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Hello Fellow Humans
@immadowhateva
Just a girl (she/her) 🏳️🌈🏳️🌈 27yrs still minding my own business. Reading about other people, pretending I’m cool! Also Ravenclaw, also Gemini, also a bit crazy. Peace out ✌️>
Hey everyone, I'll be the first to admit I'm not the most organized person, but I know how tricky it can be to find a specific story. So, here's a masterlist for my little universe of Leah Williamson x Brazilian!Reader fics.
I've written other things in the past, but for now, this is dedicated just to Leah.
Thank you so much for the love and for reading!
xoxo
Summary: After your mother leaves you, your father is forced to take you into work with him. Natasha quickly realises your use within her company.
Word count: ≈3000
Warnings: mentions of illegal weapons exchange, mafia
Reading time: ≈18 mins
Type: Oneshot
“Daddy, where are we going?” you ask, his hand tight around yours.
“You're gonna stay at my work today. Mommy's...too busy to look after you today,” he lies.
“Hmm...okay, daddy.” you reply happily, skipping along beside him with no care of the dark corridors, or the men in dark suits that kept walking past.
“Here, we're gonna double check with my boss if it's okay for you to stay, alright? She can be a little scary sometimes, okay?” he warns you, raising a fist to knock on the large dark oak door.
“Enter.” you hear a woman's voice from inside.
Your dad pushes the door open, the office room inside just as dark as the corridors. The office looked too big. Everything in it was tall. Tall windows. Tall shelves. A tall black desk that looked wider than your entire bedroom at home. Even the ceilings felt giant, disappearing high above your head where soft golden lights glowed warmly.
It smelled nice though. Like coffee and fancy perfume and something woodsy you couldn’t name. You stood just inside the doorway, your shoes sinking slightly into the soft dark carpet while your eyes wandered everywhere at once.
The windows were the first thing you noticed. They stretched from the floor all the way to the ceiling, showing the whole city below like tiny toy buildings. Cars crawled through the streets like ants, their headlights blinking in little lines far beneath you. Rain tapped softly against the glass.
Then the desk. It was shiny and dark, so clean it barely looked used. No piles of paper. No mess. Just a little lamp, a glass bottle with brown liquid inside, and one pen sitting perfectly straight like somebody measured it with a ruler.
Behind the desk sat Natasha. She looked small compared to the room somehow, even though everybody else always seemed smaller around her.
One leg crossed over the other. Red hair glowing softly beneath the lights. Black rings on her fingers tapping once against the arm of her chair while she listened to someone talking on the phone in Russian. You didn’t understand the words. Only the tone. Quiet. Calm. The kind of calm that made grown men nervous.
The shelves behind her were filled with books you couldn’t read and little statues and boxes with locks on them. One shelf had a chess board set up halfway through a game, pieces frozen in the middle like someone had walked away and never came back. The whole room was quiet except for rain and Natasha’s voice. No clocks ticking. No people talking outside. Nothing. It felt like the office was holding its breath.
Your dad's hand still held yours tightly, and as the woman puts the phone down, your dad pulls you further in. “Good morning, Ms Romanoff,” your dad greets, bowing his head slightly.
Natasha nods in return. “Morning.” She glances down at you. Her face doesn't change. “I see we have company.”
“Hi,” you reply shyly with a wave.
Natasha’s eyes linger on you for a second too long. Not annoyed. Not even surprised, really. Interested. Which is somehow worse.
Your father clears his throat nervously beside you, talking quietly, like he didn't want you to know. “I’m sorry, Ms Romanoff. My wife left this morning and I didn’t exactly have childcare arranged and—”
“She left?” Natasha interrupts calmly.
Your father visibly hesitates. “Temporary situation.” Even you know that’s not true. Natasha knows it too.
Her gaze flicks back to you. Tiny backpack. Velcro shoes slightly unbuckled. One sock folded lower than the other. You smile at her anyway, because adults liked smiles. Usually. “You brought your child to a mafia headquarters,” Natasha says flatly.
Your dad swallows. “Just for today.”
Silence.
Rain taps softly against the giant windows behind her while Natasha leans back slightly in her chair. The black rings on her fingers catch the warm office light as she studies you carefully. “What’s your name?” You tell her shyly.
Natasha nods once. “And how old are you?”You hold up five fingers proudly. “Hm.” Her expression doesn’t soften exactly, but something shifts faintly behind her eyes. “Can you read?”
Your father blinks. “What?”
“I asked the child.”
You puff your chest slightly. “A little bit.”
Natasha gestures toward the chessboard sitting on the shelf behind her. “Do you know what that is?”
“A game.”
“What kind of game?”
You think very seriously for a moment. “…the horsey one goes like this.” You wave your hand in a crooked L-shape through the air. A quiet sound escapes Natasha’s nose. Not quite a laugh.
Your father looks more confused by the second. Natasha stands then. Tall. Sharp black suit. Red hair spilling over one shoulder. The entire room somehow straightens with her, like even the furniture knows she’s important. You stare openly.
She walks around the desk slowly before crouching in front of you instead. Expensive perfume. Cold rings. Calm eyes. Scary, your dad said. But not really. “Do you know what your father does here?” she asks.
Your dad immediately panics. “Ms Romanoff—”
“He talks to angry people on the phone,” you answer proudly before he can stop you. “And he types really fast. And...and some other stuff.”
Natasha hums softly. Honest. Observant. Comfortable around dangerous environments already. Interesting. Very interesting. Her eyes flick upward toward your father. “You said your wife left today?”
“…yes.”
“And there’s no family?”
“No.”
“No nanny?”
“I can’t exactly hire one on this notice.”
Natasha goes quiet again. Then she looks back at you. You’re staring at one of the locked boxes on her bookshelf now, curiosity written all over your face. “Do you know why people like children?” Natasha asks suddenly.
You blink at her. “'Cause we’re little?”
A real laugh almost appears this time. “Partly.” Her fingers tap once against her knee. “People underestimate children. They ignore them. Stop noticing them after a while.”
Your father looks increasingly alarmed now. “Ms Romanoff…”
Natasha ignores him completely. “You know what that means?” she asks you. You shake your head. “It means children hear things.” Your father pales instantly. Natasha finally stands again smoothly before walking back toward her desk. “The child stays.”
Relief floods your father’s face immediately. “Thank you, Ms Romanoff, I swear she’ll stay quiet—”
“She won’t.” He stops. Natasha picks up the glass bottle from her desk, pouring amber liquid slowly into a crystal tumbler. “Quiet children are noticeable. People remember them.” Her eyes flick toward you over the rim of the glass. “Friendly children disappear into rooms.”
You beam proudly despite having no idea what that means. Your father, however, looks like he’s about to faint. “Ms Romanoff… respectfully… what exactly are you suggesting?”
Natasha finally smiles. Small. Dangerous. “Oh,” she says calmly, “I think your daughter is going to be very useful to me.”
“Mhm I can colour really goodly!” you announce happily.
“Thank you, Ms Romanoff, it won't happen again.”
“If the child is truly as useful to me as I think they will be...you can bring the child anytime.” She replies. “You may go.”
Your father looks moments away from cardiac arrest as you carefully pick up the knight between both hands. “Ms Romanoff, I really don’t think—”
“You think I’m going to recruit your child into organized crime?” Natasha asks dryly.
“…aren’t you?”
Natasha takes a slow sip of her drink instead of answering immediately. Honestly? Maybe.
Not now. Not directly. But children were useful. Invisible. People talked freely around them. Guards ignored them. Politicians smiled at them while accidentally saying too much. And this one? Observant.Comfortable. Unafraid. Natasha gestures toward the chair near her desk. “Sit.”
You climb into it immediately, legs dangling far above the floor while your father stands there awkwardly like he still isn’t sure if he should leave or call somebody.
Natasha opens one of her desk drawers, pulling out a thick folder before sliding it toward you. Inside are photographs. Buildings. Faces. Maps. You blink down at them curiously. Your father looks horrified. “Ms Romanoff—”
“Relax.” Natasha doesn’t even look at him. “The child can’t exactly decipher money laundering routes.”
“She can hear you.”
“And?”
You’re already pointing at one of the photographs. “That man looks mean.”
Natasha’s eyes flick toward the picture.
One of her business rivals. Interesting. “Why?”
“He got angry eyebrows.”
“…angry eyebrows,” Natasha repeats. You nod very seriously.
Natasha leans back slowly in her chair again, studying you in silence now while your father shifts nervously beside the door. Children noticed things adults trained themselves to ignore. Tone. Body language. Fear. Instinct. And instinct couldn’t really be taught.
“You will pick them up at six.”
“Yes, Ms Romanoff,” your dad replies after a minute, the door shutting behind him.
“Not like this man,” you tell her, pointing at another picture.
“How come?”
“He looks scary, and...his eyes, I think.”
Natasha’s fingers tap slowly against the crystal glass in her hand while you continue sorting through the photographs with complete seriousness. “That one looks sad,” you announce.
Natasha glances down at the picture. A senator currently under investigation for skimming money through shell charities. “He embezzled from children’s hospitals.”
You gasp softly. “That’s mean.”
“Yes,” Natasha agrees calmly. “Very.”
You point at another photo next. “This one’s pretending.”
That gets her attention. “Pretending what?”
“To be nice.” You squint harder at the picture. “His smile doesn’t match his eyes.”
Silence settles across the office for a moment. Natasha studies you carefully now. Not just amused anymore. Evaluating. Because adults lied with words. Children noticed the face underneath them. Interesting. Very interesting.
Your first “job” happens three weeks later. Nobody calls it that around you, of course.
Natasha simply crouches in front of you one afternoon while one of her men buttons your tiny coat wrong because his hands are too big. “I need your help today,” she says.
You brighten immediately. “Like colouring?”
“Not exactly.”
You tilt your head. Natasha smooths a strand of hair away from your face with surprising gentleness. “You’re going to get a little lost for me.”
“…on purpose?”
“On purpose.”
That sounds exciting. Your father looks significantly less excited standing near the office door. “Ms Romanoff, I really don’t think—”
“The child will be perfectly safe.” That somehow does not comfort him. Natasha ignores his concern entirely, focusing on you instead. “Do you remember what I told you?”
You nod proudly. “People don’t notice kids.”
“Good.” Her mouth twitches faintly. “And what do you do if somebody asks where your parents are?”
You recite carefully, “I can’t find my daddy.”
“Very good.” Your father looks physically ill now.
The rival mob’s restaurant smells like cigar smoke and expensive food. You stand outside for exactly thirty seconds before the nerves hit.
Because Natasha’s men aren’t beside you anymore. The building is huge. The men at the door look scary. And suddenly this doesn’t feel like a game. One of the guards notices you almost immediately. “…kid?”
Your bottom lip wobbles before you can stop it. “I can’t find my daddy,” you whisper. Oh. Oh, you’re really crying now.
Real tears spill down your cheeks fast enough that even you seem surprised by them. Your chest hurts suddenly. Everything feels too loud. Too big. The guards exchange awkward looks instantly. “Well shit,” one mutters.
“I lost him,” you hiccup.
The larger guard crouches awkwardly in front of you like he’s handling a bomb. “Hey, hey, it’s okay…” Which only makes you cry harder.
Inside, Natasha would’ve been impressed. Nothing sold a performance better than reality. Within minutes you’re sitting inside the restaurant wrapped in somebody’s oversized suit jacket while mobsters awkwardly attempt to calm you down with orange juice and breadsticks. It works a little. Mostly because you’re distracted. Adults really do ignore children after a while. Especially crying ones.
“Whens the shipment coming through?”
“It can't come through Jersey anymore. Customs flagged two containers last time.”
“Use the Canadian route. We paid six million for the hardware already.”
“Then transport them in charity trucks. Noone searches medical equipment.”
You sit swinging your legs beneath the chair quietly while eating free bread. Nobody lowers their voices around you anymore. Interesting.
One man even pats your head absentmindedly while arguing about weapons inventory. Another complains about “the redheaded psycho” watching ports.
You memorize everything because Natasha likes when you remember things. Eventually one of the older men sighs heavily. “We should probably take the kid somewhere.”
“Police?”
“No cops.”
“Foster services then.”
You sniff dramatically on cue. The older man softens immediately. “Hey, hey, kid… we’re helping you.” You nod miserably.
The foster center smells like crayons and disinfectant. You hate it instantly. Too bright. Too loud. Too many strangers.
A tired woman behind the desk kneels in front of you gently. “Do you know your phone number, sweetheart?” You shake your head. “Address?”Another shake.
Truthfully, Natasha told you not to answer too many questions. You curl tighter into the plastic chair instead, clutching the stuffed rabbit somebody gave you twenty minutes ago.
You wonder briefly if Natasha forgot you. Then the front doors open. Black coat. Red hair. Sharp eyes scanning the room once before landing on you. Natasha. Relief hits so hard your tiny body practically launches out of the chair.
“Mama!”
The entire room freezes. Natasha catches you effortlessly as you crash into her, one arm wrapping securely around your back. Her expensive coat smells like snow and perfume and safety now. “Oh, there you are,” she murmurs smoothly into your hair.
The social worker blinks rapidly. “You’re her mother?”
Natasha doesn’t hesitate once. “Guardian.”
Close enough. “She never gave us a name.”
Natasha sighs softly like she’s exhausted rather than running one of the largest criminal organizations in the city. “She wanders off when she’s upset.”
You hide your face dramatically against her shoulder. The social worker melts immediately. “Well, she’s been very brave.”
“I know.”
Natasha rubs a hand slowly up and down your back while signing paperwork with the other. Calm. Controlled. Perfect.
Nobody notices the subtle nod one of the workers near the door gives her. Nobody notices the black car waiting outside. Nobody notices this entire situation was orchestrated hours ago. Except you.
Back at Natasha's office, the world is quiet again. Calm. “Tell me everything.”
“They was talking about...Canadian.” you reply.
“Canada? What about it?” she asks.
“I think...about the ships.”
Natasha pauses for a second, thinking. “The shipping routes?”
You nod. “And...they paid six for the ware.”
“How many 'six'?”
“Lots of six. A bajillion six!”
Natasha stares at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, she smiles. Not the sharp, dangerous kind she gives everyone else. Something quieter. Almost proud. “A bajillion six,” she repeats thoughtfully, swirling the amber liquid in her glass. “Very expensive hardware.”
You nod seriously from where you sit curled sideways in the chair, still clutching the stuffed rabbit from the foster center. One of its ears droops sadly over your arm. “And charity trucks.”
Natasha’s eyes sharpen instantly. “What about them?”
“They said nobody checks them.”
The room goes still.
One of the men standing near the office door straightens subtly. Another glances toward Natasha, waiting. Your father looks like he might actually throw up.Because that’s it. That’s the shipment route they’d been trying to find for months. And you found it by crying over breadsticks.
Natasha leans back in her chair slowly, studying you with a look your father can’t quite decipher anymore. Not amusement now. Not curiosity. Calculation. “You remembered all that?” your father asks weakly.
You look confused. “I got good listening ears.”
Natasha snorts softly through her nose before setting her glass down. “Clearly.”
