkwardness obvious. You attempted to ease your hips back, then forward again, searching for a position that felt less intimate — but it seemed useless. You risked another sideways glance, and he was still leaning back, gaze fixed on his friend as he casually maintained a lighthearted conversation while sipping his drink.

You swallowed hard, wishing you were still holding your own drink, before shifting your hips one last time — just slightly, barely more than a twitch — when his hand suddenly squeezed your thigh. Still, he said nothing; showed you nothing. But you felt the faintest pause in his breath — not enough to draw attention, but enough to make your skin hum. Enough to make you aware of the heat of his palm. You did your very best to follow suit — to laugh along with your friends and stay focused on the group — though the unfamiliar flutter of tension within you was ever-present.

“Your turn, dumb fuck.” Said Nick, his voice bellowing over everyone’s jumbled conversations as he flicked Matt in the arm. Matt’s attention was finally pulled back to the game, and with a deep inhale he shifted slightly under you, reaching for a card. His movement forced you a little closer to him — closer than you meant to be. You tried not to react beyond wrapping your arms around his neck to keep your balance, but the motion of him beneath you sparked something strange within your centre.

You craned your neck to watch him draw, brows raising when he pulled a card just like the one you had a moment before — a red card. With a sigh he pulled a card from the second deck, and when he turned it over you both seemed to read it at the same time — your bodies freezing in unison. The circle was buzzing with anticipatory silence for a moment, before Nick reached over with a huff, yanking the card from Matt’s grasp to read it for himself. After one final moment of silence, Nick’s excited shriek made your cheeks redden.

“Kiss the girl closest to your left!” He read from the card as you and Matt shot one another uncertain glances. Not only did you happen to be the only girl playing the game, but you were definitely the one closest to his left considering you were literally straddling his lap. The circle erupted. Some people broke into laughter, some gave a few cheers. One who sounded an awful lot like Chris gave a dramatic ooooh as though you were all back in high school. You scoffed, feigning near-confidence as you looked over your shoulder. “You’re a child, Chris.”

But your voice came out thinner than you had wanted it to. You felt a prickle of heat rush to your face from the sheer embarrassment of the many laughs and gazes sent your way. “Hey, rules are rules,” Chris remarked from his place across from you, “You had to sit in his lap, now he has to kiss you. Sounds like the circle of life or some shit to me.” You rolled your eyes as you turned back to face Matt, preparing another witty comeback as you did — except Matt was already looking up at you. Calm, unbothered; with that usual glint in his tipsy eyes.

“Well,” He began casually, keeping his voice low, “We should probably get it over with if we don’t want them to start chanting.” You let out a nervous laugh, feeling as though you had entered an alternate dimension over the last fifteen minutes. “God forbid,” You muttered, doing your best to control your breathing as you smiled down at him. The moment stretched for what felt like hours. You knew that everyone was still watching, and you felt crushed under the pressure combined with crippling anticipation.

You could tell that Matt was just as uncertain as you were — you could see it in the way his cheeks had turned a slightly brighter shade of pink, could feel it in the way his chest rose and fell rapidly against your own — though he seemed much more capable of maintaining his cool-guy decorum. So you sat perfectly still, waiting for him to get his dare over with as though you were just another spectator. After cracking you one final smile, he tapped your thigh softly before whispering, “Come here.”

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t loaded. It just sounded like a simple request from one friend to another. So you didn’t hesitate before leaning down — heart nearly jumping out of your throat. When your lips eventually met his, you froze — just for a second — at the sheer newness of it. It was soft, quick, but also impossibly intimate. You were in shock from feeling Matt’s lips press delicately, cautiously against your own. But the shock quickly dissipated once you recognized that it was exactly the kind of kiss you’d give someone in response to a drinking game — a kiss by definition alone, but more like a shared breath than anything else.

He seemed to have frozen beneath you as well. His frame still. The circles he had been haphazardly drawing against your thigh coming to an abrupt stop as your closed lips pressed against his. On its face, it was an innocent kiss. One meant to last only a second or two before ending in a fit of awkward laughter between two friends who could look back on the moment in five years and think nothing of it.

But it lingered. Just for a second, but long enough for the undercurrent between you two to shift.

You finally allowed yourself to relax into his lap, no longer feeling the need to hover above him. His thumb resumed its gentle movements against your thigh, as though drawing you closer to him. You were suddenly very aware of how close you were to him, how warm he felt — and how much you liked it. The kiss was still soft, though there was a rumble of energy building between you both that was threatening to boil over.

Matt pulled back for a breath, but when you opened your eyes, he was still watching you. His expression was no longer nonchalant, no longer playful. His dilated eyes dropped to your mouth, and for a moment neither of you moved a muscle. Something was happening. You could both feel it, and you were equally powerless to it. So when he leaned back into you again, you met him with a sigh of relief.

His free hand immediately slid to your waist, pulling you in closer. His lips parted hungrily against yours, deepening the kiss with a quiet eagerness that made your whole body tremble. You responded to him without a thought; your mouth opened to mesh with his, the kiss growing deeper. You allowed yourself to melt completely into his lap, stifling a gasp at the feeling of his growing hardness already evident through his jeans. As he tilted his head to devour you completely, your hands slipped into his wavy hair — fingers threading through the base of the strands and pulling him closer to you without even realizing.

He responded by exhaling through his nose in that intoxicatingly masculine way. His hands were buried in your thighs, fingers curling greedily against the plush skin before sliding beneath the hem of your mini skirt; exploring the hidden skin before guiding your hips to roll just once against his front. The shaky breath you released from the sensation caused you to break the kiss, but he leaned forward and searched for your lips once more like he couldn’t help it.

Once his mouth engulfed yours once more, the kiss was hungrier; even more sure than before. A gasp fell from your lips as one of his hands slid up your back, pressing your chest against his so that no space remained between your needy bodies. As a breathy moan fell from your lips at the way his hand wrapped possessively around your throat, you were aware that your other friends were still watching. But, you no longer cared. As your panties flooded with moisture from the heat of his cock pressing against you, all you could think about was the delicious, dizzying satisfaction of tasting someone for the first time — someone you knew so well, but never like this.

He murmured your name against your lips, voice hoarse. You couldn’t even reply — capable of little more than to kiss him harder. Your fingers gripped his shirt as if that could ground you; as if the only thing real anymore was the way he was touching you, holding you, breathing you in possessively like he’d needed this much longer than either of you realized. You felt that need, too. Making your thoughts melt away, caring very little about anything besides the pull you knew you were both feeling. The overwhelming pull that had started as a party game dare and was now spiralling into something neither of you could stop.

After what felt like hours of bliss, the kiss broke slowly, like neither of you really wanted it to. You couldn’t help but let your lips linger against his, your breath catching when he didn’t move right away. Your faces hovered close, foreheads brushing with each needy gasp for air. His fingers still rested on your hip firmly as though he wasn’t quite ready to let you go. Neither of you spoke — you didn’t have to.

“Well that was…thorough.” Chris’s voice, laced with wavering uncertainty, could be heard from behind you. The room around you was still buzzing — cheers and laughter spewing from everyone in the circle — but it had fallen into a dull backdrop. The only thing that you were capable of hearing in that moment was your own heartbeat and the sound of Matt’s breath; still uneven against your mouth. You looked at him — into his glazed over eyes. He looked at you. And in an instant something passed between you — something wordless, something electric, something final.

Without saying anything, Matt shifted beneath you, one arm slipping under your legs and the other wrapped tightly around your back. You gasped softly as he lifted you off of the couch — his movements weren’t rough, but they were rushed and fuelled with an urgency you had never seen in him before. You didn’t question anything, didn’t say a word, even as the circle of your friends began chanting and gasping at what even they knew was about to happen. You only wrapped an arm around his tense shoulders, letting your fingers slide through his hair as he carried you through the house in the direction of his bedroom.

Your heart was really pounding now. Not from surprise but from the sudden, dizzying realization that you two were about to cross a line you had never even come close to approaching before. The faces of party-goers blurred past you in streaks as you travelled down what suddenly felt like an endless hallway, the party growing more and more silent as you approached the bedroom until the only sounds you could recognize were his steady footsteps and the soft rustle of your breath against his chest.

Once you reached his bedroom, Matt nudged the door open seamlessly with one foot; the hinges creaking faintly acting as a reminder of what’s to come. Dim light spilled only from a lamp on his bedside table, his fully drawn blinds restricting any moonlight from entering the room. He set you down with the same careful urgency he’d carried you — with his hands still holding your hips, searching eyes still fixed on yours like they were tethered. You looked up at him through your lashes, lips parted, your breath shallow, your heart beating out of your chest. Matt’s thumb brushed softly against your cheek, then traced the line of your jaw before resting gently against your throat.

Your breath was shallow, heart still rattling from the kiss that had pulled you both off the couch and into motion. The intensity of the moment suddenly crashed down on you as you let your eyes drift over his room — a room you had spent plenty of time in yet never in this way; never with this feeling of trepidation burning through your veins. You forced yourself to take in a deep, steadying breath. The air smelled faintly like him — clean laundry, cedar, something comforting and unmistakably his. It helped relax your mind, and when you turned your attention back to him, he was watching you.

Not with that unreadable ease he had worn throughout the night — but with something even quieter. More careful, and more aware. His jaw was tight, and in his eyes, that familiar calm had frayed slightly at the edges; replaced by a flicker of hesitation and a much more powerful desire. “Y/n,” He breathed out, as though your name was the only thing he was certain of in that moment. His eyes fluttered shut as he took another step towards you, and you simply swallowed, not trusting your ability to speak quite yet.

His movements were slow and deliberate, but when he reattached his hands to your waist, you melted into his touch. When he used his grip to slowly push you back until your knees hit his desk, you didn’t resist. And when his mouth attached to yours once more, you didn’t even consider pulling away. In fact, you found yourself leaning into him reverently, chasing the heat building between you two. His kiss was intoxicatingly slow, and each pass of his lips against yours lingered like he was drinking in the taste of you. But that restraint only lasted so long, because the moment you let out the faintest broken sound against his lips, something in him shifted.

His hands tightened at your waist, and like a wave crashing through you both, all of the built up tension of the night snapped into motion. There was no longer space for caution in that room, humid with lust. His mouth was suddenly hot and unrelenting against yours, but very quickly your lips fell into a rhythm that felt maddening and necessary all at once. His hands found your thighs and lifted you slightly, powerfully, to seat you on his desk without breaking the kiss. You expressed your approval by hooking your ankles around his waist to pull him closer, and he replied by kissing you harder, deeper; his hands massaging your thighs.

Your kiss had turned rushed and greedy, as though you were making up for every wasted second you had not touched one another in this way. You tugged at the collar of his shirt, drawing him impossibly closer like it was a need; like the closeness was the only thing anchoring you to the desk. He groaned into your kiss, the sound a deliciously rough vibration in your chest. He pressed himself into you, the edge of the desk digging into the back of your bare legs — but you didn’t care. You could barely feel anything beyond his hands, hot and insistent, sliding under your shirt and over the smooth expanse of your skin like he’d been dying to explore you for years.

His fingers delicately skimmed your skin, slowly at first. But then he pulled the thin fabric of your shirt up higher, over your ribs, and once you let your head fall and your back arch into his touch, he bent to kiss the strip of exposed skin just below your bra. You inhaled sharply from the contact, the feeling of his breath against your body. His hands snaked behind you to undo your bra, and once the clips were undone, he bit down gently on your ribs — not hard, just enough to make you squirm — before meeting your eyes. His pupils were blown wide, chest rising and falling as if he just ran a marathon. “This is real, right?” The question fell from his lips genuinely, and you nodded, breath caught somewhere between a moan and a gasp from the sight of him looking up at you in that way, “Don’t stop.”

That was all the assurance he needed, because once the words left your mouth, he wasted no time before tugging your shirt over your head and tossing it aside. Not even a second later your bra followed, and then his hands were on you again — palming your full tits, thumbs brushing indulgently against you pebbled nipples until you arched into him in pleasure. He kissed you again, and this time it wasn’t just lips. Teeth, tongue, desperation flicked hungrily into your mouth. You pulled back, catching your breath only for a moment before dragging his shirt off with shaking hands.

Your mouth trailed down the line of his neck, biting softly at his shoulder and tasting the salt of his skin. An intoxicating hiss fell from his lips in response, and he gripped your hips even tighter than before; grinding against you until you were both groaning from the faint relief it granted. The need between you was quickly growing all-consuming and relentless. Every movement felt like it might push you over the edge, yet beneath the desperate touches and needy kisses, neither of you wanted to rush. You wanted to feel every moment of what was to come.

Your breath hitched when his fingers suddenly trailed between your legs, teasing you through the thin fabric barrier of your lace panties; slow and deliberate. He pulled your lips back into his own, swallowing your breathy moans and pants as your hips rolled against his hand; wordless and pleading. He grunted once his thumb pressed against your core — its hot and sticky wetness evident even through the fabric. “You’re soaked,” He breathed, sounding almost astonished at your body’s subconscious desire for him. You bit his lip gently in response, growing even more needy from the barely-there contact. “Then stop teasing, p-please.”

The pathetic whine in your voice must have been enough to grab his attention, because he didn’t hesitate before pressing his hand firmly against your clit, fingers working in steady, maddening circles. He pressed his forehead against yours and watched through hooded lids as you writhed under his touch. Your movements were purely instinct now, chasing the rhythm of his fingers as they flicked expertly against your bundle of nerves. Your moans were hushed but relentless, and they fell from your lips without you even realizing it.

When he finally slid your panties down and off, he buckled at the knees and followed the motion with his open mouth. As you tugged your skirt up over your waist, he kissed the inside of your thigh, then again, closer — until your breath caught completely. Your gaze had followed him down to the floor, and you watched as he spread your legs wider, encouraging each of your feet to rest on the desk so that you were fully exposed to him. Even with his eyes burning into your core, there was no insecurity, no urge to snap your legs shut and run away; there was just an intense desire for more once his blue eyes flickered up to you. And in an instant, without breaking the filthy eye contact, his swollen lips parted and he was tasting you.

You cried out — sharp, involuntary — and clutched the edge of the desk. Your thighs trembled on either side of his head as his expert tongue found the rhythm you craved. It flicked relentlessly against your swollen clit, as his mouth sucked and slurped indulgently; the audible sound of his eager movements exotic to your ears. “M-Matt,” You whined, your hips bucking from the overwhelming pressure already beginning to bottle in the pit of your stomach. The sound seemed to charge him, because with a grunt of approval he snaked a hand around your waist, pinning your hips to the desk while the other hand slid up your body — cupping your tit as his fingers toyed with your sensitive nipple.

You rolled your hips against his face, chasing a high that was fast approaching as he moaned against your clit in approval. Your fingers laced through his hair, burying his face in between your legs greedily. He caught your bundle of nerves in between his lips, giving it one last tight swirl before releasing his suction and flattening his tongue against your heat — letting you ride his face feverishly as he looked up at you through hooded lids. Your moans were growing more guttural, more raw. You didn’t care that it was too much; that neither of you had talked about this. The only thing that seemed to matter to you in that moment was the pressure building deep within you, the heat of his tongue against your writhing folds, and the desire to let go of it all.

All in an instant, you fell apart. Thighs trembling, you gave into your orgasm with his name on your lips. Every part of you began unraveling under his mouth and he groaned at the sight. Your hips bucked wildly and your legs nearly gave out. Noticing this, Matt reattached himself to your clit and helped guide you through your high, letting you feel everything all at once. “Good girl,” He breathed against your skin, his voice thick with lust and ten octaves lower than usual as he coached you through the waves of your orgasm.

Your limbs were still shaking, your breathing still ragged, when he pulled himself back to his feet and lifted you up off of the desk. You were limp in his arms, yet somehow still so alive with desire as he carried you to his bed. You landed against the sheets with a soft gasp, your skin flushed and tingling from the pleasure still radiating through you. He stood over you for just a brief moment, savouring the sight of you — tangled hair, cheeks flushed, and eyes wide with the same mix of longing and desire that mirrored his own.

He climbed onto the bed, hovering above you. His lips were glistening from your arousal, and the sight made you pull him down to you, kissing him fiercely, desperately; tasting your sweetness on his tongue as you claimed it. His touch was everywhere — your thighs, waist, the curve of your back — each movement of his fingers leaving you more and more undone. The bedsheets twisted beneath you as you shifted, your bodies fitting together with reckless precision. Your leg hitched over his hip, his lips hummed in approval.

The kiss was like a fire — rough edges and breathless sounds and the sharp sting of need radiating between you both feeding it like oxygen to a spark. Your mouths turned urgent and he kissed you deeper, his teeth ragged against yours. The room seemed to shrink around you, and all you could feel was the warmth of his mouth and the weight of his body above you. “We should stop,” Matt murmured against your lips, his words strained. “I know,” You replied in a broken whisper, but your hand was already tugging at his waistband, and his own hand came down to help you unzip his jeans.

Your hands found the heat of his cock like a moth to a flame, gasping at the weight of it against your fingers. A gruff moan fell from his lips as you gathered the bead of pre-cum at its tip, using the fluid to begin stroking his length slowly, tauntingly. “Matt,” You breathed against his lips, the tone of your voice encouragement and warning all at once. His body trembled above you, lips trailing across your face until they brushed against your ear; his breath warm and slow as he whispered, “Tell me what you want, please,”

Your breath caught at the question, at the way his voice cracked just slightly at the end like he was barely holding himself together. His restraint only made you want him more. The ache between your legs deepened. “I want you,” You whispered, threading your fingers through his hair as your other hand continued its slow, deliberate stroke, “I want you inside me. Want you to ruin me.”

His groan was low and guttural, reverberating through your chest like a struck chord. For a moment, he pressed his forehead against yours, his eyes squeezed shut like he was praying for strength — or maybe forgiveness. Then he kissed you, hard. Everything moved quickly now, you both grew careless with desire. He knelt between your spread thighs, and when he hissed your name into your mouth, you felt it everywhere. Still, even in his desperation, he paused just long enough to search your eyes again. “You’re sure?” He asked, breathless. You nodded, without hesitation and instead with impatience, “Please, Matt.”

And that was it. He guided himself to your slick entrance, one hand bracing beside your head, the other guiding your leg up around his waist. The stretch of him as he pushed inside was blinding — a fullness that made you gasp and claw at his back, made your head roll into the pillows as your body adjusted — trembling. He held still once he had buried himself to the hilt inside of you, his chest pressed to yours. And in the silence that followed, you heard everything else. The sound of your own ragged breath, the pounding of your hearts, the tiny involuntary whimper that left your lips as your walls pulsed around him.

“Fuck,” He cursed, breathing for what seemed like the first time since sliding into you, “You feel — Jesus, you feel good.”

You arched into him instinctively, your hips lifting from the mattress, urging him to move. And when he finally did — slow, dragging strokes that made your eyes roll back — the room shifted around you. There was nothing but the press of his body, the glide of his cock, the sharp sounds you made as he drove into you with aching reverence.

You clung to him, nails dragging down his spine, and he gripped your thigh tighter in response — deepening the angle. The friction hit something devastating inside of you, and a sharp cry fell from your lips; your whole body bucking beneath him. “That’s it,” He whispered against your electric skin, “That’s my girl. Let me hear you.”

Your lips found his neck, biting down to muffle a moan. He was getting rougher now, more desperate. Each thrust sent ripples through your body, your thighs clenching around his hips as his name spilled from your lips again and again. And still, between the heat and sweat and desire, there was a tenderness. His thumb brushed your cheek on its way to your mouth, his lips found your forehead, your temple, your jaw — soft touches that reminded you of the person beneath all of the wanting.

Even so, that wanting remained, sharp and persistent. It pulled at you both like a tide. He stilled for a moment, breath caught on a curse, and you looked up at him — panting, eyes wide, the sudden loss of friction a jolt of cold against the heat you had built. He didn’t speak at first. Just looked at you, all wrecked and radiant. Then, ran a hand down the length of your side, slow and reverent. “Turn over,” He said, voice low and thick with lust, like gravel coated in honey, “On your knees.”

Your body moved before your mind had a chance to catch up, instinct guiding your limbs as you turned and braced yourself on your knees, back arched and chest pressed against the comforter. You felt him behind you, his weight shifting on the bed, the heat of him returning as he settled in close and slid his hands over your ass; spreading you open with a groan like he was praying at the altar of your body. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, “You’re unreal like this.”

He guided himself to you again, teasing, his tip gliding against your folds with aching precision. Your back arched in response, seeking him, wanting him back inside of you with a need so strong it bordered on desperate. “Please,” You whispered, and the word came out broken by lust.

When he finally slid back in, the angle was impossibly deeper. It made you choke on your own gasp, your arms trembling beneath you. He stilled for a moment, both of you suspended in that blinding relief, before he pulled back and set a rhythm that was measured at first, then faster, deeper — until the sound of skin filled the room, slick and obscene, loud enough for the rest of the house to surely hear.

One of his hands slid under you, cupping your tit and pulling you back into him. His other hand gripped your hip so tightly you knew it would bruise. Each sharp thrust, even deeper now, sent sparks flying behind your eyes, inside of your stomach. Your voice was reduced to breathless whines and moans that sounded less than human. And then — too suddenly — his length slipped out of you. A sharp, wet sound. The loss hit you with a startled gasp, your body clenching down on nothing from the loss of contact.

You looked back at him — dazed, needy — and he met your gaze with a crooked, breathless grin. Thick with heat and demand. “Find it,” He rasped.

It was filthy, the way you arched back further without hesitation, the way your hand slid between your legs to guide him — slick and swollen — back where you needed him. Your breath hitched when he pressed forward again, filling you inch by inch as you pushed your hips back into his. Both of you groaned at the full-body relief of re-connection.

“Good girl,” He muttered, voice unsteady as he sank back in, his hands tightening on your waist, “Now fuck yourself on me.”

Again, your body answered without deliberation. The dirty sound of wet skin against skin filled the room as your hips lifted and fell in a slow, deliberate rhythm, each movement pressing him deeper inside of you. The slick of your arousal made each glide seamless, every bounce a sharp, delicious friction that sent shivers down your spine.

