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randombush3 · 1 month

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revocate animos (with or without me)

alexia putellas x reader

part one, part two, part three, part four

the second half of this part (it didn't fit in one post lol)

words: it's over 14k. i had lots to say.

summary: the final part, which originally had a different ending but i was told it was evil so i changed it.

warnings: it's mainly just sad, there's a bit of smut though

notes: i could give you so many excuses as to why this is being posted now but no one wants to read that so i'll just say sorry x

anyway, i got very lost along the way at points and had some serious plot crises that had me tearing my hair out. i researched children's behaviour to the point of needing an honourory qualification, and i spent the last three hours ignoring my girlfriend while i finished this off.

for as much as i put these two through (and myself tbh), i'm sad to finish it off. BUT ALSO NOW IM FREE.

have fun reading! and sorry about the length of it

London smells of dirty rain and exhaust fumes, of a homelessness crisis and inflation attempting to impersonate that of the Weimar Republic; greyish streets, cracks in the pavement, thousands of spices from all over the world. Grubby patterns, hidden by the smudging of millions of bottoms, coloured poles that used to match the train line but no longer do. You breathe it all in, eyes closed as the motion of the underground jerks you sideways, the train leaving London Bridge just as you left Barcelona. Without looking back.

You had laughed when they told you they’d send a driver to get you from the airport. The luxury of some shiny black car held no appeal when compared to the familiar Northern line, its blackened route well-travelled and your own brick-road home.

Part of this choice to ‘slum it’ is borne of your desire to return to the past; a time before the fame and the fortune, when camera flashes came from your parents’ Sony Cyber-shot and not paparazzos with a hunger to splash you across the front page of a slimy gossip magazine. There was no Alexia, then. The extent of Spanish in your life was Anya studying for her A-levels, and you’d spend time writing songs without it feeling like pulling teeth. Without having to relive some of the worst moments of your life.

Those hadn’t happened yet.

God, you were so naive then back then.

Your London shows are in Wembley. Two nights, two journeys through your album, through your heartbreak. Both are sold out.

“See it, say it, sorted,” you mouth along to the voice, pushing the handle of your suitcase upwards, rising from your seat. The doors of the tube swoosh open, the yellow line of the platform attacking your tired eyes as Highgate station is revealed to you. You hear a whisper of ‘is that Y/n L/n?’ but you don’t turn around.

The wheels of your suitcase gurgle against the bumpy pavement leading up to your house, but they grow quieter as you approach. They must sense the tension, glad to have the smoother surface of your driveway to move across as you force yourself to continue walking forwards.

A woman is standing on your porch. Her body swivels around as she hears you stop just behind her.

Leah takes in the sight of you, deciding that you definitely did not enjoy Barcelona. “I was just about to ring the doorbell, but I guess you wouldn’t have answered the door anyway,” she says with an awkward chuckle, not sure if you want to talk about how rough you look. You cried the entire flight, and refused to contact anyone once you had landed, hoping they assumed your plane had crashed and you had drowned somewhere in the English Channel.

“I got here in the morning.” Your voice is unused. It croaks, shattered.

“Let me get your bag?” asks Leah, rather firmly, leaving you no room to decline her request before she has stepped off the porch and into your personal space. She looks up at you, wondering how you manage to look so beautiful even now, hand blindly reaching out for the hard shell of your suitcase as she stares. “How’re Nico and–”

Your lips silence her before she is finished. Leah freezes, surprised this is the moment you have chosen to kiss her.

But she misses you as soon as you pull away.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper, and she cringes at the self-loathing that drips from your words. A tear rolls down your cheek, but you are unsure whether it falls because you have kissed her or because you want to kiss her again. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

You must have argued with Alexia. Leah’s realisation weighs heavy on her heart. Something has to have happened for you to have made your move, because Leah had been starting to accept the idea that you were still in love with your ex and she was nothing more than a friend. She had been looking forward to your concert tonight, in all honesty, and was excited to see you again, glad to have you in her life in any way, shape, or form.

“Because,” she starts hesitantly, “because you didn’t like it? Or…”

“Leah.”

“If you wanted to kiss me again, I wouldn’t mind.”

“Leah,” you repeat, the vowels almost failing to drop from the tip of your tongue. This is a dangerous game, but the look in Leah’s blue eyes tells you that she is happy to play it. “Leah, I… I shouldn’t have kissed you?”

“Is that a question?”

You blink. “I’m not sure.”

“If it’s a question, I’d say that the answer is the opposite. And that we should go inside.” She slides her hand over the metal handle of your suitcase, warm skin covering your fingers where your grip is still curled around it. “But only if you want to.”

Do you want to?

You value your friendship, you really do; Leah has been there for you many times since you met her, never asking too many questions. She means something more than what you crave from her, and doesn’t deserve to be the woman you use to detach yourself from reality.

But Leah is looking at you with desire that has been missed, relentlessness promised by her toned muscles. Leah is looking at you as though you are the only star in the galaxy or the sun on a rainy day. Leah is looking at you like she wants to devour you, and you, with no soul left to give, resign to letting her have your body.

“This won’t change anything, right?”

It’s a mean question. You know that.

“Course not,” Leah lies.

You let it convince the both of you.

Pink glitter covers the dining table at one end, and shiny green stars are scattered on top of the brown grain of the wood on the other.

“She might be at soundchek,” Alexia explains to Nico, who is finished with his Mother’s Day creation and is now intent on FaceTiming you to show you the card he has made. “And cards are supposed to be a surprise. That’s why we made envelopes!”

“But you said my card should be put in a museum,” he replies with a frown, his nose crinkling in confusion just as yours does. “So we show her now.”

“Mi amor, that’s not how it works,” laughs Alexia, reaching out to ruffle his hair. With Elena settled comfortably on her healthy knee, gleefully pushing piles of glitter around so that it mixes with the glue smeared on her card, it is safe to say that this year’s cards are going to be successes. “Mama has promised to call when she gets home, and you can tell her that you have a surprise for her. That will build up the excitement, and make it even better when she gets to open it.”

Your son has become a cynic. “And when will that be?”

“Mother’s Day is on the 19th, so we have three days to wait.” You have purposely chosen a chartered route to Tokyo that flies via Barcelona so that you get to spend the day with your children before your fortnight in Asia to end the first half of the tour. “Do you want to write the words out for Lela once the glue has dried?”

“I don’t know what Lela wants me to say,” he explains with great concern, turning to his sister with a very serious expression. He speaks to her in English, because he knows that this card is for you. He understands that there are two Mother’s Days, though he thinks it’s because he has two mothers, and that Alexia’s day is in May. When Alexia opens her mouth to speak, Nico is quick to shut her down. “Calla, Mami, no sabes nada de inglés.”

Your legs slam together but find no available route with Leah’s body in between them.

It feels… good.

Liberating.

You haven’t brought her into your bed, which she notices but doesn’t comment on. It’s excusable to be on the sofa, to have stayed downstairs for the hours she has spent trying to make you feel better, because the clock has only just ticked its way to lunchtime. You laugh to yourself at the thought of that, amused by the notion that you have already eaten.

Leah is curious when it comes to you. That much you had expected, having been aware of her lingering gazes long before the sores on your heart had calloused into tougher muscle. She has been waiting for this resiliently, and you present yourself to her as though you are a new toy she finally gets to play with. She kisses you slowly at times, to memorise the warmth of your tongue or the jut of your chin, but she often grows impatient, wanting nothing more than to end her torture and find out what it is like.

What is it like to have a woman like you? To wake up next to you, kiss you, touch you?

How does your mind work? What do you smell like just after getting out of the shower? Does your accent ever slip, or is it really that posh?

The air in the living room is hazy now, and your eyes close in bliss as you let your sweat seep into the grainy fabric of your white sofa. Leah doesn’t crawl into your open arms as you assume she will.

She wipes her mouth.

Although Leah has enjoyed this very much, she knows that this instance has not been you allowing her to start to love you. It has been for her to help you forget how much pain you are in. Somewhere deep down, she cares, but she doesn’t try to search for the emotion.

“So,” she says with a giggle, as if you are two teenage girls, best friends who have decided to kiss so that they can practise for the real thing, “do I need to send an apology present to your makeup artist?” Sitting back on her knees, she swipes one hand down to pluck her t-shirt from the floor, pulling it on top of her naked body before sending you an exaggerated smirk and prodding the developing bruise on your neck.

“Fuck,” you groan, batting her hand away. “I completely forgot I had that thing tonight.” You also need to call your children before Alexia bans your name from her household (if that hasn’t happened already).

“That ‘thing’ being your concert at Wembley?”

“I’d have thought selling out Wembley is the norm for you now, Captain,” you tease, clearing your throat. “England have done it, Champions of Europe for the very first time.”

“You’re freakishly good at a commentator’s voice.”

“Gotten used to being my own commentator. Only Spanish streams in my house – even United matches!” You smile at your own frustration but it quickly sours as awkwardness drops on top of you. You bring your arms up to cover your bare chest, but Leah clears her throat with softened eyes and you no longer feel so exposed.

You feel safe.

“What happened in Barcelona?” You shake your head at her question. “That bad, huh?” she presses.

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” you tell her, grey clouds hanging over you as your voice darkens and lowers. “Like, at all.”

“I think you should. It’s better it comes out now than later when you’ve had lots to drink and no idea who you’re ranting about it to, isn’t it? And it’s just me; I’m not going to judge you.”

“But you know her. You know her friends.” Your hands move to cover your face. Leah can have your body, but you don’t want her to have your tears. “Thank you for caring, babe, but I think I’m going to handle this one on my own.”

“Well, you know that–”

“You’re always a phone call away.” You smile, tears sucked back inside you, bottled away in glassware you store in crates labelled ‘VERY FRAGILE’. Desperate to change the subject, you adjust your position on the sofa, sitting up. Leah tries very hard not to stare at the curves of your chest. “You know, Lee, I never thought you’d be that good in bed.”

…

Alexia is in desperate need of advice.

Her muscles contract and relax, the tissues pulling on her bone, which, in turn, pulls her. She is strung along, driven perhaps by her leap in recovery and impending comeback. She almost breaks out into a jog, but the church she has dragged herself to comes into view before she can gain speed.

She had not expected this from herself.

It’s nothing special to her, though she will admit that the architecture of the building does hold some sense of divinity, but the heavy wooden door is propped open and she is drawn inside.

The Sacrament of Reconciliation, Fridays, 17.00-17.30.

Alexia checks her watch, the golden links gleaming on her wrist, catching the sunlight that filters in through the glass windows.

She catches a glimpse of white behind the doors of the Confession booth, becoming acutely aware of how empty the church is. The curtain has been pulled back, bunched to the left-hand side carefully, as though the previous handler had moved with peace.

It can’t be that bad, can it?

It’s just like therapy.

Her feet carry her forwards once more, leading her into the wooden booth. It smells old. The cushion she kneels on is blue, she thinks, but she cannot tell because it goes dark once she pulls the curtain shut.

Alexia is not a religious person. Sure, she signs the cross before stepping onto the pitch, and, like most people she knows, she is baptised, but her faith is limited to that. When she tore her ACL, she spent evenings trying to pray, trying to force her to believe in Him. It would have been comforting to know that someone had a plan for her, was watching over her carefully with the knowledge of how it was going to play out. It was to no avail.

But somehow she knows what to say, and so she does.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” She recites the words like lines from a play, head bowed in shame as she writes her next sentences in her mind. “This is my first and, probably, my last confession.”

Silence.

She rests her hands in her lap, shuffling around to ensure she is not pressing down on her knee in any way that is harmful. It would kill her to have to push back her return to the pitch because of some stupid thing she has spontaneously chucked herself into.

“I messed up.” She laughs. “No, that is actually an understatement. I know this is a church and I really shouldn’t swear, but I fucked up. Father, I had Heaven in my hands and I threw it away as though it were meaningless. Was it greed? Was it greed that led me to do it?”

“Do what, my daughter?”

The priest sounds younger than she’d thought he would be.

“I had an affair with a woman whom I am certain I do love a little bit, but, by doing that, I destroyed a life that was perfect. Was it greed?”

“I think you know the answer to that.”

“Was it temptation?” Alexia tries again, desperately. Part of her yearns for the priest to tell her it was the Devil so that she can shed the responsibility. “I love my wife. More than anything, I love her. I do not think my own life is worth living if it is not in service to her, to our children, to the smile she reserves for her favourite people. I… I didn’t attempt it, but I thought about killing myself.” She swallows the lump in her throat. “Only once, but I thought it all the same. My sister called me selfish.

“It’s just – forgive me – fucked, isn’t it? I got carried away. I got lonely, I was alone. I craved something to make me forget, to pinch the gaping hole in my life shut. I relied on it to make me feel better, and it did for a time. But now it has made me feel much, much worse.

“And I am sorry! I am so, so sorry. I have grown sick of the word; I’ve used it so much that it holds no meaning anymore. It doesn’t do my regret justice, nor my quest for forgiveness, and I’m really on that quest, Father, I want to stress that to you. I lost my temper and said things I should not have said – things I don’t even believe – but I did not mean them then, and I do not mean them now.”

“You are not religious,” accuses the priest, very gently. His voice washes over Alexia’s ears like a wave of warm saltwater from the Mediterranean, and she feels comfortable enough to swim into the expanse in front of her. “Our God is forgiving, but it is not His forgiveness that you seek. I cannot give you a prayer that will make her absolve your sins, because our holy words are not spells.”

“Father,” croaks Alexia. As her lips part, she tastes the saltwater of the sea, dripping down her cheeks as though the tide has come in and there is no other option than for her to be flooded. “Please help me. I don’t know what to do.”

The priest speaks, but she assigns the voice to someone else.

The first thing you forget about a person is what their voice sounds like. It lingers like a feeling you can’t quite name; distant, distorted, enhanced by fantasy.

Alexia does not remember her father’s voice.

The realisation is crushing.

She knows his words – they are her prayers – but, like Catholics do not know the voice of their God, she can no longer hear the voice of hers.

What would her father say if he saw her like this? On her knees in a Confession booth, backed against the wall with nowhere to hide?

This is not the girl he was proud of. Alexia, of course, is not that eighteen-year-old anymore; she hasn’t been for a decade. But, recently, the legacy of that unknown Levante player has disappeared.

Alexia is so very lost.

She does not know where she is in her own city. In her home.

She does not know her place in her life, much less her place in yours – if you will still grant her one.

She has not felt the thrill of football for months, has driven herself to Hell and back, and considered giving up enough to be on the brink of actually doing it.

She has seen countless meals hit the water of her toilet, never digested, never deserving of the very thing that keeps her alive.

She has counted your sacrifices, memorising the digits of an ongoing figure so that she can punish herself with the knowledge.

She has tried to forget English, tried to improve her English, and taken vows of silence.

She has cried and cried and cried until the only thing left for her to excrete is her hot, red blood.

She has searched for a way out of the maze. She has failed every time.

Alexia is lost without you, and she knows it. Everyone knows it, perhaps even you yourself. Do you revel in that fact? Do you enjoy it?

You have a right to watch her suffer. You do, you do, you do.

Alexia runs a hand through her damp hair, sweating as she sobs in the booth next to some stranger who she will never meet again. Her mouth is dry but her cries are wet and raw, and they scrape her throat as she chokes them out, losing her breath and falling silent only to catch it and begin again. The cushion burns her knees as though she is trapped in an inferno, the darkness blazing against her skin.

The priest talks to her for a long time, not letting her leave until she has calmed down. She sniffles, wiping her nose with the back of her palm before softly pressing her thumbs to her blotchy cheeks to clear the final tears from them.

When he is finished, he instructs her to take a few deep breaths, which she does. “You are not entitled to her forgiveness,” he reminds her. He begins the Prayer of Absolution – he insists for the sake of closure – and Alexia walks away from the church no more than five minutes later.

She is still stuck in the maze, but she has restored that voice in her head that she knows will help her find her way out.

…

“So you went to church?” Olga asks with an amused smile, taking the first sip of her latte, relishing in the gentle burn of the liquid. She needs this coffee; she stayed up late last night because she knew Alexia has been struggling. There is nothing worse than being asleep when Alexia calls her for help.

“I have no idea how I ended up there,” Alexia explains, somewhat defensive about yesterday’s catharsis. “Confession is way better than therapy. There is too much accountability in therapy.”

“You have a lot to account for.”

She huffs out a breath, taking a sip of her own drink. “I know, Olga, but I cannot change the past, so what would you like me to do?” Olga doesn’t reply. The brunette parts her lips, but promptly closes her mouth when she sees Alexia’s slight discomfort. “Mama wants you to come to dinner tonight. I… I do too.”

Olga’s smile is big and genuine. “I’d love that,” she answers. “Eli is the best cook out of our friends’ parents. Everyone knows that.”

You’re in London, childless, and are watching the grand old Arsenal play (reluctantly, forced to by Leah if anything). Alexia has seen the pictures of you at the match on Instagram; she has already felt the frustration that you are most-likely never going to watch Barcelona play again unless it is to support the other team. Like clockwork, Alexia seeks to fill the gaping hole you have left in her life. Somewhere, somehow, the lines of friendship between her and Olga have blurred.

…

It takes just over a month for Leah to crack.

You appear in London every two weeks, attending meetings and events, but she has decided, once and for all, to see through your excuses. You come to London for her. She knows that, and so do you. Leah’s ego has not reached a size where she believes she is enough for you, but the facts (and Lia Wälti) tell her she is wrong.

Except, what Leah tends to leave out is that no matter how many times you let her sleep with you, she still is unable to access a certain part of your mind.

She has never been upstairs in your house because you always prefer to go to her place in St. Albans. She has never slept in your bed, nor woken up next to you.

You talk to her like she is still the same old Leah, the captain you befriended during the tournament of her lifetime, your entrance in her life intertwined with the ecstasy of winning the Euros. She closes her eyes and thinks of how you looked that summer; white England shirt, sunglasses pulled down over your eyes. Smiling, cheering. For her, she greedily claims to herself.

Sometimes, in her mind, you lift your sunglasses – you always seem to be crying when she pictures this – but Leah is only vaguely familiar with the timeline of your divorce. This is the issue.

There is a door that you have locked and refuse to let Leah find the key. It leads to heartbreak, to Nico and Elena, to a family you once had.

“I wish you would let me in,” Leah says one day. (The day she cracks.) She tears her ACL two days prior, something that makes you feel guiltily nauseous, and you have come to visit her. She knows that you had flown over the minute you had swapped custody with Alexia.

Your legs curl into your chest as you try to reduce the amount of space you are taking up on Leah’s sofa, cautious of her injured knee. Leah misses the warmth of your thighs, and wants to revoke her conversation starter instantly, pained that she has to even ignite the fire of this forbidden topic. “What do you mean?” comes your quiet reply, unwilling to disturb the peace of her living room. The peace of existing side-by-side.

“Exactly what I said.” Leah nods to emphasise her agreement with herself. “I wish you would let me in, because how do you expect me to love you if I don’t know you?”