One of her men steps forward carefully. “Boss… if the shipment’s moving through medical trucks—”
“I know.” Natasha lifts a hand slightly, silencing him instantly. Her gaze never leaves you. “What else did they say?”
You think hard, swinging your legs beneath the chair. “One man smelled weird.”
“…helpful.”
“He had angry eyebrows too.”
Natasha’s mouth twitches faintly. “Did angry eyebrows have a name?”
You gasp suddenly. “Tony!”
The room stills again.
Your father blinks rapidly. “You remembered his name?”
“He yelled a lot.” you explain simply. “And he called you a psycho.”
A dangerous little smile appears on Natasha’s face now. “Did he?”
You nod enthusiastically. “But I thinked he was scared of you.”
That smile grows. Cold. Pleased. “Smart man.”
Your father rubs both hands down his face tiredly. “Ms Romanoff, with respect… this is insane.”
Natasha finally looks at him. “No,” she says calmly. “What’s insane is that your daughter walked into a rival operation, extracted information, and walked back out unharmed before dinner.”
“She’s five!”
“Yes.” Natasha’s eyes flick back toward you again. “Which is why nobody saw her coming.”
You smile proudly despite not fully understanding. Natasha gestures toward the untouched pastries sitting near the edge of her desk. “You hungry?”
You nod immediately. “Take whichever one you want.”
You scramble off the chair happily, immediately grabbing the chocolate-covered pastry twice the size of your hand. Natasha watches you carefully while you settle back into the chair with it. Crumbs instantly scatter across your coat. Your father looks horrified. “Don’t eat over Ms Romanoff’s desk—”
“It’s fine.”
“But—”
“It’s a desk,” Natasha says flatly. “Not sacred ground.”
You beam at her around a mouthful of pastry. Natasha reaches forward without thinking, brushing chocolate from the corner of your cheek with her thumb. The movement surprises everyone in the room. Including her.She pauses for half a second afterward. Then continues like nothing happened. “You did well today.”
Your entire face lights up instantly. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“Can I help again?”
Your father makes a strangled noise. Natasha ignores it entirely. “We’ll see.”
That answer alone is enough to make you kick your feet happily beneath the chair. Natasha watches the reaction quietly. Strange. She’s handled politicians, assassins, billionaires, entire criminal empires without blinking. Yet somehow one tiny grin from a child feels dangerously rewarding. One of the men near the door clears his throat carefully. “Boss… should we move on the Canadian shipment?”
Natasha’s gaze hardens instantly. Business again. Cold again. “No.”
The room stills. “No?”
“They think they’re invisible.” Natasha picks up her glass once more. “Let them keep thinking that.” Her eyes drift briefly toward you again. “For now.”
You yawn suddenly, nearly dropping the pastry in the process. It’s late. Your tiny body finally catching up to the exhausting day. Natasha notices immediately. “Tired?”
You shake your head automatically while actively falling asleep sitting upright. Natasha huffs the faintest laugh before standing. “Take the car downstairs,” she tells your father. “My driver will bring you home.”
“That really isn’t necessary—”
“It wasn’t a request.”
Your father immediately shuts up. Natasha walks around the desk then pauses beside your chair. For a second, your father genuinely thinks she’s about to hand you back politely and return to work. Instead, Natasha bends slightly and lifts you effortlessly into her arms.
You barely wake, instinctively curling against her shoulder with a sleepy hum. Pastry still clutched in one hand. The room goes silent. Because Natasha Romanoff does not carry things gently. Natasha Romanoff breaks things gently.
Yet here she is adjusting your tiny body carefully against her coat so your head doesn’t bump her shoulder. One hand supporting your back automatically. Your father stares. “Ms Romanoff…”
Natasha looks down at you once. Tiny. Warm. Trusting her completely already. Dangerous feeling. Then she glances back toward him. Calm. Certain. “Your daughter,” Natasha says quietly, “will be incredibly useful.”
summary: the pitt's resident grump trinity santos likes you more than she lets on.
warnings: grumpy x sunshine, slow burn, fluff, hurt/comfort, mentions of self harm and depression, possible medical inaccuracies, kissing, happy ending
word count: 6.9k
a/n: the talk of self harm is in the fourth section (the opening sentence starts with "ever since movie night" if you want to skip it, the story will still make sense without reading it!
You still remember the first day you met Trinity Santos. It was on the Fourth of July, so it was extra memorable.
When you came to PTMC, you were a third year med student. Despite your bubbly personality, you were so nervous. Your nerves settled, however, when you found out Joy Kwon, who you went to med school with, was on the same rotation as you.
"So what are your thoughts so far?" Joy mutters under her breath to you.
"I like it, everyone seems nice."
"Even Ogilvie?"
You shrug. "He's kind of annoying at times, but he's fine."
"Damn, there's really nothing that gets under your skin."
"Sure there is", you say as you prop your forearms on the counter of the nurses' station in front of you. "Aside from the obvious like abusers or bigots, people who talk over others, people don't have good hygiene, people who chew loudly or with their mouth open, people who don’t use turn signals, people who hate avocados—"
"Amen to that", someone cuts in. You look to your left and see a girl about your age enter the nurses' station. She sits at the desk opposite of the counter you're leaning against and looks up at you. "Add liars to that list too."
Somewhat in shock, you look down at her, expecting her to introduce herself. But she just looks at you confused.
"What?"
"Oh, sorry, we just haven't met before." You give the girl your name, and tell her that you're a third year med student and today's your first day.
"I figured. You have this sparkle in your eyes, and a smile that won't go away", she tells you, her tone sarcastic. "The longer you're here, the most depressing this place gets."
"Trust me, nothing's going to bring her down", Joy chimes in from beside you. "This is just who she is."
You look at Joy, an amused smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
"It's not at all, I'm just jealous of how happy you are all the time. You have this… constant chipperness."
"You mean my natural charm and beautiful smile?" You say, flashing your pearly whites.
The girl who still hasn't given you her names scoffs, so you look back to her to find her staring at you. "Are you really this sunny 24/7?"
"Are you really this grouchy 24/7?"
"Pretty much", she says with an exhausted sigh despite it not even being noon yet.
"You still haven't given me your name", you tell her.
She grabs her name tag that's dangling from her scrub top pocket, tugging it slightly forward to emphazie it. "I presume you know how to read."
You lean a little closer and read the name Trinity Santos. She's a doctor. You can't help but notice how cute she looks in her ID picture despite having a straight, grumpy face.
"Well, nice to meet you Dr. Trinity Santos."
"Likewise", Trinity replies, not looking up at you, instead sorting through paperwork.
You point to one of her tattoos that's showing, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. "I like your tattoo."
Trinity glances at you to see you pointing at her arm. She looks down, and then back up to you. "The tiger? Thanks."
For a brief second, you could've sworn you saw a hint of a smile trying to surface and replace the frown on her face.
"I've always loved tigers. They represent bravery and strength."
Trinity continues to stare at you, her expression unamused. "Yup."
You push off the counter. "Okay then... see you later Dr. Santos."
"Goodbye, sunshine."
As you turn around, a smile spreads across your face. You walk away, Joy at your side.
"Sunshine? Your first day and you've already gotten a nickname."
"I guess so." The faintest blush creeps up on your cheeks. "Sunshine", you affirm.
After a month of working in the Emergency Department of PTMC, you've fallen into a groove, and the once unfamiliar rhythm of the department now feels almost natural. While you wouldn't classify any of your coworkers as friend friends, you do have a handful of work friends.
Aside from Joy, you work well with Samira Mohan, and you see yourself in her in a lot of ways. Victoria Javadi is someone else who you consider a work friend. You even send each other TikToks off the clock. Mel King, a third year resident, is another person you've come to admire as not just a friend, but as a person.
Then there's Trinity Santos. You're sure she would not consider you guys friends — you're not even sure if you do — but she has opened up to you. Just a little bit.
Trinity seems to like working with you, even if she won't confess it or outright show it. You learned that she took in Dennis Whitaker because he didn't have a place to stay which warmed your heart. A week ago she told you about the situationship she's in with a hardass surgeon, Yolanda Garcia.
Based on what Trinity told you, it appears that she's falling for Garcia, more than she'd like to admit. However, the deal between them is strictly casual, and Garcia has made that evidently clear. Even though Trinity didn't ask for your advice, you gave it to her anyways. Speaking from personal experience, you advised her to get out now because it'll only hurt more down the line.
Yesterday, Trinity told you that she finally ended their arrangement. You asked her if there was anything she needs, but she said no. Trinity is hard to read at times, but you could tell she was hurting more than she let on. She's been in a worse mood than usual since she stopped seeing Garcia.
"Hey, Whitaker", you say as you jog up to his side, walking with him.
"Oh, hi."
"I have two Crumbl Cookies that I want to give to Santos, you can have one of them. I was wondering if you would be willing to give them to her? Sorry if that's weird, I know we don't really know each other very well, I actually don't even know Santos that well, but I just thought she'd appreciate it."
"That's so nice of you, of course."
"Great", you say with a smile.
"Can I ask why you don't give it to Trinity yourself?"
"I know I have this natural pep, and I don't want to annoy her." Your voice lowers, "Especially today after you know."
Confused, Whitaker looks at you. "Wait you know about her and Garcia?"
"Yeah, she told me. I thought most of you guys knew."
"As far as I'm aware, I'm the only person who she told besides you. I think some other people might know, but it's not because Trinity told them."
"Oh", you say, blinking a few times. "Um, well, I didn't tell anyone."
Whitaker shakes his head with a fond smile growing on his face. "No, it's okay, I'm just surprised she told you, that's all."
"At the end of our shift can I give the cookies to you?"
"Yeah, yeah, that works", Whitaker replies as he comes to a stop at the nurses' station. "Do you want me to tell her it's from you?"
"You don't have to. If you want, you can take the credit", you say with a small chuckle.
"Wow, thanks. I know she'll appreciate it, she definitely has a sweet tooth."
You nod, a smile still painted on your face. "You're welcome."
Then, you walk away to attend to one of your patients you picked up with Mel. It takes less than 10 minutes to follow up with him, all you had to do was go over blood test results, so now you're leaving to check on another patient.
As you open the curtain and take a step out, you ram into someone. "Sorry", you mumble. When you look up you see Trinity.
She inhales deeply before exhaling, her shoulders still tight. "It's okay." Trinity looks at you for a beat, and then continues the path she was on.
You hesitate for a moment before joining her, your steps in sync with hers. "Are you okay?"
"Why wouldn't I be?" Trinity replies fast and sharp.
"Sorry, just checking. I know ending something casual when you have feelings and the other person doesn't is hard." You take a breath before continuing your rambling. "And I know you're not me, but I've been through it, and it was hell. I had a crush on this girl long before we started hooking up, and I confessed my feelings a few months later, and she told me she still wants casual and doesn't think of me how I think of her. It was..." you huff out a laugh, "heartbreaking."
All of a sudden, Trinity comes to a stop, the two of you in front of pedes. You stop as well and turn your body to face hers. "Thanks", she mutters. She then rambles, the same pace as you just now. "I'm trying not to think about it, but yeah, it fucking hurts. I mean Garcia has seen so much of me that no one else has, and not only does she not want to be in a relationship, I don't think she cares about me at all. I've told her a lot of shit, I've shown her a lot of shit, and she just..." Trinity scoffs out an irritated sigh. "Doesn't care."
You nod, taking in everything Trinity just shared with you. "I'm sorry, you deserve better." You spot doubt and a little bit of insecurity in her eyes as she’s likely assuming you're just taking pity on her. "I mean it, Santos."
"Thank you", she tells you, a hint of vulnerability in her voice. Trinity crosses her arms and takes a steady breath, centering herself. "So, sunshine", Trinity starts, her tone now teasing, and her mouth twitching into a smirk, "you know what a lesbian situationship is like, huh?"
With a laugh, you shake your head. "Oh, trust me, I do."
Trinity laughs too, and you realize it's maybe the third or fourth time you've heard the sound of it since you've known her. For a few moments you just look at each other, awkward tension brewing in the air around you.
"Do you want to come over and watch a movie tomorrow with me and Huckleberry?" Trinity suddenly blurts.
Taken by surprise, your eyes widen, and you stare at her. Never in a million years did you think Trinity liked you, let alone enough to invite you to hang out outside of work.
"Sorry, you don't have to", Trinity begins, shoving her hands in her pockets. "Just forget—"
"Yeah, I'd love to you." You smile warmly, hoping to reassure her.
"Oh, okay, cool. I have your number from the work group chat, so I'll shoot you a text about it later. Huckleberry is playing house farmer's boy edition tonight, so it would just be us if we did it today."
You nod, unsure if Trinity is mentioning that because she wants Whitaker there for the hangout, she wants it to be just the two of you and she's giving you an in, or simply to explain why she picked tomorrow. If Trinity wanted to hang out with only you, she would've asked you to come over today… right?
"Anyways, I'm gonna go", Trinity says, her hands raising to grip the ends of the stethoscope around her neck. "See ya, sunshine."
"Bye", you murmur, still in shock.
Hm, maybe Trinity Santos liked you more than you thought.
You had just finished changing out of your scrubs, now dressed in a pair of grey sweatpants and a tank top. You sling your bag over your shoulder and lean against your locker, waiting for Trinity and Dennis.
A couple minutes go by, and they enter the locker room. Your eyes are glued to your phone.
"Yo", Trinity calls out.
You look up and see the two of them. You greet them with a smile and slide your phone into one of the side pockets of your sweatpants.
"Are you meeting us at our place?" Dennis asks you.
"Yeah."
"Cool. Do you have our address?"
"Yes", Trinity cuts in, her voice dramatic and sarcastic. "I obviously sent it to her."
"Obviously", you hear Dennis mumble mockingly which makes you press your lips together in an attempt to hold back a laugh, although, a smile still surfaces.
"We'll walk you to your car", Trinity tells you as she grabs her stuff out of her locker.
You lead the way, Trinity on your right, and Dennis on hers. No one is talking, and the quietness is kind of awkward.
"So a movie is your idea of a good Friday night, huh?" You ask Trinity, breaking the silence with a teasing smirk.
"Sunshine, don’t think I'm boring. I go out. I bar hop. I club."
"I go out like that on occasion, but it's not really my scene."
Trinity nudges your shoulder with hers. "That's because you haven't gone with me."
You look down at the ground and smile before looking back up and speaking. "Who do you usually go with?"
"I've dragged Dennis along a few times, once with Crash, but I usually go with a couple of my friends. Ever since I started med school, we've drifted apart and now with me working as a doctor, we have even less time for each other. When we go out, that's when we catch up. In between drinks and dancing." Trinity says that last sentence with a bitterness in her voice.
"I'm her only friend", Whitaker chimes in, his tone laced with humor.
"Shut the fuck up", Trinity says through a chuckle. "They're still my friends, they just don't know that much about me anymore."
"But Whitaker does", you say somewhat as a question, but more so as a confirmation.
"Dennis", he tells you, "but yes."
Trinity scoffs, and you catch a small smile on her face. Her smile makes you smile.
You point ahead at the car two spaces away from where you guys are currently at. "This is my car."
"It's blue", Trinity points out.
"Yes, it is. You're very observant", you joke.