Your breath hitched in ragged gasps, mixing with the low, guttural groans spilling from his lips. His fingers curled into the flesh of your hips, warm and firm, guiding your movements as waves of pleasure threatened to pull you under. Your arms threatened to give out, and almost immediately he noticed and looped one arm around your waist; holding you in place as he fucked you from behind with deliberate, punishing thrusts — each one angled to make you cry out his name.

You were so close it scared you. So close to crumbling it felt like your body would fracture from the pleasure. Caught up in all of it — the filthy sounds, the sweat-slick bodies, the way his pulsing cock hit you just right again and again — you weren’t sure you could survive it. As if reading your mind, Matt’s hips stuttered and a ragged moan fell from his lips. “Come for me again baby,” He whispered, voice gritty, “Let me feel you fall apart.”

And when you did, it was wild and helpless. A tidal wave that crashed through your body with an overwhelming force you couldn’t contain. Your walls clenched and trembled, fingers digging into the sheets as your delirious moans fell ragged from your mouth. A shudder rolled through you from your core to the tips of your toes, leaving your nerve endings raw and exposed. Your body quivered uncontrollably, alight with bright white fire, as the waves of pleasure pulsed through you like a train you had no hope of outrunning.

He straightened your limp frame, holding you close against his front. His hips rolled in frantic, desperate thrusts that kept you pinned to him; every movement sending fresh sparks of sensation racing through your overwhelmed nervous system. His moans — deep, rough, drenched in need — fell into the hollow curve of your shoulder. They vibrated against your skin and anchored you in the chaos of his impending release.

As if on cue, he moaned. “Fuck, Y/n, g—gonna cum.”

You could feel the sticky heat of him pulsing inside of you, hot pressure that spilled from him with each shuddering breath he took. His arms cinched around your waist as if by holding you tight he could somehow contain the rippling pleasure crawling down his spine. The steady rhythm of his heart thudding beneath his chest echoed through your own pounding pulse, a shared beat that held you together even as your bodies trembled with both pleasure and exhaustion.

Eventually, he slowed. His thrusts became shallow, then still, until the only movement was the heave of his chest against your back. He let out a long breath, almost a sigh, and then pressed a slow, grateful kiss to your shoulder. When he pulled out, the absence was strange. You felt empty. The room was suddenly very quiet, save for the hum of distant voices through the walls and the sound of your breaths trying to find their rhythm again.

He collapsed onto the bed with a grunt, arm flung over his face, chest rising and falling. You lay next to him in the warm hush, every inch of you tingling, your skin damp and flushed. Somewhere outside, someone laughed too loud. Music played through the walls, muffled.

“Jesus,” He muttered, arm still covering his face, “We were not quiet.”

You let out a breathless, incredulous laugh, “Yeah, I unfortunately just realized that, too.”

He turned his head, pushed his arm away to glance at you. His mouth curved, sheepish and amused in lethargy that only sex could grant. “There is no chance we can go out there and pretend this didn’t happen.” You stretched a little, the soreness delicious and immediate. “We walked out of the living room like we were about to devour each other, and then we literally did. Loudly.” You rolled onto your side to face him, “I think our friends are smart enough to put two and two together there.”

He groaned and dragged a hand down his face, though he couldn’t hide the smile of contentment. “Nick’s never gonna let me live it down. And Chris’s gonna tell me he recorded from the other side of the door or some weird shit.” You laughed, rolling your eyes at his unfortunate accuracy. “I’ll kill him.” You replied, winking to soften the words. He exhaled through a laugh, then turned toward you completely; propping himself up on one elbow. “I mean…we could go back out. Pretend we were just—”

“What?” You interrupted, “Having an aggressively emotional conversation with the door locked and the bed creaking for forty minutes?” He winced, teeth flashing. “Okay, maybe not.” You reached out, fingers brushing lightly over the flushed skin of his chest. “Honestly, I don’t really care what they think.” He blinked at you then, and something in his face shifted — less apprehensive, almost a little relieved. “Yeah,” He agreed, his voice laced with tenderness, “Me neither.”

The sound of rap music drifted in through the hallway — someone had turned the music up. Voices were growing louder, the night reaching its climax. Life kept going on, loud and hopefully oblivious, on the other side of the door. “We’ll go out in a minute,” Matt said, adjusting in the bed beside you, arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you close so that you felt his still-warm skin against yours. You didn’t answer right away. Just closed your eyes and let yourself rest there, body still humming, heart full. Unsure of what came next — but certain that you didn’t care.

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

#sturniolo triplets #sturniolo smut #sturniolo x reader #the sturniolo triplets #the sturniolos #matt sturniolo x you #matt sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo x reader #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo #matthew sturniolo x you #matthew sturniolo fanfic #matthew sturniolo smut #matthew sturniolo x reader

461 notes · View notes

purplereina11 · 2 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

768 notes · View notes

realcube · 2 days ago

Text

— BEST FRIEND! SUNA

desc ;; after being blocked by a situationship, you show your best friend your nudes and ask for advise. tws & tags ;; nsfw mdni. distribution of explicit material, oral, objectification, mentions of squirting, breeding, anal & filming.

the door to suna's room creaks at you step inside.

after having spent all day bed rotting with your best friend, you decided to step out for some fresh air (and a quick smoke), and unsurprisingly, suna is still exactly as you left him — on his phone, leaning back against his headboard. he doesn't spare you a glance as you enter the room.

your phone is still perched precariously on the edge of his bed, and you approach it with caution. part of the reason you rushed outside was because during an awfully risque text conversation with a guy you've been talking to, you obliged and sent him some lewd pics. but he left you on read.

in your defence, it was a heat-of-the-moment decision, and he did request it, so it's not as though you were sending unsolicited images like some sort of perv. but the fact he was taking so long to respond did make you feel like one, though a small voice in your head tried to reassure you that surely he wasn't ignoring you, perhaps your pics have just given him something to take care of.

regardless, the larger part of you was moritified and unsure what to do, so you just dropped your phone on the bed and removed yourself from the situation — clearing your mind before you returned.

now, it was time for the moment of truth. you sat yourself awkwardly down on the corner of the bed, and hesitantly reached for your phone. no new notifications: that didn't fill you with much hope at all. after inputting your password, you navigated to the app and searched for his contact, and suspiciously it wasn't it your 'recently messaged' tab.

your heart was already thundering in your chest, but this only made it far worse. all your messages and chat history with this guy had disappeared, and when you tried to desperately type one out to him, it was immediately marked as 'failed to send'.

you frown, body going slack as you fall back onto the back and defeatedly drawl, "he blocked me.."

suna finally perked up from his oblivious post at the other side of his bed, "who blocked you?"

"the guy i was texting.."

"that sucks." suna responded bluntly. though you couldn't blame him, he clearly didn't understand the severity of the situation, so you tried to explain it to him,

"you don't get it! i actually really liked him, and we were having such a nice time talking until.." you trail off, failing to find the courage to admit the shameful truth.

"until?" suna pried.

"rinny! can i ask you something?" you inquire, swiftly sitting upright as you shift the conversation, "can i send you some photos and you can tell me what you think of them?"

if suna was being completely honest, he was only half paying attention to whatever it was you were saying, so naturally he didn't notice the sudden change in topic of discussion — or he just didn't care. your new request wasn't foreign to him though; often you'll ask him to review random pics that you plan on adding to a photo dump online. or asking him to rank what order you should add the pics to your instagram carousel. or in which of these three images are you serving the most cunt. stuff like that, thus he agreed.

"sure. send them and i'll look."

"yay." you hummed with delight, and eagerly forwarded him the pics, "let me know what you think. i thought they looked fine but now i'm having second thoughts.."

he tapped the notification at the top of his screen and was directed to the chat with you. in which, he was met with an influx of images he was not expecting.

you, his best friend, who he's known for as long as he can remember, perched on your bathroom counter and posing for a mirror photo — wearing nothing but a floral thong and no top. your back was facing the mirror so he couldn't see your chest, but the plump globe of your ass was fully exposed and unshielded by the skimpy sliver of fabric.

his blood rushed to his head, and also his dick. his whole body was tense and thus his eyes were glued to the lewd picture of you, not only because he was mesmerised but also since he was so rigid he couldn't bring himself to move his thumb.

the furious pounding of his heartbeat rattled in his eardrums. he's never seen you so bare before. of course you've worn revealing clothes around him before — like when you go to the beach together, or sometimes when you're just hanging out in a warm environment — but never in such a purposeful or pornographic manner.

don't get him wrong, you've always been alluring to him but he just assumed that was just a part of your nature and he was being a sly pervert for secretly viewing you in an explicit way. like when you'd pull your hoodie off and your shirt would ride up and he'd get a peek of your underboob. or when you'd sit with your legs up on the couch while wearing shorts and he could see the outline of your sweet folds. it was undoubtably hot but that was never the intention, or so he assumed.

even though your back was to the mirror in the image, he could still tell that you weren't wearing any top, and the placement of your other hand just underneath the rotund curve of your ass was so deliberate and hot. it's like he was seeing you in a whole other light; he didn't know you were capable of being so sexy on purpose — he always assumed it was more of an accidental thing for you.

it's like his whole impression of you was shattering. maybe you weren't the sweet girl with a grimy sense of humour he thought you were; maybe you were truly a slutty bombshell. it was surreal and nauseating yet he still ached to see more.

though, before he began scrolling through the several other images you sent him, he gulped and turned the phone to show you the screen, "uhm, did you mean to send me this?"

you furrowed your brows together and leaned forward to inspect the screen, afraid you might've sent him pics of your medical anomaly that you meant to show the doctor. but once you examined the pic, you sighed and sat back in place, "yeah, those are the right ones." you state plainly, and suna proceeds to stare blankly at you, entirely speechless.

it freaked you out a little, so you attempted to fill the uncomfortable silence, "what do you think? that's what i sent to the guy before he blocked me. i thought they were kinda cute.. but there must be something wrong with them." he still looks astonished, so you clarify, "and he asked for me to send them, by the way. i didn't just do it randomly."

suna nods slowly as if that were of any reassurance what-so-ever. you press him to continue looking, and he cautiously does so. his thumb moves on his own as he swipes through the multiple suggestive images you sent him. and his dick begins to throb looking at each one.

they are all so hot; makes him feel so perverted for enjoying it. many are taken in your bathroom mirror, a string bikini top with a measly little thong on. he recalls you wore that exact set to the beach with him one time, except you were wearing a floral sarong too. it was sheer but there was still enough fabric to obscure you're delicious ass. but in this picture it was all out for the camera.

there was even a couple shots from that one halloween where you went as a zombie cowgirl. the costume itself was cool but suna recalls it wasn't revealing or intentionally 'sexy' or anything like that — which is why his heart leaped upon seeing your various upskirt pics, that were probably taken after he walked you home after a night out. some were shot directly up your skirt, showing the plushness of your ass up close, while others were taken in your bedroom mirror. either with you lifting your skirt up teasingly, or full-on bent over for the camera. from certain angles, he could even see the imprint of your lips through your thin panties which drove him absolutely insane.

to think, if he was smart enough that night, he could've stayed over at yours and buried himself in that cute ass, that you were clearly so desperate to show off. could've ate that pristine hole and felt your soft ass cradle his face. it's as though he could hear the adorable little noises you would've made, ringing in his ears.

he been gawking at his phone screen for a while, saying nothing, so you pry, "i look fine, right, rin? c'mon, please don't tell me i look weird! i thought these pictures were cute, so i don't know why he didn't like them.." you whine with a frustrated pout. you really don't understand men, thus you were hoping suna would be of some assistance, but he wasn't even saying anything or providing useful insight. just gaping at his screen.

"uh, they look.." he started, voice trailing off as his eyes were still glued to your perky ass clad in nothing but a thong, and his mind began to run wild with fantasies, "uhm.."

you interpretted his lust-fuelled daze as disinterest, and sighed. "really? they're that bad. what's wrong with 'em? i don't get it.. oh! is it because i'm leaving to much to the imagination? are they not overt enough?" you bite your lip as you antsily scroll through your secure folders and forward him some additional pictures, "look, i have dirtier ones. whatdya think? are these ones better?"

as promised, the new images you sent him were dirtier. filthy, in fact.

now you were wearing absolutely nothing. suna choked on his own spit at the sight of you stood bare in front of your bathroom mirror, posing suggestively for the camera. your whole pussy was exposed and so were your erect nipples, that he had previously only seen when they were teasing him by straining against the fabric of your tank tops.

he knew you were attractive but it was shocking to realise that is the body you've been hiding this whole time. had he knew that earlier, he would've ripped your clothes off a lot sooner.

in some of them your hair was wet and the bathroom mirror was steamy, as though you had just gotten out of the shower. for the most part he's been hyper-focussed on your seductive body, however, he's suddenly beginning to notice things in the background. like the pattern of the bathroom tiles.. and the shape of the mirror.. and the colour of the countertops.. shit, were some of these taken in his bathroom?

there was no denying it. the reality came crashing down on him like a sack of bricks and knocked the wind right out of him. at some point, he was chilling in his room, probably playing video games or texting his friends without a care in the world, patiently waiting for his turn to shower, while you were in the adjoining bathroom, posing for nude selfies and showing off your slutty tits for the camera. in his mirror.

fuck, if only he knew. now he feels like an idiot. the things he would've done to that hot body in the shower, his dick aches just thinking about it. he'd need to finish in you so many times, until his cum was drooling out of you and he'd only stop once the water ran cold.

there were shots with your legs spread too. on halloween again, your skirt was hiked up and your panties were pulled to the side, exposing your glistening cunt. he'd do anything to lock his mouth to those puffy folds of yours. taste that sticky, juicy cunt. even without flash, your pussy was visibly soaked with your arousal. it coated your lips and stuck to your inner thighs.

and the sight of your tantalising hole was enough to make him light-headed. so puckered and cute for the camera. and it was about the tightest little thing he's ever seen. from the way your own juices soak your pretty pussy, he could tell you were undoubtly needy that halloween night. he hates himself for not burying his cock into that snug hole and stretching you out. pounding his fat dick into over and over, and making you take it. or his tongue, then he wouldn't stop until you squirt in his mouth, and he'd keep going for several rounds until you—

"hellooo? earth to rinny. anybody there?" you wave your hand in between his dry eyes and the phone, which momentarily rips him out of his horny trance.

"huh?" he groans, confused as to what you are disturbing him for, when he was so close drinking up your first orgasm (in his imagination.)

"do you think i should've sent the dirtier pics?" you pondered aloud, waiting for suna's much-needed input, "maybe he blocked me because he thought i was a prude, or something like that."

"you're definitely not a prude." suna utters his first coherent (and sfw) thought in the last ten minutes. "why.. did you send me these?"

"so i can get your opinion, dummy!" you roll your eyes, prodding at his shoulder, "that's what i've been syaing this whole time. it's not like i'm showing you my nudes for fun."

"right.." his brows twitch, trying his best not to even glance down at his phone screen, as he knows he'll be distracted again, "i think you look fine."

"fine?!—"

"—great! you look great." suna swiftly corrects himself, then continues, "why do you care that some guy blocked you? he was probably just an asshole."

"what if he blocked me because he thinks i'm hideous?" you whine.

"you're not." he states plainly. "but if you're that worried about it, i could help you take some better photos."

"really?"

"yeah." he slowly stands up from the bed, weary as to conceal his throbbing erection as he moves, "what're friends for?"

you smile gently up at him, and without further question, you begin to remove your clothes. in truth, you are a bit hesitant because you've never purposefully stripped for him before — yeah, sometimes you guys would change in front of each other, but that was never as intimate as this. however, you persevered because you felt as though during your embarrassing moment, you reached a new level of friendship and camaraderie with suna. one in which you could be more vulnerable with each other.

first to come off was your jumper, then your shorts, and next thing you knew, you were laying completely nude out in front of suna. he loomed over you, grasping onto his phone camera for dear life. his eyes were zeroed in on your tits, but you tried your best to ignore that and giggled, "how should i pose first?"

rintaro forced himself to gulp down whatever hedonistic thoughts were brewing in his mind, for now. he didn't want to risk appearing too eager, even if your naked body in such close proximity to him almost caused knees to give out under him. he needs to act casual. "lay on your back."

you do as you are told, and you mewl slightly as his cold hands runs over the back of your thigh, massaging your silkly flesh. he kneeds the doughy meat of your ass with his palms, then promptly spreads your cheeks to expose your puckered asshole. you can almost hear his devilish grin as he snaps a photo and hums, "there we go. so tight for the camera. you wouldn't mind if i.." his muses, as his fingers idly dance over your rear, playfully poking your ass until they sneak down to prod at your hole.

then, without warning, he shoves two digits straight in, takes the pic then yanks them back out. your back arches instictively at the lewd intrusion, "ngh, rinny!" you squeal, scrunching your features, "just take normal ones.."

"this is the sort of stuff guys like, though." he reassures, stroking your perky ass, savouring the sensation of your supple skin under his hand. "action shots."

"hmm.." you considered his suggestion, bearing in mind that he's a horny fuck that probably just wanted to stick his fingers inside you, "maybe my old pics are a bit vanilla.." you admitted.

"yeah. they're hot but you could look a lot hotter." he said, blinkly slowly, "you know what guys like? squirting pics."

"...really?" you raised an eyebrow, peering over your shoulder so he could see your clearly dubious expression.

"mhm. most guys are super turned on by it. you could land any guy if you had a pic like that." he explains with an absurd amount of sincerity and confidence, despite the fact he pulled all of that out of his ass.

"and how would i get a photo like that?" you slowly roll over onto your back, so you're looking up at him while he's stood at the edge of the bed, holding your thigh in one hand and his phone in the other — with his camera pointed directly at you.

"i guess i'd have to tongue fuck you.." he says 'begrudgingly'.

"oh i'd never made you do that, rinny." you're onto his agenda, since he does a terrible job at hiding it. the massive tent in his pants was making it too obvious that he wanted to fuck you. but you like to tease him about it. "i could just use a vibrator, while you take the picture."

his face drops, "uh," he splutters, not anticipating pushback, "girls can't squirt.. with vibrators." he blinks. the lies were somehow becoming less and less believable, despite how they weren't very convincing to begin with.

"that's a shame." you bow your head in attempt to suppress a chortle at his ridicoulous claim. finally, you decide to give him what he wants, "would you please tongue fuck me, then, rinny?" you bat your eyelashes at him.

"...sure."

#suna rintarō #suna smut #haikyuu smut #haikyuu time skip #suna x reader #suna x you #suna x y/n #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!!#👾nsfw

451 notes · View notes

vibeswithdivs · 2 days ago

Text

you dork - OP81

It had been over eight hours since the race ended.

You knew that because you’d rewatched the post-race interviews three times, counted two full cycles of the dryer, and checked your phone at least thirty-four times, give or take. You weren’t one to overthink — usually. But today felt different.

Oscar had won.

And not just won, but swept it. Controlled the race with the kind of quiet precision that always made your chest ache with pride. He’d been smiling on the podium, champagne soaking his fire suit, curls matted to his forehead. He’d looked calm. Steady. Golden under the lights.

But after that? Radio silence.

No post-race text. No selfie from the cooldown room. No “just landed, talk soon” message from the tarmac like he usually sent before flying out. Not even a little heart emoji.

You tried not to spiral. Maybe his phone died. Maybe his schedule was tighter than usual. Maybe he just crashed on the plane.

But that didn’t stop your mind from racing.

So here you were, long after midnight, folding laundry to stay busy, the hum of the dryer filling the quiet corners of your apartment. You wore one of his old hoodies — sleeves tugged past your hands, the fabric smelling faintly of cedarwood and the detergent he always used when you were back in his place. Your playlist was on shuffle, volume low. The air felt heavy with that nervous stillness only people in love understood — when nothing had technically gone wrong, but your gut whispered otherwise.

You picked up one of his t-shirts — the navy one he always wore under his race suit — and pressed it to your chest for a moment, your arms wrapped around yourself.

“I’m being ridiculous,” you muttered aloud, dropping it into the folded pile.

You didn’t hear the door unlock.

You didn’t hear footsteps.

You did, however, feel the sudden presence behind you — a weight of silence far too close — and just as you turned, a pair of arms wrapped around your waist.

You screamed.

Not just a startled yelp — a full-body, I’m-being-kidnapped kind of shriek that echoed off the kitchen walls. You stumbled forward, almost dropping the laundry basket, spinning on your heel with your hand already flying toward—

Oscar.

Standing there, arms half-raised, a startled look on his face, mouth already halfway through an apology.

“God—Oscar!”

He winced. “Okay, okay, I deserved that.”

“Are you insane?! You don’t just—” You clutched your chest, heart thundering. “You don’t sneak up on people like that when it’s pitch-black and no one’s heard from you for hours!”

His expression immediately softened. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t text me. At all.”

“I know.” He dropped his bag by the couch, stepping forward slowly like he was approaching a spooked deer. “I turned off my phone to sleep on the flight, and then we got delayed on the runway. I just… I wanted to surprise you.”

You were still frozen, hands slightly trembling, adrenaline high. But then — your eyes traced the details. His soft grey hoodie. The carry-on bag he always used. Hair flattened from headphones. The bags under his eyes.

And then it hit you like a wave — the kind of quiet relief that makes your knees weak.

“You’re home,” you whispered.

“I’m home,” he echoed, stepping close enough to pull you in.

This time, when his arms wrapped around you, you didn’t flinch. You collapsed into him instead, burying your face in his chest, clutching handfuls of hoodie fabric like it might vanish if you let go.

“I thought—” your voice cracked. “I thought something happened.”

“I’m sorry, love.” His voice was low, the apology real. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

You nodded against him, still not letting go.

He pressed a kiss into your hair, one hand gently rubbing your back in slow circles. “I missed you.”

“You scared the shit out of me.”

“I know. I’m never doing a surprise visit again.”

“You say that now,” you muttered.