She sees the bullet fly through the air; she sees the moment it hits you, the way you go rigid. Dead. Dying?

“It’s crazy because it usually takes years for me to feel about someone the way I feel about you, and I just… I just wanted to tell you that it’s okay to let me in. I want to hear everything, to know everything.”

“Oh.” What had you expected when you kissed her? “Oh, Leah.”

“You don’t have to apologise.” She assigns your guilt, the tears in your eyes, to your distance. Perhaps you hadn’t realised, perhaps it is a coincidence Leah has never slept in the bed you used to share with Alexia. Maybe you are unaware that Leah has never heard you speak Spanish, and doesn’t know a single thing about your life in Barcelona.

You’re a busy person, after all.

“No, no,” you dismiss quickly, shaking your head. Leah can’t help but wonder if the paranoid voice in her head is right; has she been reading too much into this? “Fuck, I am such a twat.”

But you don’t elaborate further, asking how she’s feeling, distracting her from your realisation about her realisation. Before Leah knows it, you are making her laugh harder than she has in a month, and soon, like most good things, your visit comes to an end.

Returning to Barcelona is a little weird.

You feel as though you have done nothing but check over your shoulder the entire journey, staring the past straight in the eye and wishing you could change it.

You hadn’t meant to make her fall in love with you. (But she has. Oh, she has.)

This week’s swap is no different; the same park as usual, the same pleasant weather to undergo an unpleasant task.

On the bench usually occupied by Olga, a different, blonder head comes into view.

“Irene?” you ask in surprise, wondering if she has been sent in Olga’s stead or just so happens to have brought Mateo, her son, to the very same park. You sit down beside her, somewhat pleased to not see Alexia’s henchwoman today. “Where’s the free childcare?”

The defender’s eyes narrow, as though she is debating whether or not she should tell you.

Irene has known Alexia for a long time, and, by extension, has known you for a long time too. She is calm, level-headed, and mature, much like Alexia. Except Irene hasn’t ever thought to cheat on her wife.

You are clearly in a lot of pain, and you have a right to be; Irene does not rise to your comment. “Olga has gone on holiday,” she states with practised neutrality.

“Ah, they’ve broken up.”

Eyebrows raised, she turns to you, breaking her line of sight that encompasses Nico, Mateo, and Elena. The playground is small enough, and very safe. “They were never together.” You wait patiently for her analysis of whatever the fuck was going on between them. “Olga said she wasn’t what Alexia needed. She’s on holiday with Carla, and I guess she is quite upset.”

“And Alexia?” You know Irene does not like to gossip, nor stir the pot. So you can be nosy about how she is doing.

“I think her ego was bruised, but she sees Olga’s point. She has been… better recently. She’s focused on getting back onto the pitch, and Jona is only saying good things about it.” Irene’s eyes brighten at the thought of her captain’s recovery, and her tone soars through the air. The entire team has worried for Alexia, spending their own nights tossing and turning, wondering if the old version of her will ever return. “I know you two don’t speak, but if you did, you’d get a glimpse of what it was like before.”

You can’t help your smile, and Irene does not make you feel pathetic for wearing it. “Good.”

“I heard you were in London?”

“Visiting a… friend.” Irene is not a gossip, you remind yourself. “I think I might have to stay in this country for a bit and let things cool down over there.”

She chuckles. “Whose heart have you broken?” She won’t tell Alexia, when Alexia inevitably asks about you, that you are seeing someone. Not that you have confirmed that to her.

“I’m yet to break it,” you tell her, sighing, “but I know I will, and that is much, much worse.”

“Hey, at least you have two weeks of being endlessly busy to keep your mind off it.”

Children change a lot in two weeks, so Irene then launches into an update on school, clubs, and everything else. She gets the information from Alexia, of course, who writes out a list every time you switch over. No one has ever handed you the piece of paper before, worried that her handwriting will be an unnecessary reminder of the pain she has caused you, but, for some reason, Irene does today.

You are not put off by the swirling Spanish in front of you, instead choosing to study it. You have spent hours in Alexia’s lap as she scrawls out football notes upon football notes, scribbling prompted by footage or, freakishly, her own memory. From the lightness of the indentations of the pen, you figure that Alexia is exhausted. From the half-finished sentences, you decide that she was rushing when she wrote this.

But, as much as you delight in your brief analysis of the evidence in your palms like Sherlock Holmes solving a mystery, you can’t ignore just how greatly you have missed the letters that swim between the lines (and the hand from which they were written).

Irene spares you your dignity by standing from the bench and checking on the children just as your tears begin to fall.

…

You take one last look in the mirror embedded in the sun visor, ensuring your hair is perfectly in place and your earrings match your cream, sleeveless turtleneck to poise you just between casual and smartly-dressed. A quiet grumble from the backseat draws your attention away from your reflection, though your last glimpse at your concealed eyebags and red-rimmed irises leaves you feeling a little dejected and mourning the days you’d actually get some sleep. (Or wouldn’t, smoking cigarettes on the balcony while talking Alexia’s ear off.)

“Mama, we go,” decides Elena with a huff, tugging on the buckle of her car seat.

It’s Nico’s first-ever recital tonight.

He started playing the piano in September, when his teacher at school had mentioned how he boasted to the children in his class that he was a musician: ‘if I am Catalan because my mami is Catalan, then I am musician because my mami is musician’. You felt guilty. His teacher says he is naturally talented, voice lacking surprise but praiseful nonetheless, and is proud to name Nico his youngest student at tonight’s show.

The bouquet of daisies you ask Elena to hold makes her look like a miniature carnival float, and she toddles into the venue by your side while you do mental gymnastics between the knowledge that Alexia will be here tonight and the nerves for your son’s performance. It’s nothing complicated, but you worry he will hate it. This is the only thing he does that is a nod towards you; his one deviation from his worship of Alexia.

“Mami!” squeals the walking flowers as soon as you make it to the half-full hall. You direct your gaze to the three rows your daughter refers to, every seat lined with either professional footballers or family. With a sudden rush of blood to your head, you feel out of your depth.

You’re not sure whether the hazel eyes that find yours help or worsen that.

“Keep it moving,” you mutter firmly, holding her hand so she does not make a break for it and tumble right over to the cohort of FC Barcelona and Seguras. Not wanting to get too close to them, you take your seat in the penultimate row, knowing Nico will not be able to see you over the grand piano set up on the stage wherever you sit. “You can talk to her later, sweetheart.”

She is in an obedient mood, most-likely intimidated by the tension in the air. You tell yourself it’s the stress radiating from the line of performers sitting on the front row. Nico stands on his chair, waving first to Alexia and then to you (it’s your turn with them so you are a lot less exciting right now), before he is lightly scolded by his teacher and the first child walks up the steps and onto the stage.

Five uninspiring children later, Nico is finally led up onto the stage. His teacher sits down on the piano stool and nudges him forwards. He smiles brightly at the room. You reciprocate, encouraging Elena to do the same to keep her engaged with an admittedly boring event.

“Bona nit a tothom! Jo sóc en Nicolau i tinc quatre anys i ara aniré a tocar ‘Brillia Brillia Estel Petit’.” The audience melts before him. “Mama, that means ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’,” he whispers loudly.

You send him a thumbs up. He sends you a grin back, before giggling as he climbs onto the piano stool beside his teacher.

Situated comfortably, feet dangling adorably far away from the pedals, his chubby, little fingers hit the ivory keys once, then twice.

You pray this goes well.

It does.

He plays with two hands, something you hadn’t expected, and Elena holds in her noisy yawn until after he is finished so she must have been invested in the performance. Your own hands sting after you clap with such prideful force that you are the loudest in the room, and the hoots and hollers from Alexia’s territory only make Nico even happier as he bounces down the steps and back to his seat to wait for the others to do their pieces.

After the recital has finished, you walk down the aisle separating the seats in half to get to Nico, daughter-less courtesy of a squadron of football-playing kidnappers.

“How was that?” you ask him smugly, his arms wrapping around you in a tight hug. “I knew you would be brilliant, even when you were scared you weren’t going to be. Do you know how proud I am of you?”

“This much?” He holds his hand about thirty centimetres apart. “Mami says this much.”

When he widens his hands, you gesture something even bigger.

“‘Immensely’ is the word I would use.”

“Im-men-lee?”

“Es que nuestro orgullo llena una casa sin techo. Hasta el cielo.”

“Up to the sun,” you amend, ignoring the way the voice has made you stiffen. You don’t read too much into her misuse of the collective pronoun. There is no ‘our’ in ‘affair’.

Alexia’s hand hovers by your waist for a moment, muscle memory getting the better of her before she draws it back into her body. Nico gives her a matching hug, telling her how much he has missed her.

You try not to blame yourself for his derailed childhood.

“You were amazing, petit,” Alexia says, picking him up with one strong arm and settling him on her hip. You grip the wrapper of the bouquet you are holding. “Did Mama get you a gift?”

He peers at the daisies in your hand with curiosity. Shaking his head, his confusion deepens as he studies the bouquet you are extending towards him. “They are for Mami? Flowers are for love.”

“I love you,” you tell him, not trying to make a point but instinctively prickling in the presence of Alexia.

The silence is awkward.

A few metres away, whilst entertaining the sleepy toddler on her lap, Mapi is excitedly talking to Alba. “Y/n hasn’t killed her yet,” says the defender with glee, one of your admirers. The team respected you before, never questioning their captain’s judgement nor family, but when word got out about the affair amongst the older girls, most of them began to see you as more than Alexia’s wife. A new layer to your character was revealed; you are a strong, independent, and successful woman. Football nerds sometimes forget success comes in more forms than blaugrana kits. “They made such a beautiful couple.”

“They did.” Alba watches as you talk to your son, your eyes actively avoiding the woman in front of you. “Our mother has sent Alexia over there to invite her to dinner. It killed me to see her sit alone.”

You are too used to the feeling of eyes on you that you no longer notice the weight of people’s stares, but, if this were not the case, you would know that most of the heads attached to the bodies sitting in Alexia’s rows had been swivelled towards you for majority of the recital. Pity is never a desired emotion to have offered to you, but the Barça girls can’t help but feel that way whenever they see your forehead crinkle in an attempt to understand Catalan, presuming you only speak Spanish as you have more than enough on your plate. (And, as most of the players will admit, your children speak better English than them, so one can only assume that it is your main method of communication.)

“She’s a very good mother,” Mapi comments with a small nod, sucking a sharp breath in as she begins to sympathise with you even more. Not a day goes by where she witnesses the suffering Alexia’s idiocracy has caused – as Ingrid, her girlfriend, knows very well – and does not fail to scream in frustration about her best friend’s stupid mistakes.

“She’s a very good person.”

They fall silent as they see your head tilt up, jaw clenching as Alexia begins to speak to you.

“Can you hear what she’s saying?” whispers Eli to her daughter, equally invested in the conversation. “I knew I should have sent you; Alex is too socially awkward.”

“Mami, she is talking to her wife,” replies Alba, though she remembers what happened the last time Alexia and you had spoken and the outcome of that. Maybe that commences her increasing agreement with her mother… “I guess you– Are they coming over here?!”

Even you seem surprised by how your legs carry you towards the Barcelona clan, a step behind Alexia and Nico. Hesitant would be an understatement, but most of them are too preoccupied with congratulating the four-year-old they have come to watch to notice your tight-lipped smile and trembling hands.

“Hola,” you say shyly.

Eli pulls you into her strong embrace without missing a beat. “Te he echado de menos, hija.”

You try very hard not to burst into tears.

They take you to dinner; a plan you had known about but not envisioned yourself included in. Although it’s your fortnight, Alexia (through the conduit of Alba) had previously arranged to drop Nico and Elena over to yours before midnight.

You blow off your FaceTime call with Leah.

The restaurant is on the lower level of fine-dining. It’s chic, but it does not make your children feel unwelcome. The table is set for five places, though Alba informs you that the reason for this is because the reservation was made before she broke up with her girlfriend.

“Mama, what are you going to eat?” asks Nico, slipping back into his old life seamlessly, mixing his English with the Spanish he knows everyone can understand, his legs swinging underneath the table with an enthusiastic energy. He is still too young to pick up on how far apart his parents are sitting, or how you refuse to let your eyes linger on Alexia’s tanned skin, far too much of it shown off by the tank top she sports in the humidity of the busy restaurant.

You glance around the room, searching for those who have recognised you. Under the weight of at least four curious stares, you motivate yourself to enjoy your meal.

“Not sure yet, babe,” you answer. “Alba, do you fancy sharing something?”

“Yeah, of course.” The younger Putellas smiles. Alexia knows who has lost the war.

Dinner passes with light conversation centred on very neutral topics. No man’s land is clearly the children, and you had never expected to be so desperate to continue a conversation about school lunches until the other options are how Alexia had an affair with her teammate or that your song with her favourite singer is topping the charts and explicitly about being cheated on.

Although you and Alexia both watch how many times your wine glasses are refilled, Alba lets loose, as does Eli (probably to ease the stress on her heart that her girls force upon her). Their cheeks redden and Nico begins to yawn, Elena already curled into your side halfway between dreams and reality.

“Should we head out?” you ask it to the table, but the only functioning person is Alexia, really, and so you close your eyes to avoid having to make eye contact.

“I should probably get Mama and Alba into a taxi.”

“If you call one for them, I will call one for us?” Your suggestion is instinctive; an old habit reminiscent of many similar nights, back when there was love and happiness and a relationship that didn’t feel like walking on a floor made of broken glass. “Or did you drive here?”

“No, but you drove,” comes Alexia’s reminder. Internally, you face-palm. Parking the car before dinner seems like years ago; something feels different now. “But if you don’t feel up to it, I could drive you home. I haven’t had much to drink and I have nothing else planned for tonight. Elena is practically in a coma anyway.”

You laugh – a softened version of it so as to not rouse the dead weight of your daughter.

“Are you sure?”

It’s late.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

I don’t care.

“Mama,” Alba slurs, pulling her mother in close. “The saint has given her sinner a second chance.”

It may not be as quiet as she thinks it is. Alexia, occupied, is deaf to the comment. You are not.

This is not a second chance.

This is a lift home.

The last time all four of you sat in a car together was the day you found out about Alexia’s affair.

You had suffered then – are still suffering now – but your anger was hot and sharp and new. Fresh wounds.

Now, though more scabbed-over than healed, those wounds no longer seem to gush blood; you entertain Alexia’s stiff small-talk.

She asks about the tour, never veering too far off the road of practicality and shared custody. When does it resume? Which has been your favourite show?

“Wembley is like playing El Clásico in Camp Nou,” she determines, not needing to ask about that because she knows you too well.

Your memories of the London shows involve a naked Leah Williamson. (If only she knew that!)

“Yeah, London was great.”

Awkwardness is part of Alexia’s personality; something you are fairly certain you still love. She is shy, though it perhaps comes off as stoicity, and she has never been good at making conversation. You know she hates it, and you know that her eyes, Alexia’s eyes, are gazing at you every time she thinks you are not looking.

She is weary about the desire darkening her pupils, but she does not do well to hide her hunger nonetheless.

“Go into the carpark,” you instruct as you approach your building.

Wordlessly, she presses the correct pin into the pin-pad, never having forgotten it.

She parks the car beside a new-looking Mercedes. It’s not a car for children, and she imagines it reeks of cigarettes – there is no way you have stopped smoking.

It belongs in the carpark; in your little world of celebrities and male footballers; of money and fame and fortune. (One could argue you lack the latter, what with your current situation.) Alexia’s life has never moulded with yours.

Perhaps it never will.

Perhaps she slept with Jenni because they are equals, you think. Because Jenni understands Alexia in a way you cannot.

“Mami,” cries a quiet voice from the backseat. You stop staring at the grey, concrete walls, snapping back to reality as Alexia shifts to turn her attention to the source of the whimpering. “No quiero que te vayas.”

“Lela, me tengo que ir.”

“Pero–”

“You could always come up to say goodnight to them?”

It starts off innocently.

Of course it does. Of course you are nowhere near forgiveness, more likely to forget about the crushing affair before you excuse any of her actions. Sometimes, you wish for amnesia. Sometimes, you refer to the tab open in Safari – ‘is there a drug that makes you forget?’.

Alexia is granted a tuck-in and a story for each child, glad that their rooms are separate so that her time in her home is prolonged. The walls are familiar, the floor is the same. There are new pictures in new frames, but the old ones have not been removed. If you had ever wished to take photographs of your relationship down, you have never acted on it.

She realises you must not spend a lot of time here alone. Maybe you cannot bear it. Maybe your life in London is more important to you than she had thought.

Anyway, for as much as she subtly noses around and draws out the night, she has no intention of overstaying her welcome, sure that she probably did that the minute she stepped inside.

In fact, she is on her way out, under the assumption that you will not want to speak to her.

“So you’re back to playing?”

“Sí.”

A doorway conversation.

You’re English. You’re very polite. Alexia knows this, tries to not get her hopes up.

“Does that mean you don’t want a taste of this ‘97?” You hold the bottle up to her, the cork lying on the granite worktop with the incriminating suggestion that you have already had a glass.

“We play the day after tomorrow.”

“Oh, Ale, this is a good one.”

How many times have you said that to her before? The same tone, the same look in your eye; red tinting your lips, one hand on a lighter because you smoke when you’re drunk, even if you refuse to touch the cancer-sticks when you are sober.

“Was this a gift?” she asks, drawn into your magnetic field like a flimsy paper clip; thin, worn metal trying to piece the pages of her life back together. “Or have you been making ridiculous purchases again?”

“I can assure you that it is not ‘ridiculous’.” You moan in delight as you take a sip from a glass you subsequently hand over to her. “Gosh, that is divine, and you are simply going to dissolve when you taste it.”

Dissolve she does, but one can attribute that to the company.

The contents of the bottle dwindles quickly, paired with a vulnerable retelling of her ACL recovery (sans suicidal thoughts and huge, huge regret about the affair – she doesn’t want to bring that up, seeing as you are clearly trying to forget about it), and the warm breeze of the Barcelona nighttime. The salty air from the mediterranean mingles with cigarette smoke, though Alexia softly says that you really should stop.

You hesitate on your next puff, but you inhale it all the same. “I like my wine smokey.”

She opens the next bottle for you.

The wine glasses are soon discarded, pouring becoming shaky and difficult.

“They sleep all the way through the night here,” observes Alexia, surprised that no little hands have knocked on the glass door leading to the balcony. The last time you had reached for the wine, you’d moved closer to her. You have not yet returned to your original seat on the other side of the rattan sofa.

You raise your eyebrows, under the impression that they were both sleep trained. “They don’t at yours?”

“Elena keeps trying to sleep in bed with me.”

“Maybe she likes you more,” you suggest with a light, alcohol-infused laugh. “She must have been upset to find her place filled by your friend.”

“No,” murmurs Alexia, “it has never been filled. Though I don’t think you can say the same.”