Trinity rolls her eyes playfully. "Uh, huh."
Her and Dennis come to a stop behind your car as you walk over to the driver's side. You pull out your keys and unlock it.
"Thanks for walking me", you tell them.
"Of course", Trinity and Dennis say at the same time. They then turn to each other, something like disgust and offendedness on their faces. You giggle, finding it cute.
You open the driver's side door. "Okay, I'll see you again in like 15 minutes." You give a quick wave, and then get into your car.
After you set your bag on the passenger seat, you program Trinity and Dennis's address into your GPS. On the drive over you listen to a soft rock playlist.
You're waiting outside the apartment complex for Trinity and Dennis to come and show you to their apartment. You're only waiting for a minute before they come.
The walk over to their unit is filled with sibling-like bickery between Trinity and Dennis. Something about Trinity leaving her laundry in the dryer, and Dennis eating all the Lucky Charms. A chuckle escapes you every now and then upon hearing some of their comments and complaints.
Once you reach their apartment, Trinity unlocks it and steps inside. The duo gives you a mini tour, pointing out the kitchen, living room, and bathroom. They tell you to make yourself at home while they change.
Dennis comes back from his room not even two minutes later. He's wearing sweatpants like you along with a blue t-shirt that has a vintage style print of a state, you think it's Nebraska. You're on the couch, and he joins you, sitting on the opposite end.
"Do you want something to eat?"
Truth be told, you are hungry, but you don't want to impose. Instead, you just shrug. "Eh, I'm okay."
Dennis examines your expression for a few seconds before standing up. "We have some leftover lasagna I'm gonna heat up. I made it a couple days ago. Can I get you a plate?"
"Yeah, that would be good, thank you."
He nods and heads to the kitchen. You watch from the couch as he scoops servings for you and him. He also grabs a third plate, you assume for Trinity.
After Dennis heats it up, he brings you your plate and sets his own on the coffee table. He then goes back into the kitchen to grab the third plate. On his way back over to the living room, Trinity comes out.
"So what movie are we going to watch?"
You turn to her. Trinity's now wearing a pair of baggy boxers and a white tank top. You don't even realize how intense you're staring, but then Trinity makes eye contact with you. Immediately, you look away.
"I'm okay with anything", you say.
As Trinity and Dennis's paths cross, he hands her the plate of lasagna that’s in his hand. "What about Happy Gilmore? It's a lighthearted film", Dennis suggests.
"God, you have such bad taste. I forgot how much I still need to teach you", Trinity says with a small chuckle as she sits on the sofa. Dennis sits in the same corner he was previously at.
"Hey, I teach you things too. You really love my farmer's casserole."
"Don't flatter yourself, I like any casserole."
As the two settle in, you take a bite of the lasagna. "This is pretty good", you say after you finish chewing. "I didn't realize you cooked."
Dennis chuckles, almost embarrassed. "I don't really. Just a few family recipes."
"And they're all bomb as fuck", Trinity compliments even thought she just made a jab about Dennis's home cooked meals a second ago.
You notice how she's sitting, her back against the cushion, and her legs spread. Dennis leans against the arm of the couch and stretches his legs onto her lap.
"But seriously, what are we going to watch?" Trinity asks again.
"A musical?" Dennis answers, providing another suggestion.
"Aww, musicals are so cute", you say.
"Trinity loves them."
"Shut up, dumbass", Trinity tells Dennis, lightly smacking one of his ankles.
Dennis looks at you and lowers his voice despite Trinity being in the middle of you two. "She's embarrassed."
"This is shocking news", you giggle. "I would've never guessed."
"And that's why she's embarrassed."
"Fucking close your mouth", Trinity mutters, although there’s no real bite behind it.
You raise your eyebrows at Trinity, a grin still plastered across your face. "What's your favorite musical?"
She looks away from you and glances down at the plate in her hands, scooping a bite of food. "Hades Town", Trinity admits in a quiet grumble.
"I saw that on Broadway when I was 21."
You can see Trinity's face light up. She finishes her bite before responding to you. "Lucky."
"It was really good."
"How about Grease?" Dennis suddenly cuts in.
"Oh, I love Grease", you beam.
"Okay, yeah, let's do Grease", Trinity says.
But neither Trinity or Dennis move except to eat. After 10 seconds, Trinity turns to Dennis, an annoyed look on her face.
"What?" Dennis asks her, sass in his voice.
"Aren't you going to start the movie?"
He rolls his eyes and sets his plate down on the coffee table. He grabs the remote, finds the movie, and then starts it. Then he puts the remote on the coffee table and swaps it out for his plate.
You're enjoying watching a movie with them. Occasionally you'll glance over at Trinity and see her mouthing the lyrics, probably completely unaware that she's doing that. She'll make some witty comment every so often, and surprisingly Dennis even does once or twice.
Right after There Are Worse Things I Could Do, a song you learned is one of Trinity's favorites from Grease, Dennis gets a phone call. He excuses himself and goes to the kitchen. Trinity pauses the movie for him.
When he returns, he collects the dishes from the coffee table as he updates you and Trinity. "Amy's baby has a fever. His temp is barely 100°, but I'm going to go check to ease her mind and help out." He seems to be done talking, but then you see a flicker of realization cross his face. "Oh, Amy is this woman I help out. She lives on a farm", Dennis informs you.
"Cool."
"Damn, Huckleberry, that woman has got you whipped."
"Shut up", he says, annoyance in his voice but not any anger. "You better be nice while I'm gone." Dennis eyes Trinity, and then you, and then Trinity once more.
You've never seen this side of him before. It’s… entertaining. The two of them together are endearing.
"I'm always nice", Trinity shouts as Dennis puts the dishes in the sink. "Just not with people who always eat my avocados!"
Dennis slides on his shoes and side eyes his roommate from the entryway, waving her off before leaving. After you hear the door shut, you look to Trinity, holding back a laugh.
"That was…"
"Annoying? Yeah, sorry. He can be a real fuckleberry sometimes."
"It was kind of cute."
Trinity's eyes snap to yours. "What do you mean cute?"
"Just, you know, seeing how you interact with one another, your relationship."
She crosses her arms, almost offended. "There's nothing cute about it."
"I beg to differ", you say in a sing song voice.
"How is us annoying each other cute? I hate living with him sometimes", Trinity tells you, slumping against the couch. You can see right through the wall of feigned toughness she’s trying to put up.
"Sometimes?" you tease.
"Whatever", Trinity replies, shrugging you off.
You laugh softly, and you see a small smile spread on Trinity’s face. Her eyes meet yours, and you hold each other’s gazes for a few seconds. Trinity looks away first.
"Thanks for the cookies."
"Cookies?" You look at Trinity, confusion written on your face before it clicks. "Oh, right. Dennis told you they were from me?"
"Yeah, was he not supposed to? Why would you not want the credit?"
"All I cared about was getting you the cookies, and I didn't want to overwhelm you or annoy you or anything."
"Oh. Um, well, thank you. That was nice."
"You're welcome."
"And you wouldn't have annoyed me."
"Oh", you say in surprise.
You're about to make a joke or sarcastic comment back like "could've fooled me" or "that's a plot twist", but you can hear the sincerity of her tone. You just nod, not really sure what to say, but luckily for you, Trinity talks instead.
"Ready to start the movie again?"
Your eyes linger on Trinity a longer than necessary before you turn your attention back to the TV. "Go ahead."
Ever since movie night at Trinity and Dennis's apartment, Trinity has been talking to you much more than before. You love to annoy her with your liveliness and smiles. You think she secretly loves it too.
Most people just assume you're cheerful all the time, but what they don't know is that you've battled your own demons. As a teenager, you developed depression which carried into adulthood. You've since seen a psychiatrist and now go to therapy, so it's much better managed.
But that's why you try to appreciate the little things, look on the bright side, and raise people's spirits — especially being in this line of work. Because you know what it's like to have dark days and feel like life isn't worth living. And so, your shine can never be dimmed.
"Did you hear about the patient that pissed on Whitaker earlier?" Joy asks you.
"Yeah, poor guy", you say with a pout.
"You have to admit it's a little funny."
"Maybe, but would you be laughing if it happened to you?"
"Yes", Joy replies instantly without even thinking about it. "Maybe not in the moment, but yes, it's funny."
You chuckle and shake your head. "It is kind of funny", you admit. Before you can say anything else, another voice pops in.
"Can I talk to you for a second?" You turn around and see Whitaker.
"Yes." You look back to Joy. She has a questioning look on her face, and you mouth "I don't know" before turning back to Whitaker. You walk with him around the corner. "What's up?"
"Just, uh..." Dennis shifts his weight nervously. He hesitates for a moment like he's not sure if he should be asking you this. "Has Trinity said anything to you today? Anything that might raise any red flags?"
"What? No. What do you mean by that? Is she okay?"
"She seems kind of down, but she won't talk to me. I know that she found out last night that Garcia is seeing someone else, so it might be about that. I don't want Trinity to do anything... self destructive."
You nod, taking in this information. "I've only spoken to her a couple times so far today, and it was all case related besides me telling her a little bit about a show I just started. She seemed a little off, but I didn't want to push her."
"That sounds about right. I'm surprised she wasn't short with you at all."
"Do you want me to talk to her?"
"Eh, it's really up to you. I don't think you'll get anywhere, but you never know."
"I'll catch her at some point."
"Thanks, I appreciate it."
With a comforting smile, you give Dennis a nod. Then, the two of you go back to work. You head to the nurses' station, and look up at the board. But out of the corner of your eye, you see Trinity.
You look to her, her back turned to you. She's in front of a suture cart. You take a grounding breath before walking over to her.
But before you get there, you see Trinity tuck a scalpel into her pocket. You watch as she walks away, never noticing you. In your gut you have a bad feeling, so you follow her.
Trinity enters the bathroom, and you pause outside of the door, unsure if you should follow her in. But something is telling you to go after her.
When you come in, Trinity's not in view. You bend over slightly and see only one pair of shoes, ones you instantly recognize as Trinity's. Cautiously, you walk over to where she is, the second to last stall.
You stand outside of her stall in thought. On one hand, Trinity might need space, something you know she needs more than the average person. However, on the other hand, you know Trinity isn’t good at accepting help.
So you decide to help her.
"Trin?"
Silence.
"Trinity?"
"What?"
"Can I come in?"
"No", she scoffs.
You bend down, getting on all fours and crawl under the stall door. Once you’re all the way in, you sit on tile, your back against the door. Trinity’s sitting on the toilet.
"What the fuck", Trinity mutters under her breath. You see her tuck something behind her. "I could've been peeing."
"I knew you weren't, and you wouldn’t open the door", you say as you bend your knees and rest your forearms on them.
She glances down at her feet. "Because I didn’t want you in here."
"I know."
You sit there in silence for about 20 seconds, not wanting to pressure Trinity, but letting her know you’re here.
"Why are you even here?" Trinity asks, finally meeting your gaze.
"Because I want to make sure you’re okay."
"I am, I just…" she draws in a shaky breath, "I'm fine, just tired."
"Trinity."
She holds your stare, your eyes locked like it’s a contest. She’s the one who loses. "Really, I'm fine, I just needed a little break", Trinity tells you, rolling her eyes.
"Hey", you start, your voice softer. "What did you hide from me when I came in?"
"You mean when you broke in."
"When I crawled in technically."
A small chuckle escapes both of you, and then silence sets in again. The air feels still and heavy.
"Trin."
With a sigh, she grabs what she tucked away. "It’s just this", Trinity tells you, holding the scalpel up, but not saying the actual name of the object. "For a patient I was going to go to."
"What patient was that scalpel for?"
"Um… oh, there's a kid with an abscesses."
"What room?"
"I don't remember exactly, south 17?"
"South 17 is my patient."
"South 16 then. I told you, I don't remember."
"Can I have it?" You extend your hand out to her.
"Why?" Trinity asks, her voice trembling just slightly.
"Because…" you pause, trying to figure out the most delicate way of saying this. "Now I’m not sure if you were going to, but I don’t want you to hurt yourself."
Trinity’s eyes flash to yours for a second before looking back down at her shoes. Hesitantly and without looking at you, she hands you the packaged scalpel. You tuck it in your pocket, and then gently touch one of her knees.
"I'm just going to stay with you if that's okay."
She looks up to you, her eyes glossy, and then nods and looks back down. "Fine", she whispers.
You rub circles around her knee, your touch light and careful. The two of you sit like that for at least two minutes before she breaks the silence.
"How did you know?" Trinity asks, her voice small and her eyes filled with hurt and something else you can’t quite place.
Slowly, you stand up. You then grab the waistband of your pants and tug them down.
"What are you—"
"Just look", you sternly tell her.
When your pants are just above your knees, you leave them there and put your attention back onto Trinity. She’s looking at you, confusion sketched all over her face. As she looks down and examines you, she lets out a small chuckle.
You follow her gaze and realize Trinity is looking at your hip tattoo of a star that's peeking out of your underwear.
"Nice tattoo, but I don't get why you're showing me this."
"Not that."
Trinity glances up at your face again before looking back to your legs. She leans in closer, and that’s when she sees it.
Lines of faint yet small rough bumps that make up a cluster of scars on your upper thighs. Trinity's eyes widen slightly as she takes in the marks on your skin. You hear her suck in some air, almost like a gasp. After a few moments, you pull your scrub bottoms back up.
"That's why."
"I'm sorry", Trinity says, her voice barely above a whisper.
Trinity stands, her pants pulled down but her underwear still on. When she was sitting on the toilet before, she was leaning forward and you couldn’t see her thighs very well. But now you can, and you see scars just like yours.
Trinity waits just long enough so you can get a quick look before pulling her pants back up. "I haven’t, um..." Trinity swallows, almost like she's getting rid of a lump in her throat before continuing, "I haven’t in little over a month."
"That’s good", you tell her with a soft smile. "I know you may not want to, but you can always call me, okay?" You pause for a second. "So… can I ask what drove you to do this today? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, Trin."
She crosses her arms and takes a deep breath. "Fucking Garcia."
"Garcia?"
"I know, it’s so stupid. I just found out she started fucking someone else, and it shouldn’t hurt me, but it does. Also, Whitaker has been spending so much more time at the farm, he’s barely home, and I just… I just have nobody."
"You have me", you reply immediately. "And Whitaker is there for you more than you know."
Trinity looks at you, for once with all her walls down, and nods. "Okay."
"I mean it. You're important Trinity. To patients, to the staff here, to Whitaker, to your friends, and to me."
Her breath catches in her throat for a moment.
"You don't have to if you don't want to, but I think it would be a good idea to talk to Whitaker. He's worried about you."
A half scoff, half laugh escapes Trinity, a small smile forming on her face. "He's so annoying", Trinity complains affectionately.
"Because he cares about you", you reply with a chuckle.
"Yeah, I know." Trinity's voice is soft — gentle even.
"Are you ready to get back to work or do you need more time?"
"I think I'm good."
"Are you sure? I can cover for you."
"No, no, really, I mean it."
You can see the genuineness in Trinity's eyes, her features seemingly lighter than when you first saw her. You give her a small, tender smile. "Okay." You turn around and unlock the stall door before turning back to Trinity. "After you."