He chuckled, and the vibration of it through your chest finally loosened the tight knot of worry inside you.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes narrowed. “You really thought sneaking in like a serial killer was romantic?”

“I had a key,” he said defensively.

“Oh, well, that makes it totally fine,” you deadpanned.

His lips twitched, and he leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I brought snacks?”

You sighed and rested your head against him again. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I get that a lot.”

After a long pause, he murmured, “Were you folding laundry in my shirt?”

“No.”

He glanced down. “That’s literally my race tee from Austria.”

“Coincidence.”

He smiled and gently swayed you both side to side. “God, I missed this. All of this. Even you accusing me of crimes I didn’t commit.”

You looked up at him with a glare. “You broke into my house like a raccoon.”

“An adorable raccoon with good intentions.”

You bit back a laugh, finally exhaling the tension that had gripped you all night. “You dork.”

“I love you too.”

That stopped you.

Your eyes widened slightly, caught off guard by the ease of his voice — not dramatic, not grand, just matter-of-fact, like it had always been true.

You smiled, shy and slow. “I love you more.”

Oscar brushed his knuckles down your cheek. “I thought about this moment the whole flight home.”

“What, the part where I nearly sock you in the face?”

“No,” he grinned. “The part where I hold you like this. And breathe again.”

You melted then, fully, completely. No more fear. No more what-ifs. Just Oscar, in your living room, smelling like airport coffee and victory, arms around you like home.

You didn’t move for a while.

Eventually, he helped you finish folding the laundry — sort of. Mostly, he sat beside you, making fun of your folding technique and draping socks over your head until you threatened to tickle him.

Then you ended up on the couch, tangled in blankets, watching reruns of the very race he’d won, Oscar making commentary like a sarcastic broadcaster while you curled into his side.

And when you finally drifted off — warm, safe, loved — it was to the sound of his heart beating steadily beneath your ear.

He was home.

He was yours.

#f1 #formula 1 #formula one #formula one imagine #formula one x you #mclaren #lando norris #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri #oscar piastri x reader #op81 imagine #op81 x reader #op81

432 notes · View notes

baiwu-jinji · 2 days ago

Text

After the arrests last year of danmei authors who published their works on the Taiwanese website Haitang, the authorities have allegedly arrested another 200-300 authors, many of whom took to weibo to share their experiences recently.

What struck me is how the authors always blamed themselves for not being cautious enough or being led astray by their financial needs, but nobody put the blame on the unjust rules and the greed of the authorities that led to their arrests - not that they would dare to. It's an utterly bizarre situation that, as a new danmei English license seems to be announced once every few days here on the other side of China's Great Firewall, within China the persecution keeps getting more rampant and the danmei community feels more and more cornered and frightened. Reality is always more surreal than fiction.

I translated some of the author's weibo posts, please see below:

“I knew I was being naïve and over-optimistic (about the repercussions of writing danmei), so I can’t blame anyone. Sometimes I want to resent society but then I’ll give up the thought. As for the criminal punishment, my view on it is still the same - I even feel that I’m different from those who engage in prostitution; after all, I made all this money by typing my stories word by word. Yet when I got into trouble, people talked about it as if I didn’t have to work for my income.” - This is from an author who wrote danmei because her family’s poor and she wanted to save money to travel. She got into a master’s programme before this and the programme kicked her out because of her arrest.

“Ever since I was little, I’ve always been the well-behaved golden child in my parents’ eyes. I had the best grades among my peers and won scholarships in both high school and university. When we visited family during New Year and other festivals, my parents were always proud of me in front of our relatives. But that day I shamed them thoroughly and the shame will always stick around...I love the characters I wrote very much, planning and creating their stores always brought me so much happiness and fulfillment. But a mistake is a mistake. I want to use my personal experience to admonish others - don’t try to go against the regulations in any way ever, don’t put yourself in the slightest bit of risk.”

“I’ve never felt this horrible in my entire life. I’ve always firmly believed that nobody in this world could be that bad. My rose-tinted glasses were broken along with my romantic expectations for the world. My values and outlook on life were shattered. When something like this happens, perhaps only the family of the author involved and the author herself would be hurt deeply! It’s just business for everyone else!”

This one’s written by the author’s sibling: “Another sleepless night. Tomorrow is the Dragon Boat Festival, and it’s been three festivals since we could be together...I’ve felt remorseful for countless times that I didn’t contact more people and I felt that I haven’t done enough. I prayed to the gods and the Buddha for more times in the past two months than in the past 30 years. Besides asking for the Heaven’s protection and blessing, what else can we do?...You supported yourself financially during university solely by doing part-time jobs. We’ve always put too much importance on money, and that’s how we allowed you to make a mistake.”

(link to the original weibo posts: https://x.com/whyyoutouzhele/status/1928763362541818266)

#danmei

586 notes · View notes

pitlanepeach · 1 day ago

Text

Radio Silence | Chapter Forty-One

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, pregnancy, strong language, death-anxiety (no actual death), Lando being an amazing husband.

Notes — Get the tissues ready. Check out the R.S Pinterest board post-chapter for some visuals!

2024 (Monaco)

Oscar sat cross-legged on the sofa, unwrapping a granola bar. Amelia lowered herself onto the chair opposite him with her notebook.

"What would you do if a child started to projectile vomit in a moving vehicle?" She asked, pen ready.

He blinked. "Sorry—what?"

"Answer the question."

"...Pull over. Make sure they're, like, breathing. Crack a window to get rid of the smell."

Amelia nodded. "Okay." She jotted something down.

Oscar narrowed his eyes. "What are you doing?"

"No concern of yours. Do you know how to sterilise a baby bottle?"

"Uh... no?"

"Do you know how to swaddle a newborn?"

"No, but I could YouTube it?"

She scribbled again, then looked up. "If Lando and I died tragically in a freak accident, would you be able and willing to raise our child?"

He choked. "What the hell?"

"Answer the question."

He coughed. "I—yeah? I mean, if that happened, yeah, I'd step up."

Amelia tapped her pen. "You'd need to cut back on the amount of time you spend on the panel court."

Oscar muttered, "I'd just take the baby with me."

—

Max Fewtrell sipped his flat white while Amelia stared at him, all beady eyed and completely unreadable.

"Do you own a fire extinguisher?" She asked flatly.

"...Good morning to you too?"

"Max."

"Yes. I think. Maybe? I don't know. Why?"

"Do you have a last will and testament?"

He stared at her. "Jesus, Amelia, are you going to have me killed?"

"This is all hypothetical, of course."

"What is happening right now?"

"Final question," she said. "Do you think you could emotionally support a child through the grief of losing both parents in a tragic accident?"

"...Oh my god."

Amelia didn't blink. "You're being considered for the position."

"For what?"

"Okay. I have enough information. Goodbye."

She left him sitting with his untouched croissant, both confused and mildly alarmed.

—

They walked side by side, Amelia waddling more than walking at this point. Fernando glanced down at her notepad.

"You are writing notes about me?"

"I'm evaluating your parental fitness."

"Why?"

"You might be a candidate to become the guardian of my daughter. In the event that Lando and I both die."

He blinked. "That is very grim."

"Statistically unreasonable," she said. "For me, anyway. Lando not so much." She sighed, chewing on her lip.

Fernando rubbed his jaw. "What is the criteria I must meet?"

"Emotional regulation. Moral compass. Childproofing competency. Capability of enduring a preschool dance recital."

He made a considering expression. "That last one might be a difficulty."

"You're top three so far." She told him.

"...I do not know if that is flattering or mildly scary."

"I trust you not to let her become a Red Bull junior driver; should she decide to start karting."

He nodded sagely. "Yes. Very good."

—

Amelia leaned across the table. "I have a few questions."

Max didn't look up from his phone. They were drinking milkshakes at a local coffee shop on the harbour. "Sure."

"If you had to raise a child you didn't birth, what would be your discipline strategy?"

"...Sorry?"

"Say me and Lando die. Hypothetically, if you got custody of our daughter, would you leave her at a petrol station if she disappointed you?"

He finally looked up. "Why would I get custody?!"

"I'm evaluating every available options."

"For a child that isn't even born yet?"

"She already exists. She's just... inside."

Max stared at her. "Zusje, you and Lando are not going to die."

She frowned at him. "You can't know that for sure."

He sighed. "Fine. I guess... No. I would not leave her at a petrol station, or stab any of her mechanics with a fork. But I would teach her how to drive early. Enter her into karting at three. Make sure she is ahead of everybody else."

Amelia jotted that down. "Noted."

"Am I seriously being considered?"

"You have the lowest risk of emotional instability during a crisis." She informed him.

He blinked. "Oh. Really?" He asked. "I feel like I'm a bit... hot-headed."

She shrugged. "Never with me, though. So I think you'd be the same with my little girl."

He stared at her for a beat and then smiled. "Yeah, Amelia. I think I would be too."

—

Amelia had kicked off her shoes the second she stepped into the apartment, now she was curled on the couch, laptop perched on her bump, tongue between her teeth as she typed furiously.

Lando came in behind her, fresh from a shower and still towelling off his hair. "Hey, babe. You hungry or—" He paused. Squinted. "What's the spreadsheet for?"

"Um," she said, not looking up. "It's colour-coded." She said, instead of answering the question.

"Of course it is." He padded over, still shirtless, and peered over her shoulder. "Fewtrell?"

"Yes."

"...And Oscar? Alonso? Verstappen?"

"Mmhmm."

He leaned closer, confused. "What is this?"

"Um."

"...Amelia," he said slowly, his voice pitching higher with suspicion. "What is this?"

She tapped something in the cell next to 'Max Verstappen – discipline style' and replied casually, "I'm compiling an assessment list for potential legal guardians in the case of our untimely deaths."

Lando froze. "I'm sorry— what?"

She finally looked up, frowning. "You're speaking very loudly."

"Because you're interviewing our friends to be our child's guardians in case we die?"

"Yes. Obviously. We'd need someone capable, emotionally regulated, ethically sound."

He blinked. Hard. "What about our parents? Or, like, one of my siblings? You know... our actual family."

She made a face. "Okay, I see your point." She said, completely sincere. "But I'd feel more comfortable having a list of at least five people who would be capable of stepping in."

Lando ran a hand through his hair. "Babe, you asked Oscar if he'd raise our daughter and didn't even think to mention this to me?"

"I was testing him under spontaneous stress," she said matter-of-factly. "He passed."

"Oh my god." Lando dropped onto the couch beside her, one hand dragging down his face. "Baby, we are not going to die, okay? God, maybe we should go to therapy about this."

"You already have therapy," she reminded him. "On Tuesday."

"I meant extra therapy. For both of us."

She turned the laptop toward him. "Do you want to see the rankings?"

"I—No! Wait—yes. Who's top?"

"Right now... Fernando."

He pulled a face. "Fernando?"

"He's extremely competent. Low emotional volatility. Has a very secure apartment and a predictable routine. He is also old, wise, and very rich. He would be able to hire wonderful childminders."

"...That's fair."

"Oscar is second."

"Obviously." He said.

"Max — Verstappen — third."

Lando tilted his head. "Seriously?"

"He would make sure she was loved. She'd grow up with discipline and money. Also, he has very cute cats."

Lando laughed, despite himself. "That's not... wrong."

"I ruled out Daniel because I texted him and he said that he would 'just vibe it.'"

Lando winced. "Yeah, okay, that's fair grounds for dismissal."

"Fewtrell's somewhere in the middle," she added, with a conflicted sigh. "I know we love him, and P, but he's still young and not settled down properly."

"I mean..." Lando shook his head, half-exasperated, half in love. "Babe. I love you so much, but this is mental."

"It's preparation. Contingency is kindness."

He stared at her — tan skin aglow from the laptop screen, expression painfully earnest. "You're... god, you're terrifying and brilliant."

She frowned. "I'm not terrifying."

"You kinda are."

"Do you want me to stop?" She asked, earnestly.

Lando's face softened completely. "No. I want you to keep being exactly you. I just also want to have a say in our daughter's future, you know, if we're both exploded in a tragic yacht fire."

She nodded. "Okay. That's fine."

He pulled the laptop from her lap, setting it on the table, then leaned in, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Can I be honest?"

"Always."

"I get scared sometimes too. About what will happen if something goes wrong. I think about all of the worst-case scenarios. But I know that I can't let myself obsess over 'what if's', or else I'll forget to enjoy the life I do have." He told her softly.

"Maybe that's a good idea," she muttered, but softened when he slid his arms around her and tugged her gently into his lap, belly and all.

They sat like that for a long moment, her head on his shoulder, his hands resting protectively over the curve of her bump.

"You know," Lando murmured, "no one could ever really replace you. No matter how good they are at bottle sterilising."

Amelia blinked hard. "I know."

"And if anything ever happened to me... she'd still have you. And that would be more than enough."

She buried her nose against his collarbone. "Don't say that."

"Okay. But it's true." He said into her hair.

She sniffled. "Our parents would do it, wouldn't they? They'd work together and make sure that she's raised the way we were. With love and care and attention."

"Yeah, baby. I think our family is the best idea." He told her honestly. "But you can still use your spreadsheet to choose Godparents, maybe?" He suggested.

She scrunched her nose. "I'm an atheist."

"Me too. I still have Godparents. They're just like... glorified Aunts and Uncles."

"Oh." She mumbled. "We'll have to have a long discussion about that."

He chuckled into her hair. "Okay, baby. Whatever you want."

—

Amelia sat cross-legged on the bed, half in her pyjamas, a stack of papers pushed off to the side. Her phone was pressed to her ear, the lights dimmed low. The baby kicked once — firm — beneath her ribs. She didn't react.

"Hi, Mum," she said when Tracey picked up.

"Hi, love. Everything okay?"

"No." Amelia didn't bother softening it. "I mean — not catastrophically. But I need to talk about something and I don't want you to tell me I'm overthinking."

"I never would," Tracey said gently. "Go on."

A beat passed. Then another. Amelia closed her eyes.

"If something happens to me. Or me and Lando. What happens to my baby?"

There was a pause on the other end. Not long. But present.

"Darling..."

"I've been making a list," Amelia went on. "Of potential guardians. Interviewing people. Assessing them. I've made a spreadsheet."

"I'm not surprised," Tracey said softly.

"I thought about putting Oscar first, but he doesn't know how to sterilise a bottle. Fernando is high scoring but he's not got much experience for kids. Max F would probably fill her bottles with Monster Energy."

Tracey laughed, despite herself. "What about us?"

"I assumed you'd all be willing to help. But I need a legal designation. If we die, someone has to be named. Officially."

"Sweetheart... I understand. I do." Tracey's voice was steady, but warm. "But it's also so unlikely."

"I know it's unlikely." Amelia's voice was sharp, strained. "But I can't bank on unlikely. That's not how I work. That's not safe."

There was silence again. Amelia's fingers tapped restlessly against her thigh.

"I just—" Her voice cracked. "I don't want her to be scared. Or confused. Or be stuck with someone who doesn't understand her. Especially if she's—like me."

"She'll be loved," Tracey said immediately. "No matter what she's like. Because she'll be yours and Lando's little girl. And because you'll have taught her how to explain herself. Just like you've done your whole life."

Amelia blinked hard. "You think she'll be alright?"

"I know she will be. And not just because you've planned ten steps ahead. But because she'll grow up with people who see her. Who will do whatever it takes to understand her. Just like we did with you."

There was quiet on the line. The baby kicked again, softer this time. Amelia exhaled.

"I don't want to need the plan," she said, very quietly. "But I need to have the plan."

"And that's okay," Tracey said. "You make the plan. You have it in place that me and your dad, or Lando's mum and his dad, will be named legal guardians. But then, when you're ready, let it sit. You don't need to carry it every minute."

"I don't know how not to."

"Then I'll carry a little bit of it for you. So will your dad. So will Lando. That's what family's for."

A long pause.

"Thanks, Mum."

"I love you."

Amelia wiped her cheek. "Yeah. I know."

—

Amelia lay on her side, half curled around a pillow, hoodie bunched over the top of her belly. Lando was pressed close behind her, one hand splayed gently across the curve of her bump.

"She's awake," he murmured, grinning against her shoulder. "I felt her boot me in in the hand just now."

"She likes to kick when I'm horizontal," Amelia said, with a sigh. "She's very inconsiderate."

Lando chuckled and flattened his palm more purposefully, thumb brushing small circles near her belly button. "You think she knows it's me?"

"She reacts to your voice. She kicks harder for Oscar at the moment, though."

"That's rude." He leaned down, speaking directly to her stomach. "You know I'm the one who's gonna be changing your dirty, stinky nappies, right?"

The baby gave a solid thump.

Lando pulled back, eyes wide. "Did you feel that? She literally just responded to me."

"Of course I felt it," Amelia muttered.

Lando laughed again and shifted so he could look at her properly, brushing a few stray hairs away from her forehead. "Okay, okay. What if I..." He pressed a kiss to her belly, then whispered, "You're the coolest little bean in the universe."

Another kick.

"She's gonna be so spoiled," Amelia said. "You're already hyping her up."

"She should be hyped up. Look at her genes."

Amelia laughed. "Lando."

Lando turned to her with a mischievous glint. "What do you think happens if I play a recording of a V10 engine?"

"She might decide to come earth-side early." She said.

Lando snorted.

Amelia shifted onto her back, guiding Lando's hand as the baby rolled again, this time slower, like she was listening.

"She's so real," Amelia said, quieter now. "Still doesn't feel like it all the time. But she is. Real."

"I know," he said. "I think about it every day. That we're... gonna be parents. That I get to do this with you."

Amelia didn't look at him, but her fingers curled gently around his. "You're really good with me."

"Yeah, well," he murmured, resting his forehead gently against hers. "I kind of love you."

She turned her head a little, and he kissed her softly — slow and familiar, the kind that didn't lead anywhere except safety.

Their hands stayed linked over the baby as she shifted again beneath their skin.

"Do you think she'll be scared the first time we bring her into the paddock?" Lando asked.

"No. She'll be too tiny to be scared, I think. And by the time she's old enough, it'll just be... normal for her," Amelia muttered. "But we've got to get her paddock credentials sorted as soon as she's born."

He grinned. "We'll start with a tiny little VIP badge to clip to her baby grow. And some ear defenders."

"Smart," Amelia said. "We'll both have plenty of loud men to block out."

They fell asleep like that, legs tangled, baby between them, and the next morning came soft and golden through the curtains; the first light falling directly across Amelia's stomach, as if even the sun was trying to say hello.

—

It was already warm under the canopy, even though the Monaco sun hadn't fully crested the hills yet. The McLaren paddock buzzed—orange polos everywhere, cameras drifting past on gimbals, mechanics laughing over first-cup coffees that smelled like dark chocolate and fuel.

Amelia stood at the edge of it all, arms folded over her bump, dark sunglasses perched on her nose, clipboard hugged tight against her chest. She'd already rewritten a run-plan line item; now she was waiting—still—for Oscar.

He finally jogged up, bag slung over one shoulder. "You look like an army-recruitment officer," he puffed.

"You wouldn't last a day in the army," she replied, eyes still on her iPad. "You're always late."

"I'm sorry," he groaned. "And I'm only seven minutes late!"

"Seven minutes and you dropped croissant flakes all over the sim consoles last night. They ended up in the throttle pedal housing. I had to get on my hands and knees with the little handheld hoover. Do you know how difficult it is for me to bend over right now?"

"I was hungry. I needed energy!"

She raised one eyebrow. "Energy bars exist and they don't shed pastry all over the priceless simulator equipment."

He pursed his lips, sighed an apology, then nodded toward the interior of the motorhome. "Sorry. Fine. Come on. Tom's waiting."

—

The briefing room smelled of whiteboard marker and fresh rubber. Tom Stallard—clipboard in hand, headset looped around his neck—looked up as they entered. He offered Amelia a polite nod and Oscar a wry smile.

"Morning," Tom said, voice calm, measured. "Figured we could run through hand-over minutiae before first practice?"

Amelia slipped into the chair beside him, dropping her own clipboard with a soft thud. "Good idea. At least one of you is prepared today."

"Hey!" Oscar protested.

Tom chuckled. "I'm fairly prepared, I guess."

"That's good," Amelia muttered, tapping notes on her iPad.

She flicked the screen toward Tom. A colour-coded chart lit up; Oscar's preferred comms phrasing, ideal brake-migration tweaks per track, panic phrases to watch for. Oscar-Handling 101, the header read in dead-serious Helvetica.

Tom scanned it, impressed. "This is on-top of the big folder you've already put together for me?"

"Contingency is kindness," Amelia replied. "I'm not leaving him undefended while I'm off having a baby."

Oscar leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "She's terrified you'll let me eat in the sim room."

Tom grinned. "Contraband food noted."

Amelia pointed at the final column. "He also says 'copy, copy' when he's flustered. Means he hasn't copied. Repeat the instruction."

Oscar's ears went pink. "Well you didn't have to put that in writing."

"It's an operational fact," she said simply.

Tom set the chart aside. "We'll be okay, Amelia. I've shadowed enough of your sessions to know how you translate his feedback. Not as well as you can — but enough."

She exhaled—one of those slow, controlled breaths. God, she felt like her organs were running out of room. "I know. My brain just... insists on double-checking." Her hand rested instinctively on her belly. "Can't exactly be on the pit wall at forty weeks."

Oscar's expression softened. "You'll still be in my ear sometimes, right? From home?"

"As a 'consultant'," Tom said, quoting with his fingers. "Team's already approved remote link-ups when needed."

Amelia nodded. "I'll ping in for data dives. But Tom's your primary. Listen to him. Trust him."

"Understood," Oscar said, suddenly earnest. "And... thanks—for all this. For everything. I knew you'd be — all Amelia about this. But you didn't have to be. And I really appreciate it."

She blinked behind the sunglasses, uncomfortable with sentiment. "Just keep running at the top of the field. Keep pushing yourself. Maybe win a race." She told him.

Tom pushed his chair back, easy and steady. "Right. Track walk in ten."

Oscar slapped the table once in mock salute. "Yes, sir."