You swallow the stickiness of the wine running down your throat.

“Not in our bed. My bed.” You fight yourself. “Our bed.”

“In Highgate?”

“Anywhere,” you breathe.

“It’s been months,” croaks Alexia, your hand pressed against her stomach as you slowly lean into the feeling only she can give you. “Months.”

You kiss her. Time folds in on itself, and you are transported back to when every touch was electric; when nothing was tainted. The pain of the past months, the heartbreak, momentarily fades into insignificance as you lose yourself in Alexia’s warmth.

Her fingers tangle in your hair, pulling you closer, afraid that this moment might slip away too soon. The taste of wine lingers on your lips, and she craves the softness of them – she has been craving them since July.

“Well, now it has only been seconds,” you whisper as you pull away.

With a sense of urgency, she chases your mouth once more, strong arms pulling you on top of her, manipulating your body against her with no hint of uncertainty.

Alexia knows you well.

Her touch lacks curiosity and exploration. Her hands are experienced and confident in their movements, and she has hoisted you up and brought you to your bedroom without needing to have been told that this is what you want.

“Is this what you want?” she asks anyway.

“Please.”

And she really doesn’t make you beg.

Your hands roam her body with a primal hunger, instinctive touches to the most sensitive parts of her, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Her back is tense, muscles flexing as she pushes your clothes off your skin, her own following their path soon after.

Parted legs and soft moans.

She slots herself between your thighs.

Her tongue is determined, fierce. Sloppier because she is drunk, but, then again, so are you.

Your fingers repay the favour.

“More,” you request just as she pulls away.

“Is it in the same place?”

You nod, panting.

There is a playful glint in Alexia’s eyes as she finds the strap just where she left it. As she secures it in place, you wipe the sweat from your brow, forcing your mind into the dirtiest of thoughts to ward off the building regret.

The room is dimly lit, and the air heavy with desire. Your heartbeat pulses in the silence, the thrum of the organ drums that guide Alexia’s slow, deliberate steps back towards the bed, kneeling atop the scrunched sheets.

She positions herself between your legs once more, and you can feel the heat of her body radiating against your skin. She leans in closer, her breath hot against your neck, sending shivers of anticipation shuddering down your spine.

With trembling hands, you reach out, nails digging into tanned, taut skin. You pull her closer to you, urging her to take whatever she wants.

You want her to have you. You want her to make it hurt less.

As Alexia presses inside, a jolt of pleasure courses through your body. You cry out, the sound igniting a blazing inferno within her that grows hotter the moment you ask her to move. Feverishly, her hands move over your chest, finding purchase on your breasts with a dormant possessiveness as her hips begin to drive the strap in deeper.

Your breath hitches in your throat as you surrender to the overwhelming sensation, encompassed by someone so divine that you begin to separate yourself from all things wrong with this situation. The headboard thuds against the bedroom wall as she pounds her thrusts into a rhythm, and you shut your eyes as you quietly ask her to kiss you.

Tears cascade down your cheeks, but you do not know to whom they belong. Her tongue smothers your moans, and her hips begin to snap into yours more urgently, with more desperation. The pressure builds inside of you, and you feel as though you might explode.

You feel as though this is the end, and you are glad that here is where your misery terminates.

You’re glad, you’re really glad.

Your back arches, your chests pressing together, large hands holding you close to her.

And then it all comes crashing down.

Everything.

You wipe your eyes once the orgasmic bliss subsides, seizing your wine haze as the tide goes out and destroying the blindfold that had deprived you of seeing things straight. Right now, with the pleasant ache between your legs, you can’t quite bring yourself to regret it, but you know you will. You haven’t forgiven her; you’re not sure that it is possible.

“You can shower, but you can’t stay here.”

…

Nico knows that he is special. He is lucky, and he is loved, and he gets to go to a very nice school that Mateo (his ‘cousin’) claims is fancy.

He likes his teacher. She reminds him of someone he once knew – you have suggested the nursery helpers back when he lived in London. He is not sure if you are right, but he doesn’t remember what London was like so he tries not to think too hard about it.

Nico’s friends, like Pau who is sitting beside him, all think it is really cool that he can speak English. Pau says she hears his mother on the radio sometimes, but Nico hasn’t yet grasped the concept of fame past the annoying camera flashes and big, sold-out stadiums. He dislikes fame as he knows it, anyway, because the cameras hurt his eyes and the stadiums are so loud that he has to wear ear-defenders that squeeze his skull a bit too much.

“My mum is from Bilbao. My dad is from Barcelona,” states Paula as she swipes a crayon over the sheet of paper her drawing is on. Green wax slowly stains the white to form ‘grass’. Everyone is drawing their family today, although Nico hasn’t yet started, waiting for his teacher to circle their table so that he can ask for another piece of paper. “And this,” Paula carries on, squiggling brown hair onto a smaller version of the stick-figure father, “is Ander, my big brother.”

“Who is that?” Nico asks, pointing at the fifth figure on the page, guessing that the fourth and Pau-sized person is, in fact, Pau.

“My sister! She’s called Nerea, and she plays basketball.” Pau promptly makes an orange circle the size of Nerea’s head, which floats in the air between her and her sister. “My mum says Nere is going to be a lesbian, but I don’t know what that means.”

“My mums are lesbian!” he blurts out, excited enough to garner the attention of his teacher. When she appears, he grins at her sweetly; the kind of smile that has melted many hearts, though Nico is unaware of how many people know he exists. “More paper, please.”

“Nico, you haven’t even tried with your first one.”

She isn’t harsh at all, but he has slowly learnt to stop asking follow-up questions. Six months of exasperated ‘I don’t know, Nicolau’s has taught him that.

He shrugs. “Okay.”

He learnt what a shrug was the other day, when Mapi told him off for doing it to her. (“Don’t shrug your shoulders at me, Nicolau Putellas!” she had chided playfully. “All I asked was which of your mamas’ houses we need to go to.”)

“Nico, what’s ‘lesbian’?”

“Mama says football is lesbian. Basketball might be lesbian! That’s why your sister is lesbian.”

“My mum says that lesbians kiss girls.”

“Mama kisses girls! And Mami. And they used to kiss each other but now they don’t speak and me and my sister swap houses.” Nico begins drawing it out for Paula when she peers at him, befuddled. “Here is Mama’s.” A big square, a glamorous-looking woman inside of the blue shape; a stick with a circle on the end of it; the notes he sees in his piano music floating in the air. “And…” he says, tongue sticking out as he concentrates on the opposite half of the page, “here is Mami’s.”

He draws a football. He picks up the red crayon too, and uses both the blau and the grana simultaneously. “Mami plays football for Barça.” He draws two lines on Alexia’s t-shirt. 11. “Mami made me get 11 at football.” Nico had originally worn the 10, but then the affair had come to light and Alexia was suddenly deep in conversation with his coach and apologising to the boy Nico then had to swap shirts with.

Then, he drops the crayons in his hand and searches for the stack near Paula. He selects the purple one, gripping it tightly, his friend still listening to him with intrigue.

“This is me and Lela.” Two stick figures are drawn in the middle of the page; the middle ground between each of the squares.

Nico sometimes feels stuck between it all.

When Mami got very sad, he and Elena went to stay with Mapi and Ingrid for a few nights. He held his little sister’s hand as much as he could. He always tries to remind her that he is right there with her.

Mami once told him that it was his turn to protect Elena. Nico hasn’t forgotten that.

“I keep Lela safe.” He has encouraged her, slightly selfishly, to call him ‘skipper’, which he has picked up from the Lionesses. Luckily, Alexia has not told him off for it because she doesn’t know what it means. “Lela is my little sister. She is a baby. She doesn’t remember what it was like when Mama and Mami loved each other, but I do.”

The purple crayon scrapes on the page as he presses it into the white, colour rubbing out in the shape of a heart. “Lela and I are together tot el temps. Mami tries to take me from her sometimes, but I don’t let her.”

His story – and ability to make Paula pay attention for longer than ten seconds – has already attracted the quiet attention of his teacher, but she moves closer as Nico continues. The four-year-old leaves out how Alexia is usually inviting him to training with her. Since Elena has yet to show any interest in football, it remains her and Nico’s special thing, and, of course, his mother misses him when it is not her turn.

You benevolently give your permission if you have no prior plans. It is upsetting that the only hindrance to extra time spent together is the little boy who once worshipped Alexia Putellas like a god.

“Nico, why did you want two pages?” asks Paula curiously, assuming he is finished now that his whole family is displayed on the piece of paper.

He frowns. “Because now I have to do this.” And with that, he tears the sheet in half.

Paula’s mouth drops open in surprise, as does his teacher’s.

“What’s wrong?” comes a mature voice, a hand placed on his shoulder just like it is when the other children in his class cry. Nico doesn’t cry. He is strong and brave, like a little soldier. “Did you not like your drawing?”

“No,” he replies neutrally, “half can live with Mama, and half can live with Mami.”

“But now you are ripped down the middle.”

He traces the jagged edges of the halves of his life. One of his legs is on your side, the other on Alexia’s.

“I know, but it’s okay. I don’t cry.”

Alexia does, though, when his teacher talks to her that afternoon.

…

“I slept with Alexia,” you confess quietly, comforted by the sound-proofing of Anya’s home-studio. She asked for help with her album; your success might be contagious, she insists. “Last week, when Nico had that recital.” You clutch your mug protectively, as if she will strip you of the right to drink your tea to punish you for your crime.

Anya is unsure what you would like her to say. You search her face for anger, but do not find it.

“If Gio were here, she’d probably slap you.”

You snort, almost spilling hot liquid all over yourself. “You two are like my mothers, and you’re the nicer one by far.”

“God, you are such an idiot.”

“And a slag.” She waits for your next admission with excitement. “I also slept with Leah Williamson.”

“Do you think you and Alexia are just destined for polyamory?” Her amusement is quite pleasant, but one thing wasn’t dulled by the wine that night and you have been dying to tell someone about it.

Your knee bounces up and down as you gear up for it, having thought it through

“I think we are destined for each other.”

Song-writing be damned, Anya fully removes her headphones, placing the equipment beside her keyboard before letting out a small, exasperated laugh. “You are in love with Alexia again,” comes her accusation, with no real malice behind it.

“I never stopped being in love with Alexia. She just made it a lot harder to love her.”

Is that an understatement?

“Hey,” you say with sudden energy, sitting upright and grasping at your phone, tea wobbling over the lip of the mug and running down your wrist. “Should we go to Bali in August?”

…

You avoid both of your footballers right until the World Cup camps roll around.

Leah doesn’t get to go, subjected to the ACL curse. Alexia’s call-up is not necessarily unexpected, but you do find yourself wondering how many more betrayals her friendship with Mapi León can handle. (Mapi is on her last straw, but she knows her friend really needed the win after her hellish year. The Champion’s League was never going to sate Alexia’s hunger to be the best at football – possibly an overcompensation for her terrible relationship skills.)

Your children, this time, are delivered to the park by their very own mother. Alexia beats Leah in this sense, because she has a valid excuse to see you without confessing feelings you do not want to hear.

“I have something for you,” she says just after she has finished her goodbyes, pressing a small box into your hands. Her voice is filled with nerves and you are intrigued, hating yourself for being so. “Don’t open it until you get back home.” Her eyes meet yours for a moment. I’m sorry, they seem to say. “Alright, have fun in Bali, and don’t forget that I legally have custody but I am not going to go to court to battle you for it as long as you put them in Spain kits for Spain matches.”

She could, if she wanted to be difficult, have you send Nico and Elena to New Zealand during her weeks. It would be very unreasonable, but the contract your lawyers drew up still stands.

“They were delivered yesterday. I think it’s going to be a struggle to convince them to put on the worst kit ever.” You still don’t forgive Alexia for cheating on you, but there has come a point where acceptance replaces the animosity. Nico’s teacher has been the catalyst in this step forward. The developmental pamphlets she had thrust in your faces were enough for the two of you to come to a mutual agreement of increased civility (that maybe, maybe was only made possible by the fact that you have very recent memories of each other’s orgasms). “But, yes, I agree to your terms. Don’t forget that his favourite player is Alessia Russo, however.”

“He is in a phase where I am ‘uncool’! It’ll pass.”

“If you say so, Alexia.”

“Anyway,” she carries on, rolling her eyes. “Open it when you get home.” She… presses a kiss to your cheek? “I’m so sorry, mi amor.”

You blink back your surprise, but she is gone before you can reply.

The small, neatly-wrapped box sits in the palm of your hand, the corners edging off your skin and sticking out as you stare at it. Nico and Elena continue their (unsupervised) playing, but you manage to call out a warning for ‘five more minutes and then we’ve got to pack’ while you examine Alexia’s gift.

Is this how Pandora felt?

If you open it, what will be unleashed?

Alexia, before now, hasn’t actively pursued your forgiveness. She has given you the time and the space you had broken-heartedly requested, nodding as you communicated your wishes to her through someone else, never before able to confront the face that tore up your life before your eyes.

There was a time when all you ever wanted to do was talk to her, but she tried to forget about that when she realised the extent at which you went to avoid an interaction. When she had understood your desperation to be left alone fully, she began to breathe. The step backwards gave her room to examine just how royally she had fucked it all.

She now feels a bit more capable of tackling the clean-up, working with a much clearer mind. Everyone is relieved that she hasn’t killed herself, or, at least, that she is keeping those thoughts at bay.

You realise that she has bought you a ring, and regardless of whether you wear it or not, she wants to tell you that she is sorry.

...

IT'S NOT OVER YET! THIS WILL TAKE YOU TO THE SECOND HALF

#woso x reader #alexia putellas x reader #woso #woso fanfics #randombush3 #leah williamson x reader #woso imagines #barca femeni #alexia putellas #alexia putellas imagine

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loganshouseofworship · 3 days

Note

Can you do something with Logan that is super angsty? Maybe you two get in a fight over his career and your career? Then both of you realize that you can live without each other and end up getting back together.

Thank you!!

I can’t live without you — Logan Sargent x reader

“I can’t do this anymore Logan,” you said, cramming your clothes into your suitcase.

“Do what? What’s going on?” Logan asked

“Stand by and watch as Williams destroys your career” you said.

“Williams isn’t destroying my career, what are you talking about?” Logan says slightly, raising his voice.

“Yea they are Logan but you're so blinded by your loyalty to the team you can’t see it” you yelled through the tears.

“Wait a minute, you can’t leave!”

“Yes, I can” you said, your voice steady but tears were flowing down your face. “I can’t do this anymore”

“What do you mean you can’t do this anymore!” Logan yelled as you went to slam the door shut, but Logan grabbed the door and stopped it.

“That team is destroying you Logan, it's taking its toll on your mental health. you can’t keep putting yourself through this” you said, as you put a hand on Logan’s arm.

“Williams doesn’t care about you. They used your signing as a PR move to bring in more American formula one fans and you're too blind to see that” you tell him.

“Don’t say that! Williams cares about me! They brought me in, they believed in me!”

“That’s just what they want you to believe. They’re using you…I don't know why I'm wasting my breath. I know you're going to stay. I don't know what I was thinking. I mean you left a team that loved you and cared about you, and now you're throwing it away for a team that's going to drag you through the mud.”

“Stop. Stop saying those things.” Logan said harshly. “I’m not throwing anything away. My loyalty to Williams is what’s been pushing me to do my best and not make a mistake.”

“Keep telling yourself that Logan” you say finally leaving the hotel room.

“No, wait!” Logan yelled into the hallway as you shut the door. You kept walking and didn’t turn around.

“Damnit!” Logan yelled.

“She’ll come back, she’ll come to see that it’s all going to be okay.” Logan muttered to himself.

Hours later, Logan was sitting in front of his laptop in the dark looking at old pictures of them together.

A photo of you two, looking happy came into view.

“Maybe loyalty isn’t the most important thing?” He whispered to himself.

A few weeks have gone by since the Australian Grand Prix since the night you left Logan alone in the hotel room. Logan’s home race was coming up and he wasn’t going to lie he was nervous as all get out.

Logan missed you and he realized that you were right about the team. They didn’t care about him, not like you had. Fans started noticing that Logan was looking more tired and exhausted than before the bags under his had darkened. They looked so dark that it looked like he had black eyes.

Logan’s eyes were red from lack of sleep, from stress, from working nonstop to show the team what he was made of. He looked so worn out, and it was breaking your heart. You knew that he was pushing himself too hard, and it was beginning to take a toll on his mental health, and you just wanted to be there to support him.

The race weekend was approaching, and he was still working late into the night, trying to perfect his setup. Logan’s exhaustion was beginning to show, he looked like a shell of himself. He had lost weight, and his eyes were dark and sunken. The fan base was starting to get worried about him.

You weren’t doing much better yourself. You were worried sick about him, every day. You’d lost weight, you could barely sleep because all you did was worry and think about him.

Your friends tried to comfort you, but you weren’t listening to anyone, you were focused on one thing, on getting him back.

You would spend all night and day looking for flight deals online, trying to find a way to get home and see him again. But every time you looked, they were all sold out. It felt like the universe was against you, but really it just wanted you to wait a little bit longer, to wait until the right time to reunite you.

You would constantly check the calendar, seeing how many days there were left before you could get on a flight and see him again.

Time was passing so slowly, and it felt like it was never going to end. But then finally, the day came when your flight was confirmed, and you were on your way back.

You were just hours away from seeing him again, but the feeling of relief and anxiety were equally strong. You knew you wanted to see him, but at the same time, a part of you was scared of what he would say, or that he might have moved on.

You landed in the US, and you could barely contain your emotions, you were nervous and excited, and a million other things at the same time, as you got to your car. You just wanted to get to the hotel and see him as soon as possible, but at the end of the day, you also wanted to get it right, to do this the right way.

Your stomach was in knots as you pulled into the hotel, and you felt your heart racing. You couldn't believe you were actually doing this, you couldn't believe you were actually back in the US.

You took a deep breath, and walked through the doors into the hotel, up to his room.

You stopped in front of the room, taking a moment to collect yourself before knocking on the door.

After what felt like an eternity, he opened the door. Logan’s face had gone pale, and the stress and exhaustion that had been weighing on him disappeared.

“What are you doing here?” He asked, his mouth was dry, and he could barely get the words out.

“I had to see you, I had to come back” you replied, trying to get the words out.

He opened the door wider, inviting you in, you slowly walked past him, and he could feel the tension in the air.

“I’ve missed you” Logan whispered, his heart began to beat faster and faster, he was overcome with emotion, and he pulled you into a tight embrace.

“I’ve missed you too” you whisper, wrapping your arms around his neck, and burying your head into his chest.

He pulls you even closer to him, not letting you go.

The air felt thick between the two of you, neither wanted to break the embrace, neither wanted to talk, neither wanted anything more than to feel close to each other again.

Finally, after a long moment, he broke the embrace and stepped back, wiping his eyes, he had almost cried right then and there.

“I’m-I’m so sorry” he said, unable to stop the words from pouring out.