It's been a little over a month since that day in the bathroom which Trinity. She ended up calling you once at midnight when you were about to go to bed. Instead, you came right over to her place, and brought some of her favorite late night snacks.
Since then, Trinity's been doing better. She doesn't just say that she is — you can see a difference in her. While Trinity is still crabby at times, you've noticed that she smiles and laughs more. Last week Dennis even brought that up to you.
You were laughing at a joke Trinity told, Whitaker and Javadi with you too. Trinity walked away to check on a patient, and that's when Whitaker turned to you.
"You know, she smiles more when she's around you."
"What?"
"It's true", Victoria chimes in.
You look between them, a smile still on your face, but now you have a puzzled look as well. "Trinity? Maybe I'm just naturally adorable."
Dennis lets out a little laugh, more so to himself. "You nailed it in one."
Skeptically, you raise your brows. "What does that mean?"
Victoria and Dennis exchange a look and chuckle. "Think about it", Victoria tells you before walking away.
"You'll figure it out", Dennis adds, a smirk on his face.
You stand there confused as ever for a few moments. Were they implying that Trinity thinks you're cute?
For the last week that's been on your mind. However, yesterday after work you went to pick up food and ran into your ex. So now you can't shake that interaction.
Your ex-girlfriend you ran into, when you were tragically looking exhausted and wearing smelly scrubs, had cheated on you. It happened almost two years ago, and you haven't dated anyone since her. Her actions really screwed you up, so you've guarded your heart since.
It would be one thing to just see her, but she was with someone else. To see that unexpectedly and after a long shift really hurt. So far today you've been distracted, your mind dwelling on the past.
You and Joy are near the nurses' station, presenting a case to Robby. Joy has just finished debriefing him on a diabetic patient the two of you are treating.
"Labs?"
"Ordered", Joy replies to Robby.
"What did you include?"
"Glucose levels, CBC, and CMP."
Robby says your name, pulling you out of your thoughts. "Hm?"
"Anything else to add?"
"Oh, uh, nope. Joy's got it covered."
"You're talking a lot less than usual", Robby says with a small snicker.
You shrug and force a smile. "I've just had a long week."
Robby nods and decides not to press further. "What about an EKG?"
"Yup." Joy turns to you, expecting you to confirm.
"Oh, hm? I thought you ordered that", you tell Joy.
"No, I did the labs."
"Someone better order it", Robby says.
"Fuck", you mutter under your breath, anger in your voice. "I got it."
You don't mean to leave as dramatically as you do, but you storm away. As quick as you can, you order an EKG, feeling stupid for not having already done it. When you're finished, you head to the break room, in need of a short rest, even if it's just for a minute or two.
As you enter, you notice that no one else is in here. From the fridge you grab a bottled Starbucks frappuccino that Trinity gave you this morning before walking over to the table and sitting down, slumping in a chair and covering your face with your hands. "Fuck", you curse to yourself.
The sound of the door opening makes you sit up straighter and remove your hands from your face. You see Trinity, her expression that meep face you've always found cute. She walks over to you, almost hesitant.
"You... okay?"
"Yeah, fine", you reply instantly, your voice flat.
Trinity nods and takes a seat in the chair across from you. "Are you sure? That wasn't like you back there with Robby and Joy."
You scoff, completely aware that Trinity was even in the vicinity of you in that moment. You take a sip of coffee before replying. "I know I fucked up, you don't have to remind me."
"All you did was forget to put in an order for an EKG. It's barely a mistake", Trinity tells you, attempting to reassure you.
"I still forgot. I never forget." You sigh and rest an elbow on the table, putting your face in your hand.
"What's up with you?"
"Nothing", you bite out.
"Damn, you're starting to sound like me."
A hollow laugh leaves you and cuts through the air. "Am I not allowed to just be for a minute?"
Trinity's silent for a few seconds, not really sure what to say. Guilt creeps up on you in the suffocating quiet. With a sigh, you look at her.
"Sorry", you tell Trinity, your voice barely loud enough for her to hear.
"So are you going to tell me why you're acting like your grandma died?" Immediately, Trinity cringes. "Shit, that was a bad joke, we're in an emergency room for fuck's sake. Did someone actually die? Shit, I'm sorry."
Your lips curve upwards, just a tad. You know Trinity was just trying to make a funny comment, likely to make you smile, but her backtracking on her words is what really gets you.
"No one died", you say, your tone softer and a little lighter.
"Oh, okay, good."
You draw in a shaky breath and clasp your hands together, fidgeting with your fingers. "I ran into an ex yesterday. She cheated on me, and it ended really badly, and it was just a terrible time in my life."
"Shit. I'm sorry, Sunshine."
Hearing the nickname Trinity gave you makes your mouth quirk up into a small smile. You don't even realize that you're even blushing a little bit.
"Hey, there's my Sunshine", Trinity tells you, a smile of her own crossing her face.
You chuckle and meet her gaze. There's something soft in her expression, something you've seen a few times before but haven't been able to pinpoint what it is. Affection? Nervousness? Care? Shyness? Love?
"C'mon." Trinity stands up and extends a hand to you. You look up to her and take it, a sly smirk on your face.
You're surprised by how Trinity actually yanks you up. She pulls you with such strength that once you're standing, you stumble closer to her. You look at Trinity, her hand still on yours.
Whatever you see in Trinity's eyes deepens, and suddenly she's pressing her lips against yours. You're taken by surprise, your body going still for a brief second, but after the initial shock, you kiss her back.
Trinity tastes like cherry chapstick, and her lips are soft and tender. You close your eyes, your mind now going blank.
But Trinity pulls back and drops your hand. You feel her body tense as she does so until there's no more contact.
Your brows pull together, trying to figure out what Trinity's thinking right now. You can see a measure of anxiety scrawled all over her expression. Trinity looks away and fidgets with the hem of her top.
"I'm so fucking sorry. Just—"
Before she can finish, your hands find her cheeks. You look at her for a few seconds, communicating more than you ever could with words with your eyes. Then, you lean in and kiss her.
The kiss starts off soft and slow, like how it was when Trinity first pulled you in. However, this time, it deepens. You feel Trinity's arms wrap around your waist, bringing you closer to her body. Your hands leave her face and trail to the back of her neck, pushing her face further to yours.
After 20 seconds or so, you break the kiss. You kiss Trinity's cheek before resting your forehead on hers. Trinity stares deep into your eyes, taking in every detail of you. She then leans forward, her lips barely brushing yours.
When Trinity pulls back, your arms are still around her neck and her hands are on your hips. You're so smiling and so is she.
"You should smile more", you tease.
"But I love to frown", Trinity replies with a playful pout.
You chuckle softly. "And it's just as cute."
Trinity gives your lips a quick peck before giving your jaw a few kisses, moving up to your ear. "I'll smile as long as you're around, Sunshine."
Summary - Jay tries to sort her fears about Alexia leaving.
Word count - 8.8k
Jay sat on Clara's couch, which was not actually a therapist's couch in the stereotypical sense but rather a very comfortable grey sofa with approximately eight thousand throw pillows that Clara seemed to collect like some people collected stamps or coins.
Jay had pushed most of the pillows to one end, creating a small mountain of decorative cushions, and was now curled up in the corner with her legs tucked under her, picking at a loose thread on her jeans with the kind of focused intensity that suggested she was avoiding something.
Clara sat across from her in her usual chair, a leather armchair that had probably cost more than Jay's first car, her notebook balanced on her knee, her pen poised but not writing because she had learned years ago that writing while Jay was talking made Jay self conscious and less likely to share.
The office was exactly what a therapist's office should be: calm, neutral, safe. Soft lighting from lamps rather than harsh overhead fluorescents. Bookshelves filled with actual books, not just decorative ones. A small water feature in the corner that made gentle trickling sounds. Plants everywhere, thriving under Clara's care in a way that made Jay slightly jealous because she killed every plant she had ever owned.
The whole space felt separate from the real world, insulated, like a bubble where normal rules did not apply and Jay could say things she would not say anywhere else.
"So," Clara said gently, her voice warm and non judgmental in that particular therapist way she had perfected over decades of practice. "We've been dancing around something for the last twenty minutes. You keep mentioning Alexia and then changing the subject. What's going on? What's on your mind?"
Jay pulled harder at the loose thread, watching it unravel slightly, creating a small gap in the seam of her jeans.
"It's stupid," she said quietly.
"If it's bothering you, it's not stupid," Clara replied, which was something she said often, a standard therapist response, but she said it with enough genuine warmth that it never felt rote or automatic.
Jay was quiet for a long moment, still picking at the thread, her jaw working slightly like she was chewing on words, trying to figure out how to arrange them into something that made sense.
Clara waited patiently. She was extremely good at waiting. It was possibly her most valuable skill as a therapist, this ability to sit in silence without making it awkward, without rushing to fill the space with meaningless words.
"What if she leaves me?" Jay said finally, her voice very small, very young, the words coming out barely above a whisper.
Clara's expression did not change, did not show surprise or concern or judgment, just gentle attention.
"What if who leaves you?" she asked, even though she obviously knew, even though there was only one person Jay would be talking about.
"Alexia," Jay said, the name coming out rough, painful, like it hurt to say in this context. "What if she wakes up one day and realises she can do better? That she deserves someone who's not a mess? Someone who doesn't have ADHD and attachment issues and a history of self destructive behaviour? Someone who's not me?"
"Has Alexia given you any indication that she's thinking about leaving?" Clara asked carefully.
"No," Jay admitted immediately. "She's perfect. She's so patient with me. She's never made me feel like I'm too much or not enough or anything except exactly what she wants. She tells me she loves me every day. Multiple times a day. She's amazing."
"But you're still worried," Clara observed.
"I'm terrified," Jay corrected, the words tumbling out faster now, like a dam breaking. "I'm completely terrified because I've never had this before. I've never had someone who loves me like this. Who knows all my broken pieces and loves me anyway. Who doesn't try to fix me or change me or make me into someone else. Who just... loves me. As I am. And I don't know how to trust that it's real. That it's permanent. That it won't disappear."
She was talking with her hands now, gesturing wildly, her voice getting louder and more animated as she worked through the thoughts she had clearly been holding inside for too long.
"Every day I wake up and think 'today might be the day she realises.' Every time she's quiet I think 'this is it, she's figuring out how to tell me.' Every time we have a disagreement, even a tiny one, I panic and think 'this is the beginning of the end.' And I know it's irrational. I KNOW it is. She gives me no reason to think any of this. But my brain just won't stop. It just keeps catastrophising. It keeps showing me scenarios where she leaves and I'm alone again and I don't know how to survive that because she's become my whole world and I know that's not healthy, I know I should be more independent, but I can't help it. I love her so much it actually scares me."
Jay stopped abruptly, breathing hard, like she had just run a sprint, her eyes wide and slightly wild.
Clara let the silence sit for a moment, giving Jay space to catch her breath, to settle.
"That's a lot of fear to carry around," she said gently. "Every day. That must be exhausting."
"It is," Jay admitted, slumping back into the couch cushions, the fight going out of her. "I'm so tired. I'm tired of being scared. I'm tired of waiting for the other shoe to drop. I just want to enjoy what I have without constantly being terrified of losing it."
"What would help?" Clara asked. "What would make you feel more secure? More in control of this fear?"
Jay thought about this for a long moment, her brow furrowed.
"I don't know," she said finally. "I can't control whether she stays or leaves. That's her choice. I can just be myself and hope that's enough."
"That's very true," Clara agreed. "You can't control Alexia's choices. But you can control how you respond to your fear. You can control what you do with these anxious thoughts."
"Like what?" Jay asked, genuinely curious.
Clara considered this, tapping her pen against her notebook thoughtfully.
"Well," she said slowly, "sometimes when we're dealing with catastrophic thinking, with worst case scenarios that our brain keeps showing us, it can actually help to engage with them directly rather than trying to push them away. To look at the fear head on and ask: if this worst case scenario happened, what would I do? How would I survive? Having a plan, even for something we hope never happens, can sometimes make the fear less overwhelming because it takes away the sense of helplessness."
Jay sat up straighter, her attention fully focused now.
"Like a contingency plan?" she asked.
"In a way, yes," Clara said. "Not because we think it's going to happen. Not because we're expecting it to happen. But because your brain keeps showing you this scary scenario and you feel helpless in the face of it. Sometimes making a plan can help us feel like we have some agency, some control, even in situations where we actually don't have much control at all."
"A plan for if Alexia leaves me," Jay said slowly, the wheels clearly turning.
"A plan for how you would take care of yourself in that scenario," Clara clarified carefully. "How you would cope. What supports you would lean on. What steps you would take to heal and move forward. The goal isn't to prepare for a breakup. The goal is to reduce the power this fear has over you by proving to yourself that even in the worst case scenario, you would survive. You would be okay."
Jay was nodding now, her expression shifting from anxious to focused, her brain clearly latching onto this idea in the way it did when she hyperfixated on something.
"A plan," she repeated. "I'm good at plans. I can make a plan. I can plan for every scenario. I can be prepared."
Clara felt a small warning bell go off in the back of her mind, the sense that maybe this idea was going to be taken further than intended, but Jay was already looking less anxious, less terrified, more in control.
And that was the goal.
So she let it go.
Jay had been in this office for three hours.
Three solid hours of focused, uninterrupted, hyperfixated work.
The office was not hers. It belonged to one of the assistant coaches who only used it on Tuesdays and Fridays, which meant it was empty most of the time, which meant it was perfect for Jay's purposes.
She had commandeered it immediately after training, had locked the door, had spread her materials out across the desk like she was preparing for a military operation.
Her laptop was open, displaying a detailed Google Doc that had grown to significant length.
Her notebook was covered in handwritten notes, thoughts that had come too fast to type, ideas that needed to be captured immediately before they disappeared.
Her phone was next to her, screen dark now, but she had been using it earlier to research various topics related to her project.
Empty coffee cups littered the desk. Three of them. She had lost track of how many times she had gone to the coffee machine and returned with more caffeine to fuel this endeavour.
The document on her screen was titled, simply: CONTINGENCY PLAN - CLASSIFIED.
She had spent the first thirty minutes just creating the structure, the outline, the framework that would hold all her thoughts.
Then she had started filling it in.
And once she started, she could not stop.
Her brain had latched onto this project with the single minded intensity that came with ADHD hyperfixation, the kind where hours passed without notice, where the world fell away and nothing existed except the task at hand.
The document now sat at fourteen pages.
Fourteen single spaced pages of detailed, comprehensive planning for a scenario she desperately hoped would never happen.
She had section headers. Subsections. Bullet points. Numbered lists.
She had colour coded different elements for easy reference.
She had footnotes.
She had created contingency plans for her contingency plans.
It was, objectively, the most organised thing she had ever produced.
And it was completely, thoroughly, absolutely unhinged.
The first section was titled: IMMEDIATE RESPONSE (FIRST 24 HOURS).
Under that she had written:
Step 1: Remove myself from Barcelona immediately. Cannot stay in the city. Too many memories. Every street corner will remind me of her. Every cafe where we had coffee. Every park where we walked. The training facility. Our apartment. Everything is contaminated with memories. Must leave.