He turned to Amelia as they headed for the door. "No more croissants in the sims," he promised.

She handed him a protein bar out of her bag. "Here. This is better. More stable energy, less saturated fats."

He grinned, unwrapping it. "Aw. You still love me even after crumb-gate."

"Crumb-gate," she echoed, her mouth twitched upward.

Tom watched the exchange with quiet amusement. As they stepped onto the sun-lit pit lane, he leaned toward her. "He'll be fine, Amelia."

She adjusted her headset, gaze following Oscar's retreating figure. "I know. So will I." A small pause. "But I still hate it when he's late."

Tom laughed. "I'll keep him on military time."

—

The Monte Carlo sun had a way of making everything feel cinematic. White yachts bobbed on sapphire water, the harbour glinting just beyond the paddock gates. Amelia stood by the McLaren motorhome in a clean papaya polo, sunglasses tucked into her collar, bump unmistakable beneath the fabric.

It was Media Day, and the buzz was palpable.

She adjusted her earpiece as the Sky Sports producer counted them in, the familiar voice of Natalie Pinkham coming through her headphones with a bright, practiced warmth.

"We are here in beautiful Monaco with a very special guest — Amelia Norris, McLaren's lead performance engineer and, of course, Oscar Piastri's race engineer. Amelia, welcome."

Amelia gave a nod, her voice calm, direct. "Thanks. It's really hot, isn't it?"

Natalie laughed. "That it is. Listen, you've had a phenomenal season — McLaren's surge in performance, Oscar's consistency, and Lando finally breaking through for his first win. You've had your fingerprints on all of it."

Amelia tilted her head slightly, weighing the praise before answering. "It's been a team effort. Good car, amazing drivers. We've been smart with upgrades."

"And you've done all this," Natalie gestured gently to Amelia's belly, "while also expecting your first child with Lando. How exciting for you both!"

A soft smile played at Amelia's lips. "Yes. She's a very involved team member. Likes to kick during data meetings."

That got a warm laugh from the crew and nearby media.

Natalie's voice softened. "And I believe you have a bit of news for us today?"

Amelia nodded once. "Yes. This weekend will be my last before I step back for maternity leave. Tom Stallard will be taking over race engineering for Oscar post-Monaco until further notice."

A small wave of murmurs rippled through the surrounding press. Natalie smiled at her. "So this is your last race weekend for a while?"

Amelia shrugged, still poised. "For a few months, yes. I'll still be consulting remotely. But I won't be on the pit wall again until later in the season."

Natalie leaned in a little. "How does it feel, stepping away at a time like this? With McLaren doing so well, and you being so integral?"

There was a pause. Amelia's eyes flicked briefly down the paddock — where Lando was laughing with mechanics, Oscar leaning against the wall with a coffee, talking to a camera crew.

Then she answered.

"It's... complicated," she said. "I like control. I like knowing things. And there's a lot about becoming a parent I can't forecast. But the team is solid. Oscar's going to be in good hands. And our daughter—" her hand instinctively brushed her belly, "—deserves my full attention for a while."

There was a beat of quiet. Then Natalie smiled, warm and real. "Well, on behalf of everyone watching — thank you so much, Amelia. For all you've contributed to the sport over the past five years. And congratulations to you and Lando on this wonderful addition to your family."

Amelia nodded again, just once. "Thank you."

The interview wrapped, and as the camera cut away, Amelia stepped back, peeling off her earpiece. She was halfway through unpinning her mic when she felt a familiar arm wrap around her shoulders.

Lando pressed a kiss to the side of her head. "You were brilliant," he murmured.

"I told people I'm going on leave," she said quietly, like she needed to repeat it aloud. "I made it real."

"It is real." He looked down at her bump, then back at her. "But don't worry. You're still the boss. Just... remotely."

Amelia leaned into him, the smell of sunscreen and motor oil clinging to his polo. "You think people will forget me while I'm gone?"

"Not possible," he said immediately.

She gave a small, short laugh, and he kissed her temple again.

They stood there for a moment; in the glitz and the hum of Monaco, wrapped in their own quiet kind of gravity.

—

The hospitality deck was quieter than usual at lunch time, tucked just above the paddock chaos. A few guests chatted softly over sparkling water and pasta, the harbour glittering in the background. Amelia sat at a small table in the shade, half-finished salad in front of her, sunglasses pushed into her hair.

Her dad slid into the seat across from her with a grunt and then a beaming grin. "You're hiding up here."

Amelia stabbed a tomato with her fork. "I'm taking a scheduled break."

"That's what you're calling it now?"

She gave him a dry look. "Better than 'aggressively avoiding small talk with a million people who all want to ask me the same questions.'"

Zak chuckled and took a sip of his iced tea. "Hey, I didn't say it was a bad thing!"

They ate quietly for a few minutes. She glanced at her iPad once or twice, fingers twitching like she wanted to reach for her stylus.

Then her dad leaned forward, voice a little softer. "Your mom called."

Amelia didn't look up. "Yeah?"

"Told me to keep an eye on you. That you're getting anxious over silly things." He said. "She wants you at home. She doesn't think you should be working this weekend."

"I know what I'm doing." She said back, not sharply, just matter-of-fact. "I'm flying to England on Tuesday and then I'm going to start nesting."

"Fine, fine." He said. He was staring at her. "You did an interview this morning?"

"Yeah. It felt strange." She hesitated. "Like I had to tell them that I was handing over part of my identity and pretend that I was fine with it."

Zak nodded slowly, watching her carefully. "You don't need to pretend, kiddo. You're just doing something new. Hard to do both at once sometimes."

Amelia chewed slowly, then asked, "Did it feel like that when you stopped racing?"

He was quiet for a moment. Then, "Yeah. I didn't admit it for a while, but yeah. It was hard. You build yourself around something that has a finish line, and suddenly it's not there anymore. It's just... your life."

Amelia's hand drifted to her bump without thinking. "What if I'm not good at the other thing?"

"You said the same thing when we put you into the advanced classes at school."

"I was eight."

"And you were wrong then, too."

She looked at him.

He gave her a small smile. "You're not just good at this job because you're smart. You're good because you care. And that's not going to change no matter how long of a break that you take."

Amelia stared down at her plate, silent for a moment. "I don't want to hand over Oscar."

Her dad leaned back in his chair, his tone more casual now. "You picked Stallard yourself. You trust him."

"I do." She took a breath. "But I know how Oscar works better than anyone else. How his brain ticks under pressure. And I've done everything for so long — pre-sessions, cooldowns, briefings. It's not just the job. It's him."

He nodded. "That's why you've been so good together. But you're also about to be someone's mum, Amelia. And that little girl is going to need all of that same care. All of that weirdly brilliant attention to detail."

Amelia huffed a laugh. "She's already demanding. She hates when I eat citrus. Just wants cake and tiramisu flavoured things all the time."

"She's got taste." He said. Then he reached across the table and placed his hand over hers."You're not disappearing, Amelia. Nobody is going to forget about you. You're going to have a baby, and you'll fall so deeply in love with her that everything else will fade into the background. But eventually, you'll be ready to come back. Your mom will travel with you, and you'll take over from Tom again, and everything will be just fine."

She blinked. Slowly. Then, she whispers, "Thanks, Dad. That really helps."

He squeezed her fingers. "You'll be back before you know it. And when you are—this place will still be yours. Trust me. You've made more of an impact than you will ever realise."

—

The restaurant clung to the cliffside above the marina, lit by soft lanterns and the shimmer of city lights below. The terrace buzzed with the gentle clatter of cutlery and the low hum of multiple F1 teams converging for one of those rare, off-track evenings.

It was still work, in a way — team bonding, sponsor optics, face time. But for now, it was pasta and mocktails and the smell of grilled sea bass drifting on the evening breeze.

Amelia sat wedged between Oscar and Lando, her hands cradling a chilled glass of pomegranate soda. Her feet were up on a second chair, legs aching just enough to warrant it. Lando kept refilling her glass every time she looked away. Oscar had already stolen her feta-stuffed olives.

When the main course wound down, she spotted Charles stepping out from a conversation with someone in red team gear. He looked relaxed — or as relaxed as Charles ever did in Monaco. Still sharp-edged around the eyes.

She tapped Lando's arm. "I'm going to say hi to Charles."

"You're not about to give him trade secrets, are you?"

She didn't answer. Just rolled her eyes and got to her feet.

Charles noticed her before she even reached him and smiled with something between fondness and humour. "You need a breather from the orange table?"

"I'm trying to be neutral and approachable," Amelia told him.

"You're failing," he replied, but his grin softened the jab. "How are you feeling?"

"Hot. Heavy. Slightly betrayed by my spine." She paused. "You?"

Charles tilted his head. "Nervous."

She nodded. "Understandable."

"It's Monaco."

"I know." She looked up at him for a beat longer. "The thing is, I want my boys to beat you. That's my priority and it always will be. But —" She bit her lip and leaned on the balcony. "But I want you to finish this race. Properly."

He laughed under his breath. "So do I."

She hesitated, then lowered her voice and leaned in, "So, maybe, if on your second quali lap, you just leave a little extra margin at the exit of Mirabeau. And maybe you should adjust your ride height a few inches. And your throttle pedal could, maybe, could be adjusted to the left; specifically for Monaco."

Charles stared at her. "What?"

"You heard me," she said with a faint smile. "Good luck, Charles. I hope you make your home crowd proud."

He smiled wider. "If anyone found out that you—"

"All my father would ever do is frown and me and proceed to tell me that I'm soft for you. Which I am." She smiled at him. "You've been such a wonderful friend to me, Charles. A good neighbour. You always listen to me when I speak, even if what I am saying makes no sense to you."

Charles looked at her, suddenly quiet. "Merci, Amelia. Thank you."

Amelia pursed her lips. "I'm not saying that those changes will make you win. But... They will give you a better chance at a front-row start. And we know how important that is here."

They stood like that a moment — Monaco locals by way of wildly different paths — then Charles glanced back toward the Ferrari table. "Tell your husband that I will be trying to poach you when you return from maternity leave," he said.

"Hm." She hummed. "You and Lewis next year — what a fun idea."

He blinked at her, a bit of hope clinging to the edges of his expression. "Really?"

She leaned in and kissed his cheek. "No."

He huffed out an amused breath and started to turn away, then paused and added, sincerely, "Good luck, Amelia."

"Right back at you," she said, then added, "Leave the barriers alone this year, yes?"

"I'll do my best," Charles said with a wink, and disappeared back into the red sea.

When Amelia returned to the McLaren table, Lando leaned in with a faux-casual, "So, how's your favourite Ferrari boy?"

"He's nervous," Amelia said, sitting again with a sigh. "I hope I gave him some hope. That's the most powerful tool a driver can have." She tilted her head. "Well, that and me."

Oscar smirked and raised his drink. "To questionable loyalty."

"To Monaco miracles," she corrected, and clinked his glass.

—

Later, long after the dinner had wound down and the drivers WhatsApp group had gone feral with memes and selfies, Amelia lay submerged in warm water, her back nestled against Lando's chest. The bathroom was dimly lit, the only light coming from the small lamp over the sink and the soft glow of the candles. Lavender and eucalyptus swirled in the steam.

Lando's chin rested lightly on her shoulder, his fingers tracing aimless lines over the curve of her belly just visible above the surface. The baby gave the occasional gentle kick, more thump than flutter these days.

"She's very awake," Lando murmured, thumb brushing over one of the movements.

"She likes water," Amelia said, closing her eyes. "She always calms down when I'm in the shower. But she loves a bath."

"Maybe she'll be a mermaid."

"Or a diver. Or an aero specialist. Hydrodynamics and aerodynamics aren't that different."

Lando laughed into her shoulder. "That's such an engineer answer."

"You asked."

A comfortable silence settled between them, interrupted only by the lapping of the water and the distant hum of the city outside.

"Have you thought more about names?" He asked softly.

She opened one eye. "You're not letting that go, are you?"

"You said we'd make a shortlist this week."

"Technically, you said that. I just nodded."

"Close enough."

Amelia tilted her head back against his shoulder, thoughtful. "I like Ada."

"Yeah?" He asked thoughtfully.

"It's clean. It has weight. Ada Lovelace was one of the first computer programmers."

"Shocker."

"What — that I want to name our child after a female computing and mathematical pioneer?"

"Sarcasm, baby." He mumbled against her shoulder.

She frowned. "Sorry. Missed it. My brains all misty recently."

Lando gave her a little squeeze, then said, a bit more seriously, "I like Ada. But I also kind of like names that sound like movement. Like... I don't know. Skye. Or Elia. Something with flow."

"Skye Norris?" Amelia mused.

"Eh. It's a good jumping off point," he said.

They lapsed into silence again, his hands slow and steady against her belly, her fingers lazily drawing shapes in the water.

"I'm a bit scared," she said quietly. "To be honest."

Lando didn't move. "Of what?"

"Of getting it wrong," she whispered. "The name, the parenting, all of it. I'm good at engineering because it follows rules. But babies — she'll be her own person, Lando. With thoughts and emotions. And I don't know how to... prepare for that."

He was quiet a moment. Then he said, softly, "Me either."

Amelia blinked up at the ceiling, throat tight.

"But if we mess up—" Lando continued, nudging her temple with his nose, "we'll apologise. Own up to it. And then we'll try again. That's all anyone can do."

She exhaled. "You make it sound so simple."

"Because you overthink everything."

"That's rich coming from you."

He smiled. "Yeah, well. We're both anxious perfectionists with trust issues. Our daughter is doomed."

Amelia laughed — a real one this time. "Shut up."

Lando kissed the side of her head. "She'll have us on her side, though. Always."

Amelia reached down, took one of his hands, and pressed it firmly to the curve of her belly.

Their daughter kicked again, right on cue.

"Maybe Ada Skye," she said after a long pause.

Lando hummed. "Can I suggest something else?"

"Of course." She said quietly.

"What about Rosella?"

"After Rosella Manfrinato?" Amelia asked, voice full of curiosity.

"Yeah. First female engineer to ever work for Ferrari." He said.

She nodded. "Yeah. I know." She pursed her lips in thought. "Ada Rosella Norris." She whispered, trying to get a feel of the name.

"It's strong." Lando said.

"Full of power." Amelia agreed quietly.

Lando grinned against her temple. "Our little rocket scientist."

"Our little engineer," Amelia said, smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"Let's not teach her about ERS until she's at least four."

"Three and a half," Amelia negotiated.

Lando laughed.

Amelia thought it sounded like home.

—

The apartment was silent now.

Water drained from the tub long ago, and Amelia was curled beneath the covers in their bed, one hand resting unconsciously on her bump, her breaths slow and even. Moonlight slid in through the curtains, tracing soft silver lines across her cheekbones. Lando stood in the doorway for a moment, watching her — still, peaceful, warm — before stepping back out into the living room and quietly closing the door behind him.

He crossed to the balcony, tugged on a hoodie, and pulled out his phone.

It took three rings before his dad answered.

"Lando? Everything alright?" His dad sounded like he'd just woken up — it was late, and Lando had forgotten the slight time difference.

"Yeah. Yeah, everything's fine. Sorry if I woke you up," he said, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I just... I couldn't wait anymore. I needed to tell someone."

A beat of silence.

Then, with a hint of caution, because he knew his son, asked, "Tell me what?"

"I did it," Lando said. "I bought it. The land."

"What land?" Adam asked.

"The land, dad. Where we got married."

"You mean the—? Jesus, mate."

"Yeah. The field. With the oak tree. The one Amelia didn't stop talking about for a month straight last year." Lando sat down slowly on one of the balcony chairs, heart thudding. "But, like, I didn't just buy it, you know? I've been working with some people — architects, contractors. Builders. Decorators. It's happening. Happened, I guess. The house. Her house. She doesn't know yet."

Adam was quiet, but Lando could hear the smile in his voice when he finally said, "You're building it."

Lando nodded, even though his dad couldn't see him. "Built. Almost. Just, like, a few more pieces of furniture to get delivered. But yeah, dad. It's a real home. Just in time for the first few months with the baby. Maybe longer. It's all eco-efficient and airy — her office, a nursery, a bathtub big enough for the both of us, just like here. And the nursery..." He let out a breathless laugh. "Dad, I had it copied from her Pinterest board. Down to the wall art. She doesn't even know I have her Pinterest boards."

Adam chuckled softly. "Of course you do, son."

"It's got these soft pinks and greys. Planet mobiles, wood textures, soft-glow lamps. She pinned a photo of a reading nook by a window and I'm getting them to build one, exactly like it. I want it to feel like she's known it forever."

"She's going to love it," Adam said, gentle now.

Lando's throat tightened. "I just— When we found out that she was pregnant, I knew that she'd want to have the baby in England, you know? And I know she's more than happy to stay with her mum for a while but — I wanted her to have something that's hers. Ours."

"She already has that in you."

Lando looked out over the dark water, letting that settle. "I know. But, when I can't be there... I just want her to know," he said quietly, "you know? Be surrounded by it. A reminder that I'd give her the whole world. That she doesn't even have to ask."

"She knows, son."

"I'm going to bring her there," Lando said. "Next week. I'm hoping everything will be finished. I was hoping maybe you'd be able to go and check it out, maybe you and mum? Make sure everything's alright?"

His dad didn't say anything right away. "Of course we will, mate. Whatever you need. God, I'm proud of you, Lando. You've become the kind of man I always hoped you'd be."

Lando swallowed, hard. "Thanks, Dad."

"Now go and get some sleep. You've got a race weekend to finish — and a very clever wife to keep from figuring all this out."

Lando laughed, soft and careful, so he wouldn't wake Amelia. "Yeah. That's been the hardest part. But — I genuinely think I've managed to hide it."

They said their goodnights, and Lando stayed on the balcony for a few more minutes, watching the moonlight ripple across the water.

Then he slipped back into the bedroom and under the covers beside her.

Amelia shifted slightly in her sleep, turning toward him. He curled around her carefully, hand resting on the curve of her belly.

In four days, he thought, she'll open the big front-door and find everything waiting for her.

Everything she'd dreamed of — and more.

—

The sky was a crisp summer blue above the city, the harbour shimmering below. The McLaren garage was alive for the most important session of the weekend—controlled chaos, comms lines tight, eyes on telemetry, hands on buttons.

Amelia stood, headset on, bump cradled behind her clipboard. The engineers around her knew to give her room; she paced with deliberate, rhythmic movements when she was thinking, and thinking was all she was doing now.

Q3.

Tight margins. Traffic chaos. Purple sectors lighting up the screen like fireworks.

"Alright, Oscar," she said into the mic, her tone flat but alert. "Track's evolving fast. Leclerc's just gone purple in Sector 1."

"Copy."

He didn't sound nervous. Just wired in.

Her eyes flicked to the screen. Telemetry humming in real time. Every time she ran data analysis through her mind, Oscar's confidence had grown sharper, cleaner. The car was under him. And he was really, genuinely starting to believe in it.

"Go now. Push out of Rascasse. Clear air."

Silence. Then the rhythm of apex and throttle and millisecond corrections filled her ears like music.

Lando, on another screen, was midway through his final flyer. "He's purple in S2," someone said behind her, low.

"Copy that," Amelia replied. She didn't move. She didn't breathe. She just watched Oscar's delta fall green, then purple—

Then time stopped.

P2.

Right behind Leclerc. Less than a tenth off.

The garage burst into motion, restrained joy quickly overtaken by calculation. Strategy talk. Track position.

Amelia blinked hard and gave her mic one last click. "That's front row, Oscar. Hell of a lap."

"I left half a tenth at the hairpin."

"I'm aware," she deadpanned. "You also just out-qualified Verstappen and Hamilton in Monaco."

His laugh crackled over the radio as he pulled into Parc Ferme. "Holy shit."

Amelia turned in her seat and locked eyes with Lando just as he pulled his gloves off. "P4," he mouthed to her, not too disappointed—energised.

"Nice recovery after that wall tap in FP3," she called across the garage.

"I didn't touch the wall."

"You kissed it, then. Should I be jealous?"

He grinned.

A Sky Sports camera panned briefly to them. Amelia didn't flinch—just shifted her clipboard against her stomach again. Someone behind her passed her a small stool, and this time she accepted, sitting with a quiet exhale.

The top three were headed to press. She watched as Oscar removed his helmet, curls flattened, grinning wide, exchanging a look with her from across the paddock before getting swept toward the media pen.

"You nervous?" One of the junior engineers asked her as they unplugged telemetry cables.

"A little," Amelia said. "But we're front row in Monaco. There are worse problems to have."

And deep in her chest, beneath the clinical logic and mechanical heartbeat of the job, she felt it — a soft, surging pride. Her best friend, on the front row. Her husband, on the second. Her team, alive with momentum.

Their daughter kicked once, firm and sharp against her ribs.

"Yeah," Amelia whispered, rubbing her belly. "Let's make the last one good, baby girl."

—

The paddock was swarming. Engineers debriefed at speed, mechanics wheeled tyres past camera crews, and over it all came the distant call of the sea.

Amelia stood from the stool someone had given her earlier, brushing her hands over the front of her dress. She'd barely moved when she caught a flash of red.

Charles.

Helmet off, suit tied at the waist, damp curls sticking to his temples. He was deep in conversation with someone from Ferrari, nodding tightly — the thrill and heavy burden of taking pole position in Monaco sitting heavy on his shoulders, even under the roaring crowd.

Then his eyes caught hers.

For half a second, she thought maybe he'd just glance and move on. He was always polite, always kind, but this was a big moment for him. He had enough on his plate.

Instead, he paused. Just a beat.

Then — a smile, genuine and boyish.

And a quiet, grateful thumbs-up. Directed at her.

Amelia blinked, then returned the gesture with a small lift of her clipboard. A quiet acknowledgment.

She'd bent a few informal, off-the-record, definitely-against-McLaren-policy rules the night before at dinner. Just a few aerodynamic notes. Not enough to sabotage Lando and Oscar's chances. Just enough to give a driver she quietly admired the best shot he could get on home soil.

And now he was on pole.