“For what? “ You asked, you had no idea what he was apologizing for. All you knew was that you wanted to be in his arms again.

“I know I’ve been distant recently, and I haven’t been there for you” he said, taking your hands in his. He stared into your eyes, as if he was trying to memorize every inch of your face.

“I just…” he began, but choked up, unable to find the right words. His lips trembled, his face twisted in regret and guilt.

“Just what?” You asked gently, trying to understand what was going on.

“You were right, my loyalty to the team has taken everything from me”. He said, his voice cracking as he fought back the tears.

“What do you mean?” You asked, he was starting to not make sense, was he just tired, it must be that, because you had no idea where this was coming from.

“You were right about the team, you said that they didn’t care about me, that they were using me as a PR move. And I tried to deny it, I tried to deny everything you said, but it’s all true…”

“I’ve pushed myself to the point of mental exhaustion, and all for what, I’ve been so blind thinking that I needed to do this, but the truth is I don’t, I don’t need Williams, I need you…” He said, staring back at you.

“Do you need me?” You said, his words caught you off guard. The reality was hitting you, he needed you, he didn’t need the team. He needed you.

“Without you, I’m lost” he said finally, admitting it out loud, he took a deep breath. “I’ve been so worried about losing Williams, and I should have been worried about losing you.”

“I need you Logan , I've missed you so much” you said, tears now spilling down your face.

“I’ve missed you too” he said, wrapping his arms around you once again. You could feel the tension in the air subside, and the stress that had been weighing on you both disappeared. It felt almost as if you’d never been apart.

His grip tightened around you, not wanting to let you go, like he needed to hold you just a little bit longer. You could feel him taking deep breaths and his heartbeat steady. It was like he needed the two of you to be as close as possible for a minute, as if he needed to make up for lost time.

“I’m never letting you leave again” he said softly, tightening his grip once again. You could feel his heart rate settle, and you could feel the tension ease even greater. It felt like home.

@a-casual-romantic @amatswimming @bblouifford @bbtoni @jinx53 @jeffs77 @toasttt11 @hrts4scarr @faithshouseofchaos @vellicora

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harlowcomehome · 2 months

Text

Jack Harlow X Love is Blind: Louisville edition.

A/N: Based off the Netflix show “love is blind.” You enter pods with a divide between the rooms, you spend your days talking without physical attractive coming into play.

Thank you @gratefulformatcha for all your help.

Jack finished shoving what was left of his wardrobe into a metallic hard shell suitcase, wondering if he truly needed as much as he was taking.

“Am I in over my head? Is this crazy?” Jacks inner monologue was loud, but Urban knocking on the front door was louder.

Jack swung the front door open, and Urban quickly made himself at home heading to the kitchen before really saying much to Jack.

“Well hello to you too?” Jack scoffed, touchy because he was overwhelmed.

“You won’t need these groceries, so I thought you wouldn’t mind” Urban winked as he started taking things out of Jack's fridge to make an omelet.

Jack had finally committed to building a house of his own in Louisville and the finished product was beyond his wildest dreams. The porcelain tile that covered the ground was marbled and matte gray, and the walls a bright white with a lot of vintage chandelier pieces to match the aesthetic.

It was a huge house with a lot of bedrooms and Jack and his dog were the only ones who inhabited it, which got admittably lonely. So Urban and the rest of the crew were always here, hence why he was so comfortable.

Jack went to the bedroom to wheel his suitcases to the front door, three to be exact. Urban’s eyes opened wider than normal, “You don’t think that’s overkill?”

Jack laughed “They told me to come prepared for anything” he rubbed the back of his neck a telltale sign of his nerves. He was very evidently in his head, and beyond overwhelmed at the thought of this being an idiotic career decision.

“Are you sure you’re okay with staying here? I can ask my mom” Jack looked around the living room for his phone. When he found it he quickly ordered a car and shoved his phone into his pocket as he waited.

“I’m sure! I would rather be here than at my own house” Urban only said half-jokingly as he used Jack's glass cutting board to slice some bell peppers and mushrooms. He and his girlfriend were going through a rough patch but he didn’t want to bother Jack with the details especially when he was attempting to go find love.

It wasn’t long before Jack and Urban said their goodbyes, and with a thirty-minute drive to the set, Jack had a lot of time to think. He sent a few messages to his managers and his parents and Clay, knowing he was going to get his phone taken upon arrival.

Jack unloaded his suitcases and was met by a producer named Ardell. “Jack?” The smell of her pungent perfume hit him like an 18-wheeler, suppressing a cough before he held out a shaky hand to introduce himself.

Ardell smiled, shaking his hand and immediately set him up with the production team. They took his phone, had him sign some waivers, and sent him to the guy's portion of the set where he would be meeting fifteen other men.

Jack was the first one in the room, taking his time to examine everything as he ran his fingers against the green velvet of the billiards table. As the rest of the men entered the room his nerves subsided, and the conversations started to slowly flow, a few men were starstruck but were trying to be “cool about it.”

It wasn’t long until the two hosts of the show came in to explain how the process would work, that reality was setting in. They had given each cast member a gold chalice and a personalized notebook before giving them the night to socialize with one another.

••••

The next day started the long process of trying to establish a connection. Jack was confident in his personality shining through, he was just nervous about ending up with someone who couldn’t handle his lifestyle since he couldn’t exactly be truthful about that from the start.

Jack sat on the medium-sized couch that he was frankly too big for with his notebook in one hand and his golden chalice in the other.

When you entered the pod, you took a moment to take in the room you’d be spending the next couple hours in, hoping that you’d hit it off with your second date considering your first one wasn’t a hit.

“Hi, who am I talking to? My name is y/n” You got a blanket and took a seat on the couch, ready for the date to start.

“Hi, my name is Jack. How are you doing?” He slid down to the ground with his back to the couch, more comfortable that way.

“Jack! I’ll remember that. I’m doing fine! How’re you? Is that accent from the Ville’?” You giggled nervously immediately getting butterflies at his southern drawl. You had moved to Louisville a few years ago and could hear the heavy accent immediately.

“Born and raised! Where are you from?” He opened his notebook remembering he was supposed to be taking notes.

“I always have a hard time answering that. I grew up in a military family so I’m kind of from everywhere.”

“Well-traveled? I like that” The laugh that escaped him felt nice, you were easy to talk to. “Okay, but here’s the true test of my heart. How do you say Louisville?” Jack teased knowing immediately that you called it the Ville’ for a reason.

“No! You can’t do that to me!” You giggled, covering your face with embarrassment although he couldn’t see it.

Jack felt good talking to you but he didn’t want to get ahead of himself, knowing this process was as long as he wanted it to be. It wasn’t until the third hour of talking that you both realized it was getting late.

“I’ll see you tomorrow Jack?” You yawned, holding your blanket against your chest.

“Goodnight y/n” he hummed as the pod door shut behind him.

The next day you woke up eager to talk to Jack but when you entered the pods you could tell something was off by the sound of his voice.

“Hey y/n- I’m having a tough time” he was nervous and you waited for him to finish his thoughts.

“Are you thinking about leaving?” You couldn’t imagine what changed overnight, but you were trying to be understanding.

“I’m not sure, I’m excited to talk to you and I think this process just makes me nervous” he sat down in front of the divide between the two of you.

“I’m nervous too, but what if I told you that was normal?” You sighed, hoping he’d stay.

Jack wanted to continue talking to you but his anxiety took over leaving immediately without a word.

“Jack?”

You waited for a response, only to be told by a producer that he was gone.

“Gone? As in he left the room or left the experience?” You were stunned and worried about what could have gone wrong in less than 24 hours.

As you were gathering your things, Jack walked back in the room, ready to continue the date.

“I’m sorry I just needed a minute, where were we?” It was then that you knew exactly who he was but chose not to say anything at all.

#Jack Harlow #jack harlow x reader #jack harlow imagines #jack harlow blurb #jack harlow concepts #Jack Harlow fanfic

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ganymede-princess · 12 days

Text

A Hazy Shade of Winter | Angus Tully

PART 2

ship: Angus Tully x fem!OC

warnings: Angus is literally so mean, but he's like that in the movie anyways.

summary: Carol's parents send her to spend the winter break with her uncle at Barton Academy, and a certain curly-haired boy takes an immediate (dis)liking to her.

word count: 2790

a/n: I watched the Holdovers like 2 nights ago and I’m obsessed with it now so here’s this! Maybe a second chapter coming?

written by @ganymede-princess

Misery. Absolute fucking misery. That’s all Angus could see for the foreseeable future. Just an ocean of black, sticky misery, stretching out to the horizon in every direction. As he settled his bony rear on the hard edge of the ping-pong table and listened to Hunham gleefully dole out their sentences, he thought he would vomit any moment, or drop dead. He kind of hoped he would. He scoured his eyes over the pitiful creatures he’d be bunking with this winter break; two little boys: a religious fanatic and a foreign exchage student, the school’s star quaterback, and fucking Kountze. Five little Christmas orphans. Angus would blame karma, if he believed in that hippy-dippy shit. The most unbelievably unfair part of all this was that he wouldn’t even be able to jack off in peace since all five of them would be bunking in rooms one and two of the infirmary, with Hunham in room four. God knows why they couldn’t use room three, but Hunham seemed determined to avoid any questions pertaining to that.

Just when he thought his holiday couldn’t get any worse, the girl arrived. She skittered in like a mouse, out of breath, red-faced and shaking like a handbag dog. Six little Christmas orphans.

“Ah, you’re here.” Hunham extended his hand welcomingly, and gestured to her to step forward.

She crept over, giving the ping-pong table and couch full of boys a wide berth, then nervously shook Hunham’s hand and scuttled away to sit on the floor and tuck her knees up under the frumpy men’s jumper that swallowed her whole, like a turtle retreating into a shell. She waved at the five of them, cherry lips curling into a tight smile.

“Is that a girl?” Kountze said, loudly.

“Indeed, it is. Students, this is Miss Carol Hunham, my niece. She will be joining us at Barton for the winter break.”

“Teddy Kountze.” The little freak said, practically falling over himself to shake her hand. He looked ridiculous crouching there beside her like he was about to accost a rabbit at a petting zoo. If brown-nosing was a sport, he’d be a world classer. “Wonderful to meet you. If you need a tour guide, come to me. I know this place like the back of my hand.”

She nodded in thanks, regarding him with huge puppydog eyes. Angus thought she must be dumb or tongueless. Five-foot-nothing, wearing unfashionably tapered plaid pants and Chelsea boots that were all the rage a decade ago, huge turtle-shell glasses that made her brown eyes bulge out of her head like a salmon… the only cool thing about her was her dirty blonde shag haircut, but even that came across as trying too hard. With that, and those round cheeks and fat mushroom of a nose, Angus almost expected to hear Hunham introduce her as his niece. Almost.

“You’ll be taking her nowhere without a chaperone, Mr Kountze. Now, gentlemen, and lady, off you go to the infirmary building.” Hunham’s one good eye roved over the room, then settled on Angus. “Mr Tully.” He addressed him in his weasley way, voice dripping with schadenfreude. "Be a gentleman and help Miss Hunham take her bags to room three."

Now it made sense why they'd been forced to leave it empty. The little fuck had a whole room to herself.

"I'm not a gentleman." He responded, insolently as possible.

"Then play the part."

"Fine." The ping-pong table screeched backwards as he stood up, grabbed his case and stormed over to the girl who leaped to her feet, eyeing him warily as he marched her out of the room and collected one of her ridiculously heavy suitcases and set off outside with the puppy in tow.

"Um." She began, her voice a pathetic whimper. "I'm Carol Hunham."

"I heard."

"And you?"

"Angus Tully. Are you deaf or something?"

"He d-didn't say your first name." Angus grunted in response. "So, you're- you're holding over?"

"What?" The question was so insipid it made him stop in his tracks and gawk at her. "Of course I'm holding over! Are you stupid?"

"Sorry." She whispered, averting her eyes. Angus felt a rush of regret as her lip trembled, but he swallowed it and marched on.

The air was biting cold, and Angus wished he had two jackets on- or better yet, a hot-blooded model on each arm- but unfortunately he was stuck between this girl making goo-goo eyes at Kountze and her machiavellian gargoyle of an uncle. As the rest of them caught up, his simmering rage suddenly bubbled over and he broke the silence in a voice thick with hatred.

“This is the most bullshit ever! If we have to stay, why’d we have to draw Wall-eye?”

“Uh, y’know he used to be a student, right?” Quaterback drawled.

“Yeah, that’s why he knows how to inflict maximum pain on us, the sadistic fuck.”

“Yeah.” Quaterback agreed with a giggly laugh. “I mean, no offence Hunham, but your uncle sucks.”

“I don’t know him.” The girl had retreated to the fringe of the group, and when she spoke up her voice didn’t command much attention.

“At least we didn’t draw Decker, he’d be perving all over us.” Kountze sidled up alongside her and let his arm brush against her. “And we wouldn’t have Carol here with us.”

Angus rolled his eyes, but felt vindicated when he noticed her pull away from him, almost fearfully.

“Hey, guys, hold up for a second.” Angus leaned up against the pickup at the side of the road and lit up a cigarette, eager to relieve all this tension.

“No, I got something else.” Kountze pulled out a stinking doobie and gestured for his lighter. “Gimme that.”

“Hey, don’t smoke that out here.” He chided. “I don’t wanna get busted by Wall-eye.”

“Don’t be such a pussy.”

“I’m not a pussy.” Angus felt his blood pressure rise. “I just don’t want to get up at Fork Union paying for your mistake.”

Kountze didn’t bother responding, just blew out a fat drag and smiled in satisfaction.

“Teddy Kountze.” He said, offering the joint to Quaterback and trying to sling an arm around Carol but she sidestepped him to Angus’s amusement.

“Jason Smith.” Quaterback responded with a sickeningly charismatic smile.

“Yeah, I know who you are.” Fucking bootlicker. “You wanna hit this?”

He cast a glance up the road, but Wall-eye was nowhere to be seen. “Uh, yeah.”

He took a puff and offered it to Carol.

“No, thanks.” She held up her mittened hand. “I-I hear pot can give you the heebie-jeebies.”

“The heebie-jeebies.” Jason repeated, grinning. “Cute.”

She was sort of cute- Angus begrudgingly admitted now that he’d seen her up close- in that pitiful way that those fucked up little pug-dogs are cute. He wondered if she had asthma. Besides, it’s not like he cared. At least, if somebody like her could be cute, maybe he was too, with his hawkish nose, narrow eyes, five o’clock shadow, gangly limbs, scraggly hair… No, that’s ridiculous. Unless… He wondered if she thought he was.

“It’s mellow stuff, babe.” Kountze assured her.

She blushed and shook her head, then turned her massive obsidian orbs to Angus.

“C-can I…?”

He sighed heavily, arranging his face into a scowl before he handed over the cigarette. She took a dainty puff, then handed it back. He took a drag himself, savouring the knowledge that his lips were touching the same place that a girl’s had just rested.

“More?” He offered it back.

“No, thanks. I don’t really… y’know.”

“‘Course you don’t.” He scoffed and stuffed it back in his mouth. “Such a pristine girl, I bet you never did anything wrong in your life.”

Flushing, she averted her eyes.

“So, how’d you get stuck holding over?” Kountze queried, his demeanor forced casual.

“I’m supposed to be skiing with my folks up at Haystack,” Jason said cheerfully. “But my dad put his foot down, said I can’t come home unless I cut my hair.”

“So why don’t you just cut your hair?” Angus snorted, feeling a fresh rush of anger. How could you throw away a perfectly good winter break just because you’re sentimentally attached to your godamn freak flag?

“Civil disobedience, man.” He grinned.

“I dig it.” Carol spoke up suddenly. “Conformity is a dangerous thing.”

“See, she gets it.” Jason put his arm around her shoulder.

“You like Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young?” Her blonde lashes fluttered as she gazed up at him. Angus could have puked all over the sidewalk, and Kounze looked like he might actually do it.

“Man, I love ‘em!”

“Almost Cut My Hair?”

“My anthem.” He nodded solemnly. “That album was my whole life last summer.”

“Neat.”

Angus noticed her head tilt to rest on his shoulder as he offered her the joint. This time she took it, allowing herself a long drag. He gritted his teeth and fought off the urge to deck that filthy hippy then and there.

“Anyway,” Jason waved his hand, as if clearing the conversational slate. “My dad’s cool. It’s just a battle of wills. Still, I was kinda hoping he’d cave first, because the powder up at Haystack is so sweet right now.”

Jason’s hand made its way into Carol’s hair, curling a lock of it around his finger. Angus’s fist closed involuntarily while Kountze’s eyes narrowed as he looked around, lip slightly curled in frustration.

“What about you, Mr Moto?” He said, locking onto his target. “Why are you here?”

“Uh, no. My name is Ye-Joon.” The boy explained innocently. “Uh, my family is in Korea, and they think it’s too far for me to travel alone.”

“I figured it was because your rickshaw was broken.” Kountze laughed and looked around for approval, to which he found none.

“Uh, wh-what’s a rickshaw?” Ye-Joon seemed genuinely baffled.

“You’re an asshole, Kountze.” Angus said darkly. “Your mind’s a cesspool, and a shallow one at that.”

“Who’s the asshole, Tully?” He sneered back. “You’re the one who blew up history.”

“Hey.” Jason held out his hand gently, then turned to the other kid. “What’s your story, man?”

“Alex Ollerman.” He responded, his voice stronger than the other boy’s. All that faith in a higher power, I guess. “I’m here because my parents are on a mission in Paraguay. We’re LDS.”

“Mormons, right?” The kid nodded proudly.

“Don’t you guys wear some kind of, like, magic underwear?” Kountze gawped.

“That’s a common misconception.” Alex began. It seemed he had all his bases covered, and he turned to address the Korean kid too, as if he might convince someone to join. “Actually, it’s called a temple garment, and we’re only supposed to wear it when we-”

“Hey, what’s up with the townies?” Kountze interrupted, already distracted by something shiny. Angus was mildly relieved he wouldn’t be hearing any more panty-talk- he’d had quite enough for one day, what with his bathing suit and all- but, his relief quickly turned to annoyance when he noticed the two men coming down the road, hauling a Christmas tree between them.

“Hey!” He hollered. “What are you doing with our Christmas tree?”

“The school sold it back to us.” One of them responded. “Scotch pine, still fresh.”

“Yeah, we’re gonna put it back in the lot.” The other explained. “We do it every year.”

Angus turned back to the group and shook his head darkly.

“This is the most bullshit ever.”

______________________________

Angus didn’t think he’d ever be so happy to be in the infirmary, but when they stepped into the heated building, he might have sighed in relief if he wasn't in such a black mood. His arms absolutely caned from carrying that stupid suitcase, and Kountze had been smack talking the whole way up the hill. He thought the only thing worse than bunking with the two kids would be sleeping in with Kountze while he tries to tickle Jason’s balls. He’d much prefer to cosy up in the girl’s room, irritating as her face may be. He abandoned his luggage outside room two and hauled Carol’s down the hallway while she pattered along at his heels.