Step 2: Book one way flight to... somewhere. Research required on destinations. Needs to be far enough that I won't accidentally run into anyone who knows us. Different continent preferred. Somewhere I don't speak the language so I can't accidentally hear her name or anything that reminds me of her.
Potential locations:
- New Zealand (far, English speaking but different accent, no football culture so less chance of seeing her on TV)
- Rural Japan (extremely far, language barrier, could disappear into countryside) maybe Iceland (remote, cold, small population, could live in solitude)
- Patagonia (end of the world literally, vast emptiness, could hike until I stop feeling)
Step 3: Inform Julia immediately. She will try to stop me. She will say I'm being irrational. She will want me to stay and process. I will need to make her understand that I cannot stay. Cannot function. Cannot breathe in a city where Alexia exists but is not mine.
Jay had actually written out a script for this conversation with Julia, including predicted responses and counter arguments she would need to prepare.
The second section was titled: IDENTITY TRANSITION.
Legal name change: Research requirements for name changes in various countries. Will need new documents. New passport. New everything. Cannot be Jay Jones anymore. That person only existed in relation to Alexia. That person is dead now.
Potential new names:
- Something completely different. No J names. J is for Jay is for the person who loved Alexia.
- Research naming conventions in destination country to blend in.
- Maybe something nature related? River? Stone? Something that exists without needing another person.
Physical changes: Cut hair. Dye it. Cover visible tattoos or get more to obscure them. Change style completely. Cannot look in mirror and see the person Alexia loved. That person failed. That person wasn't enough.
Jay had included links to tattoo removal services and hair salons in various countries.
The third section was titled: CAREER TERMINATION.
Football is over. Cannot continue. Every match will remind me of her. Every pitch. Every time I score I'll remember how I used to look for her in the stands. How I used to dedicate goals to her. How playing football was tied to loving her.
Immediate retirement announcement: Draft resignation letter to Barcelona. Short. Professional. No explanation. Just done.
Career alternatives:
- Manual labor. Something physical. Something that exhausts the body so the mind can't think.
- Remote work. Coding? Data entry? Something solitary.
- Park ranger. Live alone in nature. No people. No memories.
- Lighthouse keeper (research if this job still exists).
- Shepherd. Live with sheep. Sheep don't ask questions. Sheep don't remind you of lost love.
She had actually researched whether lighthouse keeper was still a viable profession. The answer was disappointing.
The fourth section was titled: SOCIAL ISOLATION PROTOCOL.
Delete all social media: Cannot see photos of her. Cannot see updates. Cannot know what she's doing or who she's with or if she's moved on.
Change phone number: New number. New contacts. Only Julia and Clara get it. Everyone else is cut off. Clean break.
Burn the friend group: The team will side with her. They should side with her. She's the captain. She's Alexia Putellas. I'm just Jay. Easier to let them all go. Cannot maintain friendships with people who love her more than they love me.
This section made Jay's chest hurt to write, but she had pushed through.
The fifth section was titled: EMOTIONAL MANAGEMENT.
Therapy: Increase sessions with Clara to 3x per week minimum. Possibly daily in first month. Will need intensive support. Risk of self destructive behaviour high.
Medication: Consult doctor about anti anxiety meds. Maybe antidepressants. Whatever it takes to function.
No alcohol: High risk of using it to cope. Must avoid. Add to rules.
No dating: Cannot even think about another person for minimum 5 years. Maybe 10. Maybe never. Why would I when I already had perfect and lost it?
Grief timeline: Accept that healing will take years. Maybe lifetime. Maybe never fully heal. This is not a broken bone that sets. This is amputation. Part of me will always be missing.
Jay had written and deleted and rewritten this section four times, each version getting darker, more honest about the pain she was trying to prepare for.
The sixth section was titled: FINANCIAL PLANNING.
Savings assessment: Calculate how long current savings will last in various countries. Budget for extended unemployment.
Sell everything: Apartment, car, possessions. Everything in Barcelona must go. Start fresh with nothing that carries memories.
Trust fund access: Evaluate if can survive on passive income. May need to request distribution from Julia. She will hate this. Will think I'm being reckless. But need money to disappear.
She had actually created spreadsheets for this section, calculating burn rates in different countries, cost of living comparisons, how long she could survive without working.
The seventh section was titled: MONASTERY CONSIDERATION.
This was the section that had taken the longest because Jay had actually researched this extensively.
Is joining a monastery an option? Research convents, monasteries, religious communities that accept non religious people seeking refuge.
Requirements:
- Some accept lay people for extended retreats
- Silent orders preferred - don't want to talk about it
- Manual labour usually required - good, need to stay busy
- Vow of poverty - don't need money anyway, what's the point
- Some Buddhist monasteries in Thailand accept Westerners
Pros:
- Complete isolation from outside world
- Structured days, no decisions
- Focus on mindfulness, meditation, healing
- No social media, no news, no way to know what Alexia is doing
- Purpose through service
Cons:
- Very religious contexts may not fit
- May not accept gay people (research LGBTQ+ friendly monasteries)
- May require long term commitment
- Julia will definitely think I've lost my mind
Jay had bookmarked seventeen different monasteries across three continents and had started comparing their admission requirements.
The eighth section was titled: MEMORY MANAGEMENT.
Photos: Delete all photos of her. All photos of us. Cannot have them. Will look at them when weak. Will torture self.
Belongings: Anything she gave me must be destroyed or donated. Her shirts I sleep in. Her hoodies. Gifts. All of it. Cannot keep anything.
Places: Create list of everywhere we went together. Never go back to any of them. These places are dead to me now.
Songs: Maintain updated list of songs that remind me of her. Skip immediately. Eventually might need to avoid music entirely.
Dates: Our anniversary. Her birthday. The day we met. The day we said I love you. All dead days now. Mark calendar to expect bad mental health on these dates.
This section had handwritten notes in the margins, crossed out additions, evidence of Jay struggling to imagine actually executing any of this.
The ninth section was titled: FAILURE PROTOCOL.
If I break and try to contact her:
- Give phone to trusted person (Julia) with instructions not to return it for 30 days
- Delete her number from memory (already memorised, need to work on forgetting)
- Write letters instead, but don't send them. Burn them. Get the words out but don't send.
If I see her accidentally:
- Leave immediately
- Don't speak
- Don't make eye contact
- Remove self from situation
- Call Clara
If she tries to contact me:
- Don't respond
- She ended it. She doesn't get to check in.
- Responding will only make it hurt more
- Block if necessary
The tenth section was titled: LONG TERM SURVIVAL.
Year 1: Survive. That's it. Just survive. Basic functioning counts as success.
Year 2: Begin rebuilding some kind of life. Not the same life. New life. Lesser life. But life.
Year 3: Maybe try to find purpose again. Volunteer work? Helping others? Something that makes the survival feel meaningful.
Year 5: Reassess. Check if healing has occurred. Probably not. But check anyway.
Year 10: If still not healed, accept that this is permanent. This is who I am now. The person who loved Alexia and lost her and never recovered.
Jay sat back in the chair, reading over what she had written, her chest tight.
It was thorough.
It was detailed.
It was completely insane.
But it also made her feel somehow better.
Like she had looked at the monster under the bed and catalogued all its features and now it was less scary because it was known.
She saved the document.
Then, because she was thorough and because she had ADHD and could not risk losing something this important, she exported it to PDF.
Printed it.
Fourteen pages of single spaced contingency planning.
Then, and this was where it crossed from thorough into unhinged, she laminated it.
Actually laminated it.
Took it to the office supply room where the team kept the laminating machine for making training signs and tactical diagrams, and fed all fourteen pages through carefully, watching the plastic seal around each sheet.
Now it was permanent.
Waterproof.
Protected.
She added a cover page: CONTINGENCY PLAN - LAST UPDATED JANUARY 2025.
Because she was going to update this quarterly.
Was going to keep it current.
Was going to maintain it like a living document.
She three hole punched the pages and put them in a binder.
A red binder, because that felt appropriately serious and dramatic.
Labelled the spine: EMERGENCY PROTOCOL.
Sat the binder on the desk in front of her and stared at it.
This was insane.
She knew this was insane.
But it also made her feel more in control.
Less helpless.
Like she had agency even in the worst case scenario.
She checked her phone. 4:47 PM.
She needed to use the bathroom.
Needed to splash water on her face.
Needed a break from looking at this document that had consumed the last three hours of her life.
She stood up, stretched, felt her back crack from sitting hunched over the laptop for too long.
Left the office, leaving the binder on the desk, leaving the door unlocked because she was only going to be gone for two minutes.
This would turn out to be a catastrophic mistake.
Mapi was wandering the training facility because she was bored and because Ingrid was still in physio and because sitting still was not really something Mapi did well.
She had been walking past this random office when she noticed the door was slightly ajar.
And there were lights on inside.
Which was weird because nobody used this office except that assistant coach and he was definitely not here today.
Curiosity was Mapi's defining trait.
Well, one of them.
Along with chaos seeking and an inability to mind her own business.
She pushed the door open, peeked inside, found it empty but clearly recently occupied.
Coffee cups on the desk.
A laptop still open and running.
And a red binder sitting in the centre of the desk like it was important.
Mapi should have left.
Should have closed the door and walked away.
Should have respected whoever's privacy this was.
But the binder had a label.
EMERGENCY PROTOCOL.
And Mapi was constitutionally incapable of seeing something labeled EMERGENCY PROTOCOL and not looking at it.
She walked over to the desk.
Opened the binder.
Started reading.
Her eyes went wide.
Then wider.
Her mouth fell open.
"Oh my god," she breathed.
She flipped through pages, reading section headers, scanning bullet points, her expression cycling rapidly through shock and disbelief and absolute delight.
This was Jay's handwriting.
Jay's laptop.
Jay's completely unhinged contingency plan for if Alexia broke up with her.
Fourteen laminated pages of pure chaos.
Mapi needed to show people.
Needed to show everyone.
This was too good to keep to herself.
This was team content.
This was legendary.
She grabbed the binder, tucked it under her arm, and walked quickly out of the office, her face split in a huge grin.
This was going to be amazing.
Jay emerged from the bathroom feeling slightly more human, having splashed cold water on her face and given herself a stern talking to in the mirror about possibly having gone too far with the contingency planning.
Maybe fourteen pages was excessive.
Maybe the laminating was overkill.
Maybe the quarterly updates were a bit much.
But it made her feel better, so who cared?
She walked back down the hallway toward the office, already thinking about what section she should work on next, maybe add a subsection about….
The office door was open.
More open than she had left it.
She stopped walking, a sense of dread creeping up her spine.
Walked faster.
Reached the office.
Looked at the desk.
The binder was gone.
The red binder.
Her EMERGENCY PROTOCOL binder.
Gone.
"No," she said out loud. "No no no no."
She looked around frantically, like maybe she had moved it and forgotten, like maybe it was on a shelf or under a paper or anywhere except missing.
But it was not there.
Someone had taken it.
Someone had been in this office and had seen her laptop and her notes and her laminated contingency plan and had taken it.
"Fuck," Jay said, running her hands through her hair. "Fuck fuck fuck."
Who would take it?
Who had even been in this hallway?
She ran out of the office, looking both ways down the corridor, trying to figure out which direction to search first.
Saw Ingrid walking toward her from the direction of the physio rooms, looking relaxed and completely innocent.
"Ingrid!" Jay called out, jogging toward her. "Did you see anyone come out of that office? Just now? In the last few minutes?"
Ingrid looked confused. "What office?"
"That one!" Jay pointed. "Did you see anyone?"
"Oh," Ingrid's expression cleared. "Yeah, I saw Mapi. Like two minutes ago. She was walking really fast toward the players' lounge. She looked... happy? She was grinning. Why?"
Jay's stomach dropped completely out of her body.
Mapi.
Mapi had found the binder.
Mapi had taken the binder.
Mapi was currently in the players' lounge, which meant she was showing it to people, which meant the whole team was probably looking at it right now.
Which meant Alexia was probably looking at it right now.
"Oh god," Jay said. "Oh god oh god oh god."
"Are you okay?" Ingrid asked, looking concerned now. "What's wrong? What did Mapi take?"
But Jay was already running.
Sprinting down the hallway toward the players' lounge.
This was bad.
This was catastrophic.
This was the worst thing that could have happened.
She should have locked the door.
She should have taken the binder with her.
She should never have made the binder in the first place.
She rounded the corner at full speed, nearly crashed into a equipment cart, kept running.
The players' lounge was ahead.
She could hear voices.
Lots of voices.
The whole team was in there.
She burst through the door, breathing hard, wild eyed.
The entire team was there.
All of them.
Sitting in a large circle of chairs and couches.
And in the centre of the circle, like evidence at a trial, was her red binder.
Lying open.
Pages visible.
Mapi standing next to it like a prosecutor presenting evidence.
And Alexia.
Alexia was sitting on one of the couches, the binder in her hands, reading.
Her face was very still.
Very calm.
In the way that meant she was processing something big.
Everyone else looked various combinations of shocked and amused and concerned.
The room went silent when Jay appeared.
Every head turned toward her.
"Jay!" Mapi said cheerfully, apparently not at all concerned that she had just committed what was essentially theft and a massive invasion of privacy. "We were just reading your contingency plan! It's very thorough! Very detailed! Very concerning!"
Jay stood in the doorway, frozen, her chest heaving from the sprint, her face flushed, unable to form words.
Alexia looked up from the binder.
Met Jay's eyes.
Her expression was unreadable.
This was it.
This was the moment everything fell apart.
The moment Alexia realized Jay was too much.
Too intense.
Too broken.
Too everything.
The moment the contingency plan would become necessary.
Jay wanted to run.
Wanted to disappear.
Wanted to be literally anywhere else.
But her feet would not move.
She just stood there, trapped in the doorway, trapped in this moment, trapped in the consequences of her own catastrophic planning.
The silence in the room was absolute.
Complete.
The kind of silence that felt heavy, that had weight, that pressed down on everyone present like a physical thing.
Jay stood frozen in the doorway, her chest still heaving from the sprint down the hallway, her face flushed, her hands trembling slightly at her sides.
Every single person in the room was looking at her.
Patri sat on one of the chairs, her expression somewhere between concerned and trying not to laugh, clearly unsure which reaction was appropriate for this situation.
Ona was on the couch next to Alexia, her eyes wide, her mouth slightly open, clearly having just read something shocking.
Pina was perched on the arm of another chair, leaning forward, invested in this drama in a way that suggested she was enjoying it despite the seriousness.
Caro sat with her arms crossed, her expression thoughtful, like she was analysing this situation from multiple angles.
Frido looked genuinely worried, her brow furrowed, her usual calm demeanor showing cracks of concern.
Mapi stood in the centre of the circle like a ringmaster at a circus, still holding the position she had taken when presenting the binder to the group, looking absolutely delighted with herself.
Ingrid had apparently followed Jay and was now standing behind her in the doorway, also taking in the scene, her expression shifting from confused to understanding to oh no.
And Alexia.
Alexia sat on the centre couch with the red binder in her lap, open to what looked like page six or seven, her eyes still on the page, her expression very still, very controlled.
She had not looked up when Jay burst through the door.