Lando stepped up beside her, having just finished media, brushing his knuckles against hers without a word. He was still flushed from the car, hair wild and eyes bright. "Was that Charles just—?"

"Yeah," she said.

Lando gave her a suspicious look. "Is this about what you two were whispering about last night?"

"Nope." She lied.

"You gave him tips, didn't you?"

Amelia stayed perfectly still. "Prove it."

Lando opened his mouth — and then just laughed. "You're ridiculous."

"Am I wrong, though?" She asked mildly. "Oscar's still on the front row. You're in a great launch position. We've got a better long-run setup. I just want Charles to get through the damn first lap this year."

Lando shook his head with affectionate disbelief, still grinning. "Corporate espionage." He accused.

"I know," Amelia said. "How terrible." She joked.

He cupped her chin and tugged her to close the gap between this, kissing her chastely. "Come on. Let's go home."

—

The narrow streets of Monte Carlo felt quieter in the early morning. Calm before the storm. A million yachts bobbed in the harbour, a gull wheeled overhead, and the team trucks hummed with activity behind closed paddock gates.

Amelia stood just outside the McLaren garage, headset around her neck. The weight of the day — and everything it represented — settled into her bones.

Final race.

Final pre-race briefing.

At least for now.

Her eyes stung behind her sunglasses, but she didn't blink too much. If she started crying, she wasn't sure she'd stop. And she didn't want anyone — especially not Lando or Oscar — trying to hug her about it.

Not today.

"Morning," Oscar said behind her, nudging her arm gently.

She sniffed a laugh, turning around. "Morning. I have notes and spreadsheets for you."

He grinned. "Nerd."

She looked over at him — sweatpants, t-shirt, hair still wet from a quick hotel shower, eyes clearer than usual. "You ready for this?" She asked, voice quieter.

He hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Think so."

"Good. You're going to get him at the start."

Oscar raised an eyebrow. "Leclerc?"

She didn't answer, just tapped her temple, then pointed at his heart. "Use both."

Oscar's grin turned boyish, proud. But then his eyes dropped to her belly. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," she said. Too fast. Then slower, "I'm fine. It's just... I feel like I'm abandoning you."

He didn't try to give her a speech. Just nodded, understanding threading his features. "It's just for now," he said.

"Yeah," she whispered. "Just for now."

Lando found her a few minutes later, sneaking up behind her and sliding a cool bottle of water into her hand. "Hydration for my queen and my princess," he said, lightly.

She took it with a small smile. "You're annoying."

"You're emotional."

"I'm pregnant."

"Yes. I know," he teased, and she elbowed him. Then he pressed his forehead against hers. Just a moment of stillness in the bustle. "We'll do you proud," he said.

"You always do."

"And when you come back, our little girl in tow..."

"I'll be even smarter, and more terrifying."

"Exactly," he said, grinning. Then, a little softer, "You okay?"

She hesitated. Then nodded. "I'm okay. I'm... not not emotional. But I'm okay."

"Do you want me to find you a crying room?"

"Lando."

"I'm just saying. I'm sure there's an empty space around here somewhere."

Despite herself, she laughed. Then, very softly, rested her forehead to his chest, breathing in the smell of fuel and soap and Monaco air.

She didn't cry.

But her throat ached from not doing it.

And when she finally stepped back into the garage to take her place at the pit wall, clipboard in hand and headset secured, the world narrowed in a way she loved — to data, to pace deltas, to strategy windows.

To racing.

Her last Sunday. For now.

And her boys, Oscar and Lando, were about to make it count.

—

The buzz in the pit lane was razor-thin, and under her headset, Amelia could hear her own breathing.

The lights blinked red.

"Five." Four. "Three."

Oscar's telemetry spiked as his revs climbed.

Two. "One." Out.

The cars launched.

"Good launch," Amelia called into Oscar's ear. "Mode five. Hold your line into turn one."

He did — perfectly. Charles swept clean into Sainte Devote, Oscar tucked in behind, and Lando angled sharp around the outside of Hamilton to defend P4. But into Massenet, there was a twitch.

"Contact," came the warning from race control.

Amelia's eyes flicked to the feed — a Ferrari nudged too close. Carlos.

"Oscar. Status?" She asked tightly.

"I think I touched Sainz," Oscar said quickly, voice calm but clipped. "He turned in — we tapped."

She scanned his data; pressures stable.

"Copy. No damage on our end. Carlos has a puncture," came in from strategy.

"Maintain pace," she said. "You're still P2."

Then...chaos.

A screech; gut-churning and metallic — tore through the live feed. The monitor lit up with a yellow. Then double yellow. Then red.

"Red flag. Red flag. Slow the cars and return to the pit lane," came the immediate order from Race Control.

Amelia's stomach dropped. Another monitor showed Perez's Red Bull obliterated at Mirabeau, tangled with both Haas cars. Carbon fibre everywhere. A front wing clinging to a wall.

Amelia's hand tightened instinctively over her bump.

"Is that... all three of them?" Will asked, incredulous.

"What happened?" Oscar asked on the comms.

"Big collision. Perez, both Haas. There's debris everywhere through sector two. They've thrown the red flag so mode seven please, and come straight through to line up in the pit lane."

He exhaled. "Jesus."

"You're clean," she told him. "You did well to defend against Sainz and keep it as clean as possible. Keep your head in it, ducky."

Oscar didn't respond.

She exhaled, slow and controlled.

She glanced down at her bump and pressed her palm lightly against the curve.

Five minutes later, when all of the cars were lined up in the pit-lane and most of the drivers had climbed out, Lando found her.

"You alright?" His voice came quietly from behind. He'd handed of his helmet to one of the engineers in his garage.

"Yeah. I'm fine," she said. "Just didn't want my last one for a while to start like this."

He gave her a small, lopsided smile. "Still a long way to go."

She nodded once. "Yeah."

"Want to go and find some capri suns?" He asked.

She glanced at Will, who nodded as if to say 'Might as well, not like anything's happening here.' So she got up, took Lando's hand, and let him guide her toward the mini fridge in the back of his garage.

—

The paddock was a knot of tension. Mechanics hovered. Engineers tapped frantically on keyboards. Drivers paced.

Amelia stood in the garage, headphones looped around her neck, one hand resting on her lower back. Oscar leaned against the pit wall barrier, helmet off, sipping from a water bottle.

"Fronts are still stable," she said quietly, scanning the screen. "You were holding well into sector three before the red flag."

He nodded. "Do we go back to the grid, or rolling start?"

"Standing restart," Tom said, appearing beside her with a tablet.

Oscar took a deep breath. "Copy."

Amelia's voice dropped, so only he could hear: "Eyes forward. Don't chase Charles — let him cook his tyres. Lando's breathing down your neck, but he won't dive you into Turn One. You've got space to think."

Oscar gave her a crooked smile. "You gonna miss bossing me around?"

"Immensely," she said.

Back on the grid, the tension returned like a rubber band pulled taut. Cameras swiveled. Engines revved. Amelia's screens lit up again — tyre temps, ERS levels, delta charts. She exhaled slowly.

Lights out — again.

Charles launched clean. Oscar slipped ever so slightly — enough to give Carlos and Lando a sniff. But he held P2 into Turn One, Lando defending hard from Hamilton, who wasn't giving up without a fight.

By Lap 36, the order held steady: Charles, Oscar, Lando. No one risking the undercut — it was Monaco, after all. Strategy would come down to patience, tyre life, and sheer mistake-free laps.

Amelia's voice was calm in Oscar's ear: "Keep him honest. Don't push yet — wait for the window. If Charles blinks, we leapfrog him. Otherwise, you're the threat."

Behind them, Lando was making time. Slowly, surgically. Amelia's chest swelled with pride.

She didn't even flinch when he came over the radio to Will, his own engineer. "Tyres still feel good. Let me know if Oscar drops."

Oscar stayed tight. Impressive, really. This wasn't his circuit — but he'd driven like it was.

Then the inevitable: Charles crossed the finish line in P1. Oscar brought it home in P2, and Carlos crossed in P3. Lando missed out on the podium by a hundredth of a second.

Amelia unmuted. "Box, box. That was clinical. Well done."

Oscar whooped through the radio. "Thanks, Amelia. That was unreal. Thanks for—everything."

She smiled, actually smiled, throat tight. "Gonna miss you, ducky. Drive fast as hell for me, alright?"

"Copy that." He said.

Andrea reached over and squeezed her shoulder. "Good job."

"Thanks." She said quietly.

—

She waited by Parc Ferme for Lando to finish being weighed.

He ran straight to her.

"You're done," he said, breathless, wrapping his arms around her.

"I'm done," she echoed, burying her face in his shoulder. "For now."

He kissed her. "I love you so much, Amelia Norris."

"Yeah," she mumbled, blushing. Because she knew for a fact that there was a thousand cameras pointed right at them. "I love you too."

—

Amelia stood near the edge of the pit lane, half-shielded by the shadow of the McLaren garage. Her headset was off. Her hair was tied back. She looked tired — tired, but finally still.

A rustle of footsteps approached behind her, softer than the usual thud of boots or trainers. She turned, and Charles was there.

In a fresh pair of sweats. His face was flushed, hair damp from his dive into the water, but the light in his eyes was quieter now — grounded.

"Amelia," he said gently.

She blinked, then straightened a little.

Charles stepped forward, wrapped his arms around her, and pulled her into a hug.

It was warm. Steady. Just tight enough.

Not rushed or awkward, but full-bodied and honest.

"Merci," he said into her hair, voice low and thick. "Merci pour tout."

Amelia hesitated, stunned for a breath, then carefully hugged him back, fingers clutching the fabric of his sweatshirt.

"You made it stick," she said. "Finally."

He pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes glinting. "I think maybe... I needed you to tell me that you believed I could."

Amelia's throat tightened. "I didn't do much," she said, voice soft.

Charles shook his head. "You never give yourself enough credit."

She snorted. "That's not true. I know that I'm excellent. I'm just not... sentimental."

His grin spread, warm and crooked. "Just this once." He gave her one more squeeze, then stepped back, nodding toward her bump with quiet reverence. "She's going to be very proud of her mother. One day."

Amelia's smile was small but real. "I hope so."

Charles gave her a parting wink before melting back into the paddock's glow.

—

The restaurant overlooked the water. It wasn't flashy — just candlelight, open windows, and long tables pulled together to fit the team. Plates were passed around. Bottles of wine, soft drinks, sparkling water.

Oscar sat beside Amelia, nudging her knee under the table every so often like he couldn't help himself. Across from them, Lando had changed into a casual shirt, hair still slightly damp from the post-race champagne photo. He kept glancing over at her, soft-eyed and full of pride.

Zak stood and tapped the side of his glass, raising his voice just enough to call the room to attention.

"Right. I think we all know what today meant," he said, smiling faintly. "Charles took the win, but Oscar gave us a hell of a podium and Lando brought it home clean and sharp. Great points for the team." He looked toward Amelia. "But more than that — today was Amelia's last race before maternity leave."

The team clapped — loud and long. There were whistles. Shouts of "legend!" and "go on, mama!" from the mechanics.

Amelia flushed, shifting in her seat.

"She's not just Oscar's engineer," Zak went on. "She's part of why this team found its footing again. You've felt it. I've felt it. She redefined what we thought we could do. And I know — I know — she's going to come back stronger."

Oscar leaned in and whispered, "I'm not ready for Baby Norris to be smarter than me by age four."

"Don't put that pressure on her," Amelia said. "Give her until she's five, at least."

That earned a echo of amused snickers.

Then Tom raised a glass. "To Amelia," he said, smiling. "And to Lando. Congratulations."

Amelia's eyes prickled. She wasn't good at this part. The centre-of-attention part. But she looked around — at the sea of orange and grease-stained fingernails and sunburnt faces. And she felt it. All of it.

Later, when the plates were cleared and the candles burned lower, someone passed her a small envelope. Inside: a card, signed by every team member. Tucked behind it — a folded drawing. A sketch of the McLaren garage. Tiny details included. A crib nestled between the tool chests (which was not going to happen). Her in a headset, baby in a sling. A caption underneath: "When you come back, we'll be waiting with open arms."

She stared at it for a long moment, then slipped it into her bag without a word.

Lando wrapped an arm around her as they left, walking her slowly through the cobbled street, his voice low.

"That was a lot. You doing okay?"

"I'm more than okay," she murmured, leaning into him. "I'm just... trying to remember it all. Every second."

"It'll all be here when come back," he said. "But for now — we've got a baby to get ready for."

She exhaled.

And then she smiled.

—

They were back in England by the Tuesday.

Amelia was sitting in the passenger seat, her iPad on her lap. For once, she wasn't reading sim telemetry or reviewing Oscar's feedback — that was Tom's job now.

She was just... reading. A romance novel. She'd renewed her kindle unlimited subscription for the first time in almost three years.

When the car veered off the familiar road toward a narrow lane nestled between fields, she furrowed her brow.

"This isn't the way to my mums," she said.

"I know," Lando replied, his tone light but unreadable.

"Are we visiting someone?"

"You'll see."

She frowned at him but he just reached over and squeezed her leg.

They pulled up a gravel path flanked by hedges still brushing off their spring blossoms. At the end of it: a gate. New. Black metal. The kind that hummed softly as it opened automatically.

Immediately, she knew where there were.

Could see the blur of the old Manor House in the distance, hidden by the rolling green hills.

Amelia turned to him, heart thudding, eyebrows slowly drawing together. "Lando?"

He glanced at her. Smiled. "Just trust me."

The driveway opened into a wide clearing. Green everywhere. Hills rolling in the distance. And in the centre of it: a house.

A new house.

But not just a new house.

It was...

God.

Holy shit.

It was her house.

Amelia stared at it. White stone, deep-set windows, pale wood accents, red brick roof. A big front-door with a place to kick off muddy boots. Like a conglomeration of the millions of pictures that she'd shown him on sleepy nights.

She was quiet for a long time.

"I don't understand," she whispered wetly.

He got out of the car, came around to open her door. Helped her out gently, hand on her back, then on her belly.

"You told me," he said, "that you felt safest where things didn't echo too much. Where the air didn't feel tight. That you wanted your daughter's first memories to be somewhere soft. This is going to be that place, baby."

She stared up at the house again. "When?"

"When you got pregnant." He scratched his neck, suddenly sheepish. "I— Well, I'd already bought the land. Bought it the first time you sent me the listing. But I only started talking to architects after we found out you were pregnant. Designers. Pietra sent me your Pinterest, by the way. I had to bribe her."

Amelia made a shocked sound somewhere between a breath and a laugh.

"Come inside." He whispered.

Inside, the air smelled like cedar and fresh paint. Light poured through tall windows. There were shelves already filled with books — her books, she realised, when she looked closer. All of the books she'd left at her mom's house in Woking because it would have been ridiculous to ship them all to Monaco. A kitchen with an enormous window overlooking acres upon acres of green, a table big enough for noisy breakfasts and quiet late-night sandwiches. A fireplace in the living room. A crocheted blanket already draped across the back of the couch, ("my nan made it for us," Lando murmured), and Amelia felt like crying.

And then — the nursery.

Creamy white walls. A crib. The exact mobile she'd dreamed of. Tasteful art hung on the walls, pink accents. Calm. Serene. An armchair in the corner. A side table with a lamp that looked like the one from her childhood bedroom — it was, she realised, upon closer look. A window overlooking the hills. Blackout curtains. A chest of drawers packed to the brim with an array of different sizes of nappies and a million packets of wet wipes and a closet that was full to the brim with the suitcases worth of baby clothes that she'd been buying and having delivered to her mom's house for the past seven months.

She pressed a hand to her mouth. "You remembered everything."

"You deserve everything."

Her eyes brimmed with tears. "I don't even know how to..." She trailed off, too full to finish.

Lando stepped closer and placed her hand against his chest. "You don't need to say anything."

"But I—"

"This is for you, baby. All of it. Forever."

Tears spilled silently down her cheeks.

He leaned in, pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Welcome home, baby."

408 notes · View notes

bybobbysbeard · 2 days ago

Note

For the kiss ask:

Bucktommy and 10. …desperately.

Dani, my dear. It’s been a literal month. Sorry. Nevertheless, here you go.

The kiss meme: "Desperately." Bucktommy, 2000 words, post reconciliation, mentioned canonical MCD.

There’s forty-seven steps between his truck and Tommy’s.

Buck’s paced the distance out; ten, twenty, fifty times. A dozen parking spots. Nearly one hundred and thirty feet of cracked and patched asphalt. He tried to park closer, but the lot is a mess. Between Harbor’s staff vehicles, LAPD squad cars, and engines from three different houses, free spaces are few and far between. The 118 isn’t here, but he’s heard from Juarez on B shift, so Buck knows they’re on call if the situation changes.

His phone is silent in his hand. Buck spins on his heel, starts the next lap back to his truck.

Athena’s heavy stare makes the back of his neck itch.

A plume of black smoke, thick and choking, is still rising up from the main hangar. Even from here it smells acrid, chemical and toxic. The police cordon is wide, keeping him from approaching anywhere near the station buildings. He tried to get through, stating he was off-duty LAFD and here to help, but Maddie must have called Athena. She caught up to him at the barricade, stopping him dead with a firm hand on his elbow and five short words.

It’s not like the lab.

They’re still echoing around his head as he paces. He’s jittery, arms and legs jerking in a sad pantomime of his usual stride. He’s tired, but can’t stop. Adrenaline drives him onward, keeps him moving so the weight of memories won’t crush him. Some of the cops are looking at him nervously, but he can’t bring himself to give a shit. Athena’s on the other side of the police tape now, standing close to Officer Williams. She’s got a radio up to her mouth, but her eyes never leave Buck. He likes to think he’s matured a lot since they first met, but he’s trying not to lie to himself as much these days. He was definitely just thinking of stealing turnouts from the 122 engine and sneaking in.

Something stops him. Something stronger than Athena’s inescapable disappointment.

Tommy wouldn’t want him to put himself in danger like that.

Buck was doing laundry when Maddie phoned from Dispatch. An accident at Harbor: a fire, something about a refueling truck. And then, an explosion. Three people seriously injured, one driver and two firefighters, now enroute to Memorial in Harbor’s own ambulances. The 122, 131, and 102 were dispatched. LAPD was setting up a full site lockdown until the scene was secured.

Maddie’s voice had cracked when she said lockdown.

It’s not the same. He knows that. There’s no FBI or army. No biological threats, only the complicated chemical components of aircraft fuel and maintenance fluids. The lockdown is to keep everyone safe, not to trap Tommy and his team inside. Buck understood, but it didn’t stop his heart from skipping a beat, couldn’t prevent him dropping the armful of wet towels with a splat he barely heard, and tearing out of the house at full speed. Tommy didn’t pick up when he called him from the truck; Lucy answered on the second ring. She was already headed to the hospital, meeting their captain and some of A shift in the waiting room. She’s the one that confirmed Tommy wasn’t one of the injured. Buck let Maddie know he was heading to Harbor, and she must have told Chim, who told everyone else. Buck muted the group chat twenty minutes ago.

Tommy wasn’t even supposed to be working today.

There’s more people in the parking lot now. He recognizes the occasional face. Family members of B shift he’s met at Harbor events with Tommy, and a few people from C shift. They’ve all congregated around their cars as they wait for news. He nods when he catches their eyes, tries to look like he isn’t about to shatter apart, like it isn’t absolutely killing him to be stuck out here while his boyfriend is still inside.

The shiny chrome of his truck’s bumper reflects his filthy sneakers and worn sweatpants.

Buck breathes out. Forty-seven steps. Breathes in. Pivots, and heads towards Tommy’s truck.

He finishes another three laps before there’s a change. Buck hears the crackle of several radios, relief audible in more than one voice. He stops pacing, midpoint between their two vehicles. Some unseen release of tension runs through the line of officers. Athena finally looks away from him, tipping her head up to the sky and closing her eyes. He’s already headed towards her when she ducks under the tape and clips the radio back to her belt.

“Fire is out and they’ve neutralized the rest of the spilled fuel. You still can’t go in without gear, but everyone should be coming out soon.” She’s watching his face carefully as she wraps her fingers around the hand still holding his phone. “Lockdown’s over, Buck.”

Her eyes are so gentle.

Horrifyingly, he feels that tell-tale burning behind his eyes and flashes hot, all-over. God, he’s so selfish. Buck might feel like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin from the overlap, but Athena lost so much more. And here he is, making her keep an eye on him so he doesn’t do something stupid.

“Athena, thank you. I don’t… I��I’m not sure what I would have done if you weren’t here.”

She scoffs, her lips curving up into a smile. “Of course I’m here. Who else is going to keep the 118 out of trouble?” She squeezes his hands. “You’re family, Buckaroo. No matter what the call is about.”

Buck just nods. He can’t trust his voice right now.

“Now, you stay right here, and I’m going to go update the Harbor crew. And text your sister please, she’s been blowing up my phone.” With one last squeeze, she lets him go and heads towards the rest of the parking lot.

It’s another half an hour before figures start exiting the main hangar. Most are fully geared up, heading towards the engines, but there’s the occasional person out of uniform or in coveralls, wearing a respirator and gloves. They head towards the parking lot, ducking under the cordon. They’re soot-stained and there’s more than a few pieces of gauze covering minor injuries. Buck stands at the edge of it all, people streaming around him. He watches reunions happen throughout the parking lot, desperate families ignoring the ash and smell of burnt avgas to welcome their loved ones with hugs and kisses.

He fumbles his phone back into his pocket, hands shaking. He’s hollowed out, anxiety-carved chunks missing from his heart from the last few hours and leaving him cavernous, ears ringing with his own breathing.

C shift checks-in with the exiting B team, and Buck hears bits and pieces of the story. From the sounds of it, the main hangar will be out of commission for weeks, and someone at the Chief's Office is already investigating how the malfunctioning fuel bowser passed its last inspection. Thankfully, the fire didn’t spread to the underground storage tanks, but there was still significant damage and at least one bird was totaled.