"Why do you need two cases, anyway?" He sneered, stealing the comfort of silence. "You can't have that much shit to carry."

"It's-" She paused and cleared her throat. "Well... well, why should I tell you, huh? You're- you're-"

"What? An asshole? A jerk? A philistine, as your mole uncle says? Y’know, I'm pretty sure there's a faculty rule against targeted insults towards pupils."

"You're mean." She admitted in a small voice. "And I don't know why."

"Yeah, well get used to it sweetheart. Just wait till Kountze gets over your gyno-gimmick and starts treating you like he does everyone else, you'll be begging for 'mean.' And by the way, you’re just antagonising him by hanging all over Jason all the time.”

“What’s Jason got to do with it?” She snapped, raising her voice for the first time.

“Aw, I hit a nerve, huh?” He delighted in watching her face turn scarlet.

"Y-y'know, when you stood up for Ye-Joon earlier, I thought you might actually be cool. I'm disappointed."

She said nothing else, just ducked her head and ran ahead to open the door for him. Baffled, he barged past her and dumped the suitcase on the nearest bed.

“Thanks.” She whispered.

"Why are you even here, anyway?" He rounded on her, suddenly tired of the way she let him walk all over her. "I mean, other than to ruin the ambience with that hideous sweater-"

That did it. She let out a choking sob and made for the door.

"Hey, hey wait!" He flailed out his long limbs and caught her around the arm, but she wrenched herself from his grip and made off down the hall, away from Hunham and the other boys to Angus' relief. "Carol, wait I didn't mean it."

She didn’t respond, just sped off and careened around the corner. Angus caught up just in time to see the door of the broom closet swing shut. He clucked his tongue and sat down on the hard floor outside, feeling a wave of disgust as he listened to quiet weeping. Gently, he rapped the door with his knuckles.

“Carol?”

“Go away.”

“Carol, I’m sorry.”

“Go away!”

He paused for a moment, and considered his options.

“Your sweater isn’t actually ugly, by the way. I was just ribbing you, y’know? Horseplay?”

“No.” She said firmly, voice muffled through the wood. “No, I know ribbing and that wasn’t it. Y-you were being cruel, and you wanted to see me cry, I know it.”

“What? No!”

“You enjoy it, don’t you? You’re so miserable, the only fun left for you is making everyone else feel as wretched as you.”

He swallowed thickly, feeling a lump of shame coating his Adam’s apple. He took another long moment to collect himself. He resented how easily she read him, but if he wanted to keep her from finking, he’d have to choose his words carefully, and eat a large portion of his pride.

“It’s true.” His stomach roiled in revulsion as he grovelled to her. “I’m sore about holding over, and I wanted to take it out on someone, and you looked like easy pickings. I’m brash, I’m rude, I hate everyone including myself, and I make it everyone else’s problem.”

She paused her sniffling, as if sizing him up.

“Well.” She said thickly. “Thank you for admitting it. That was very… self reflective.”

“I go to a shrink, I kind of have to be self reflective.”

“Ah.” She sniffled. “You can leave me alone now.”

“I would,” Oddly, it felt good to tell somebody… Good enough that he was able to go back to being sly. “But this closet doesn’t open from the inside. Every time we get a new janitor they get locked in here. Happens like twice a year.” She said nothing, but Angus heard her breathing pick up in pace. “I mean, I can always leave you in here.”

“No!” She said urgently. “Let me out, please.”

“I will, if you promise not to fink.”

“I-I won’t fink. If you leave me be, I won’t fink. Pinky promise.”

“Alright. I’ll stay as far away from you as humanly possible.” He clambered to his feet and opened the door for her. She was already standing, and as soon as she saw the light, she tried to scoot out beside him, but he moved his arm to stop her. “Pinky promise, remember?”

Begrudgingly, she curled her finger around his, then slipped out past him and returned to her room. Angus watched her go, and something broke inside his chest as the door closed behind her.

#dominic sessa #dominic sessa x reader #the holdovers #angus tully #angus tully x reader

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cupcakeinat0r · 4 months

Text

Broadway Baby ch. 1

Pairing: Miguel O’hara x Fem!reader

Summary: Reader is a broadway performer in Nueva York. You’re a rising star. One morning, during a rehearsal, you stumble upon an unexpected, yet highly welcomed visitor.

Warnings: SFW? This is a plot building chapter, srry <3 Insinuations of masturbation toward end tho!!!

Tags: Sugar Daddy AU, Miguel is a filthy rich single dilf (girl dinner), Age Gap fo sho (20 + 32), reader is a Latina (written by a Latina), Gabriella is his daughter in this one, soft n happy Miguel bc ion do that trauma mess. He only knows happiness and peace in my mind palace<3

Word count: 4.4k

Ch. 2

Nueva York.

The city that never sleeps.

You moved here when you were just 18, with a suitcase and big dreams.

It would’ve been when you were 14, your parents had taken you to the big city to watch a musical on Broadway. It was that faithful night you realized your calling. That moment changed the entire trajectory of your life.

You fell in love with it. The music, the lights, the sets, the performance of it all. It was pure magic. You were entranced from the first note of the overture to the very last bow of the lead player.

There was just one problem: you had the confidence of a chicken nugget.

Since the womb, you’d been a very quiet child, extremely soft spoken when acknowledged, so when you told your parents your dream occupation, they were a bit skeptical. Nonetheless, they were both extremely supportive, especially after that one night when your mom overheard some singing in your shower.

She had been in your room, collecting dirty laundry when she heard a beautiful melody coming from your bathroom. Curious as to what song it was, she pressed the shell of her ear against the door. Still not able to hear the lyrics exactly, she cracked open the door, looking around for a speaker, only to find none. It clicked. It wasn’t some blue-tooth equipped music, but her daughter’s voice. Your voice. You’d been singing the songs from the show they took you to. Her jaw fell open. Never had she heard you produce such beautiful sounds. She made sure not to make her presence known since she knew if she did, you’d surely stop vocalizing out of embarrassment.

You were signed up for voice lessons immediately.

Ever since then, you’d been training, dance and acting classes following shortly after that. It became clear that your talent was a blessing from above after hearing teacher after teacher praising about your prodigious abilities.

4 hard working years later, you decided to spread your wings, kiss mom and dad goodbye, and start your career. A small apartment in Nueva York became home. It was lacking a good AC system and the floors were creaky, but it was an affordable start.

It’s been another 2 years since moving to Nueva York. Each phone call home, your parents are delighted to hear about your accomplishments, happy to hear that you’re in a steady place on your path to stardom. You’ve been in a few shows now, landing supporting roles, featured dancing gigs, and so on… but you’ve yet to land that big lead. Your big break. It’ll come though. Patience.

Raw talent could only get you so far in this business. The only thing that seems to matter nowadays is connections and nepotism. You had to stop cowering in your shell and start networking yourself somehow. It was difficult, being the introvert that you were. If only the persona you embodied on the stage carried over into your every day life. When you’re on stage, you’re a complete different person; almost a character. That’s why you loved doing what you did so much. You felt comfortable on that stage, free to be whoever you wanted to be. It was your sanctuary.

Life in the arts was never safe or secure, and you knew that when you decided to sell your soul to this industry. Despite the endless auditions (rejections) and multiple part-time jobs, you loved your life. You loved being an actress in Nueva York. It gave main-character vibes. You had a part-time job as a waitress downtown during the day, and at night, you’d switch out your apron for a costume that didn’t leave much for imagination. You were currently a featured dancer and supporting character in the city’s most popular musical. You’d remind yourself that many aspiring actors would commit heinous crimes to be in a similar place in their careers as yours. It wasn’t no starring role, but hey, it was something.

Life was good. You were happy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was just another day, alike all the others on the 2nd year of your 3-year contract in the Musical you were in. It was simple really:

You wake up, do your day time skin care routine, warm-up your voice, brush teeth, put your apron on for the Stardust diner, wait a few tables from 9-5, your house call was at 5:30 so you’d take the train and show up at 5:25, stretched, warmed-up your voice some more, and be ready in the wings by curtain call.

This was the part you looked forward to every day. That minute you stand behind those velvety curtains, heels and exaggerated lashes and all. The sticky residue of the tape that keeps your mic attached to your neck. The sparkles on your body that never seems to come off, even though you shower after every show. The astronomical amount of hairspray that you’d have to brush through when you got home. You loved it all.

When those curtains opened, a new person was born. Ingrained into the crevices of your brain, the muscle memory within your body would perform the dance moves you’ve been repeating for 7 nights in a row for 2 years.

And you’d deliver the same lines you always delivered ( and ate all of them like you always did), and your voice, like an angel. You sang your heart out, the applause fueling your energy and nourishing your soul (and maybe even your ego).

The beauty of live theater is that every show is different. One of the many aspects you loved about it included the audience members; each night, the crowd was different. Today, in particular, there was a young girl in the front row, sitting right in front of where you were dancing. She looked up at you in the same way you looked at those actors all those years ago, with that same awe in her eyes. Noticing her, you flashed her a wink and a smile while performing. You even managed a small wave, which granted an excited expression from her. The little girl, practically bouncing in her seat, then looked up to the large, dark figure sitting next to her, enthusiastically pulling on the black jacket of what seems to be her guardian. “The pretty lady waved at me!” is what her lips read.

This was a normal occurrence for you. You made it a priority to at least engage with some of the youth in the audience if you happened to pass by any. It was for them you performed, after all. It was always so endearing seeing their cute little reactions to the show.

This time was a little more special, though. She reminded you of yourself when you were that age. Down to the tan skin, brown eyes, and dark hair, pulled into a tight ponytail.

You felt this connection to her. It was inexplainable. In one of the dance numbers, you sort of gravitated around that relative area in front of her, interacting with her. You made that girl so happy. This was a night she’d never forget.

With the show coming to a close, you take your final bow for what seems like the millionth time, but it never ceases to feel like the first.

Curtains close, the cast comes together, and you all rejoice in another victorious performance.

You all retreat back to your dressing rooms, hastily wiping off make up, the stripping of fishnets and jazz shoes taking up majority of the already small dressing room.

It wasn’t abnormal for people to come up to you after the show and congratulate you on such a successful portrayal. Sometimes, though, it could be a lot. Sometimes, you just wanted to go home and body slam your twin bed. Not tonight, though. Standing yay high in a line of audience members awaiting autographs was the little girl. When both of your eyes met, your face instantly brightened, hers twice as much. She jumped up and down, again tugging at the towering figure’s jacket, exclaiming, “Look, papa! It’s her! It’s her!”, and you followed the direction of the adorable juvenile voice with a wide smile.

You walked up to her and knelt down to her level, speaking with a voice that could be compared to that of a Disney princess. As you approach the precious young girl, your maternal instincts slowly kick in. You couldn’t help it; you loved engaging with the kids.

“Oh, I remember you! You’re the pretty girl sitting in the front row! Did you enjoy the show?” You ask with a friendly smile. The girl looks at you all starstruck, her cute smile reaching from ear to ear as you tell her you remember her. “H-hi! I loved it! You were really good!” She professes, her dimples adorning her face. “Can I have an autograph?” She asked shyly, presenting the playbill that the ushers hand out to the audience and a pen. Just when you’re about to happily oblige, you see a hand reach down to her shoulder, followed by a low, soft voice,

“That’s not how we ask, mi Vida.”

Your eyes begin a path from the strong hand that rests on the little girl’s shoulder, up a Herculean arm clothed in what looks like black cashmere (it was cold out), next were his broad shoulders, preceding a sharp jaw and the most plump, dark pair of lips you’d ever lay eyes on, across a tanned, sculpted face, until you got to those deep brown, almost crimson eyes. You stared for a little too long, only managing a smile and a soft chuckle, a combo that you’ve practiced in the mirror countless of times in case an agent wanted to make their presence known.

The man looked like a model. Couldn’t have been over his early 30’s, easily standing over 6 feet tall, and from the looks of it, took very good care of his body. He was covered in a black trench coat, more black, yet much more fitted clothing worn under, but you could tell he was hiding massive muscles under it all. You just knew it. The man was freakishly huge, towering over the both of you, making you feel small especially since you were on your knees. His luscious dark hair was slicked back, a hint of greying on the sides, and one strand detached from the rest, falling down his forehead.

“Oh, sorry, papa. May I have an autograph, please?” She corrected herself, holding out the playbill and marker further out. You looked back down at her again, regaining your composure. Taking that she just called him ‘papa’, you assumed he must’ve had a mrs waiting back home, so you clocked this as an admire-from-afar situation. You tried to steal a glance at his hands to see if maybe there was a ring, but he was wearing gloves. Womp Womp. Oh well, whatever, back to the adorable girl in front me, you think.

“Of course you can, beautiful!” You exclaim, accepting the playbill and pen from her. You speak as you write your signature and a short note, “so what’s your name, mama?” (‘Mama’ can be a way of referring to someone younger than you). She looks at you with amazement as you’re focused on writing on the cast list page of the playbill, “My name is Gabriella”, she responds, to which you say, “What a gorgeous name! My name is y/n. How old are you Gabriella?” She seems to be so shocked that you, the coolest person she’s ever seen, wanted to have a conversation with her. “I’m six! I’ll be seven in seven days!” She says proudly. “Oh, such a big girl you are! Happy early birthday! What‘s your favorite thing to do, Gabriella?” You ask her as you finish the note, closing it and letting it sit in your hand as you focus on her now.

She visibly thinks hard, pursing her lips as she comes up with an answer. “Hmm… I really like to draw. I also like to play outside when I leave school and-and…” she twiddles her fingers as she adds,” -and I love to dance! Me and my papa dance at home a lot! You’re a way better dancer than him!” She giggles, looking up at him with a playful grin. He looks down at her with a loving smile, letting a velvety chuckle slip from his lips, allowing a perfect view of his dreamy smile. You could tell the two shared a beautiful relationship. He looked at her like she was his whole world, his hand caressing the top of her head affectionately. This little girl had this big strong man wrapped around her tiny finger, and you softened at the sight. He was probably an amazing dad… Jesus, who ever is sitting at home waiting for him really has scored the jackpot. Lucky.

“Aw, that sounds like fun! And as for your father, it just takes lots of practice, that’s all, mamita. As a matter of fact, I practiced for six years!” I say, holding out six fingers as I say it. She gasps at this fact about your training, her eyes wide. “Six years?! That’s like, forever!” She says. “Do I have to practice for six years to be good like you?” She inquires, her brows raised, waiting for your educated and professional answer. You carefully think of an answer, knowing anything you say could forever stay with this sweet girl. Words that you feel you would’ve appreciated at her age came to your mind, “Well, Gabriella, that’s hard to say. Time is different for everyone. The best thing to do when you want to follow your dreams is to simply be the best version of yourself. No need to copy anyone else. If you do that, you can absolutely do anything your lil heart desires, okay?” You finish, nodding your head, awaiting her confirmation.

You don’t notice, but her dad is watching the two of you interact, and he simply smiles at the exchange. He could tell you had a way with kids. He studied the way you spoke, the way you smiled at her, both being so genuine. He was entranced by you. He loved how engaging you were. You were truly creating a magical core memory for his daughter, and he was beyond appreciative of that.

Her mother had passed away of cancer when she was only 2, so she never truly got to meet her, or had a maternal figure in her life for that matter, so seeing her interact with this kindhearted actress was nice. Seeing the two of you interact reminded him of how important it was for Gabriella to have a female figure in her life. There was no doubt that you were a drop dead gorgeous woman as well, and by the accent he picked up on, it was evident that you were of Latin descent. You had that natural motherly charm to your essence. He was captivated by your presence on the stage already, but now that he was up close with you, he was beginning to feel like a high school boy with a crush. Stunning? Talented? A Latina? AND Gabriella was crazy about her? It had him thinking for sure.

Gabriella absorbs your words like a sponge, clinging on to every syllable. She smiles at you, breaking out in a fit of precious giggles. “Okay!” And with that, you give her playbill back, as well as her pen.

“Take a picture with her, sweetie.” You hear the mysterious, definitely-not-on-the-market dilf say. Gabriella nods eagerly with a, “ohmigosh, yes!”, and you reply with a warm, “definitely! How would you like to pose? Is this okay for you, mama?” You ask her, your hands hovering over her shoulders as she stands in front of you. You didn’t want to touch her unless she gave you an ‘ok’. Once she nods, you gently place your hands on her shoulders, still kneeling on one knee as you smile for the phone her dad was holding. You lower your face down to be next to hers. In the couple of seconds you sat there frozen for the picture, you could’ve sworn her dad had looked you up and down, his eyes stuck on your butt, but you decide to dismiss it. He might’ve just been making sure you were in the frame, is all.

Let’s be real for a second, the photo wasn’t for the record of Gabriella’s memories more than it was for her father’s own indulgence. He was totally thinking about looking back at this picture later and gush about your looks.

Gabriella turns around and asks one more question. “C-can we hug?” She asks timidly. You visibly melt at the request, “Aw, yes, of course we can, mamita!”, she quickly wraps her tiny little arms around you, and yours around her, “Thank you so much for coming to the show! I’m so happy you enjoyed it!” You say, her face still nuzzled into the softness of your sweater as you caress her tiny ponytail. When she pulls away, she only smiles, looking up at you like you were a fairy princess out of a storybook and a unicorn was gonna pull up and carry you away.

“What do we say, mija?” The beautiful man said.

“Thank you, y/n!” She sweetly adds.

You stand now, smiling down at her with your hand gently lifting her chin,“Remember, mama, you can do anything. Don’t let anyone tell you different, okay?” The cutie patootie nods, her smile still plastered on her face and her now signed playbill held tightly to her chest. “Okay. Have a goodnight, Gabriella,” you stand up straight now, your face only reaching up to the chest of her dad, giving him a warm smile as you try to maintain casual eye contact with the Greek god in front of you. Even now that you’re standing, he still towers over you. Lord have mercy, this man was makin you nervous in all the good ways. Thank God you knew how to act. “Thank you so much for coming to the show!“

The man looked down at you and flashed you a dashing smile in return, his gaze narrow yet soft. He then had the audacity to throw in a wink, opening his mouth to say, “No, no, thank you for a wonderful performance. You were absolutely breathtaking.” His gaze was borderline flirtatious, a blush creeping up on your cheeks, but you had to stay professional. Besides, he was totally married already. This was a simple, friendly compliment, one of hundreds you heard each night.

You look down at the floor for a second, in efforts to cover any blushing, a humble wave of your hand leading your reply, “Aw, I really appreciate that. You’re too kind, Thank you! You two get home safe now, I’d hate for either of you to get a cold!” You say, closing the conversation. You wave at the both of them, Gabriella waving the hardest of the three. Her father, on the other hand, seemed like he was distracted by you, not realizing his daughter was yanking on his coat to leave. The dad quickly snaps back to reality and says goodnight to you, and they make their way into the bustling street.