Had not reacted to Jay's arrival at all.
Was just reading.
Very carefully.
Very thoroughly.
Like she was trying to understand something important.
Jay's brain was screaming at her to do something, to say something, to explain or defend or apologize or run.
But her body would not cooperate.
She just stood there, frozen, watching Alexia read through her contingency plan for their breakup, watching her girlfriend discover exactly how catastrophically Jay would fall apart if Alexia ever left her.
"So," Mapi said, breaking the silence, her voice bright and cheerful in a way that was completely inappropriate for the moment. "Jay made a plan! A very detailed plan! For if Alexia breaks up with her! Which is interesting! And concerning! And kind of romantic in a completely unhinged way!"
"Mapi," Ingrid said quietly from behind Jay, her voice carrying a warning. "Maybe not now."
"When better than now?" Mapi asked, gesturing at the binder. "This is important information! The team should know that Jay has planned her entire post-Alexia life! In detail! With sections! And subsections! And it's laminated!"
"The laminating is what really commits to it," Patri observed quietly, apparently unable to help herself. "Like, making a plan is one thing. Laminating the plan is a whole different level of dedication."
"Fourteen pages," Ona added, her voice slightly awed. "Fourteen pages of contingency planning. That's more planning than I've done for my actual career."
"Can we not?" Caro said firmly, shooting looks at both Patri and Ona. "This is clearly a private thing. We probably shouldn't be discussing it while Jay is standing right there looking like she might pass out."
Jay did feel like she might pass out.
Her vision was going slightly fuzzy at the edges, her breathing shallow, her heart racing in a way that suggested panic attack rather than post-sprint recovery.
She tried to focus on Alexia, tried to read her expression, tried to figure out what she was thinking as she read through page after page of Jay's catastrophic breakdown plan.
Alexia turned a page.
Kept reading.
Her face gave away nothing.
"There's a section about joining a monastery," Pina said, apparently also unable to resist commenting, leaning forward to see the binder better. "Like an actual monastery. She researched which ones accept non religious people. She has a pros and cons list."
"The cons list includes 'Julia will think I've lost my mind,'" Frido read from where she could see the page. "Which is accurate. Julia would definitely think that."
"There's also a section about changing her name," Mapi added helpfully, clearly having memorised large portions of the document during her initial reading. "And moving to New Zealand. Or rural Japan. Or Iceland. Or Patagonia. She's got multiple backup countries. Very thorough."
"And she's never playing football again," Ona said quietly, her amusement fading into something more serious. "That part is... that's actually really sad. She'd give up football entirely."
"Because it would remind her of Alexia," Patri finished, also sounding more serious now. "Everything would remind her of Alexia so she'd have to give up everything and start completely over. That's..."
She trailed off, not finishing the sentence, apparently realising there was no funny spin to put on that particular section.
The mood in the room was shifting.
What had started as shock and amusement and typical team chaos at discovering something ridiculous was becoming something else.
Understanding, maybe.
Concern.
The recognition that this document, while objectively unhinged in its level of detail and catastrophic thinking, was also evidence of something deeper.
Something more painful.
Alexia turned another page.
Jay watched her turn to page eight, the section titled MEMORY MANAGEMENT, the section that detailed how Jay would delete every photo, destroy every gift, avoid every place they had been together.
Saw Alexia's jaw tighten slightly.
The first crack in her controlled expression.
"She'd delete all the photos," Alexia said quietly, her voice very soft, speaking for the first time since Jay had entered the room. "All of them. Every photo of us. Like we never happened."
It was not a question.
Just a statement.
An observation.
But there was something in her voice, something hurt, something that made Jay's chest constrict painfully.
"I wouldn't want to torture myself," Jay said, her own voice barely above a whisper, the words coming out without permission, without conscious thought. "Looking at photos of us when you weren't mine anymore would kill me. I'd do it anyway. I'd look at them constantly. I'd destroy myself with them. So I'd have to delete them. To protect myself from myself."
The room went very quiet again.
Alexia looked up finally.
Met Jay's eyes.
Her expression was still hard to read but there was something there now, something visible, something that might have been pain or concern or understanding or all of those things.
"You really think I would leave you?" she asked, her accent thicker than usual, her voice very gentle.
Jay's throat closed up.
She could not answer.
Could not form words.
Could only stand there looking at Alexia, feeling like her chest was being crushed.
"Jay," Alexia said again, softer. "Bebe, do you really think that? That I would wake up one day and decide you're not enough? That I would leave?"
"I don't know," Jay managed, the words coming out rough, painful. "My brain tells me you will. Eventually. That everyone leaves eventually. That I'm too much or not enough or both somehow. That you'll realise you made a mistake. That you deserve better. My brain tells me that every day."
"Your brain is wrong," Alexia said firmly.
"I know," Jay said. "Logically I know. But knowing doesn't make it stop. Doesn't make the fear go away. So I made a plan. So I could feel like I had some control. Like I would survive even in the worst case. Clara said it would help. To look at the fear directly. To plan for it. To prove to myself I'd be okay."
"Clara told you to make this?" Mapi asked, sounding surprised.
"Clara told me to think about how I'd cope," Jay corrected. "I took it further than she meant. I got hyperfixated. I couldn't stop. It was supposed to be like, a few bullet points. It became... this."
She gestured helplessly at the binder.
"Fourteen laminated pages," Patri said quietly.
"Quarterly updates," Ona added, having apparently found that detail somewhere in the document.
"I was being thorough," Jay said defensively, even though she knew this was indefensible, knew this was objectively insane behaviour.
Alexia was looking at the binder again, flipping back through pages, reading sections more carefully.
She stopped on the page about career termination.
Read the part about never playing football again.
Her fingers traced over the words.
"You would really quit?" she asked. "Retire completely?"
"I couldn't keep playing," Jay said. "Every match would be you. Every pitch. Every goal. Everything about football is connected to you in my head. How could I keep doing it without you? How could I be on that pitch where we've been together and you're gone? I'd have to stop. I'd have to give it all up."
"That's your dream bebe," Alexia said, her voice tight. "Football is your dream. You love it."
"I love you more," Jay said simply. "Football is what I do. You're who I am. If I lost you I'd lose myself. What's the point of football then?"
The room had gone very quiet again.
Several people were looking away, clearly uncomfortable with the raw honesty, the vulnerability being displayed.
This was beyond funny now.
Beyond team entertainment.
This was something private being exposed, something painful being examined in public.
Irene stood up from where she had been sitting quietly in the corner.
She was the oldest player on the team, had been with Barcelona longer than almost anyone, carried a kind of automatic authority that came from years of experience and natural leadership.
When she stood, people noticed.
When she spoke, people listened.
"Everyone out," she said firmly, her voice brooking no argument. "Now. This is not a team conversation. This is between Jay and Alexia. Everyone else, we're leaving."
"But..” Mapi started.
"Now, María," Irene said, using Mapi's full name in the way that meant she was serious. "This is not your business. This is not entertainment. This is their relationship and they need privacy to discuss it. Everyone out. Immediately."
There was a moment of hesitation, people looking at each other, clearly not wanting to miss what happened next.
But Irene was not someone you argued with when she used that tone.
Patri stood first, moving toward the door.
Then Ona.
Then Pina.
One by one the team filed out, some of them shooting concerned looks at Jay, some looking at Alexia, all of them clearly worried but also recognising they needed to give space.
Mapi was the last to move, still clutching at the drama, still wanting to see how this resolved.
"Mapi," Irene said firmly. "Out. Now."
"I'm the one who found it," Mapi protested. "I should get to…”
"You should get to leave," Irene interrupted. "And we're going to have a conversation later about privacy and boundaries and not taking other people's personal documents. But right now, you're leaving. Move."
Mapi moved, shooting one last look at the binder before heading toward the door.
Ingrid had already left, having recognised immediately that this was not something she should be present for.
Within two minutes, the room was empty except for Jay, Alexia, and Irene.
Irene looked at Jay, her expression softening slightly.
"You okay?" she asked gently.
Jay shook her head, unable to lie, unable to pretend.
"You will be," Irene said with certainty. "Talk to her. Actually talk. Not catastrophising. Not worst case scenarios. Just honest conversation about what you're feeling and what you need."
She looked at Alexia.
"And you listen," she said. "Really listen. Not to fix it. Not to reassure it away. But to understand what she's carrying."
Alexia nodded, her expression serious.
Irene walked to the door, paused next to Jay, put a hand on her shoulder briefly.
"You're not too much," she said quietly. "You're just right. Your brain is lying to you. But Alexia will help you see that. Let her."
Then she was gone, closing the door behind her, leaving Jay and Alexia alone in the players' lounge.
The silence was different now.
Not the shocked silence of earlier.
Not the entertainment silence of the team watching drama unfold.
Just the two of them.
The binder still open in Alexia's lap.
Jay still standing near the door like she might run.
Alexia looked at her for a long moment.
Then patted the couch next to her.
"Come here, bebe," she said softly. "Ven aqui. Sit with me."
Jay's feet moved without conscious decision, carrying her across the room, her body responding to Alexia's voice even though her brain was still screaming panic.
She sat on the couch, leaving space between them, not trusting herself to be close, afraid she might break down completely if Alexia touched her.
Alexia looked down at the binder again, at the pages of contingency planning, at the evidence of Jay's catastrophic fear.
"This is a lot," she said finally.
"I know," Jay said miserably. "I know it's insane. I know it's too much. I know it's…”
"I'm not saying it's bad," Alexia interrupted gently. "I'm saying it's a lot. A lot of fear. A lot of pain. A lot of planning for something that terrifies you. That's not insane, amor. That's just your brain trying to protect you."
Jay felt her eyes burning, tears threatening.
"Clara said if I planned for the worst case, it would feel less scary," she said, her voice thick. "If I knew I'd survive, I'd stop being so afraid all the time. But I don't think it worked. I made the whole plan and I'm still terrified. Still waiting for you to realise I'm not worth it."
"Look at me," Alexia said, her voice firm but gentle.
Jay looked up, met her eyes, saw something there that made her chest ache.
"You are worth it," Alexia said, each word deliberate, careful. "You are worth everything. You are not too much. You are not not enough. You are exactly what I want. Exactly who I love. And I am not going anywhere."
"You say that now," Jay started.
"I say that always," Alexia interrupted, her accent getting thicker, emotion creeping into her voice. "I say that every day. I say that in every way I know how. I show you. I tell you. I prove it. But you don't believe it. Your brain tells you lies and you believe those instead of believing me."
"I'm trying to believe you," Jay said, tears spilling over now, running down her cheeks. "I want to believe you. But the fear is so loud. It won't shut up. It just keeps showing me scenarios where you leave and I'm alone again and I can't survive it."
"So you made a plan to survive it," Alexia said, looking down at the binder. "You planned everything. Where you'd go. What you'd do. How you'd cope. You planned to give up football. To change your name. To delete every memory of us. To disappear completely."
"I had to," Jay said desperately. "I had to know I could survive. Even though I don't want to. Even though the plan is basically 'exist in pain forever.' I had to know I physically could do it. That I wouldn't just... stop existing if you left."
Alexia was quiet for a long moment, looking at the pages, reading sections again.
She stopped on the section about memory management.
About deleting photos.
Destroying gifts.
Avoiding places.
"You have this all memorised, don't you," she said quietly. "You know exactly what you'd do. Step by step. You've thought about this so much you could execute it without the binder."
"Yes," Jay admitted.
"How often do you think about this?" Alexia asked. "About me leaving? About this plan?"
Jay hesitated, not wanting to answer, knowing the answer would be concerning.
"Every day," she said finally. "Multiple times a day. Any time you're quiet. Any time we have a disagreement. Any time anything feels off. My brain immediately goes there. Starts running through the contingency plan. Preparing. Like if I'm ready for it, it won't hurt as much."
"Oh, bebe," Alexia said, her voice breaking slightly. "That is exhausting. That is so exhausting. Living like that. Being afraid like that all the time."
"I'm sorry," Jay said, wiping at her face. "I know it's not fair to you. I know you don't deserve to have a girlfriend who's constantly expecting you to leave. You should have someone who trusts you. Who believes you when you say you love them. Who doesn't make contingency plans for your breakup and laminate them."
"Stop," Alexia said firmly, reaching out to take Jay's hand, pulling her closer, eliminating the space between them. "Stop apologising for having feelings. Stop apologising for being afraid. You're allowed to be afraid. You've been left before. You've been hurt before. Your brain is trying to protect you. I understand that."
"But it's not fair to you," Jay protested.
"It's not about fair," Alexia said. "It's about loving you. All of you. Including the parts that are scared. Including the parts that made a fourteen page laminated contingency plan. That's still you. That's still the person I love."
She pulled Jay closer, wrapped her arms around her, held her tightly.
Jay broke.
Just completely broke.
Buried her face in Alexia's shoulder and sobbed, her whole body shaking, months of fear and anxiety and catastrophic thinking pouring out all at once.
Alexia held her through it, one hand in Jay's hair, the other rubbing her back, making soft soothing sounds, switching between English and Spanish without thinking.
"I've got you, bebe, estoy aqui, I'm not going anywhere, te prometo, you're safe, estás segura conmigo, I love you, te amo, so much, tanto, you're not losing me, nunca, never, I promise, I promise, I promise."
Jay could not form words.
Could only hold onto Alexia like she was the only solid thing in the world, like letting go would mean drowning, like this was the only thing keeping her tethered to reality.
"I don't want the plan to be necessary," she managed eventually, her voice muffled against Alexia's shoulder. "I don't want to move to New Zealand. I don't want to change my name. I don't want to quit football. I don't want any of it. I just want you. I just want this. I just want us."
"Then we work on that," Alexia said gently. "We work on your brain believing what I tell you. We work on the fear. We work with Clara. We do whatever you need to feel more secure. But bebe, I need you to know something. Are you listening?"
Jay nodded against her shoulder.
"I am not leaving you," Alexia said clearly, firmly, each word deliberate. "Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever. Not when you're difficult. Not when you're scared. Not when you make contingency plans. Not when you're too much or not enough or whatever your brain tells you. I am staying. This is forever for me. Do you understand? Forever."
"You can't promise forever," Jay said weakly. "People change. Feelings change. Things happen."
"I can promise that my intention is forever," Alexia corrected. "I can promise that I wake up every day choosing you. I can promise that I have never once, not for one second, thought about leaving. Not when you're late to everything. Not when you create chaos. Not when you get noise complaints. Not when you make elaborate breakup contingency plans. Not ever."
She pulled back enough to cup Jay's face in both hands, making Jay look at her.
"You are it for me," she said, her eyes intense, her accent thick with emotion. "You are my person. My forever person. And I need you to try to believe that. Not all at once. Not perfectly. But try. Can you try?"
Jay looked at her, at this woman who loved her despite everything, who was sitting here reassuring her after finding out about the contingency plan instead of running away like a reasonable person would.
"I can try," she whispered.
"Good," Alexia said, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "That's all I ask. Just try."
They sat like that for a long moment, holding each other, breathing together, both of them processing.
Eventually Alexia looked down at the binder, still sitting open next to them.
"We should probably do something about this," she said.