The stream of people leaving the hangar slows to a trickle. Buck looks around, but he’s lost sight of Athena. Tommy doesn’t appear.

The empty feeling grows.

At some point, he wrapped his hands around the flimsy black and yellow plastic of the police tape. An anemic breeze coming in off the water makes it sway limply on either side of his grasp. Most of the LAPD officers have walked away, leaving him alone, staring at the half open hangar door and the shadowed interior.

Finally, there’s movement. Two figures, one in full turnouts, one in a half-undone flight suit in a familiar blue. Buck’s under and away from the tape before he’s consciously decided to move, hurrying across the lot at a fast clip. One of the figures clocks him, and elbows the other. The second one stutters, missing a step. Buck’s heart pounds. The second figure starts moving again, breaking into a jog. Buck speeds up.

Soon enough, he can see details. The flight suit is ripped and torn, and unzipped to the waist. The revealed grey tee shirt is stained with sweat and ash. There's a red smear on the fabric over the ribs that looks concerningly like blood. A thin pad of gauze is wrapped around a strong forearm, stark-white against the soot. Dark brown curls threaded with grey are messy and falling over a sweaty forehead, eyebrows raised in surprise. Those stormy blue eyes are wide and shocked, but relieved, and oh-so familiar.

Tommy’s got his arms out, reaching for Buck as he sprints closer, and his mouth is open and moving, but Buck can’t hear it. His heartbeat’s pounding through his skull, reverberating and turning everything else to white noise. Buck has the wherewithal to think he should probably slow down, but the thought barely has time to percolate before they’re slamming into each other. Buck feels the breath whoosh out of Tommy instead of hearing it, but those welcoming arms still wrap around him.

Sound filters back in. First, his own gasping breaths. And then, a voice.

“Shh, it’s alright. I’m fine, I promise, I’m fine. I’m so sorry, honey. Didn’t know you were here. My phone’s probably in a thousand pieces. Evan, please. You gotta breathe.”

Buck forces a noisy breath in through his nose.

“Good baby, that’s perfect. Just like that.”

His own voice croaks out of his throat, “Are you really okay?”

Tommy hugs him close, one heavy hand on the back of Buck’s head tucking his face against the gritty skin of his neck. “I swear I’m okay. Just a scratch. I had to crawl into the truck to get the driver out.”

Buck swallows roughly, leaning back to look Tommy in the eyes. He’s here, he’s okay. The lockdown’s lifted and no one is trapped. It’s not like the lab. The pit in his chest finally starts to fill in; relief is a cool rush of feeling, leaving him shaky with solace. His hands scrabble at Tommy’s shoulders and he presses their lips together frantically, with zero finesse.

It is, objectively, probably their worst kiss. Tommy jerks away in surprise, his hands hovering, but presses back in so quickly their teeth clack together. Stubble catches and their noses bump. Buck’s breath is still hiccupping in and out of him, and Tommy is filthy, spreading soot over both their faces. At least they're not in a hospital lobby this time. A second later, that heavy hand is back, guiding Buck’s head to a better angle. Their lips connect again, and this kiss is smoother, warmth and comfort flourishing between them. Another hand lands at the small of his back, bringing their bodies closer. Buck sighs into the kiss, opening his mouth and licking at Tommy’s plush lower lip.

Heat sparks, catches, like it always does with the two of them. Buck wants to forget the lockdown, forget the parking lot, forget why this day sent him on such a spiral. Tommy moans, low in the back of his throat, and deepens the kiss, sucking Buck’s tongue into his mouth. One of Buck’s hands finds the edge of the flight suit, fingers dipping under to feel the body-warmed cotton of Tommy’s boxers. Buck aches to be closer, needs to crawl inside of his boyfriend so he never has to feel this way again. He settles for running his tongue over the back of Tommy’s teeth, tasting the soot in his mouth and trying to remove every trace.

A throat clearing behind Tommy makes them both jump.

“Not that this ain’t sweet, but Sergeant Grant is on her way, and I’m pretty sure you were supposed to stay behind the yellow line, Buckley.”

Buck swallows, and carefully disentangles his limbs from Tommy, who pouts adorably. “I mean, she didn’t exactly say that. She mostly said don’t go in the hangar. But, um, thanks, Captain Deluca.” Tommy wraps his unbandaged arm around Buck’s middle, and Sal falls in at his other shoulder. They slowly start making their way towards the trucks.

“Kid, I’ve just seen you play tonsil hockey with my best friend. And you’re off-duty. I think you can call me Sal.” Sal’s voice is wry and Tommy snorts a laugh.

“Best? At this point I’m your only friend.”

“Is that so? Maybe next time I’ll just let the hangar burn down around you.”

“God, you’re such a bitch when you have to clean your kit.”

“And you’re such a bitch when you actually have to fight a fire instead of flying around in a chopper all day.”

“A chopper? I’m sorry, did we fall into an eighties action movie sometime in the last five minutes?”

“You would know, you fucking nerd.”

Tommy looks so offended, Buck can’t help it. He laughs. Soon Sal’s chuckling too, and Tommy’s failing to fight off a smile. He’s looking at Buck, his eyes sparkling, when Athena catches up to them. She takes one look at Buck, giggling helplessly, and Tommy, helplessly charmed, and her stern expression just melts away.

#ask game #bucktommy #tevan #911 abc #my fic #why did this get so long

432 notes · View notes

happyk44 · 3 hours ago

Text

[ID: Screenshot of a tumblr post thread. The OP's username has been cropped out in the initial post, but it's @/bashircore. The first post shows a screenshot of two tweets. The first is a tweet from Brooks Otterlake @/i_zzzzzz dated June 25th 2021: Inventing a new lifestyle philosophy called "The Nine Delights" where each day you try to experience at least three of the nine delights.

The second is a reply tweet from Brooks Otterlake @/i_zzzzzz dated June 25th 2021: Attached screenshot from the Notes app of a list titled "The Nine Delights" with nine points on it, reading:

Walking Around

Fellowship

Deliciousness

Transcendence

Goofing

Amelioration

Coitus

Enthrallment

** WILDCARD **

On the original tumblr post, the OP comments "This tweet has changed my life btw".

A reblogged follow up from @/bashircore. They've added a screenshot of tags reading, "#i wish i knew what half of these words meant but yeah #me core". @/bashicore replies in the reblog:

Here's a guide of what I've determined the meanings to be

walking around - self explanatory

fellowship - hanging out with friends

deliciousness - having something tasty

transcendence - feeling that you have reached a different level of some sort; alternatively, when you do one of the other delights to the extreme and feel really good about it. (you know transcendence when it happens)

goofing - having a good laugh at something

amelioration - working towards the betterment of something, for example, working on a skill you hope to improve

coitus - fucking

enthralment - becoming incredibly engaged in something, hyperfocusing on something

wildcard - anything that you feel was a delight in your day that does not fit one of the above delights

Tags from whoever reblogged the post read, "#i like this!" /end ID]

#good things #reblogged #described #pics #if needed

23K notes · View notes

kxsagi · 2 days ago

Note

my pookie bear's photo dump

“𝐠𝐫𝐮𝐦𝐩𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐛𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐮𝐥𝐮 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫”

a/n: if this is your way of asking me for a sae oneshot, it’s working

take this quick drabble (i had no idea where this was going)

influencer and model! reader, aka you, was supposed to go on a six-month “soft life sabbatical” in spain. drink wine. post bikini pics. maybe get over your situationship with that guy from LA who believed mercury being in retrograde was a valid excuse for cheating.

but instead, you somehow ended up in a situationship with a different problem: pro soccer player! itoshi sae.

it starts innocently. a brand trip. a runway walk. you’re at some madrid fashion charity gala you were coerced into attending for the free goodie bags and champagne. you’re seated next to a guy in an obnoxiously expensive suit with a jawline so sharp you could slice bread on it.

“you’re the soccer guy, right?” you ask, sipping your prosecco.

“football,” he corrects without looking up from his phone.

“same thing.”

he glances at you. raises an eyebrow. “… you’re the tik tok girl?”

“influencer-slash-model,” you correct him back, sweetly. “but yeah. tik tok girl works, too, i guess.”

somehow, that turns into a flirt. which turns into a dinner. which turns into a “we’re just hanging out.” which somehow escalates into “sae was seen leaving her hotel at 7 AM wearing last night’s clothes” headlines.

and then the media explodes.

you learn something very quickly: spanish paparazzi are ruthless. you post one photo of your hand holding a wine glass, and the internet matches the reflection of his elbow in the background to a press photo from his 2021 madrid uniform fitting.

you make a tik tok of your morning routine and people slow it down to 0.5x speed and go, “IS THAT A MAN'S TOOTHBRUSH ON HER SINK??”

(you have to turn off comments after someone makes a three-minute analysis video with red circles and arrows titled “itoshi sae is living in her apartment and here’s how i know.”)

“you need to start denying things,” sae says flatly one morning, reading a headline on his phone.

you shrug, sipping your matcha. “why would i deny being with you? i’m hot, you’re hot, it’s great PR for both of us.”

he stares. “you think i need PR?”

“no, but i do,” you chirp, pulling your phone out. “now kiss me. the camera’s rolling.”

even despite your job titles and different personalities, your relationship works surprisingly well. sae’s not much of a yapper. you, unfortunately, are. it balances out.

he doesn’t post you, but he lets you post him, usually with a hand in front of his face and a dry comment like, “don’t tag me. i don’t want your fanbase following me for my skincare routine.” (ironically, your followers now ask if your skin glows because of ‘post-sae aftercare.’)

your fans call him grumpy soccer boyfriend. his fans call you the influencer menace corrupting their star midfielder. your best friend calls him the hot red flag that turned green because he met the right woman. and your mom calls every sunday just to ask, “has he proposed yet? tell him your eggs have an expiration date.”

sae listens to all this with the same deadpan face he has on the field. except, when you make him laugh, which is rare and stupidly cute. like when you wore one of his jerseys to bed and said, “i'm starting to understand the appeal of athlete boyfriends. they double as oversized laundry.”

he tried to hide his smile. he failed.

you eventually do an accidental hard launch. emphasis on accidental.

you’re on a yacht with friends in ibiza. you're recording a silly “get ready with me” tik tok. lipgloss. sunscreen. bikini. basically pinterest energy.

and right as you pan the camera to the sea, there’s sae. shirtless. sun-kissed. sipping a piña colada.

you post it without thinking. and the internet? loses its mind.

“IS THAT SAE???”

“OH SHE’S WINNING WINNING.”

“i thought he hated people.”

“now how did she pull the emotionally unavailable mf of the century???”

“why is he literally boyfriend-coded in the most terrifying way.”

you check your phone an hour later and realize it’s trending on twitter. sae walks by, glances at your screen, and mutters, “you’re lucky i like you.”

you grin. “aww. do you like me? like, like-like?”

he blinks slowly. “you want me to take it back?” (even if you said yes, he would never.)

but the funniest part of your relationship? you are the dramatic one. sae is just… there. existing.

when paparazzi swarm your dinner date, you dramatically cover your face and yell “respect my privacy!” while sae just walks through the cameras like a divorced dad doing groceries.

when a random girl flirts with him at a club, you go full telenovela villainess: hand on chest, gasp, clutch your wine like it’s a weapon. sae’s response? “she was asking if i worked here.”

“oh.”

“and you just told her i had chlamydia.”

“actingggg, cariño. stay in character.”

he does not understand your influencer world. one time he walked in on you crying and holding three PR boxes and was like, “are you okay?”

you sniffled. “dior sent me the wrong blush shade.”

“… you’re joking.”

“do i look like i’m joking, itoshi sae.”

but to his credit, he starts learning. he now understands that ‘collab’ means ‘free stuff,’ that ring lights are sacred, and that you will absolutely cancel a dinner date if you’re waiting for golden hour to shoot content. he complains. then buys you a new camera lens the next day.

and when he finally does post you, it’s not even a soft launch. it’s a hard explosion.

it’s a blurry photo of you asleep on his chest, hair everywhere, captioned: “she snores.”

it gets 3 million likes in an hour.

you reply: “only when i’m next to emotionally repressed men.”

but you love him.

not just because he’s hot and rich and confusingly good at folding laundry (???). but because behind all the dry comments and passive-aggressive text replies, he’s so soft.

he reminds you to drink water. he calls your mom ma’am and lets her believe he’s fluent in your native language, even though he only knows five words (at least he thinks so). he sets your phone alarm when you forget. gives you forehead kisses before games. gets annoyed when you cry at titanic, but secretly watches it with you.

so you marry him two years later. and yes, the internet explodes again. but this time, it’s all “MOTHER & FATHER 😭,” “he really said ‘she’s my endgame,’” and “i believe in love again.”

you post a wedding photo with the caption: “goal secured 🥰⚽️”

he replies: “you’re so embarrassing.” but he likes the post. and he changes his bio to: married to an idiot.

and you? you couldn’t imagine a better forever.

#blue lock #blue lock x reader #bllk #bllk x reader #sae itoshi #itoshi sae #itoshi sae x reader #sae itoshi x reader #grumpy footballer x delulu influencer

221 notes · View notes

vinylmango · 3 days ago

Note

Hi I was the anon with the request so this was my idea

The reader is a Black woman who lives alone on the outskirts of town. She’s always heard stories whispers of creatures that roam the woods at night. She doesn’t believe all of them, but she knows enough to trust her instincts.One night, Remmick shows up at her door. There’s something off about him, and she can tell. She doesn’t let him in but plays along, tricking him into slipping up, testing him with questions. It becomes a game. Every night, he returns. She keeps her distance, but there’s an undeniable connection growing between them. The more he visits, the more vulnerable he becomes. She sees a loneliness in him, something broken but still human.Then one night, he comes to her burned and bloody, barely standing. Without thinking, she rushes out to help him. As she brings him inside, he jokes weakly, “Aren’t you afraid I’ll hurt you?” She looks into his eyes and simply says, “No. I trust you.”Something inside him changes. For the first time in years, he craves more than blood he craves connection.As she cleans his wounds, his vampire side begins to slip through. He tries to hide it, ashamed, but she touches his face and tells him it’s okay. She’s not afraid. She sees him. And when he leans in for a kiss she returns it, without hesitation.

Don't Hide From Me Remmick x black!fem!reader

Word count: 5k Warnings: blood, vampirism, brief mentions of: KKK, cheating/loser ex-husband, killing, guns

Note: Yay! My first request! Thank you anon! Sorry, this is kinda long and also took me longer than I planned because I restarted it about three times 😀 Unrelated, but I also just watched Little Fish for the first time yesterday and omg that movie hurts beautifully lol.

Anyways, thanks for reading and I hope you like it! Feel free to send in more requests or just say hi. My inbox is open and the list of who I write for is on my pinned nav post.

masterlist

The screen door rattled against the wooden frame, the wood had begun to warp after the last big rainstorm, but the door still worked all the same. “Well, you grew into a beauty, didn’t you?” You hummed cutting a few bunches of herbs, planning on drying them out in the summer sun, the rays starting to beam down on everything below it. Stopping on the porch, you looked out to the woods, the trees and overgrowth so thick in parts that light couldn’t even touch the ground, much less give you visibility into the depths. You strung up the herbs to begin drying, heading back inside to do some other chores before you were heading off to pay Annie a visit.

You didn’t arrive back home from Annie's until the last rays of the sun were bleeding orange into the purple sky that was growing darker and darker by the minute. Stars began to dot the sky, twinkling in the still night. “You better get home. There’s unnatural things in those woods. Things that you can’t even imagine.” Annie’s words echoed in your mind as you latched the screen door closed upon entering and setting your things down. You opened it once more to light the oil lamp that had once shone a bright silver but now was weather worn and rusted. The flame caught, dancing in its little cage as it cast dim yellow light out into the darkness, shadows dancing on the wood and grass.

“Hm.” You dialed through the radio stations attempting to find one that came through clearly, but it seemed like there wouldn’t be one. You settled on one that only faded in and out slightly, the crackling and faint hum of music was a nice change from the silence. You sang along to the radio, spinning around your living room.

Three loud knocks wrapped against the wood, pulling you from your moment as you quickly crossed the living room, shutting the radio off and going towards the door when the knocks sounded again, though quieter this time, not as incessant. “Yes?” You questioned, opening the solid door just enough to look through, the screen door acting as a barrier between yourself and the outside world.

A man stood on the other side, shoulders squared and broad, hands in his dark wool pants pockets. He looked up when the door creaked open, dark eyes shining in the warm candlelight that reached out around you past the door.

“You have a real nice voice.” His voice was gravely and his words flowed slowly like he had all the time in the world. You remained quiet, dark eyes looking over the figure that still managed to keep most of himself cloaked in the darkness of the porch, the places where the moonlight didn’t quite reach. “I don’t mean to frighten you, Ma’am. I just had to tell you.” He nodded like he was trying to convince himself just as much as you.

“Thank you.” You looked around behind him. It was times like these that you wished you lived closer to town, closer to neighbors. The night was still and silent and the woods around were too dark to make out the shadows. “Why’re you out here?”

He looked behind himself before he looked back at you. “I was just walkin’.”

“This far out from town?” Your eyebrows furrowed as he shrugged, hands still lazily in his pockets and a crooked smile on his pale face.

“It’s quiet out here.” He states. “Good for thinkin’.” You nodded, stepping back and closing the door a little more.

“Too quiet sometimes.” His eyes raked over you with an unreadable expression that made a chill wrap around your spine and settle into your limbs. He looked at you like he knew you and he acted like he’d been in the area for a while with the way he seemed to stand rather comfortably on your porch, the wood creaking below him at his change of stance. “How long you been walkin’ for?”

“Not long. I only just started.” He took a breath but the way his chest rose and fell seemed too labored, as if for a split second he had just finished sprinting a full length marathon. There was something about it that didn’t look involuntary. His breath changed a second later, his shoulders rising and falling in a more normal pattern. Maybe he was sick with something? “You play any music?”

“Sir, it’s 10 o’clock in the evening.” You frowned after glancing at the clock on the wall by the door. He gave you a lopsided grin, looking down for a moment before he met your eyes again.

“You have to go?” He asked as your mouth opened and closed, glancing behind you as you gripped the doorknob tighter. You finally shook your head no as a slow smile spread across his face.

“Why’d you wanna talk to me so badly?” You shifted again at the door as he stood for a moment as if he were thinking.

“You got a nice voice.” He shrugged. “Ain’t nobody else out here.” He listed off. “Your neighbors said you’re a kind woman.”

“My neighbors?” You questioned. “Which neighbors?” Your closest neighbors were about a half mile up the road. You didn’t see them much, but they were nice nonetheless. They always gave you extra crops they had when the seasons changed and you babysat for them a couple times when one of them had to go out of town and the other couldn’t take off to watch their young children.

“Uh.” He paused, looking down with furrowed eyebrows. His head tilted to the side when he looked at you again. “That family up that way…The Johnsons?” You nodded slowly, eyes narrowing.

“Why you speakin’ to my neighbors about me?” You opened the door, grabbing a rolling pin from the kitchen table and holding it up just enough for him to get the message. “You know me or something?”

“No…” He trailed off, voice quieter than before. “But I’d like to.”

“What’s your name?” You lowered the rolling pin, but still kept it in your hand.

“Remmick. What’s yours?”

“(Y/n).” You still eyed him cautiously as you set the rolling pin down again. “You best be going now, Remmick. It’s getting late.”

“I’ll come back tomorrow, then.” He didn’t ask a question and you didn’t protest, simply closing the door when he had stepped off the porch and began to walk back to the road.

He did come back the next day, just as the sun had set over the horizon and you had lit your lamps. “You came back.”

“You never said I couldn’t.” He shrugged, this time sitting on your porch steps. “When you gonna let me come in properly to talk to you?”

“When I know why a strange man showed up at 10 o’clock last night trying to talk to me about music.” You answered dryly as he cracked a smile, a chuckle coming from somewhere in his chest.

“I ain’t a stranger no more. You know my name.” He pointed out as you nodded.

“Remmick.” You dragged his name out as his eyes shifted to you from where he had been looking at his well worn brown boots. You couldn’t really decipher much from his gaze other than a little amusement from what you had said. “That just means you’re not a nameless stranger. My grandma’d be having a heart attack right now.” You added the last sentence under your breath. He didn’t laugh but he let out a breath in a huff that made it seem like he almost laughed.

“Why? Because you live alone?” You shook your head no.

“My grandma always told me growing up that nothing good ever comes to your door at night. Nothing good really ever happens at night.” You shrugged as you saw his freeze. His shoulders relaxed a second later as he smiled softly, not showing his teeth.

“Grandmas are all the same that way, huh?” You nodded with a laugh. “Superstitious.”

“Where you from Remmick?” You questioned after a period of silence. “Like really from?” You added when he looked at you with a raised eyebrow.

“Here.” He laughed as you rolled your eyes. “I been here for a long time.” His voice grew quiet and looked out into the woods, his eyes getting this hazy far away look to them before he cleared his throat with a shake of his head as if breaking a trance.

“You got a family?” You asked next as he shook his head.

“Just me. Just me for a while now.” He looked down at his hands. “My parents been gone a long time now. They weren’t long for this world.”

“That sounds real lonely.” You told him quietly. He looked over at you before his eyes flashed towards the door, just for a split second before going back to you. “And you don’t have any brothers or sisters or cousins or…” You stopped speaking when he shook his head no.

“You live out here by yourself, ain’t you lonely?” He stretched, his back cracking as he hummed in satisfaction before settling back against the wall.

“No, I’ve got my chickens and cow and they keep me plenty busy.” You glanced over at the barn and chicken coop on the edge of the property by the creek bed. “Plus I see the Johnsons from time to time. When people need me they know where I am.”

“I find it hard to think you live out here alone.” He looked into your eyes when he said that as your eyebrows furrowed and your head tilted to the side.

“Why’s that so hard to believe?” You crossed your arms over your chest which caused him to look down at your chest before he looked away. “You don’t think women are capable of doin’ things by themselves? It’s the 30s now, things are changing.”