As you’re about to tend to other autographs, you can’t help but overhear Gabriella talk to her father as they leave. You could’ve sworn Gabriella’s words were, “Papa, were you making googly eyes at y/n?” To which her father replied with a chuckle and, “What? That’s silly, mi vida, now look where you’re going and hold onto my hand, por favor”, he said, brushing off her question. “She’s very pretty.” “Yes, she is, isn’t she?” He admits. That was the last of the conversation you heard. You found yourself smiling, internally celebrating because this fine ass man finds you pretty. Too bad he’s taken…right?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After signing a few playbills and posters and bidding a farewell to some other audience members, you made your way back to the little studio apartment you called home, instantly beginning to knock out the second your head hit the pillow.

Before falling asleep, thoughts of the mystery man filled your mind, recollecting that chiseled jaw, those soft lips, muscles begging to break free from his button down dress shirt. His deep silky voice rang in your head, doing the opposite of lulling you to sleep. Your mind starting settling in the gutter, imagining that deep voice saying sweet yet disgusting things in your ear and those large, calloused hands removing your underwear instead of your own dainty hands. You can imagine his huge body just completely enveloping yours on the bed, him on top, and those soft lips planting wet, lazy kisses along your neck and other much more sensitive places. It was creating a heat within your core, your thighs shamefully pressing against each other to help relieve a growing tension that crept up from a single thought of his intense gaze; those eyes that could make your inexperienced self burst within seconds. You liked to think he’d talk you through it, only igniting the fire in between your legs even more.

Am I seriously fantasizing about a man I exchanged like 3 words with right now? You say to yourself. I don’t even know his name.

He was just so goddamn FIONE.

You’ve had your fair share of attractive men in the city. It’s Nueva York. And you worked in the performance industry. You were bound to see a 10/10 or two. But this guy… This man would’ve made you drool had you not had an adorable munchkin there to distract you. This man was a 10000/10. He had you contemplating whether or not you were gonna slip a hand into your panties tonight he was that good looking.

You were a virgin. You had spent half your life devoting it to the arts and your craft, so much so that you never got to the whole dating thing. You almost completely forgot about that part of the thing called ‘social life’. All you knew was practice, eat, workout, repeat. The opportunity definitely has presented itself, but you’ve declined because:

A) You weren’t ready to share yourself with someone. You wanted to focus on your career. Or

B) The man wasn’t up to your standards. You couldn’t be with someone unless you saw a future with them. You never really understood hook up culture. You could care less if other people preferred it, it just wasn’t your style.

So here you were, in bed, a hesitant hand slowly making its way to the now wet spot of your panties. You can’t remember the last time you let loose like this…

Yea, you gave in.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, you didn’t have your 9-5, however, you were called to perform both the matinee and late night show. You showed up early to the house, stretching and warming up along with the rest of the cast.

Already in your own head space as you meditate in a child’s pose, you start picking up some whispering amongst your costars. You lift your head, opening your eyes to eavesdrop.

“Did you hear about the donation this morning? A whopping $10k. I wonder who was it!” One of them says. Another one notices your attention and includes you in the conversation.

“Y/n, do you know about it?” but you only shrug, this being the first you’ve heard about it.

Another one chimes in, “heard it’s a hella loaded guy from Alchemax… he’s like a CEO or something-“ “Alchemax? As in the Laboratory? What’s a science nerd want with a theater troupe?” “Well doesn’t matter, what matters is we can finally update our sets and costumes, hallelujah.”

Your eyes dart from one cast mate to another as more information and whispers flood the stage.

Another one, who’s currently in a middle split, interjects, “Y’all do realize this means he gets a part of the house, right? He’s basically a producer at this point.”

“I thought it was just a donation-“ “the directors thought so, too, but then I overheard them discussing business plans. He wants in for sure, why? Have no idea. Total eye candy, though.” “Well, it might be good for us to have a businessman on our side-“

“Good morning, everyone!” Everyone looks over to your bright eyed and bushy tailed director. How can someone be this energetic at this waking hour?

“I don’t mean to interrupt your mingling, but I do bring some stellar news. I want to introduce ya’ll to our new patron of the house!” They say, and next to them appears a familiar tall, dark, and handsome figure adorned in a white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows and jeans; A man that you remember inappropriately touching yourself to the night before. You inwardly thanked him for blessing you with a better view of the outline of his body: those broad shoulders sloping into the sluttiest waist ever to be found on a man. You had to physically hold back moan from the sight.

“Everyone, I’d like you to meet Miguel O’Hara.”

You’re gagged. The gorgeous man that thought you were pretty last night was the CEO of Alchemax, and he just became a partner of your theatre. The sudden realization that he’ll be around regularly tied knots in your stomach, but the good kind.

“Now I want you all to make him feel welcomed. He basically just opened his wallet wide open for us, so this show better be flawless.“ your director reprimands, as if y’all aren’t the city’s finest performers already. People around the world came to see you guys.

“Oh, don’t be so harsh on them, the main reason why I donated in the first place was because of the raw talent you have here,” his eyes fell on you when he says this. His voice pierced through the air like a hot knife on butter, his slight accent adding a bit of heat that sent everyone’s heart fluttering. You fought back a blush once again, looking down at the floor due to his powerful gaze. He smiles at your reaction, “It’ll be a pleasure working with all of you. Now, I know it might be strange, seeing that a scientist has just partnered with your house, but please, don’t let my line of work mislead you; I’m a lover of the arts and… all things beautiful.” His eyes once again fall on you for those last few words with that same narrow yet easy gaze. His smirk alone could make you swoon. He had creases that accentuated his brow lines and cheekbones that only added that much more suave to his look. Could be from the surely scowl he constantly held at his work. To the majority, this would just been seen as a sign of aging, but to you, it was hot.

“I look forward to our partnership. Break legs.” And with this he turns and walks away, stealing one last look at you before he’s out of sight. I’d rather you break my back. Your eyes shamelessly follow him, admiring that tight ass in those jeans of his. Dios mio, you think, biting your lip.

You know, for a virgin, you had the mind of a whore.

You couldn’t believe it. Your cast mate next to you could, though, as they shot you a knowing look, to which you nudged them embarrassingly.

“Seems like our hot new patron likes you, y/n.”

“Stop it!” You rebut along with a roll of your eyes, your friend stifling a laugh. You were in denial. You’d be lying if you said you disagreed. The man was definitely eyeing you, and now you were a flustered mess. However, now that he wasn’t wearing gloves, you can confidently say you don’t remember seeing a ring…

bingo.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hope u wike it <3

Enjoy this appetizer, more to cum<3

Mwah<3

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nerdieforpedro · 1 month

Text

Notes with Dieter

Dieter Bravo/husband x female reader/wife

My blog overall is 18+ MDNI

Word Count: about 1.1k

Summary: You're leaving for another work trip and Dieter is sad once again. This time, he decides to show you how much he cares in full Bravo style.

Warnings: Dieter is the softest boi 😭, side-eyeing a suitcase, illusions to smut?, kisses, doodles, just all the fluff, bad jokes

Notes: So this is a follow up to The Day before was always difficult. @angelofsmalldeath-codeine and @mysterious-moonstruck-musings are always asking more for more soft Dieter. So naturally, I took it as a request even though they didn't really ask? FYI Dieter is a koala 🐨 in this one, but he'll always be our lovable messy trash panda. 🦝 I think I used all the colors Hemmy. 😆

Main Masterlist / Dieter Bravo Masterlist

Dieter used to love suitcases. It meant he was on the move to a new job or some new fun, sometimes both. Now he was more ambivalent about them. Coming home and seeing the hard shell gray suitcase meant that tomorrow morning you’d be gone again for a time.

It’s not like he didn’t know it in advance, you’d always let him know ahead of time. Especially if he was going to be at home alone. It didn’t make it hurt any less. Some might say that he should get over it, just relax and wait for your return, but Dieter isn’t that type of man. The tea kettle screeches with steam and he knows where you are: the kitchen. Instead of alerting you to his presence, he waits until you’ve poured your tea and is covering it to let it steep.

His chest gently presses against your back before his arms ensnare you just under your breasts, propping them up as you’ve showered and in your black cotton nightgown. You’ve decided on an early evening for yourself but Bravo has other plans as his lips to the nape of your neck tell you. A chuckle leaves your chest while you fix the rest of your tea, not intent on giving him a quarter into the game he’s trying to play.

But the two of you sit on the couch. Chatting about current events, he hasn’t made any more moves. Just watching you, listening to you, with an enamored grin. Another chuckle from you for how cute he looks, he’ll do this from time to time when you’re going to leave town again. Like he’s trying to paint a picture of you in his mind. You always remind him that he’s your reason to come home. Dieter always tells you he’s grateful for that.

After tea, it’s bedtime and there are kisses goodnight. He wraps his arm around your waist. You kiss his neck and begin the nightly activities. Apparently Dieter’s learned to just give you a nibble and you’ll do the rest. In the glow of the short hours of the dark, you pinch his cheek, figuring out his game before dozing off on his chest. Sticking to him, not wanting to let go.

Dieter steals out of the bed when you’re asleep and uses a notebook he keeps in his nightstand. He sketches your various expressions you made while on the couch and then how you look in bed right now, sheets half-covering you, your glory exposed for him to see. He has to capture it now else he could miss his moment.

Another idea pops into his head so he grabs his phone and steps out into the living room to record it for you. He plans to send it tomorrow morning while you’re at the airport so you can listen to it on the plane.

A handwritten note slid into your suitcase is for when you unpack. Carefully he slides back into bed, his thumb running down your back with a kiss to your shoulder.

The sun has barely broken the horizon when the alarm sounds, groans fill the room as you both stir. Washing up and getting dressed is your focus so Dieter makes a light breakfast for you with coffee. His eyes cut to your suitcase before he picks it up to carry it to the car his ordered for you, thankfully he was able to zip it back properly.

A text from Dieter says to listen to the message on the plane and to download it just in case. Your headphones are in after greeting your coworkers and the plane is at cruising altitude.

“Hey pretty lady, you know I never want you to leave. I know it’s selfish but I know I always feel better and do better when you’re here. You’re my person you know? Plus who else is going to tell me that many patterns don’t go together, everyone always tells me yes.

Anyway, have a safe flight and kick those old dudes asses. I hope your project goes well. I know you were trying to explain it to be but once you got into Access and databases I was gone. I’m so sorry. I’m gonna try googling it later. You can’t wear that navy blue dress because they’ll think they have a chance and you’re already with an Oscar Winner. They’re too late and I love you Ms. Smarty Pants. Hmm… You should wear pants. Bye.”

The two people sitting next to you thought that you needed some oxygen based on how hard you were wheezing trying to hold in your laughter. You told them that you were fine and it was just a message from your sweet husband, he has quite a way with words.

Thankfully when you landed, everyone was given time to rest in their rooms before the initial group dinner. Opening your suitcase, a piece of notebook paper fell out and you picked it up off the floor. Sitting on the bed you read it, shaking your head.

Sometimes I really do wonder why you’re with me at all, why you come home to me. Hell, why you call me home. I can be a complete and utter mess, irresponsible at times and I’m sure annoying. My one redeeming quality I thought was in creating art through film, painting and drawings. You helped me see that I’m more than that though. So much more. I can be faithful, I can be loyal, I can put someone above myself and I can do all these things without needing an escape.

I often wonder what would have happened if you hadn’t run over my foot with your suitcase and I didn’t sucker you into having lunch with me. You look as beautiful then as you do now, actually more so because we enjoy nighttime KitKats a few times a week. We dance it off part way so it’s fine.

I love you my brave, clever, gracious muse.

Your koala bear who runs hot,

Dieter Bravo

P.S. - You should frame this FYI

Falling back on the bed, you question when Dieter would have slipped this into your suitcase let alone written it. It’s completely in character for him and at the same time, seems so unusual. Trying to hold your tears back only makes them fall harder, you’ll need to re-do your makeup for the dinner but it doesn’t matter to you if you’re late. Dieter will never fail to make himself memorable.

Life as Dieter Bravo’s wife is always full of the unexpected and something to hold onto.

Trash Panda Posse 🦝: @katw474 @readingiskeepingmegoing @megamindsecretlair @pamasaur @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @sp00kymulderr @titlee78 @magpiepills @soft-girl-musings @morallyinept @rhoorl @wannab-urs @survivingandenduring @missladym1981 @yorksgirl @fhatbhabie @tinytinymenace @yourcoolauntie

Special fluff guests: @grogusmum @maggiemayhemnj and @frenchiereading

#pedro pascal characters #fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #dieter bravo #trash panda posse #Nerdie fic #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo fluff #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x you

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babydollmarauders · 7 months

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LAST KISS — NICO HISCHIER

nico hischier x fem!reader

part of the Speak Now Fic List

summary: in which y/n reminisces on she and Nico’s relationship and wonders how it all came to an end when she still loves him so much

notes: lots of flashbacks, not a lot of dialogue

the carpeted floor does nothing to ease the numbness of my butt from sitting there for so long.

my back is pressed against the side of my bed, my head tilted back and my eyes glued to the ceiling, fighting back tears.

the alarm clock that sits on my nightstand, lights up the room; 1:58am displayed in bright red.

how is it that at this time, just three months ago, i was happy?

how is it that i remember that night so clearly?

*** 3 MONTHS AGO ***

my cheeks ache from smiling, my leg slung over my boyfriend’s as he holds me close. his arms are wrapped around my waist, one hand drawing shapes into my back.

our alarm clock reads 1:58am, but he only got back from his roadie about forty-five minutes ago.

“and then Dawson bet Jack fifty dollars that he could kick the ball into the rafters.” Nico whispers, his thick accent soothing my racing heart.

“did he?”

“no, he kicked it up high but it bounced off of one of the beams and ended up hitting him in the head.” i giggle, already imagining the scenario happening in my head. “i can laugh now, but i was worried he had a concussion.”

Nico joins me in laughter, tightening his grip on me. my hand lays flat across his chest, and i can feel his heartbeat pick up.

“i love you.” i whisper, craning my neck to nudge my nose against his.

“ich liebe dich mehr, schatzi.”

*** PRESENT ***

tears roll down my cheeks. my heart feels like it’s being torn, my chest constricting like someone is crumpling it like an old receipt.

how could he have told me he loved me, when he left so soon after?

how could he leave me so easily? like i was nothing to him.

why did he leave? i thought we were doing so well.

i thought the end of the hockey season would bring on new adventures, not the end of us.

now i’m left picking up the pieces of me that he carelessly threw down when he told me we were over. when he went back to Switzerland and told me not to bother visiting.

i thought we would have a repeat of last summer, the best summer i’ve ever had, but i guess that’s gone now.

*** JULY 9TH, 2022 ***

the plane bumps as it touches down, causing me to jolt in my seat.

eight hours on the plane, too excited and nervous to sleep a wink, and now i’m ready to be able to move and reunite with my boyfriend.

i sit idly in my seat, my carry-on backpack sitting in my lap, as i wait to be able to leave; and as soon as i can, i’m fast walking off the plane.

Nico said he would meet me at baggage claim, and with the unfamiliarity of a foreign airport, it takes me much longer than i had hoped to find baggage claim.

but as soon as i round the corner and spot my boyfriend, i take off running. my sneakers squeak against the tiled floors, and he looks up from his phone, quickly pocketing it and opening his arms to envelope me in a hug.

my head nestles on his chest, right against his pounding heart, and my arms wrap securely around his waist while his fold over my shoulders. i melt into his touch, savoring the feeling of being in his arms again. his heartbeat echoes through my ears, soothing me further.

“i missed you.” he mumbles into my hair, pressing his lips to my scalp.

“i missed you more.”

we stand there in silence, watching the bags go around the little carousel until mine finally comes into view. the black hard shell suitcase covered in stickers is hard to miss, and Nico finally lets me go in order to step forward and grab it for me.

“c’mon, i want you to meet my family.” his arm wraps around my shoulder, pulling me into his side as we exit the airport.

i can smell the rain that’s falling freshly on the pavement, taking in a deep breath, and Nico smiles down at me, his brows threaded together.

“i like the smell. it’s different here; smells cleaner.” he chuckles at my words, shaking his head. “or i’m just happier here, ‘cause i’m with you.”

his eyes scrunch as he grins widely, showing off his teeth.

“yeah, i’m happier with you too.”

*** PRESENT ***

i rock on the floor, tilting forward slightly with my legs criss-crossed. my arms are crossed over my chest in an ‘x’, my hands fisting the fabric of his forgotten soft black t-shirt that adorns my body.

the tears are falling harder now, my throat closing as my breaths catch, a broken sob of his name falling from my lips.

how could he do this to me?

i met his family.

he met mine. despite knowing how guarded i am with choosing who to introduce to them.

he convinced me we were forever.

*** MAY 2022 ***

“and you’re sure you’re okay with attending this?” i question for the millionth time, standing in front of the mirror as i put my earrings in.

“yes, schatzi. i’m sure.” Nico chuckles, wrapping his arms around my waist as he comes and stands behind me. “i want to meet your family. i want to meet the people who raised my beautiful, kindhearted girlfriend.”

i sigh, locking eyes with him in the mirror. a small smile dances upon my lips when he scrunches his nose at me through the reflection.

“i just don’t want them to scare you off.” i admit, my hands gently resting on his arms that encircle me. “they can be a lot, and ya know, they’re hockey fans so they’ll probably talk your ear off about this past season and i just- i love you, i don’t want them to run you away from me.”

Nico’s lips ghost against my neck, pressing featherlight kisses across my skin, before he rests his chin upon my shoulder. he looks at me softly in the mirror, but i avoid his gaze until he abruptly spins me around.

his hands cup my face, forcing me to look into his big brown eyes.

“they will not scare me off.” he assures me, leaning his forehead against mine. “i love you, and your family cannot change that. they can talk to me about hockey every time i see them for the rest of our lives, but they can’t run me off.”

for the rest of our lives.

“i love you so much.” i lean forward, standing on my tiptoes to lay a kiss on his lips.

my nerves are eased for most of the time until the reception. we arrive to my cousin, Lindsay’s wedding just before the ceremony begins, effectively avoiding my parents meeting Nico.

but once the reception begins, there’s no evading it any longer. my body tenses as my father walks over to Nico and i’s table.

“little bird!” my face flushes at the childhood nickname, allowing my father to wrap me up in a hug, my mother quickly taking his place once we part.

my dad’s eyes stray over to my boyfriend, widening slightly but keeping his cool. “and who’s this, little bird?”

“mom, dad; this is my boyfriend, Nico.” i introduce, watching with baited breath as my father shakes Nico’s hand.

“nice, firm grip ya got there, Nico.” my dad nods approvingly, “say, ya play hockey? ya look familiar.”

my mother and i share a glance at his unsubtle way of questioning, but whereas she wears a smile, my face is one of fear. but my fear melts away when my boyfriend just laughs.