"Burn it?" Jay suggested. "Pretend it never existed?"
"Or," Alexia said slowly, "we keep it. As a reminder."
"A reminder of my insanity?" Jay asked.
"A reminder of how far you've come," Alexia corrected. "A reminder of what you were afraid of and how we worked through it. A reminder that your worst fears don't have to come true."
She flipped to the last page, where Jay had written the long term survival plan, the section about year ten, about accepting permanent damage.
"This is not your future," Alexia said firmly, pointing at it. "This sad, lonely, broken future is not what's going to happen. Your future is with me. Here. Together. Being happy. Being loud enough to get noise complaints. Being chaotic. Being us."
Jay laughed despite herself, a wet sound, her eyes still full of tears.
"We are really loud," she said.
"We are very loud," Alexia agreed, smiling. "Mrs. Rodriguez will confirm. But that's because what we have is good. So good you can't be quiet about it. So good that your worst fear is losing it. I understand that, bebe. I understand being afraid of losing something precious."
"Are you afraid of losing me?" Jay asked, the thought not having occurred to her before.
"Sometimes," Alexia admitted. "Not the same way. Not with contingency plans. But yes. Sometimes I worry. That you'll realise I'm boring. That I'm too serious. That you need someone more exciting. Someone more fun."
"That's insane," Jay said immediately. "You're perfect. You're everything. You're…”
She stopped, hearing her own words, recognising them.
"Oh," she said quietly.
"Yes, oh," Alexia said gently. "We both have fears. We both have insecurities. That's normal. That's human. That's okay. We just have to keep talking about them. Keep reassuring each other. Keep choosing each other."
"I choose you," Jay said, the words coming easily, the truth of them fundamental. "Every day. Every time. Forever."
"I choose you too," Alexia said, leaning in to kiss her softly. "Even when you make unhinged contingency plans. Even when you laminate them. Even when you research monasteries in Thailand. I choose you."
"I really did research a lot of monasteries," Jay admitted.
"I know," Alexia said, laughing softly. "I read that section. Very thorough. Pros and cons lists. LGBTQ+ friendly options. You committed to it."
"I commit to everything too hard," Jay said. "Including worrying. Including planning. Including loving you."
"I don't think you can love too hard," Alexia said. "I think that's impossible. Love as hard as you want. Love me with your whole chaotic heart. I love you the same way."
She picked up the binder, looked at it thoughtfully.
"We're keeping this," she decided. "But we're adding a section."
"What section?" Jay asked.
"Reasons Why This Plan Will Never Be Necessary," Alexia said. "We're going to write them down. All the reasons why I'm never leaving. All the evidence that contradicts your fears. Every time your brain tries to run through the contingency plan, you read that section instead. Deal?"
"Deal," Jay agreed, even though the idea made her emotional all over again.
"Good," Alexia said. "Now we go home. We eat dinner. We watch something stupid on TV. We go to bed. We be normal. And tomorrow we start working on making your brain believe what I keep telling you."
"What if it takes a long time?" Jay asked quietly.
"Then it takes a long time," Alexia said simply. "I'm not going anywhere. We have time. We have forever, remember?"
"Forever," Jay repeated, testing the word, trying to believe it.
"Forever," Alexia confirmed, kissing her again. "Now come on. Let's go home. And maybe we hide this binder from Mapi before she makes copies and distributes them to the entire team."
"She already took photos," Jay said miserably. "I guarantee she took photos."
"Then she will delete them," Alexia said firmly. "Or Irene will make her delete them. Or I will make her delete them. I am captain. I have authority. She will delete them."
They stood up together, Alexia closing the binder, tucking it under her arm.
"You're really keeping it?" Jay asked.
"I'm really keeping it," Alexia confirmed. "Because it's part of your story. Part of our story. And even though it's unhinged, it's also evidence of how much you love me. How much you'd hurt if you lost me. That's not something to be ashamed of. That's something to... I don't know. Transform. Into something better. Into proof that you don't have to be afraid."
"I love you," Jay said, the words feeling inadequate but true. "So much."
"I love you too, guapa," Alexia said, taking her hand, lacing their fingers together. "Now let's go home. We have a new section to write. Reasons Why I'm Never Leaving My Chaotic Disaster Girlfriend Who Makes Contingency Plans."
"That's a long title," Jay observed.
"It's a comprehensive list," Alexia said. "It's going to take several pages. Might need to laminate those too. Match the aesthetic."
Jay laughed, real and genuine, feeling something loosen in her chest.
Summary: Lizzie has been ill and Y/N gets worried.
Word Count: 8,295
Warning: Fluff, Angst, Smut, (18+), Reader has a P.
A/N: Many of you requested to see when Lizzie and reader found out Lizzie was pregnant. Hope you’ll like it! Btw, don't mind Robbie's face in the picture. I just thought it fits this story!
Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist
---
---
Y/N's POV
There’s something wrong with my wife.
I don’t say it out loud—well, not to her. I say it to you. To the invisible audience in my head that keeps me company at three in the morning when Elizabeth Olsen is lying beside me, turned carefully onto her side like I’m made of glass and she’s afraid to break me if she breathes wrong.
Lizzie’s been sick.
Not hospital sick. Not dramatic, pass-out-on-the-floor sick. Just… off. Quietly, stubbornly, worryingly off. And the worst part? She refuses to see a doctor. Flat-out. Changes the subject, kisses my cheek, tells me she’s fine in that gentle voice she uses when she’s very much not.
And lately—she’s secretive.
Her phone never leaves her hand. She disappears for “walks.” She smiles like she knows something I don’t. And for the past two weeks—two very long, very noticeable weeks—she’s refused sex.
Which, listen. I’m not saying we’re sex-crazed maniacs. We’re married adults. We have careers. Schedules. Jet lag. But two weeks with no teasing touches, no lazy kisses that turn dangerous, no midnight hands wandering under my shirt?
That’s not us.
So of course my brain does what it does best: spirals.
Did I do something wrong?
I replay every conversation, every half-heard sigh, every time I might’ve been distracted or tired or too busy to notice something important. I wonder if I hurt her feelings. If I missed a moment. If there’s something about me—about my body, about my schedule, about my absence—that finally caught up with us.
Because a month ago, Lizzie started getting sick.
At first, it was small things. She was sore all the time, like her body had aged ten years overnight. Sensitive to touch in a way that wasn’t fun—more flinch than shiver. Pale, even under makeup. Food lost its appeal, which should’ve tipped me off immediately because my wife loves food almost as much as she loves stealing mine.
But before that?
Before all of this?
We were fine.
No—more than fine.
Almost four months ago, things were… busy. The good kind of busy, the career-making, dream-chasing kind that looks great in interviews and terrible on calendars. End of the year, my tour dates stacked on top of her filming schedule, interviews crossing time zones, goodnight calls turning into rushed voice notes sent from hotel bathrooms.
We promised each other it wouldn’t happen again.
We promised we wouldn’t let our schedules overlap that badly.
And then—of course—we did.
Three weeks apart.
Again.
I remember the exact moment it started.
---
Four Months Ago
The airport was loud, chaotic, unforgiving. Lizzie had her beanie pulled low, sunglasses on despite it being barely morning. I had my carry-on in one hand, my guitar case in the other, and her fingers hooked through my sleeve like she might lose me if she let go.
“Three weeks,” she murmured, voice pressed into my shoulder.
“I know,” I said, kissing the top of her head. “We’ve done worse.”
She pulled back just enough to look at me, lips pressed together. “We shouldn’t have.”
“I know,” I repeated, softer this time.
She didn’t cry. Lizzie never cries in public. Instead, she kissed me—quick, almost desperate—and whispered, “Call me. Even if you’re tired.”
“I always do.”
“I mean it,” she said, eyes serious now. “Promise.”
“I promise.”
She smiled then, that soft, familiar smile that usually settles something deep in my chest.
And then she was gone—swallowed by the terminal, by security lines and assistants and schedules that never cared how much it hurt to let go.
Australia was a blur.
Two shows, back to back. Loud crowds, bright lights, adrenaline still buzzing in my veins long after I left the stage. But every night—every night—I called her. Video calls from hotel beds, from dressing rooms, once even from the back of a car while my makeup was still half on my face. If I had a free minute, Lizzie had it.
She answered whenever she could. Sometimes wrapped in a robe between takes, sometimes whispering because she was already in bed. We sent messages constantly—photos of bad catering food, screenshots of scripts, voice notes just to hear each other breathe.
Three weeks passed like that.
Measured in time zones and call logs. In “good morning” messages sent too early and “are you still awake?” texts sent too late. In moments where I’d wake up reaching for her and find only cold sheets and a phone glowing on the nightstand with her name lighting up the screen.
By the third week, the distance felt heavier. Not worse—just heavier.
Lizzie was already back in LA when my tour wrapped.
I knew because she sent me a photo of our kitchen that morning—sunlight spilling across the counter, my favorite mug sitting in the sink. Hurry home, she’d written. Nothing dramatic. Just that.
The flight felt endless.
I barely slept, my body running on adrenaline and anticipation, my mind replaying the way she’d looked the last time I’d seen her in person. I kept imagining her at the airport—where she’d stand, what she’d wear, whether she’d pretend she wasn’t watching the arrivals gate like she always did.
When we landed, my phone buzzed before I even turned it back on airplane mode.
I’m here.
Two words. My chest tightened instantly.
I pushed through the terminal, heart racing stupidly fast for someone who’d been married for years. And then I saw her.
Leaning against the barrier, beanie pulled low, sunglasses on even indoors. Arms crossed, foot tapping just slightly. Trying to look casual. Failing completely.
The second our eyes met, her posture shifted. Softened. Like she’d been holding herself together and finally didn’t have to anymore.
I dropped my bags.
She didn’t wait.
Lizzie crossed the space between us in seconds, hands gripping the front of my jacket, forehead pressing into my chest like she needed to anchor herself. I wrapped my arms around her, inhaled deeply, felt the solid warmth of her body and thought—there you are.
“You smell like airports,” she murmured.
I laughed, breath catching. “You smell like home.”
She pulled back just enough to look at me, sunglasses off now, eyes bright and tired and relieved. She touched my face like she was checking for injuries. Like she always did.
“Let’s go,” she said softly.
I didn’t move.
She noticed immediately, brows lifting in quiet amusement. “What?”
I tilted my head, smiling. “Not before I get a kiss.”
She laughed softly, eyes flicking around out of habit. “There are paparazzi already,” she murmured, but there was no real protest in her voice.
“So?” I stepped closer, lowering my voice. “We’ve been apart for three weeks. I don’t care who’s watching. I’m not waiting.”
That did it.
Her smile turned slow and unmistakably pleased. She bit her lip—deliberately this time, teasing, familiar—and then reached for me without another word. Her hands slid into my jacket, pulling me in as she kissed me, warm and happy and unapologetic.
Cameras clicked. Someone called her name.
She didn’t care.
When she finally pulled back, her forehead rested against mine, eyes bright, lips curved into that grin that always meant home.
“Okay,” she said softly, squeezing my hands. “Now we can go.”
---
The whole drive home, I held Lizzie’s hand.
I was the one driving, one hand on the wheel, the other firmly laced with hers like I was afraid she might disappear if I let go. She tried to argue at first—said she could drive, said I’d been flying all day—but I shook my head.
“You’re also tired,” I told her gently. “Let me.”
She didn’t fight me after that. Just leaned back in her seat, thumb tracing slow, absent circles against my knuckles, the city lights sliding across her face as we drove. Every now and then she’d glance over at me, smiling softly, like she was memorizing the moment.
When we pulled into the garage, I didn’t even think about the luggage.
I parked the car, turned off the engine, and before she could say a word, I was already out of my seat, opening her door. She laughed quietly when I scooped her up, arms instinctively wrapping around my neck.
“Hey—what about the bags?” she asked, amused.
“They can wait,” I said, kissing her temple.
I carried her inside like it was the most natural thing in the world.
She leaned closer, lips brushing my ear as she whispered, teasing and warm, “You missed me that much?”
I groaned softly, tightening my hold on her. “You have no idea how much.”
She giggled—right there against my neck—and the sound went straight through me. “Me too,” she murmured, her hand slipping beneath my shirt, fingers warm against my skin.
Her kisses followed—my ear, my jaw, the curve of my neck—slow and deliberate, like she knew exactly what she was doing. My steps quickened without me even meaning to, heart pounding, every nerve awake as I carried her down the hallway.
The bedroom door barely stood a chance.
Three weeks apart, and suddenly the distance felt unbearable again—not because we were far, but because we were finally home.
I didn't even make it to the center of the room. The second my heels cleared the threshold, I let her feet hit the floor, but I didn't let go. My hands stayed locked on her waist, and hers stayed tangled in my hair, pulling me down with a low, needy sound that she only ever made for me.
"The shirt," she breathed against my lips, her fingers fumbling with the hem of my layers. "Too many clothes. You're wearing too many clothes."
I let out a rough laugh, helping her tug the fabric over my head and tossing it somewhere toward the armchair. The cool air of the room hit my skin for a split second before her palms replaced it—warm, slightly frantic, mapping out my chest like she was making sure I was actually there, solid and real.
I made quick work of her jacket, the leather sliding off her shoulders and hitting the hardwood with a dull thud. I backed her toward the mattress, my movements urgent but careful, my eyes locked on hers. Lizzie looked wrecked in the best way—pupils blown wide, lips swollen from the kiss in the driveway, that fierce, proprietary glow in her gaze that always made me feel like the only woman on earth.
We hit the bed together, a tangle of limbs and desperate breaths.
I braced myself over her, my weight settling into the familiar curves of her body. She arched up to meet me, her legs hooking around my waist to pull me closer, her hands sliding down to the small of my back, urging me to bridge the final inch of distance.
"Lizzie," I groaned, burying my face in the crook of her neck. She smelled like her favorite perfume and the lingering scent of my own cologne from the hug at the airport.
"Don't talk," she whispered, her voice a ragged command. Her fingers dug into my shoulders, pulling me back up so she could kiss me again—deeper this time, a slow, possessive claim that tasted like a promise kept.
I kissed her back with everything I’d been holding in for three weeks—the loneliness of hotel rooms, the static of late-night calls, the sheer ache of her absence. My mouth moved over hers with a hungry, rhythmic desperation until I finally broke away, trailing a path of heat across her jaw to the sensitive shell of her ear.
"I missed you so much," I managed to rasp, my breath hitching as I felt her shiver beneath me.
I let my kisses drift lower, ghosting over the pulse point in her throat that was fluttering like a trapped bird. My hand didn't stay still; I slid it beneath the hem of her shirt, my palm flat against the soft, warm skin of her stomach. I moved upward slowly, savoring the way her breath hitched in sync with my touch.
Lizzie’s hands were a frantic map of their own. Her fingers tangled deep into my hair, pulling me closer before sliding down the length of my arms, her grip tightening over my biceps as if she were anchoring herself to the reality of me. Then, she let them wander—tracing the line of my ribs, dipping low toward my abs in a slow, torturous tease, only to slide back up with purpose.
She didn't hesitate. Her hand slipped inside my bra, her warm palm cupping me, her thumb brushing against my skin with a familiarity that made my head spin.