“No it ain’t that.” He waved off. “I’m just surprised that you ain’t got a husband out here with you.”

“Why’s that, Remmick?”

“You gonna make me say it?” He gave you a lopsided smile again. His eyes glinted in the moonlight and heat rose in your body and across your face as you dropped eye contact. “You keep a nice house, you got animals and land, and you’re real nice to be around. Any man woulda jumped at that chance.” He shrugged as if he was simply just making objective observations.

“I gave somebody a chance once.” Your voice grew soft and hoarse as if you were attempting to talk around a lump in your throat. “I learned my lesson. He was a liar and a cheat.” You shook your head, curls moving with the motion before settling back around your face. “I left and came here. Everything I did here, I did for myself and by myself.”

“He ever try to come back around?” Remmick’s voice grew low and cold, a strange glint in his eye you hadn’t ever seen before but in a split second it was gone when he shifted his gaze away from you and back out to the road.

“He tries just about every damn month.” You laughed bitterly, grabbing his attention when he heard you shift from your spot. “That’s what I got this for.” You held up the shotgun you kept by the door with an innocent smile causing Remmick to smile and chuckle.

“You’re somethin’ alright.” He said to himself, the smile still on his face. He stands up after a moment more, stretching again before his hands find his pockets. “I best be goin’ now. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He didn’t ask again, but you still nodded anyway. This time closing the door with a small smile on your face.

The next night you couldn’t help but sit at near the door watching the sunset behind the trees and over the horizon. “Rem-”. Your voice caught in your throat when it wasn’t the nice yet mysterious man you’d been talking to for the past few nights. “Tom, get the hell outta here!” You yelled as your ex-husband pushed through the screen door. One of his calloused hands ensnared your wrist, gripping it tightly as he pulled you towards him.

“Gimme the money you owe me!” He bellowed as he held you tightly. That didn’t stop you from kicking and thrashing, trying anything to get out of his grasp and to the gun that sat neatly perched against the table.

“Get the hell off me! I don't owe you shit!” You dug your nails into his arms, but it only made him hold you tighter in his grasp as he slammed the front door closed and threw you to the floor. Your head hit the floor and you didn’t really remember anything after that.

Sunlight poured through the windows and into your eyes as you cracked them open, groaning as you lifted your head and staggered to your feet. A dull ache sat at the base of your skull as you looked around the room. “What the hell?” The entire house looked like a tornado had ran through it, curtains torn from the windows, chairs knocked over and one of them was broken. Your kitchen was in a state of disarray you had never seen before. Pots and pans lay scattered, food thrown about, jars half empty and broken with glass shattered on the counters and floors. Your bedding was pulled back and off the bed, bedside tables with the left half open or completely removed. You stumbled to the jar you kept in the back of your pantry, you had painted it so it wasn’t see through anymore. Unscrewing it quickly, hot tears welled up in your eyes when you saw it was completely empty. All that money you had been saving away, had worked for, put in extra shifts for, sold herbs and crops for, was gone, probably burning a hole in Tom’s pocket.

The knock at the door caught you off guard that evening. You set down the broom, leaning it against the table as you reached for your gun, cocking it as you opened the door and pointed the barrel out. “Woah (Y/n). I do somethin’ wrong?” Remmick joked, before his smile dropped and he took in your appearance and the state of your home.

“Oh.” You set the gun down with a shaky breath, before you looked back at Remmick and then at the state of your living room. “I lost track of time.”

“What’s happened?” He questioned, voice tight and eyebrows knitted together. His hands were at his side, balled into fists before he flexed them and then balled them up again.

“Nothin’.” You froze. “Nothin’.” You repeated again, firmer this time, as if you believed it now. “I just…” You couldn’t come up with anything so you just let the words die on your tongue as Remmick shook his head, dark eyes swirling with anger and something you couldn’t quite place.

“You hurting?” His voice was softer, standing right in front of you now, the only thing separating you was the screen door, or what was left of it.

“It’s just some bruises.” You waved off.

“It was him wasn’t it?” His jaw tightened as he said the words.

“Yes, but it doesn’t matter.” He shook his head at your dismissal. “Why do you care? Tom’s my cross to bear, not yours, Remmick.”

“Because you’re a good person (Y/n). Too good.” His southern drawl seemed to thicken as his knuckles turned white. “He had no right to come through here like that.” He stepped back from the door.

“Where you going?” You called after him as he stopped mid-stride, turning his head just enough to look over his shoulder.

“I forgot to hang my laundry. I’ll be back soon.” He called, running off down the trail without waiting for an answer from you.

By the time he returned the holes in the screen door had been patched up with tape and when you opened the door again your place looked relatively back to normal. He walked back up onto the porch, hands in his pockets, though they were different pants this time, a cocky smile pulling at his lips. “You look nice.” You complimented his shirt which was also a different color, one that complimented his eyes and contrasted his hair in just the perfect way.

“Thank you, Darlin’.” Heat rushed to your face at the nickname. You decided not to ask any questions when you saw him picking at his nails or that his lips looked stained, like he had drank dark wine on the way back to your house.

“You ever wonder what else is out there?” Your back was against the wall just by the threshold as he sat mirroring you on the porch. The screen door now left open along with the other more solid door.

“What’d you mean?”

“Just…” You paused as if trying to find the right words. “That the world’s so big and yet I’ve never left the Delta. Feels like if you went somewhere else you could be just about anything you’d want to be.” You sighed, eyes tilted towards the stars.

“There’s alotta stuff out there.” He agreed.

“You traveled?” You sat up then as he smiled at the shine in your eyes.

“Yeah I’ve seen things.” He agreed. “I didn’t like all of it though.”

“What’s your favorite place?”

“Besides right here next to you?” You rolled your eyes with a laugh. He paused for a second and you watched as a slow smile grew on his face as he crossed his arms. “Ireland.”

“Tell me about it?” You asked, your head leaning back against the wall as he nodded before taking a breath.

“It’s real pretty.” He sounded wistful now, eyes closing with a smile on his face. “There’s these rolling green hills right by the coast. They go on for miles and miles. It’s just nothin’ but farmland out there. It’s perfect in the summer. The grass is tall and soft and you could just lay on those hills for hours and listen to the waves lapping at the rock. I used to do that all the time.” He chuckled to himself, voice soft as velvet. “My parents used to get worried because I’d disappear for hours, but I’d just be there in the grass or with the cows.”

“It sounds beautiful.”

“I never told anybody about that.” He opened his eyes as you grinned at him.

“Was that home?” Your voice was just above a whisper as he nodded. “You miss it?”

“Every day.” Your hand reached out for his, lightly settling over it as you felt him go rigid. His dark eyes focused in on your hand before finding your eyes. You smiled at him as you felt his cool touch on your fingertips. He turned his hand up as you settled your hand back in his, interlacing your fingers.

“You’re cold.” You whispered.

“I run cold.” He said before you noticed the dark blue veins that peaked from under his shirt sleeve. They looked strange against his pale skin, but you didn’t say anything.

“Why haven’t you tried to come inside?” You asked, your voice still soft. “Any other man woulda barged in here by now, but not you.” He didn’t say anything, just sat there as the crickets chirped into the night. You looked down at his hand again. “You hear about Tom? Some woman in the general store was sayin’ that her husband found him face down in the mud with all the pigs around him.” You turned only slightly, feeling him freeze for a moment before he relaxed.

“Hm.” He hummed, eyebrows raising and mouth opening just slightly. “No, that’s a shame.” Remmick hadn’t even tried to sound surprised or disgusted. If anything, some happiness seeped into his eyes before he returned to his neutral expression. “A real shame.” He added with a nod after a moment.

“I know you did it, Remmick.” He froze again, his eyes searching your expression before looking away and then back at you again as he swallowed, like a guilty child that had just been found out.

“Wha-”

“Don’t lie to me.” Your whisper had the excuse dying on his lips as he closed his mouth and simply looked back at you. “You got this look in your eye…like a coyote or something…then you disappeared and Tom turns up with the pigs.”

“I didn’t do anything that motherfucker didn’t deserve.” He reasoned, voice steady and unapologetic. The crickets chirping filled the growing silence between you.

“How many?” Your voice was barely a whisper as you looked down at your lap, hands on either side of you feeling the woodgrain below you, no longer ghosting over his icy skin.

“(Y/n)...”

“How many, Remmick?” You repeated a little louder this time. “How many times you done something like that?”

“(Y/n)...” You watched his mouth open and close before he frowned while looking down. It was as if something had broken behind those black eyes that you had grown fond of. He reached his hand towards yours, but you pulled it away and turned to look at him more, just over the threshold and just out of reach no matter how much he wanted to touch and hold you. “Please.” He whispered.

“I know what you are.” You told him as he seemed to flinch at that, cowering away as if searching for a shadow to creep into. “Why you can’t come in unless invited, why you only come around at night. Why you’re so pale and cold to the touch…” You trailed off. “My grandma told me about ‘em. About vampires.” You stood now as you looked at where he was still sitting, refusing to meet your eyes. “I think you should go home, Remmick.” You said softly before stepping back and closing the door.

You sighed as you went over to your bed and laid down. The man that you had grown fond of, that made your heart beat a little faster and cheeks heat up, was no man at all, at least he hadn’t been for a long time.

The next day you didn’t light the lantern or open the door, instead turning the radio on and deciding to stay inside and work on the quilt you had started ages ago but never finished. You were in the middle of stitching part of the border up when you heard a commotion in the distance, something that sounded like horses and yelling.

Letting the needle and fabric fall to the floor you stumbled quickly towards the door, throwing it open when you saw him fall into the dirt just as the sun was setting. The screen door slammed against the wall as you raced down the steps, the old wood creaking from your quick movements. “Remmick?” Your eyes widened as you saw the angry burns, still smoking faintly, that littered his arms and chest, his shirt ripped and bloody, his hair pointing in different directions. “Remmick? Hey, can you hear me?” Your words flew out of your mouth as you looked towards the woods where the shouting was coming from in the distance and then back towards your porch. You held his face in your hands, moving his hair from his face as you tried to assess the worst of his wounds. You helped him stand, a groan escaping his lips at the exertion.

“(Y/n).” Your name slipped from his lips as he groaned again, his leg buckling as he fell against you.

“It’s alright, Remmick.” You reassured him as you tried to get him back inside before whatever or whoever was chasing him finally caught up. “We gotta get you inside, but you gotta help me alright? I can’t do this by myself.” He nodded weakly as you helped him stand up again, leaning heavily into you, as you finally got him closer to the house. “You ain’t afraid I’ll hurt you?” He said, trying to crack a joke with a hint of a smile on his face, voice barely above a whisper and hoarse as if he’d not drank water in days. You shook your head immediately with a frown on your lips.

“No.” Your voice was firm and unwavering. “I trust you.” You told him and you saw something in his eyes when he glanced at you as you said that. “Now, come on.” You positioned his arm around your shoulders as you grabbed his belt loops and helped him up the porch and to the threshold. “You’re gonna be just fine, alright? You’re gonna come on in and we’re gonna fix you up.” You told him, though you were also trying more to convince yourself. “You’ll be right as rain, okay?” He didn’t answer you but you set him on the couch, quickly slamming and locking both doors behind you.

You quickly grabbed your bandages and supplies, setting them down in front of the couch as your eyes scanned over him. His breathing was even more abnormal than you had noticed before and his wounds weren’t healing like you had heard about. “Why aren’t you healing fast like you’re supposed to?” You asked as you poured some alcohol onto a bandage and held it one of the bad wounds. He groaned loudly, hissing when it made contact with his skin. “I’m sorry.” You said softly, giving him your hand to hold. “Some of these are real bad.” You continued the process of soaking gauze in alcohol and cleaning his wounds, letting him squeeze your hand when you’d do it. He never squeezed hard enough to hurt you though, even though you knew he was in excruciating pain, he still managed to hold himself back.

The banging on your door pulled you away from the couch, letting his hand go weakly as you grabbed the shotgun, loading it and cocking it as you swung the door open. “Get goin’.” You said, pointing the shotgun at the group of men gathered around.

“Ma’am, you seen a white man around these parts? He killed our friend.”

“You comin’ to my door asking about Tom?” You chuckled humorlessly. “Take that shit somewhere else. I haven’t seen no white man around here.”

“Will you let us just look around? Something about him ain’t right.” The man at the your door said. You assumed he was closer to your ex-husband than the rest of them. “What he did to Tom wasn’t right and it wasn’t natural.”

“Now you motherfuckers need to get the hell off my porch.” You waved the gun at them again. “I don’t care what happened to Tom, that man was evil walkin’. Now get goin’ before I start shootin’.” You fired the gun, it kicking back as it blasted a hole through the screen door, causing the men to flee while muttering curses at you.

You closed and locked the door again before rushing back over to Remmick. He looked more alert as he adjusted himself and sat up properly on the couch, an amused grin on his face as you huffed and set the gun down by the kitchen table.

“You look a little better.” You smiled, going towards the bottle of alcohol and grabbing more gauze. “I need to finish, alright? I don’t know if vampires can get infections, nobody’s told me that, but I don’t want to find out. Not when it’s you.” His eyes shone as he looked at you, his irises dark as night but looking at you as if you had put the stars in the sky.

“Shit!” He hissed loudly as you held the gauze to his side.

“Sorry.” You whispered as he shook his head, eyes closed and head falling back against the back of the couch. When the sting died down, he lifted his head and opened his eyes watching you lift the edge of the gauze to see if he had started healing there before holding it back against his pale flesh. “Wow.” You whispered as his eyes met yours.

The once dark irises now shone an astonishing deep ruby, glittering as if the sun was shining in them as he watched you. “Your eyes.” You whispered. He turned his gaze away from you quickly, squeezing his eyes shut as his breathing changed, becoming deeper as if he was trying to concentrate on something. “Am I hurting you again?” Your eyes looked back at his wounds before looking back at his face. He shook his head no quickly.

He was biting his bottom lip now as he turned his head to the side and away from you. His nostrils flared almost as if he was inhaling something before he cleared his throat. “Remmick, are you alright?” You asked, growing even more concerned. You abandoned the gauze, standing in front of him between his outstretched legs, holding his face in your hands. “Remmick look at me.” You whispered as he shook his head no.

“Don’t wanna scare you.” He sounded pained as if he was actively struggling.

“You won’t.” Your thumbs ran against his cheeks and he slowly turned his head to look at you, his eyes opening slowly. “I promise.” You added as you looked into his ruby colored eyes.

“I’m a monster.” He whispers as you shake your head quickly. “I don’t want you to see me like this.” You saw a small glimpse of the razor sharp fangs as he spoke.

“I want to see you.” Your thumb ran against his bottom lip. “All of you. Don’t hide from me.” His lips parted as he looked at you again, really looked at you, causing your chest to warm before the feeling spread to your whole body. No one had ever looked at you like that.

He took your hand, intertwining your fingers with his. His touches were soft and gentle, like whispers against your skin. He didn’t say a word as he pulled you closer to him, sitting you down on his lap as his other hand went to your cheek, his thumb running against your lips before he moved closer to you. “Can I-” His voice was a whisper as you nodded and your eyes closed just as his lips touched yours. They were soft and cold against your own as your hands went to his shoulders and then his hair. He placed his forehead against yours, breathing out when you both pulled away for air. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while now.” You smiled at the dazed look in his eyes and the small smile on his lips.

tags:

#vinylmango #black!reader #poc reader #black reader #jack o'connell #poc!reader #sinners x reader #remmick x black!reader #remmick x reader #remmick x fem!reader #remmick imagine #vinylmango requests #jack o'connell x reader #jack o'connell x you #sinners remmick #remmick x you #sinners fanfiction #fem!reader

249 notes · View notes

moondustbaby · 23 hours ago

Note

Q– Quickies (quick, frantic sec) with ceo Rafe and nanny bc life with two kids is hard lol

Q – Quickies

ceo!Rafe x gf!Reader

✨1k celebration post✨

mdni 18+

It starts in the laundry room.

You’d just thrown in a load of spit-up-covered onesies. The baby monitor is clipped to your leggings. Mason’s in the living room, happily glued to Bluey. And Rafe?

Rafe walks in, takes one look at you—hair a mess, sweatshirt covered in something you’re praying is formula—and just grabs you.

“Five minutes,” he mutters, already pushing your leggings down. “Need you.”

You barely get out a breathless “Rafe—” before he’s got you bent over the washer, hand on your lower back, his cock already out and hard against your ass.

“You said you had a meeting at eleven,” you gasp.

“I do.” He shoves your panties aside. “We got plenty of time.”

He slides in all at once—no warning, no prep—and you moan into the crook of your elbow as your body clenches around him. You’re already wet. You always are when he talks to you like that. When he looks at you like this.

“Fuck, baby,” he grunts, pounding into you. “Missed this pussy.”

You laugh through a moan. “It’s been three days.”

“Three very long days.”

His hands grip your hips hard, pulling you back onto him with every thrust. The washer shakes beneath you. The baby monitor stays silent. And you both know it’s a race against time.

But Rafe still manages to make it filthy.

“You like this?” he pants. “Gettin’ fucked like my little housewife while the kids are watchin’ cartoons?”

You sob out a yes.

You cum hard, legs shaking, forehead pressed to the washer. And Rafe follows with a deep groan, spilling inside you with one last thrust before pulling out and yanking your leggings back up.

By the time you’re both decent, the dryer’s buzzing and Mason’s yelling from the couch: “Mom! Bluey’s over!”

Rafe kisses your cheek. “Perfect timing.”

a/n: sometimes you’ve only got five minutes between cartoons and nap time—and sometimes that’s all rafe needs to rearrange your guts in the laundry room 🫣

♥️ lani

nsfw a-z

✨1k celebration schedule✨

202 notes · View notes

nevershootamockingbird · 2 hours ago

Text

[ Image One: A screenshot of a reddit post that reads: "AITAH for "training" a guy "like a dog"?

I (23F) have recently started seeing this guy (26M). he's super pretty, but he's kind of emotionally unavailable and he's alluded to an unstable/ unhealthy childhood.

for context, i also work w socializing abused and neglected dogs at a local shelter and i think about how much time i spend w the dogs is impacting the way i interact w ppl.

when we were on a date i started subconsciously making mental notes abt him like the notes id make abt a dog. for example, i noticed when we went out to dinner and i noticed he ate really quickly and was very anti-sharing (resource guarding) but when i offered to pay and suggested dessert it seemed to make him really happy and a little calmer (food-motivated); he likes when i pick where we go/ what we do (eager to please), etc. so, ive started using the tactics id use on a dog w similar problems.

recently a friend (22F) pointed out that it's weird that i keep peanut M&Ms on me w the specific purpose of offering the guy one when i see him, and offering them again whenever i can tell he feels vulnerable. she said that im being an asshole bc he's a person, not a dog so i shouldn't be "training him like one."

i don't think thats fair, im not trying to control him or anything, i just want him to feel comfortable w me the same way i need the animals im helping to be comfortable w me. humans and animals aren't THAT diff after all, we all just want to feel safe and cared for. the guy hasn't noticed yet as far as i can tell. the problem is, my "technique" is yielding really positive results.

AITAH? should i stop?"

Image Two: A screenshot of a reddit post that reads: "UPDATES/ CLARIFICATIONS

for everyone asking me if i've seen the big bang theory ep w this plotline: i have not

for everyone saying they think i am autistic: probably, yeah. i haven't been tested but maybe i should

i do not have loose m&ms in my pocket bc then they'd get all melty and gross - i keep them in a bag in my purse

ik the title was clickbait-y so i want to make some things clear. i didn't think of it as "training" til my friend said it was like i was training him, and that made me feel weird (and it's why i made the post)

i am not and never have been trying to "modify" behavior. what i noticed in him and what i notice in animals were stress responses. we only get aggressive over our food if we believe someone's gonna take it away. we get defensive over our spaces if we reasonably feel like they'll be violated. applies to both animals and ppl. i was trying to establish trust the way i best know how to lol

if he never shared fries and never wanted to park next to a car w wide doors again, that'd be fine w me tbh. i know he's not a dog, so he's not at risk of being euthanized or something"

Image Three: A screenshot of a reddit post that reads: "ON TO THE UPDATE PROPER YAY!"

so, to all of the ppl who told me i should tell him what im doing - you were right and that's what i did. turns out i was VERY WRONG abt him not noticing what i was doing - he apparently put two and two together pretty quickly after i started doing it. he didn't tell me he was on to me tho, bc he liked it and was worried id get embarrassed and stop if i knew that he knew. so we talked it out and it ended up not being a very big deal at all and im probably gonna keep having m&ms bc they're good. that's all i got for yall lol" / End ID ]

sickens me to my stomach. how dare this guy get to live my dream.

#long post #god. incredible. you love to see it #sloane tag #going both ways #fly me away tag #and this too can be melangdon etc etc #q

160K notes · View notes

stylesispunk · 2 days ago

Text

The days of you and I | part 1

Jackson!Joel Miller x fem!reader

Summary: After Joel’s near-death, you stay by his side, refusing to leave him behind. You both confront the weight of what’s been done and what it means to still have each other for now.

w.c: 4,5k

warnings: angst, mentions of murder and revenge, emotional trauma, grief trauma, survivor's guilt, discussion of death and loss. It contains spoilers from season 2 of the last of us. No proofreading because, you know.

A/N: Okay, hello. This is a new Joel series because we love Joel here, and he is alive and recovering. This series will have angst, and the topics followed throughout the story will hold onto the path of healing after a traumatic event for the characters. I already have the end for this series, so everything will lead to it. I hope you like it and stay here to read it. Reblogs are really important, and I appreciate them. I'm gonna be out for a days because I have to put an end to the semester before winter break and do my teacher duties.

Also, I created an AO3 account, and I'll be posting fics there too from now on.

The hospital room was very quiet. With that eerie absence of sound that you could feel penetrating your bones, damaging the inside of your body with a pain that pierced your body, seeped into your soul, and oppressed your heart.

Joel still woke up to that silence, as if was chocking him to death and he had decided he have had enough of it. to the distant hush of an early morning, and a world that carried on without him. The sharp sting in his ribs reminded him he was still alive, though some days, he wondered what for.