“i’m just messing with you.” my dad slaps Nico on the back. “i’m a Devils fan, born and raised.”

he continues talking, but i can no longer hear their conversation as they walk away towards the open bar.

“i’d say that went well.” my mom sighs, turning back towards me. “what do you say we get some champagne. you look like you need it.”

it’s not even an hour later that Nico has become the life of the party. my rowdy, hockey invested family have all flocked to him. even Lindsay and her now husband, the one’s this day is supposed to be about, are stood around our table, listening intently to what my boyfriend has to say about playing in the NHL.

i’m stood beside Nico, as we had given up our seats to my younger cousins, just waiting for them all to stop questioning him.

“hey Nico, what’s it like being captain?” my little cousin asks, and i can’t help but roll my eyes as my boyfriend answers him. Nico catches my eye, smiling down at me and pulling me close into his side.

“i love it. it’s hard, you have to answer questions from interviewers after hard losses, but it can also be very fun. it’s very rewarding.” he explains.

i let out a sigh, my mood severely deflating, until Nico speaks up again.

“if you guys will excuse me, i wanna have a dance with my girlfriend before the night ends.” he winks at the table full of my family members before leading me to the dance floor.

he snakes his arms around my waist, pulling me flush against him as my arms lock around his neck, resting on his shoulders.

“i like your family.” he tells me.

“you do?”

he nods, beginning to sway us side to side. “yeah, they’re nice, and passionate about hockey. i see where you get it from now.”

i chuckle, nodding along. “that would be my dad’s doing.”

he laughs, as i close my eyes and lay my head upon his chest.

though i’m not usually one for dancing in public, i do it with him.

for him.

*** PRESENT ***

my heart aches, and in my mind, i beg for him to come home.

to tell me he was just joking.

that he loves me and still wants to spend the rest of our lives together.

i beg for him to come waltzing back towards me after a game, his hands in his pockets as he grins at me leaning against his car.

i beg for him to come back and spend another night listening to me rant, until he finally decides he’s had enough of my unimportant rambles and shuts me up with a kiss.

my phone dings upon my nightstand, right next to the alarm clock that now reads 2:34am, and i scramble for it, in hopes that it’s him.

and in a way, it is. an instagram notification is displayed across my screen, letting me know that Nico has posted a new post.

i click into it, ignoring the tears that now splatter upon my screen as i see how happy he looks.

how happy he looks without me.

i scroll through the photo carousel, staring at photos of Nico and his brother and sister, a wide smile on his face. a photo of him in front of a scenic mountain, his teeth shown off in a grin. a photo of him swimming.

i have to wonder how it got to this point.

how i went from waking up before the sun did, watching him sleep peacefully beside me; to watching his life in pictures. being delegated to asking our mutual friends how he is, because i can no longer just text him to ask.

how i went from laying almost entirely on top of him, feeling his chest rise and fall with his deep breaths; to feeling forgotten in his life. like the two years we were together meant nothing to him.

it’s as if i can feel myself being erased from his life; from his mind.

but the worst part of that i can’t hate him. i love him too much to hold any hate in my heart for him.

rather than wishing the worst upon him, i only hope that he has a wonderful life.

and that maybe, on a beautiful day, he’ll see something so small, so minuscule, like the sun shining through the clouds, or a pink sunset, which he knows i love so much, and that it’ll remind him of me. that he’ll realize how good i was to him. that he’ll regret leaving. that he’ll wish he had stayed with me.

#speak now fic list #nico hischier #nico hischier x reader #nico hischier imagine #nico hischier fic #nico hischier blurb #nj devils #nhl fic #nhl imagine #faithlynn’s writings <3

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purpleyoonn · 1 year

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baby (you complete us) 4

C H A P T E R F O U R

summary: Soulmates were a common occurrence, so common, in fact, that the world sought an easier way to find your other half: A bracelet that would scan your mark and match you with those who shared your mark. Within recent years, soul groups were becoming normal, and your own bracelet said you have seven matches.

Or where you wear your bracelet for ten years, and finally give up the hope you would find your soul group, only for BTS to put theirs on and see what they were missing.

genre: soulmate au, idol au, angst, fluff, eventual smut,

pairing: Idol BTS x Disabled MC

warnings: angst, mentions of depression, disabled mc (Ehlers Danlos syndrome), eventual smut, fluff, lots of fluff, mentions of disability, simp bangtan

chapter warnings: some awkward moments, feeling overwhelmed, talks of pain and discomfort, mc’s shoulder shifts, disability discussions, jin and yoongi being protective,

*words in italic are being spoken in Korean*

taglist: @imnotlauriane @mageprincess7 @m1sss1mp @0funsite0 @strawberry-moonpies @this-isthe-way @singukieee @btsw1fe @gooooomz @fluffy-canada-pancakes @carolinexkpop @agusfree @sakurarukas @iamkookiesforyou @skyys-universe @toughbook @plutoneu @whisperssuga @welcometomyworld13 @yuzon3 @wittyreader @jnghs @cyd0129 @exfolitae @queen-in-the-shadows @nen-nyy @pandxthings @schniti-is-in-the-house @juju-227592 @jinseartharmysmoon @wooya1224 @ddaeng-angmoh @gratefullygrateful @rorythme @gratefullygrateful @kimrona @jjjj-ssi @maysgarden @lovelgirl22 @doublebunv @reallysparklychaos @jayjayy-57

permanent taglist: @m1sss1mp @yourleftsock @skyys-universe @cryingpages @strxwbloody @drissteele @dustyinkpages @iamkookiesforyou @crushedblackroses @fluffy-canada-pancakes @blaaiissee @iiitsmaria @carolinexkpop @azazel-nyx @strawberry-moonpies @g-h-o-s-t-b-a-b-i @knjkitten @kleirielk @foreverweareyoung7 @lachimolala22019 @namuficxs @94z-93 @kimgmzmc @thenaverse @dahliasbouqet @black-rose-29 @tinyoonsblog @take-u-2-an0ther-w0r1d @stellauniverse @stupendouscookiehumanmug @tinyoonsblog @veronawrites @tatyhend @singukieee @m0v3m3ntsblog @lilcritan @exfolitae @butterymin

masterlist // chapter 3 // chapter 5

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Previously on baby (you complete us):

“I’m so sorry, Y/n, but we have a meeting to attend with our directors. Thank you so much for giving us a chance and we will definitely talk to you soon.” Namjoon’s dimple smile had your full attention as everyone said their goodbyes and promises of contact. Even as you said goodbye and the video call was ended, you had their bright smiles burnt into your cornea.

After checking to see if your phone still had some charge to it, you were quick to go to your phone app again, this time to your recent calls list.

“Hey so I think your joke isn’t so much of a joke anymore…”

That next morning, you woke up to the luggage set Hoseok bought waiting in front of your apartment door. You were actually lucky your neighbors didn’t take it or bang on your door wondering when you got a sugar daddy and didn’t tell them (thanks Ms. Tanner).

It was an expensive, you could tell by the label, three-piece luggage set container with two hard-shell suitcases and a small duffel bag for a carry on. It was, indeed, your favorite color and when you opened the large suitcase, you found a note within the stitched in pocket. It was a cute note saying that the boys couldn’t wait to meet you in person and that they hoped you like what they picked out for you.

Not only did you get surprised by the luggage set, but your phone also hadn’t stopped going off since you turned it on that morning. It seemed you were in three separate group chats. You were added to one called ‘Maknaes Only’ with little stars around it, one that had everyone in it called ‘m8tes’ that had a smiley face at the end (which you were 100% convinced Jin chose the title), and one that had just the older members, and now you, that didn’t have a title.

The one you were added to with Jimin, Taehyung, and Jungkook had a menagerie of selfies they sent you, some of them not even being of them, just of their feet as they are walking. Also, you’ve noticed they use lots of emojis. You were kind of overwhelmed as you read Jimin describing his afternoon to you and asking if you had gone to bed.

You weren’t really used to people just texting you. Like you had friends and siblings who texted you but not in this way. It seemed like every second you got another text notification.

When you finally looked away from the maknae chat, after messaging “good morning😊”, you moved over to the main group chat which had the most recent message. You were thankful for the translate button that came up when you highlighted the text, happy that you didn’t have to try and figure it out on your own.

m8tes

Hoseok: hey pretty girl. I just got the notification that the luggage was dropped off. I just wanted to know if you got it.

Jin: Oh! We can be affectionate already? Well, then, princess, did you get our other packages yet?

Yoongi: She probably hasn’t if she hasn’t said anything yet. Isn’t it also like 9 am there? She’s probably still sleeping.

Jin: Just because you sleep in doesn’t mean our princess does, you old man.

Yoongi: 😐 you’re older than me

“Other packages?” You think aloud, trying to figure out what he was talking about while also ignoring their use of pet names so you don’t blush. You look back out your door to see if you missed a package when you were dragging the luggage in but you don’t see anything.

So, you grab your keys, put your shoes on and walk down the stairs to the mail room for the apartment building. You hated the stairs because there was always, a very certain always, chance one of your knees would pop out when going back up them.

Your elevator hasn’t worked for about a year, and no matter how many disability requests you put in, nothing was done. You didn’t really have the money to just move either, so you were stuck using your cane and the side railings, hoping you didn’t fall.

You walked slowly, holding onto the railing as you did, but you managed to not hurt anything as you finally walked into the mail room. You walked over to the locker that had your apartment number on it and put in your key, turning the knob. You opened it to find several small packages with your name on them.

You didn’t recognize anything on the packages other than your name, so you took them cautiously out of your mailbox and went back upstairs. It took you longer this time, as going up stairs always gave your knees issues.

It seemed as though you were lucky today, nothing popping out as you unlocked your door and took your shoes back off. You move to your kitchen counter, grabbing your scissors and cutting open the first package.

You were surprised to see small box, no logos or anything on the outside. When you took the top off, you found a little note along with a HYBE badge that had your picture from the Soul app and your name on it with the words “All Exclusive Access” at the top.

You ignored the buzzing of your phone again as you tried hard to keep your shock in check, grabbing your scissors and choosing to open the next package. The contents were a little overwhelming.

You found a, what looks extremely comfy, t-shirt, a coloring book and markers, and a passport, oddly enough. You were extremely confused. You already had a passport, and this one was from South Korea. You were an American citizen, meaning you needed an American passport. Unless one of them accidently sent you theirs.

Thinking that there was going to be a huge problem, having one of their passports, you grabbed your phone and called Namjoon, knowing he spoke English and you didn’t need a translator. It took only a single ring before the phone picked up.

“No! Let me talk to her!” You hear a lot of shuffling on the other end followed by shouts and grunts. You couldn’t really understand anything so you just waited, wondering if you should hang up.

“No. I didn’t get to talk to her yet!”

“I speak more English than you!” Another grunt was heard as the phone seems to fall onto the ground.

“Give me my phone back!” You can distinguish Namjoon’s voice as he gets closer to the phone.

“Should I call you back? I can call back if you are busy.” You ask causing silence before another couple grunts are heard and a loud cry.

“NO!” You pull your phone away from your ear, cringing a little as your ear now rings. “Please. I’m sorry. Jungkook had my phone and was fighting with Jimin and Taehyung over it.” You only nod your head at his explanation.

“What can I do for you, baby?” You blush at the term of endearment, feeling tingles move up and down your spine. You clear your throat before answering, not even realizing he had just put you on speaker phone, everyone now in Namjoon’s studio with him.

“I think one of you accidently sent me your passport. I have a Korean passport on my kitchen table and I don’t want any of you to get in trouble.” A little laughter can be heard as a couple voices start talking at once.

“Baby, did you open the passport to see who’s it could be?” Namjoon asks, making you shuffle closer to the passport and open it. You were shocked to see your own name and picture.

You felt stupid as you realized it was a Soulmate Passport.

When you are matched with your soulmate or mates, depending on the eldest member’s nationality, you may gain a “soulmate citizenship” for their home country. Since Seokjin was Korean, you now were granted a South Korean soulmate citizenship. You practically had all the same rights as a South Korean citizen, but you couldn’t own any property, pay taxes, or vote, that would be up to your soulmates.

“Baby?” Namjoon’s voice broke you out of your stupor, making you blush red in embarrassment.

“Uhm, never mind.” Your voice was small, now understanding the laughter.

“See what you did?” Namjoon turned around to look at Jimin and Taehyung who laughed at how cute you were being. Their eyes widened in shock as they realize how their laughter could have come off. Namjoon spoke quickly hoping that you wouldn’t hang up the phone.

“No baby, please. They didn’t mean it, I promise. The uh, the second we got our match, we had to have it registered with the government so you could come over. Given the circumstances and the Soul Pain that could start any minute, they expedited your passport and soulmate citizenship papers.” Namjoon explained to you, making you remember about the Soul Pain.

Soul Pain happened after a bond is acknowledged by all parties. If you don’t gain physical contact or fully accept the bond within a week’s time, the body will start to deteriorate. You will start off getting sick, maybe just the flu or a mild cold, and then it begins to get worse. It’s fate’s way to ensure that the bonds she creates are solidified.

Physical touch only helps for so long. The only way to really end soul pain is to either accept the bond or reject it. But fate created another way to ensure her bonds came to be completed. Rejection leads to lasting physical pain in the chest in the person being rejected until their death…something you wouldn’t really wish upon anyone.

You weren’t really given any options.

“Oh, I forgot about that. It’s been, what, about four or five days since you matched with me? So, I say within a couple of days the Soul Pain should start.” You were looking down at your mark, the simple full moon staring back at you.

“We can get you booked within the next couple hours. Just let us know the closest airport, baby.” Namjoon’s tone was full of worry, now realizing just what everyone might be going through soon.

He questioned if you would feel the Soul Pain more than they would, given they had all already completed their bond. You hadn’t completed yours and wouldn’t have the chance for maybe a couple of days, if you were ready to complete it, that is. They wouldn’t push you into anything.

“Uhm, give me the rest of the day to figure everything out. The earliest I can probably fly out, if everything goes well, is tomorrow. So, if you can, maybe book a flight for the early morning.” You voice wavers as you think of the things you need to do.

You still need to call your family and tell them everything. You could probably wait to tell Anna. You didn’t want to disturb her honeymoon. Your job, you could do from anywhere as long as you had wife and a stable internet connection. You just needed to pack your things.

“How many things do you think I can fit in my suitcases before I have to pay for it being overweight?” You ask into the phone, trying to remember what the weight limit was for suitcases.

“Don’t worry about that. We’ll have everything already figured out. And Jimin wants me to remind you that we can buy you anything you need here too.” You balk at that, not wanting them to feel obligated to buy you things.

“Can you tell me what airline you were planning on having me flying with? I need to check their disability requirements and see if I can bring my cane on board or if I need to mark it as a carry-on.” The thought hits you last minute, remembering the time you had to do that before, paying for your actual carryon.

“You don’t need to worry. Let your mates handle it.” A different voice spoke up this time. The spoke in English, making you question who it was. The deep, raspy voice had you thinking Yoongi.

“Pretty girl, did you get all of the packages yet? We made sure to overnight everything.” Hoseok’s voice came through this time, you recognize the cute pet name.

“I got everything; I think. You only sent the luggage set and three packages, right?” You ask just to make sure since they never specified how many things they had sent to you.

“That’s all we sent so far, Y/n!” That voice was definitely Jungkook but wait. So far?

“What do you mean, so far?” You ask a little wary of what else they could have sent you. You could hear a little slap, laughter, and then some kind of apologizing, thankful for the little amount of Korean you could recognize after years of listening to kpop and watching kdramas.

“Nothing. We haven’t sent anything else since we knew you would be coming soon. We just thought that you needed some things before you make the trip over.” Namjoon’s voice came through again.

“What have you opened so far? Can we video chat?” Jimin’s timid voice is next to come through the speaker. You can’t help but want to coo at him, to fulfill his wishes and you know you were in dangerous waters already.

“You guys aren’t busy?” You ask, your own voice timid and unsure. Despite their words the night before, you still weren’t sure how well you would fit into their life, if they would be able to make time for someone not already within their established group, soul or otherwise.

The boys, even from where they sat in Namjoon’s studio, could imagine the small pout on your lips and the way you might twist your fingers. They had promised you they would always make time for you, and that was a promise they were quick to reassure.

“We have plenty of time, baby.” Namjoon’s normal baritone was pitched, the love and reassurance he was pushing forward could be felt across the ocean as you moved to fiddle with your phone.

“So beautiful”

“So cute”

A chorus of voices called out as soon as you turned the camera on, catching you off guard as you recognized the compliments. You move a little off screen, trying to hide your now inevitable blush as you move everything you opened so far into view on your counter.

“Uhm, this is what I opened so far. I have one package left.” You gesture to the slightly medium sized box as you pull it in front of you.

“Okay!” Jin nearly shouts out. Looking at the screen you see them all intently watching you, waiting for you to open the box.

You just nod your head, feeling a little awkward, before grabbing your scissors again. You open them up and maneuver them so you could cut the tape across the box only for Jin and Yoongi to cry out, making you drop the scissors almost cutting yourself.

You look up, startled and wondering what happened to make them scream like that.

“You don’t hold them like that!” Jin screams out, while Yoongi nods his head.

“You don’t use scissors to cut things like that. You don’t have box cutter?” Yoongi asks you, watching you very carefully as you shake your head.

“Aish. Can we book a flight for now to go and get her?” Jin turns to Namjoon and Hobi, who both shake their heads. The two eldest mates were protective, and the boys all already made bets on how quickly they would become protective of you and if it would be worse than with Jungkook or not, given you were the same age.

“What if something happens and we’re not there? We just want to keep her safe and make sure she is taken care of.” Yoongi adds on, slightly hopeful as he looks over to Jin who also nods his head at his words. But Namjoon just lovingly rolls his eyes, used to the two eldest’s ways.

“No, we cannot. She will be here in two days. You both can wait.” Namjoon gave Jin a look, making him sit back in his seat next to Jimin while Yoongi continues to stare down Namjoon.

“Sorry, Y/n, you can continue. These two just get a little protective.” You nod slowly at Namjoon, checking his smile for any clue as to what just happened.

You slowly grab the scissors, seeing Yoongi sit forward a little and Jin move to cover his mouth, and cut the tape across the box. You put the scissors down, again looking up to see Jin and Yoongi now relaxed and sitting back in their seats and remove the packing paper from the top of the box.

However, once you reach further into the box, you feel the beginning of a stretch in your shoulder, making you pause. When you try to move your shoulder back, you feel it shift out of the joint, only slightly thank goodness. Unfortunately, the boys hear the pop on their end and begin to freak out.

“Are you okay?!”

“Baby what happened?”

“What is the number for the doctors!?”

“Pretty girl, what happened? Do we need to call doctor?” Hoseok’s voice came through at the end as he moved forward, scanning your body with a dark look.

“Oh, uh, my shoulder just shifted. I can pop it back in, just give me a second.” You turn around and move out of view so they won’t see the discomfort on your face as you moved your other hand to your bicep, leaning against your kitchen wall.

“Wait, darling! We should call doctor!” Jungkook shouted as he scrambled for the phone. You only closed your eyes, half in embarrassment and half in discomfort as you popped your shoulder back in. You roll it a little to ease the stretch and to make sure it didn’t shift again before turning back around.

The boys all had varying faces of pain, discomfort and even awe as you turned back around. They could see the wince on your face and how you didn’t use your right arm this time to reach for the things in the box.

“Y/n, please. Are you okay?” Namjoon’s concern was evident in the way his eyes narrowed and his brows furrowed.

Yes, they had read all the messages you had sent, but it didn’t mean they were aware of just how easy it was for your joints to shift or pop. They didn’t know just how much you dealt with daily apart from the times you messaged. They looked to each other and swore you would never lift a finger while with them.

“I’m okay. I promise. It doesn’t even hurt anymore. Just some slight discomfort.” You answer, looking up to see disbelief and worry on their faces this time. You can’t help but feel the need to reassure them of your state.

“I promise. I’m okay. I will let you know if I’m ever in pain, okay?” You try to compromise, earning only a couple of nods while Taehyung, Yoongi, and Jungkook remaining silent as they watch you.

You move along and begin to remove the items with your left arm, keeping your right one by your side, the bottom of your shirt clenched between your fingers to keep it stable.

The first thing you pull out has you letting out a small laugh. It was an eye mask that had a cute kitten face on it with tiny ears coming off the top. You immediately move to put it on your head, adjusting the strap around your head with your left hand as you grin.

“Aigoo she’s so cute. I can see why you picked out the kitty eye mask for her, Yoongi.” Hobi looked over to Yoongi, who wore a smirk across his lips as he saw how excited you got. You didn’t even notice the interaction as you pulled out a pair of noise cancelling headphones.

“For the flight and whatever you want.” You looked up at Yoongi’s words, the words ‘are you sure’ hanging off your lips, stopping once you see the look he gives you, as if begging you to question him. So, you just nod and say thank you, taking the easy way out.

At the bottom of the box was a sweatshirt with the words “AGUST D” written across in the font that resembles his D-2 mixtape logo. A matching beanie can be found underneath. At this, everyone turns towards Yoongi who just smiles.

“How did you manage to sneak that in the box?” Hobi asks only for Jimin to shout: “How did you even sneak an extra box past us?” This has you raising an eyebrow at Yoongi, not realizing that the entire box was from the rapper.

“I guess I should thank you for the box then, Yoongi?” You lean forward, causing the male to blush a little. He just nods shyly and says you’re welcome with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Well, thank you a lot, Yoongi. I appreciate the package and will make sure to wear this to the airport.” You smile, your small cheek dimples poking through as you do making Namjoon smile back. You move the items back in the box as the others shout protests. Claims of cheating thrown around, all of them wanting you to wear something they picked out to the airport.

“Maybe next time you guys!” You try to ease the play fighting, thoroughly amused by the proud smirk on Yoongi’s lips.

Next Chapter

#bts #bts au #bts soulmate #bts soulmate au #bts soul bracelet fic #bts idol au #bts fluff #bts polyamory #bts poly #bts poly!au #bts poly au #bts poly!#bts x reader #poly!bts x reader #disabled mc #bts x disabled mc #ehlers danlos syndrome #baby you complete us #purpleyoonn

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wondernus · 7 months

Text

˗ˋˏ Briefly Orange ˎˊ˗ | PREVIEW

SUMMARY: Fragmentary source of healing and like an oasis away from the city, for his group of friends, Boo Seungkwan’s family farm is a regular vacation destination away from the city. Yet Seungkwan wishes for anything but a future filled with mountains of oranges, his dream of living in the city still ineffaceable in his head. When he receives a request from a friend he fell out of touch with asking if they could stay on his farm for the Summer, Seungkwan finally finds himself in an opportunistic place in which his dream can finally become a reality. Why? Because you’re cursed to have everything you love disappear.

Sweltering heat and an eventful Summer, magic touches lives in ways that we can never imagine. But in this transition between seasons, we find ourselves asking: When loss is as transient as the lives we live, what does it mean to love with every fiber of our being?

PAIRING: bsk x reader

FIC GENRE: angst, romance, slice of life, magical realism

FIC TAGS: food/drinks, time jump, summer fic, exes to lovers, friends to lovers, slow burn, cooking processes (including mentions of knives), character gets physically hurt

PREVIEW WC: 3.1k

FIC WC: 30k

MESSAGE FROM NU: this is merely a preview for the longest fic i've written so far. i've been working on this for months now so i'm so incredibly excited to share the preview with you all this product of so much love and care for seungkwan <3 there are 23 chapters in total, and here are some excerpts from the first few chapters. if you would like to be tagged in the final fic a few days from now, please let me know! - nu ♡

wondernus's masterlist

It starts with the peel. Hold the orange in both hands and press your thumbs against the hollow bottom where there’s an open dip between the peel and the fleshy meat of the orange. Press into the peel with the tips of your fingernails, hard, penetrating the peel and creating a perfect opening to peel the fruit. Then, start peeling the bright and smooth outer shell away until you’re left with that orange and fleshy ball of juice. When you halve the fruit between your fingers, it sizzles and cracks crisply as you rip it apart — sometimes the juice escapes the membrane in a transparent drop of liquid, collecting on your finger, and rolling down your hand toward your arm. Sweet or sour, the rest comes after.

The large rolling suitcase leaves behind two long indents in the dry dirt path as it drags along the road. Each pull and tug towards a new temporary familiar coats the once black and glossy wheels in a matte tan color disrupted by speckled imprints of tiny gravel in every new layer of dirt rolled onto the wheels. Once in a while, the wheels break through a pair of footprints that belong to the person pulling the suitcase like the long lines used to omit phrases from a written sentence. Still, the traces along the dirt path are never straight, nor are they as continuous as one would like them to be. As an arborist would study the rings of a tree to determine periods of sickness and health, anybody could see how the lines left by the suitcase indicate periods of pause in transit, a person struggling along the road, and moments of pure and undisrupted conversation.

Under the warm morning sunlight, Boo Seungkwan has a new kind of warmth lingering by his side — someone so familiar yet so new, neither déjà vu nor jamais vu but nostalgia in person. He hasn’t seen you in years, yet he can’t find himself to say he expected the person to step out of the taxi to be someone drastically different. But you’ve changed since he last saw you, albeit it’s a more mature version of you who walks alongside him toward his family farm.

Seungkwan knows everything about you, for instance, as long as he asked you about family, close friends, past relationships, the summary of the last chapter you read: you would always answer, bluntly of course. In the past, he would often find himself wondering about whether or not you never made the effort to ask him any questions about himself because you were simply not interested or if you were afraid of your inevitable. He knows the amount of hair that collects on your drain every time you shampoo your hair. He knows you never order the same drink from a coffee shop twice. He knows the answer to every single question he has ever asked you to the point where he’s afraid that one day he would run out of questions to ask you. So when he received a message from you asking if you could work at his farm for the Summer in exchange for room and board, he knew both your lives are about to undergo a new form of change and momentum. Change or no change, he agreed to your request if and only if you would be willing to fulfill his additional term: you must help him get rid of his oranges.

What presents itself as the Summer getaway is a 3-acre piece of land that hosts a small orange grove behind the cream-colored family farmhouse and guest house-turned-seasonal café that Seungkwan is left in charge of for the Summer while his family vacations in the Maldives. Even sitting in the car with the windows down and turning onto the street in which the property sits wafts of honeyed and tangy citrus can energize those on a long journey away from the city. Beside the dirt road that leads towards the farmhouse are large patches of clover in place of grass and the beautiful array of flowers and bushes that are planted between dirt and clover. What is most magnificent, Seungkwan points out while walking up to the farmhouse where you would be staying for the rest of the Summer, is not the fact that his grandparents built this place from the ground up or the thousands of oranges they produce each year, but the fact that he drew the long end of the stick for you so you have the first floor study to yourself instead of having to share a room with the rest of his friends.

When his introductory gist is returned with silence, Seungkwan finds himself too embarrassed to see whether or not you’ve reacted in response. But if he took the time to look, he would’ve seen you looking around your surroundings in awe, wondering about how much of the landscape could change just by being thirty minutes away from the city.

“Let’s see,” Seungkwan mumbles while opens the front door and leads you to the interior of the house in an attempt to free himself from his embarrassment. “The study is the first door on the left down the left hallway. It’s a sofa bed, and I already set it up for you. Laundry room is one door down. I’m in my grandparents’ bedroom down the right hallway. There’s also a bathroom and a guest room on our side. Everybody else should be upstairs…if you think it’s awkward to have pictures of my family stare at you while you sleep, I won’t be offended if you turn them around.” He scratches his hair, still trying to figure out whether or not he conjured an air of awkwardness between the two of you.

He hovers behind you as you quietly make your way to your room, looking at you crane your head to look around the foreign farmhouse interior from the living room to the wooden beams that support the ceiling. It’s quiet between the two of you, as if you’ve both run out of topics to discuss after the brief moment the two of you trekked from taxi to house. He doesn’t know why he hesitates when you reach for the doorknob as if he were imagining you to be some interior design critic for a magazine. But his breath hitches for a second when you open the door and step into the modest office. Distracting himself from nothing, he looks at anything but you and settles for the tiny streaks of dirt your suitcase wheels brought indoors. And he wipes away the dirt with his foot, making a mental note to mop when he has time.

“Seungkwan?” Your voice calls for his attention not too long after you entered the office.

Seungkwan steps into the open doorframe, careful to not cross the threshold of the room in order to give you some privacy. He notices you’re sitting on the edge of the sofa bed, your suitcase temporarily tucked against the wall and underneath the light switch. There are pictures of his family on the shelves, most of them with him in large puffer jackets holding large oranges in his tiny hands. What is more is that he notices your hand which clutched the blanket in which you are sitting on loosen with his presence and leave a mountainous crease in its absence.

“Thank you,” you tell him.

The response sounds like a squeak which Seungkwan finds both amusing and reassuring. The fact is there is an air of awkwardness present, not from his creation but from the years the two of you spent apart, that causes you to squeak. Gratitude phrased simply, yet your simplicity is more than enough to let him know you’re feeling the same way he feels.

Truthfully, Seungkwan is still trying to fathom and process the fact that you are here with him. It hits him in this moment that maybe the you who sits in comfortable silence while staring out the window isn’t exactly the same you he once knew like the back of his hand. Finally taking time to look at his friend closely, Seungkwan still recognizes you in the same way that we recognize ourselves as ourselves even when all of our cells have exchanged themselves for new cells. He recognizes the way your hands clutch into balls with your thumbs placed between your pointer and middle finger when you fidget. He recognizes the backpack you brought as the same one you used in college. But he fails to recognize and understand why or how you have become the person to reach out to him for any reason. Why is it that he was chosen to be one of your protagonists in your journey in finding the meaning to your life? How is it that a nobody who dreams of a life unattached to the farm could possibly offer something of such value to someone who constantly lives life in fear of loss?

Truth is, there is always something about being next to you that always makes Boo Seungkwan want to cry. Pity doesn’t even begin to describe the feeling that wells and burns in his chest. Is it rage? Sadness? Regret? Empathetic and sympathetic as he is, he is prone to wearing his emotions before he can even realize what he is feeling. Being next to you causes his chest to concave and collapse in on itself, but he knows better than to feel bad for you. Or maybe he thinks it’s so fucked that you’re in a position in which you’re so desensitized to loss that you can’t even recognize in any moment that you lost what you loved. Always by your side, or at least until a few years ago, Seungkwan was there to reintroduce you to the things and concepts you’ve once loved because he cared and notices. Now, a savior isn’t who he’s trying to be nor was that role ever his intention. Maybe a constant without caution is what he strives to be in your life even if his own selfishness causes him to believe that in case you ever allow yourself to fall in love with him he would be able to disappear and thus never take on the responsibilities of a third-generation farm owner.

Yet a curse regarding loss upon a regular human being in love shouldn’t be the wake-up call that shows the world that loss is a daily occurrence. Loss is as banal and unremarkable as its spelling. And Seungkwan knows this. He’s lost torn snack foil wrapper corners from his pockets. He’s lost time during transit. He’s lost those who he once loved dearly. So why is someone else’s loss so much more important to him when he knows that love is involved?

And why is it that he chooses to show everybody unconditional love and care even when he knows transactional relationships would statistically yield more return?

Seungkwan isn’t a bad person. There isn’t a single bad bone in his body. He’s known you long enough to not tiptoe around you because, despite your curse, you’re just a regular person. And you would prefer it if other people treated you as a regular person. But why is it that he feels the way he feels whenever he’s alone with you?

Orange peel sliced away to form a hexagonal-shaped fruit, lean the fruit on its long side against the cutting board to slice thin hexagons. If what you hold in your hand is too dull, then you risk losing more than what there is to the recipe. Dullness slices the fruit just as sharpness does, but you risk bruising the delicate meat and creating soft pockets of mush while the juice escapes and drips onto the cutting board. There are times when it’s better to do things quickly and all at once or you will risk losing the beauty in your creation. Simple orange slices in a refreshing salad, sometimes it’s better to not try too hard. You did your best. And that’s enough for me.

Dropping the ATV off near the entrance to the orchard, Seungkwan jingles and twirls the keys in his left hand while directing to his seasonal workers where the crates should be stored for the night shipment to local grocers. Without noticing how hard he twirls the keys around his pointer finger, the small chain of keys flies off his finger and onto the ground a few feet ahead of him. It lands on a soft patch of dirt, light colored dust covering surfaces that gleamed with a metallic sheen just a few seconds ago. Someone picks up the pair of keys before Seungkwan has the change to chance to react and lightly tosses the keys back to its owner.

Yoon Jeonghan, with his jet-black hair he spent months growing out that finally touches his shoulders, takes long strides towards his friend while reaching into his pant pocket for his phone, a long stream of complaints already trailing out of his mouth.

“I looked everywhere for you,” Jeonghan complains to Seungkwan while Seungkwan finds himself rolling his eyes. “Why didn’t you pick up your phone? We’ve been calling and texting you, but you wouldn’t reply.”

“I left it somewhere. Can’t remember where I put it,” Seungkwan sighs while wiping the dust off his keys with the hem of his shirt. “When did you arrive?”

“Like half an hour ago.” Jeonghan adjusts his light blue baseball cap to better shield his eyes from the Sun. He clicks open his lock-screen to double-check the text he received from his driver. “Seokmin’s napping in our room. He’ll come out later.”

“Oh no, was the drive bad? When did you guys leave?”

“Nah, the drive wasn’t bad. He’s just hungover,” he replies nonchalantly while shoving his phone back into his pocket. The dark-haired man quickly looks around the familiar farm and rocks on the heels of his feet. “Busy, huh?” He observes.

“Yeah,” Seungkwan agrees. There is a glimmer of mischievousness in his eyes when he cocks his head toward the ATV he parked not so long ago. “But the new investments help.”

“Bro I can’t imagine how cool your grandparents must look while riding the ATVs.”

“5 miles an hour.” Seungkwan gestures the number five with his hand and drops it after. “Speed demons.”

It’s clear to Seungkwan that Jeonghan, who had spent a remarkable amount of time on this farm over the past few years, isn’t looking around to people-watch or check out the new additions to the farm. He’s been around long enough that Seungkwan’s grandparents consider him as one of their grandsons. No, Seungkwan knows that while Jeonghan is trying to play it off as if he’s simply checking out and reminisce in his surroundings, what he is looking for is not an it, rather, a who.

When Yoon Jeonghan, who is usually not the type of person to be silent or stay still for long periods of time, freezes in his spot like a deer in the headlights, Seungkwan knows better than to follow his friend’s line of vision to see who exactly it was who caught his eye. Instead, Seungkwan looks toward the blue canopy near the entrance and notices that two people are missing from their posts.

Out of nowhere, Seungkwan feels someone from behind him throw their entire weight onto his shoulders. The force of the sudden weight on top of Seungkwan knocks Seungkwan’s sunhat from his head forward and onto the ground and causes him to lose his balance, but he grabs onto the unwavering Jeonghan’s shoulder to steady himself.

“Seungkwan,” Yunling sings in a sing-song voice. Her bleached blonde hair falls and covers half of Seungkwan’s face as she reaches her arm over his shoulder to wave a familiar object in front of him. “You forgot your phone.”

“Get off me. It’s hot,” Seungkwan groans while bending his knees so she can safely hop off his back. She hands him his phone to which he thanks her for. In the meantime, another person picks the sunhat from the floor and tucks a thick booklet underneath their aim pit to brush the dust off the hat before handing it back to its owner. And Seungkwan finds himself, yet again, thanking another person for handing him an item he dropped.

Seungkwan sees you bring the accounting booklet to the front of your chest while Yunling leans her elbow on your shoulder. It looks like you’re about to say something to him, but someone interrupts your question.

“Yn.” Jeonghan manages to push through his state of shock, yet your name rolls off the tip of his tongue as if he spent his entire life dedicated to saying the name.

It feels familiar because it was.

Gladly handing his daughter over to his friend, Choi Seungcheol mumbles a quiet note of gratitude before he sits up straight and rolls his shoulder backwards to stretch his back. He leans forward in his seat and comfortably rests his elbows on his knees before grabbing the untouched fork next to his salmon salad. And Seungkwan watches him dig his fork into the roasted salmon and take a hearty bite to enjoy the marinated citrus flavor of the salmon by itself before raking the metal prongs through the meat to shred it to pieces just as Seungkwan’s grandparents had taught Seungcheol to do so before they went on vacation.

June is when Seungkwan’s friends all arrived at the farm for a Summer away from the city; January is when Seungcheol arrived at the farm, two people’s lives packed up in a couple of suitcases and cardboard boxes for time away from the city to heal and escape. The café, originally a guesthouse, returned to serve its original purpose by housing Seungcheol and his daughter for a little over half a year, and Seungkwan knows very well that he doesn’t have the heart to tell his friend that he should’ve moved out months ago. So he sits in the once sought-after spot in the café with a sleeping baby in his arms, watching the newly single father scarf down his salad like it’s his last meal. Looking at the infant, her dark-colored eyebrows and the pout that resembles her father’s all too well, stress stores itself in the pit of his stomach, finding company with the sympathetic grief he shared with the heartbroken Seungcheol who once couldn’t so much bring himself to pick up the pen to sign his divorce papers.

Falling in love is easy, but falling out of love and learning how to become whole again is a process that can shatter one’s soul and make one doubt whether or not love in any shape and form is an achievable future feat. A lifetime is not long enough to contain and overcome love’s defeat for some. And for those devastated by love, the process of falling in love would never be the same as it once was.

#svthub #seventeen imagines #svt imagines #seungkwan imagines #seventeen fluff #svt x reader #seventeen x reader #seventeen scenarios #seungkwan x reader #seungkwan x yn #seungkwan fluff #seungkwan angst #seventeen angst

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