His eyes opened slow, the weight behind them too heavy to lift at once. The ceiling looked the same as it had for the past week, wooden beams, a single hanging light. He’d spent more hours staring at it than sleeping. The painkillers dulled the sharp edges, but nothing softened the hollow inside his chest.

And you were still there.

Your silhouette sat by the window, curled into the old chair like you belonged there. As if you were stuck. A book half-read on your lap, a cup of cold tea nearby, and that same tired crease between your brows you probably didn’t know you had. You looked so small in the pale dawn light, so goddamn stubborn.

He should’ve been glad. Grateful you hadn’t left.

But this morning, something cracked inside him.

It wasn’t relief that filled him. It was grief.

His bones were still aching, his legs dumbed under the cover. He didn’t feel like a man no more, but as a lifeless lump lying in bed.

And you deserved better than this version of him, this half-broken thing stitched together by other people’s hands, carrying the weight of mistakes that couldn’t be undone. Joel wasn’t the man you met. Wasn’t the one who held you like you were the only good thing left in the world.

And seeing you here, still choosing him, hurt worse than any wound that other girl that beat him almost to death had left behind.

He swallowed hard, voice rough and unused.

“You don’t need to stay here all the time, you know?”

The words came out more bitter than he meant them to, tasting like rust and regret.

Your head turned, soft eyes finding his. That damn look, the one that exactly saw right through him, the one that made him feel like a man again for a moment.

And for a second, Joel wished you’d leave.

Because it would be easier than losing you piece by piece like this.

You smiled, small but steady, like you always did when you noticed he was awake. That damn smile, it cut through him every time.

“Took you long enough to wake up again,” you murmured, the softness in your voice brushing against the raw places in him he tried to keep buried. You crossed the room, moving to his side like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like it hadn’t been three weeks and one more of watching him drift in and out of fevered sleep and silence.

“You must be feeling tired,” you said, fingertips brushing through the strands of his hair, pushing them gently from his forehead.

Joel didn’t move, but his throat worked around a swallow. It wasn’t fair, you being so gentle. Wasn’t fair that after everything, you were still here, speaking to him like he was the man you remembered, not the one lying broken in that bed.

He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning, barely, into your touch before forcing himself to pull away. His jaw clenched.

Reality blurred at the edges; every breath thick with a kind of grief he didn’t know how to name. Time didn’t move right in this room. It stretched too long, like a cruel joke, dragging him through the sharp fragments of what he used to be.

He wasn’t mad.

He was devasted.

He felt ashamed of the man he was now.

He never experienced a physical pain like this. One that burned inside and out his body.

He hadn’t even noticed his hand was clenching around nothing.

How he could even be useful for this town now that he was gone. Everything left was limb laying on a bed with nothing left but a void consuming him as a whole.

He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, the coppery tang of blood grounding him for a second. His voice, when it came, was cracked and quiet.

“You shouldn’t… shouldn’t waste your time on me, darling.”

A bitter, broken kind of truth. But in his heart, he knew it would be worse than dying to watch you stay, wasting your life on him.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull your hand away, even when his words hung heavy in the air between you like a noose. If anything, your fingers curled more firmly into his hair, a tender anchor to a man too lost to realize he was still here, still tethered.

“I’m not wasting anything,” you said softly, the words steady even as your throat threatened to close around them. “You’re here, Joel. That’s enough.”

He gave a ragged breath, like he wanted to laugh, wanted to scream, but all that came was a low, broken sound somewhere deep in his chest. His gaze dropped to the space between you — his hand, bruised and shaking, lying useless on the blanket.

“Don’t deserve you sitting here, watching this,” he muttered, voice hoarse, eyes hot though no tears came. Couldn’t remember the last time they had.

A long, aching silence stretched between you.

You could feel it, the war inside him. The part that needed you close, needed your touch, your voice, like it was the last thing tethering him to this side of the dark. And the other part, the one too proud, too broken, too wrecked by shame to let himself have it.

But you’d made your choice the moment he opened his eyes a week ago.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said. Not a promise you made lightly in a world like this.

Joel closed his eyes again. He didn’t answer. But for the first time in days, his hand moved, slow, halting, to brush against yours.

“Did you… really take them all?” he rasped.

Your heart clenched, but you didn’t look away. Couldn’t.

You gave a small, steady nod.

He swallowed hard, the muscles in his jaw twitching. His gaze dropped for a second, his hand flexing weakly against the sheets.

“I don’t regret it,” you said at last, the words steady despite the ache in your chest. “No one deserves what they did to you.”

There was a storm behind Joel’s eyes, a thousand things he wanted to say, but his throat burned too much to let them out. Anger, grief, guilt, some twisted kind of gratitude. It tangled up inside him like barbed wire, tearing at every soft part he had left.

“You didn’t have to…” his voice broke, low and pained.

“I know,” you whispered. “But I would do it again.”

Your fingers brushed against his, and this time, his hand turned, weakly curling around yours. A tremble ran through him, and you felt it in your bones, the weight of his shame, the depth of his sorrow, and somewhere, buried beneath it, the fragile pulse of the man you knew still fighting to breathe.

But the love you felt for him, that was enough to send you into a spiral, where nothing else felt real but the desperate need to save him, the desperation of not losing him because that would have meant losing yourself that day.

Neither of you spoke for a while after that. The room was heavy with the things you didn’t need to say.

You didn’t look away from Joel, but you felt the shift in the room, the familiar presence of Tommy as he stepped in.

“Hey,” Tommy’s voice was rough, softer than usual, like he was afraid to break whatever fragile peace hung in the air. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

You lifted your head, your fingers gently slipping from Joel’s, though his hand lingered in the empty space you left behind.

Tommy gave a small nod toward you. “Gail’s waiting to see you. Said whenever you were ready.”

Your stomach twisted, a cold unease settling in your chest. You gave Joel one last look, brushing a thumb over his hand before pulling away completely.

“I’ll be back,” you whispered.

Joel didn’t answer. Just stared at the ceiling, eyes distant.

As you stepped out, Tommy caught your arm, just briefly, his hand firm but kind.

“I’ll stay,” he murmured. “Not gonna leave him alone.”

You gave him a grateful, weary nod and left, the door shutting quietly behind you.

The room felt emptier after you were gone. Joel let out a slow breath, eyes closing for a moment before shifting to glance at his brother.

“Gail?” Joel’s voice was rough, but clearer now. “She… she going to therapy with her?”

Tommy rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, sighing as he sank into the chair by the bed.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Doctor says it might help. Been… hard for her since it happened. It isn’t just you carrying scars, brother.”

Joel looked away, his throat working around another swallow. The word therapy felt foreign in his mouth, like it belonged to a world he’d never stepped into, one too far gone for men like him.

Joel stayed quiet for a long time after Tommy spoke, the words circling in his head, refusing to settle. His gaze lingered on the window, on the way the morning light edged in like it didn’t belong here.

Then, rough and low, he broke the silence.

“Was she…” His voice caught, and he cleared his throat, hating the weakness there. “Was she hurt? When… when they brought me back?”

Tommy’s face shifted, the answer already written in his eyes before he spoke.

“Yeah,” he admitted softly. “She… she had some bruises. Took a hit to the side’a her face, couple more on her ribs. And there was a wound on her abdomen.”

Joel’s stomach turned, a cold, sinking dread washing over him.

“Abdomen?” he rasped, his hands curling weakly into fists against the blanket. “Christ.”

Tommy sighed, leaning his elbows on his knees, rubbing a hand over his face. “She didn’t give a damn about it. Wouldn’t let anybody touch her. Wouldn’t even let them clean her up ‘til you were stable. Sat right there in that chair covered in her own blood and yours, talking to you like you could hear her.”

He shook his head, a ghost of a sad, fond smile on his face.

“Would’ve fought off half the town if anyone tried to pull her out of here.”

Joel closed his eyes, the guilt pressing so heavy against his chest he thought it might crush him. A sharp breath rattled through him, his throat burning.

“Goddamn fool,” he muttered to himself, a tear he’d never admit to stinging behind his eye.

“She loves you, you know,” Tommy said quietly, watching his brother’s face. “Way you do her. There is no shame in letting people love you, Joel. Even if it hurts.”

Joel didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not with the knot in his throat, not with the war inside his chest.

But his hand flexed again against the sheets reaching for something, for someone, perhaps you.

The silence thickened again, the kind of quiet that settled deep in your bones. Tommy stayed still, letting Joel sort through whatever storm was building behind those weary eyes.

Then Joel spoke, voice low and cracked, like gravel scraping out of his throat.

“She killed… all of ‘em.”

Tommy’s jaw tensed. He stared down at his hands, lacing his fingers together like it might steady him.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Every last one of ‘em.”

Joel’s throat worked around a swallow, his gaze distant, unfocused, like he was seeing it happen even if he hadn’t been awake for it. Like he could feel the blood she spilled on his behalf soaking into his hands too.

“I should have been the one…” Joel’s voice broke at the edge, bitter and aching. “Should’ve finished it. Not her. Not—”

“She didn’t leave you a choice, Joel,” Tommy cut in quietly, but firm. “You were barely breathing. We didn’t know if you’d make it. You almost died on her arms that night.”

Joel gave a humorless, broken kind of laugh, but there was no light in it. Just sharp edges.

“And now what?” he muttered, a tear sliding down his temple he didn’t bother to wipe away. “She got their blood on her hands. Because of me.”

Tommy leaned forward; his voice steady in that way Joel remembered from years long gone, before the world turned to shit.

“She doesn’t regret it,” he said. “You know that. And neither would I.”

Joel’s eyes finally met his brother’s. A flicker of something there. Grief. Fury. Love. Loss.

“But I do,” Joel whispered. “I regret that she had to.”

Tommy swallowed hard, his throat bobbing.

“You’re not the only one with scars, brother,” he said softly.

“I don’t regret it,” you said, voice steady, though your chest ached with the weight of it. “No one deserves what they did to Joel.”

Gail’s brow lifted, arms folding across her chest. “Murder?” she challenged; one word sharp enough to cut.

You didn’t blink. “Murder’s a simple act these days. Torture?” Your voice turned cold, almost unfamiliar even to yourself. “That’s another thing.”

A beat of heavy silence stretched between you.

“Murder is what Joel committed when he blew my husband’s head off,” Gail snapped, her voice brittle, laced with venom, old grief that still clung to her like a second skin.

“It’s not the same,” you bit out, shaking your head.

“It is,” Gail said, stepping closer. “The only difference is you had the chance to save him. If you hadn’t, Joel would be dead right now. And you’d be mourning him like I mourned mine.”

A fury you hadn’t felt since that day surged hot through your veins. You took a shaky breath, eyes narrowing.

“Fuck you,” you hissed. “You don’t know him. You don’t get to talk about him like that.”

Gail’s face didn’t move, but something in her gaze flickered, something dark, bitter, and quietly resigned.

“I know enough,” she murmured. “Enough to understand what kind of man survives in a world like this. And what kind of woman kills for him.”

You held her gaze, unflinching, the burn of unshed tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, though your face gave nothing away.

“I’m not sorry,” you whispered. “And I never will be.”

“You don’t get it,” you murmured, voice breaking just enough to betray the rawness beneath your fury. “My life would’ve ended.”

The words hung there, fragile and furious all at once.

You swallowed hard, fighting the tremor in your throat. “When they took him… when I saw what they did… there wasn’t a world left for me after that. So don’t stand there and talk about men surviving and women killing like you understand a goddamn thing about what it feels like to have your heart ripped out of your chest and left bleeding in the dirt. Because you’ve been behind these walls, safe, without knowing what it’s like out there.”

Gail’s brow twitched; her gaze steady but dull. “Do you think I haven’t lost people? Do you think grief makes you special?”

“I didn’t say that,” you shot back, your voice tight, shaking now. “I’m saying you didn’t see him. You didn’t watch them tear him apart. You didn’t hear the sounds he made. And you sure as hell didn’t have to put him back together.”

Her jaw clenched. “And now what? Do you think murder fix it?”

“I don’t care if it does or doesn’t,” you spat. “I care that they’ll never touch him again. That they won’t look at Ellie. That no one here will whisper about how Joel Miller should’ve died that day.”

Gail scoffed, a bitter sound. “And what about you? How can you carry this and walk around like it won’t eat you alive?”

“I don’t care,” you said, low, certain. “I care about him.

A beat of silence.

“You think that makes you strong?” Gail asked quietly.

“No,” you whispered. “It makes me his, as I’ve always been.”

Gail’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “You talk like that’s a badge of honor.”

You let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head. “It’s not. It’s a fact.”

She tilted her head, watching you like someone examining a wound too deep to close. “What if you drown into this?”

“I’ll try to save myself” you shrugged.

Another pause. The room felt too small, thick with old grief and new wounds, neither of you willing to be the one to walk away first.

“I loved Eugene so much” Gail said, her voice rough. “And when he died, it didn’t turn me into this.”

You met her eyes, unflinching. “But it made you bitter towards Joel.”

Gail’s jaw tightened, something sharp flickering in her gaze. “He made choices. Ones that cost people their lives. Good people. You act like he’s some goddamn martyr, but he isn’t.”

“And neither was Eugene,” you shot back, your voice low and steady. “Do you wanna talk about choices? Fine. Joel made his. I made mine. And you? You’ve been standing behind walls judging the rest of us ever since we arrived.

Her nostrils flared, a bitter breath leaving her. “I don’t have to like what this world turns people into.”

“Neither do I,” you murmured. “But I’ll fight for the one thing in it that still means something to me. That’s the difference between you and me, Gail. You buried your heart with Eugene. I’m not ready to bury mine.”

A long, heavy silence stretched between you, the old ache of loss clawing at both your throats. And for the first time, Gail didn’t have a sharp reply. She just looked away, jaw clenched, and you took your opening.

You didn’t say goodbye. You just left.

You made your way back through the hallway, your steps slow, heavy, like every word from that conversation with Gail was still clinging to your skin. The air in Jackson felt colder somehow, like the whole town was holding its breath, waiting for something none of you could name.

As a town, you were still recovering from that day.

When you reached Joel’s door, you didn’t push it open right away.

You stood there, hand hovering by the frame, heart hammering against your ribs because, god, he was still here. Still breathing. Still alive.

And it didn’t matter how broken or battered he was, how much rage or guilt sat behind those tired eyes. It was him. And that was enough for you.

Inside, you heard the low murmur of his voice, raspy, weighted with a pain he never used to let anyone hear.

“But how is she really doing?”

“She’s… holding up,” Tommy answered, voice cautious. ”

Joel let out a rough, broken sound. Not quite a sigh, not quite a sob.

“If you ask me, you’re lucky she’s still here after what this world’s done to both of you.” Tommy said.

There was a pause, then Joel spoke again, softer this time, like he wasn’t sure he meant to say it out loud.

“I just… I don’t want her staying because she feels like she has to,” Joel muttered, his voice rough, almost cracking. “She should go, Tommy. Find something better. Hell, anyone better than… whatever I am now.”

Your stomach twisted. A sharp, cold ache settling beneath your ribs. You stayed frozen at the doorway, your hand tightening around the frame, every part of you aching. You didn’t mean to listen, but it was too late. The words were already carving themselves into your chest.

“She’s not here out of obligation.” Tommy said, his tone harder than before. “What would you do if you were her?”

Another pause.

Joel let out a humorless, ragged chuckle, and it hurt to hear it. “It’s not fair.”

“But she gets to decide what’s fair,” Tommy shot back. “And so far, she has decided it’s you.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, blinking fast against the burn in your eyes. Your heart hammered in your chest so loud you were sure they’d hear it.

You needed one more second to pull yourself together. To bury the hurt his words left behind, not because you doubted him, but because you knew where they came from. The same place you’d been sitting in since the day you saw him bleeding out in the dirt.

You swallowed down the knot in your throat, forcing your face into something steady, or close enough to pass for it. Then, with a breath you weren’t sure reached your lungs, you pushed the door open.

“Hey,” you said softly.

Both their heads turned. Joel’s eyes landed on you first, and for a split second, something in them broke open. A flicker of guilt, sorrow, and something heavier, like he knew you’d heard more than you were meant to.

But you gave him a small, careful smile, pretending the sting behind your eyes wasn’t there. Pretending your heart wasn’t in pieces on the floor between you both.

Tommy cleared his throat, glancing between the two of you. “I, uh — I’ll give you a minute.” He patted Joel’s shoulder, murmured something you couldn’t catch, and brushed past you on his way out.

The door clicked shut.

Silence stretched thin in the room, heavy like storm air. Joel shifted uncomfortably on the bed, his hand twitching against the blanket. He opened his mouth, then shut it again.

You crossed the room, sitting down on the edge of the mattress by his side. Close, but not quite touching.

“I was thinking…” you began, “I could ask the doctor if you can leave the hospital and go back home. We surely need to make some changes there with the bed and—”

“Stop it.” He cut you off, his voice rough but firm. “I’m not going anywhere right now.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden sharpness. “Joel—”

“No.” He shook his head, eyes dark with something you couldn’t quite name. “Not until I’m ready. And right now, I’m not ready to face that.”

The weight in his tone pinned you still. You wanted to argue, to tell him that staying there wasn’t helping him heal, but the raw edge in his voice stopped you.

Instead, you just nodded slowly. “Okay,” you said softly.

He didn’t answer, just closed his eyes, the tension in his jaw slowly easing into something like resignation.

You settled into the chair beside his bed, not bearing the closeness anymore, the quiet between you thick but familiar. Your fingers absentmindedly traced the worn edge of his sleeve, as if hoping to stitch together the frayed pieces of him with nothing but touch.

Joel’s breath was shallow, uneven, and you could feel the weight of everything he wasn’t saying pressing down on the room. The man you knew, the one who’d fought through hell and back was here, but buried beneath layers of pain and doubt.

“I’m scared,” he finally muttered, voice rough and low. “Not of dying... of what’s left after.”

Your heart clenched. “You’re not alone in that,” you whispered. “You know that.”

“What you did—” he began “I didn’t deserve to be saved, baby.”

“I made my choice.” You replied, eyes watering.

Joel’s gaze dropped to your trembling hands, then back up to your face, searching.

“I’m broken,” he said quietly, voice cracking. “Not the same man I was before.”

You shook your head gently, swallowing the lump in your throat. “You’re still him,” you insisted, voice firm but tender. “Wounded, maybe. Scared, sure. But still you. And I’m still here.”

A long pause stretched between you, filled only by the faint rhythm of his labored breathing.

Joel’s eyes glistened, a shadow moving through them as he let out a shaky breath.

“What you did… it’ll haunt you,” he murmured, voice low and rough like gravel. “Same way Salt Lake haunts me. What I did to those Fireflies… what I took from Ellie. Thought I was saving her. Thought it was worth whatever price.” He swallowed hard, jaw trembling. “But it never leaves you. Never lets you forget. Look what they did to me.”

You didn’t flinch. You leaned in, your hand finding his cheek, thumb brushing against the rough line of his beard.

“No,” you said softly, steady. “It won’t haunt me, Joel.”

He blinked, as if the words knocked something loose inside him.

“Because I know what we do,” you continued, voice trembling but certain, “when we love someone enough to tear the world apart for them. I know what it means to save the person who’s your whole heart. And I’ll carry it. All of it. And I won’t regret a single thing.”

His eyes closed, a tear slipping down his temple, and for the first time in too long, he didn’t look like a ghost of himself. He looked like Joel.

“Goddamn you,” he whispered hoarsely. “I don’t deserve you.”

“I’m not letting you go,” you said, leaning your forehead to his.

His breath hitched at the sound of your voice so close, your warmth grounding him in a way nothing else could.

“Baby…” he rasped, like it hurt to say it, like it was both a confession and a plea.

You hushed him gently, your hand brushing through his hair, your forehead still pressed to his.

“It’s gonna take time to heal,” you whispered. “I know that. I’m not asking you to be okay tomorrow, Joel. Or next week. Or even next year. I just need you here. With me. However, you can manage.”

His fingers, still weak, clung to yours like a lifeline. His voice cracked as he spoke again, rough and small.

“I won’t be able to protect you.” You felt it in the way his words splintered under the weight of his shame, the jagged edges of the man he used to be catching against what was left. His eyes searched yours, desperate and hollow all at once.

“I won’t be able to protect you,” he repeated, voice breaking like a man confessing to a sin he could never undo as he closed his eyes. “Not like before. Not the way I should do.”

You swallowed hard, a tear finally slipping free, tracing down your cheek as you gripped his hand tighter, like you could anchor him to this moment, to you.

“You don’t have to,” you whispered, voice trembling but certain. “You protected me for so long, Joel. Longer than anyone else ever did. It’s my turn now. I don’t need a gun in your hand to feel safe. I just need you. That’s it. I just need to feel the beating of your heart under my hand to know you’re still breathing with me.”

His throat worked around a choked sound, his other hand weakly lifting as if it wanted to touch you but couldn’t quite make it, so you guided it to your cheek, holding it there like it was the most precious thing in the world because that’s how it felt.

“I’m still yours,” you whispered against his palm. “Always. However, you come back to me.”

tags 💌: If you want to be removed or you're not interested in the story anymore, please tell me so I can remove you. :)

@heartpatch @jasminedragoon @picketniffler @grayandthyme @ccmoonshine

@theoraekenslover @stcrrjoon @stupidthoughtsinwriting @officialjellydoughnut @dshc99 @eleganthottubfun @mystickittytaco @fvispunk @daydreamzsworld @comicccc

@nosebeers @whirlwindrider29 @person-005 @bunnyofribbon

@ainhoetaaa @missladym1981 @keileighr @callofdiva @pinkcabinet

@tomie-it-girl @shadowpheonix @unknownomgg @22thumbs

@vanishintoyoubby

#fic: the days of you and I #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller imagine #joel x reader #joel miller x you #pedro pascal character fanfiction #joel miller angst #pedro pascal #tlou spoilers

292 notes · View notes