A broken moan escaped me, vibrating against her lips as I sought her mouth again. The sound was raw, unbidden, and entirely hers. Lizzie hummed back, a low, vibration of approval that I felt deep in my chest.
I didn't give her a chance to change her mind. My hands hooked into the hem of her shirt, pulling it up and over her head in one fluid motion, tossing it blindly toward the foot of the bed.
Lizzie didn't look away for a second. There was a challenge in her eyes, a heavy-lidded heat that made my blood roar in my ears. With a slow, deliberate grace, she reached behind her back, her shoulder blades flexing as she unclipped her own bra. When she let it drop and kicked it off the edge of the mattress, she looked up at me—seductive, raw, and completely unashamed.
I leaned down to claim her mouth again, desperate to feel that skin-to-skin contact, but Lizzie’s hands caught my shoulders. She didn't push me away; she anchored me.
"Wait," she whispered, her voice a low, gravelly rasp that sent a fresh jolt of electricity through my spine. Her eyes dropped to my chest, and I felt her fingers hook firmly into the strap of my bra, tugging it with a playful, possessive insistence.
"Off," she commanded softly, her lips brushing against mine as she spoke. "I want you out of this, too. No barriers, Y/N. I need to feel all of you."
I didn't waste a single second. I reached back, the clasp giving way instantly, and flung the lace aside. The moment I leaned back down, the contact was electric—skin against skin, heart hammering against heart. We both let out a wrecked, simultaneous moan, the friction of her chest against mine sending a jolt through my entire system that made my toes curl into the sheets.
Lizzie wasn't content to just lie there. She let out a low, predatory growl against my mouth and arched her back, grinding her hips upward, seeking the hard pressure of my crotch through our pants.
"God, Lizzie," I groaned, the sound vibrating deep in my throat as the friction nearly pushed me over the edge.
She used my momentary weakness to her advantage. With a sudden, surprising burst of strength fueled by three weeks of wanting, she hooked her fingers into my waist and flipped us. I let out a startled gasp as my back hit the mattress, and suddenly the world was Lizzie—Lizzie sitting tall, straddling my waist, her knees pinning my thighs down.
She sat there for a heartbeat, her chest heaving, her palms pressing firmly against my stomach. Her skin was flushed, her eyes dark with a hunger that felt almost desperate. I started to open my mouth, a protest or a plea dying on my tongue, but she didn't give me the chance to speak.
She lunged down, capturing my lips with the same voracity we’d been fighting with since the airport. It wasn't just a kiss; it was a reclamation. Her hands slid from my stomach up to my shoulders, her nails grazing my skin as she poured every ounce of her longing into me, silencing any thought of anything other than the woman on top of me.
Lizzie didn’t stop at my lips. She was on a mission, her mouth trailing a path of fire down my jaw, tracing the cord of my neck with a sharp, possessive nip that I knew would leave a mark by morning. I didn't care. I arched into her, my hands finding her hips, anchoring her to me as she worked her way lower.
When she reached my breasts, she let out a low, shaky breath against my skin that made my entire body vibrate. Then, she took me into her mouth.
The sensation was a lightning bolt. She swirled her tongue around one nipple, drawing it in deep, while her other hand found the opposite side. She rolled it between her thumb and forefinger with a slow, agonizing pressure—mimicking the exact rhythm she knew I loved, the way I always did to her. It was a mirror of our most intimate moments, a silent language we’d perfected over years, and having it turned back on me after three weeks of nothing was almost too much to bear.
"Lizzie," I gasped, my head tossing back against the pillow.
My voice was a wrecked, high-pitched thing. I could feel the heavy, pulsing heat between my legs, my hardness twitching rhythmically inside my jeans with every pull of her mouth. The friction of the denim was becoming a torture of its own, a barrier that felt like a mile of distance we still hadn't crossed. I dug my fingers into the mattress, my hips stuttering upward instinctively, begging for the contact she was teasing me with.
Lizzie didn’t let the torture last. She sat back on her heels, the sudden loss of her mouth on my skin making me let out a whine of protest that she answered with a dark, knowing smirk. Her fingers, steady and purposeful, found the button of my jeans. The metallic click of the undoing felt like the loudest sound in the room.
She didn't stay on the bed. She slid off the mattress, the friction of her skin leaving me cold for only a second before she was pulling the denim down my legs. I watched her, my breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches, as she tossed the last of my clothes aside. Then, with a slow, agonizingly beautiful deliberation, she stepped out of her own.
Standing there in the moonlight, she looked like a goddess—raw, powerful, and entirely mine.
When she climbed back onto the bed, she didn't rush. She straddled my waist again, but this time there was nothing between us. I was pinned beneath her, my eyes locked onto her every movement, unable to look away as she reached down between her own thighs. She watched me watching her, a soft, hitching breath escaping her lips as she found her own slickness.
She didn't look away as she brought that hand up, her fingers glistening, and began to spread the heat over the very tip of my length. I bucked upward, a choked sound caught in my throat, my hands reaching out to grip her hips so hard my knuckles went white.
"Lizzie," I managed to choke out, my vision blurring.
"Wait," she whispered, her voice trembling now with the same need that was consuming me.
She positioned herself, the heat of her hovering just above me for a heartbeat that felt like an eternity. Then, she slowly—so slowly—lowered herself down. I felt every fraction of an inch, the incredible, tight warmth of her taking me in until we were finally, completely joined. A synchronized moan tore from both of us, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief that echoed off the walls of the silent room.
The three weeks of distance didn't just vanish—they burned up in the heat of that contact.
I tried to sit up, my muscles coiling with the instinct to meet her halfway, to pull her chest back against mine and take some of the work from her. But the second my elbows left the mattress, Lizzie’s palms were flat against my shoulders, shoving me back down with a firm, stubborn pressure.
"No," she whined, the sound small and needy, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. She shook her head, her hair falling over her face in wild, golden tangles. "Stay. Just stay right there."
I let out a shaky breath, my head hitting the pillow again as I nodded. I couldn't have fought her if I wanted to. Instead, I reached out and gripped her thighs, my fingers digging into the soft skin of her hips to anchor us both.
Lizzie didn't waste a second. She closed her eyes, her head tilting back as she began to move. She wasn't just lifting and dropping; she was rolling her hips in a slow, torturous circle, back and forth, grinding down against me with a precision that made my vision go white at the edges.
"Fuck, baby," I moaned, the words breaking apart in the air.
Hearing my voice—hearing that specific, wrecked tone—was like gasoline on the fire. Lizzie let out a high, fractured moan of her own, her rhythm stuttering for a heartbeat before she leaned forward, her hands sliding from my shoulders to my chest, her nails skimming my skin. Every roll of her hips felt like she was trying to get closer than physically possible, trying to erase every single mile of that three-week separation with one devastating movement.
The slow, grinding rolls shifted into something more primal as the friction reached a fever pitch. Lizzie shifted her weight, her breath coming in short, jagged gasps as she began to move up and down in a frantic, driving rhythm. Her head was thrown back, her throat a long, pale line in the moonlight, and every time she came down, she let out a shattered moan that vibrated through my entire body.
I reached up, my hands sliding from her thighs to her waist, helping her maintain that punishing pace as my own heart threatened to hammer its way out of my ribs.
"Lizzie," I choked out, my voice dropping to a low, gravelly rasp. I watched her—the way her eyes stayed squeezed shut, the way her body looked so perfect moving above me. "God, I love... I love when you use my cock like that."
The words acted like a catalyst. Lizzie’s eyes snapped open, dark and blown wide with heat, and she let out a sound that was half-sob, half-growl. She leaned down, her hair brushing against my face, and gripped my hands, lacing her fingers with mine and pinning them against the mattress.
"Mine," she whispered, the word a ragged command against my lips as she increased the speed, her body slick and hot against mine. "You're mine."
She was moving with a desperate, beautiful ferocity now, her moans turning into a steady, rhythmic chant of my name. We were both right on the edge, the three weeks of distance finally, violently being crushed out of existence between our bodies.
I couldn't stay flat on my back anymore. The need to be closer, to feel the full weight of her against my chest, was a physical ache. I surged upward, my core straining as I sat up, and Lizzie immediately adjusted, her legs wrapping even tighter around my waist to keep us joined.
She let out a sharp, surprised gasp at the shift in depth, but she didn't stop. She draped her arms around my neck, pulling me into her like she was trying to merge our heartbeats. I buried my face in the crook of her neck, my hands locking onto her waist, my thumbs digging into the soft dip of her lower back to help guide her rhythm.
"Don't stop, baby," I rasped against her skin, my voice barely recognizable. "Right there."
Lizzie responded by picking up the pace, her movements becoming frantic and shallow as we both neared the peak. She began to kiss me again—short, breathless, messy kisses that tasted like salt and desperation. Every time she pushed down, she let out a broken, high-pitched whimper, her forehead dropping to rest against mine.
"Y/N... please," she whispered, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of my neck, pulling with a delicious tension.
I didn’t let her bear the weight of it alone anymore. My hands gripped her waist with a white-knuckled intensity, and I began to thrust upward, meeting every one of her desperate descents with a force that made the headboard groan against the wall.
The rhythm became a blur of friction and heat. Lizzie’s breath hitched into a continuous, broken sound, her chest heaving against mine as we collided. I could feel the internal tremors starting deep within her, that tell-tale tightening that signaled she was seconds away.
"I’ve got you," I grunted, my voice a raw, primal thing. I surged into her one last time, pinning her body against mine so there wasn't a single atom of space left between us.
Lizzie’s head snapped back, her eyes fluttering shut as she let out a long, high-pitched cry that broke into a sob of pure relief. Her internal muscles clamped down on me in rhythmic, pulsing waves, dragging the climax out of me with a violent suddenness. I followed her over the edge, my body racking with tremors as I buried my face in her shoulder, a low, guttural groan echoing through the room.
We stayed like that for a long time—locked together, shaking, our hearts thudding against each other’s ribs like trapped birds. The three weeks of distance were finally gone, replaced by the heavy, humid silence of a room where nothing mattered but the person in your arms.
The silence that followed was thick and sweet, but it didn't last long. I pulled back just enough to find her lips again, our breaths still mingling in the quiet air. It started as a slow, grounding kiss—a way to say I’m here, I’ve got you—but as our tongues brushed, that familiar, low-level electricity flared back into a roar.
I felt Lizzie’s fingers tighten at the nape of my neck, her nails scratching lightly against my skin, and then she began to wiggle on my lap. The friction of her against me, combined with the slick heat still binding us together, sent a fresh jolt of adrenaline straight to my gut.
"Lizzie," I warned, a breathless laugh catching in my throat.
She didn't answer with words. She just arched her back, her chest brushing mine, and gave a small, feline smile that told me exactly how much she wasn't done with me.
I didn't need a second invitation. I gripped her hips and, with a sudden burst of strength, flipped us back over. Her back hit the pillows with a soft thump, her hair fanning out like a golden halo. I settled between her thighs, bracing myself on my forearms so I could look down at her. She looked beautiful—flushed, wrecked, and completely focused on me.
"Slow," she whispered, her hands sliding up my biceps. "Make it last."
I nodded, my eyes locked on hers as I began to move. I kept the pace steady and agonizingly deep, savoring every inch of the connection. Lizzie’s eyes fluttered shut, a long, melodic moan escaping her as she hooked her ankles behind my back, pulling me even deeper into her heat. Round two was a slow burn, a deliberate exploration of everything we’d missed, and as the moonlight shifted across the bed, it felt like we had all the time in the world.
---
Back to Present
That night, we made love again.
And again.
And again.
Actually—scratch that.
For the whole month after that, we made love all the time.
We were like rabbits.
Every stolen morning before meetings. Lazy afternoons when one of us got home early. Midnight when neither of us could sleep. It wasn’t just physical—it was that desperate, grateful kind of closeness that comes after distance. Like we were proving to each other that three weeks hadn’t changed anything.
If anything, it made us worse.
At some point, Lizzie laughed breathlessly one morning, pressing her forehead to mine and saying, “Okay. We need to start using condoms.”
I blinked at her. “You’re on birth control.”
“I know,” she said, poking my chest. “But with how often we’ve been having sex? I might get pregnant anyway.”
She said it half-joking. Half.
I remember the way she looked at me when she said it. Not scared. Not exactly. Just… thoughtful.
After that, I didn’t argue. We were careful. Responsible. Slightly less reckless.
But we didn’t slow down.
And then—last month—everything shifted.
It started small.
Lizzie got tired easily. The kind of tired that wasn’t fixed by sleep. She’d sit down “just for a second” and end up dozing off on the couch. She said it was just the tail end of filming exhaustion.
Then came the dizziness.
I found her one afternoon gripping the kitchen counter, eyes closed.
“Just stood up too fast,” she insisted.
Then the nausea.
The first time she threw up, she blamed takeout. The second time, she blamed stress. The third time, she just brushed past me and locked the bathroom door.
I told myself she was getting better.
There were a few good days. She smiled more. Ate a little. Even teased me like usual.
And then—
She started denying sex.
At first, it was gentle. “Not tonight, baby.” Or “I don’t feel great.”
Of course I understood. I’m not a monster.
But then it kept happening.
Two weeks.
No teasing hands. No slow kisses that turned into something else. When I reached for her at night, she’d curl into me—but differently. Protective. Guarded.
And now she’s secretive.
Phone close. Bathroom door locked. Doctor appointments she won’t let me attend.
So I keep replaying everything.
The month we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.
The sudden sickness.
The way she won’t let me touch her the same way anymore.
Did I do something?
Did I push too much?
Was I too distracted?
Did I miss something important?
Or is there something happening to her… that she’s not telling me?
Because there’s something wrong with my wife.
And I don’t know if I’m the reason.
---
I must have dosed off, because I was dreaming when I feel the mattress shifting violently beside me.
Lizzie jerks upright, one hand flying to her mouth. For half a second I’m still half-asleep, confused—then she’s already scrambling out of bed.
“Liz?” My voice is rough with sleep, but I’m up instantly.
She doesn’t answer. She barely makes it to the bathroom before the sound hits me.
I’m fully awake now.
I follow her without thinking, my heart already pounding in my chest. She’s on her knees in front of the toilet, one hand braced against the seat, the other pressed to her stomach like she’s trying to hold herself together.
I kneel beside her immediately.
“Hey, hey,” I murmur softly, reaching to gather her hair back from her face. I hold it carefully, keeping it out of the way as her body heaves again.
God, I hate this.
Her back trembles under my palm, and I start rubbing slow circles between her shoulders—steady, grounding. “I’ve got you,” I whisper. “I’ve got you, baby.”
She doesn’t push me away. Doesn’t tell me she’s fine. She just breathes raggedly, exhausted.
When it finally stops, she stays there for a second, forehead resting against the cool porcelain like she doesn’t have the strength to move.
My chest tightens.
“Okay,” I murmur gently. I reach for a towel, dampen it quickly, and press it to the back of her neck. “Easy.”
She swallows, nodding faintly.
I help her sit back against the bathtub, still holding her close. Her skin is pale—too pale—and there’s a sheen of sweat across her forehead. I brush it away carefully, my thumb tracing along her temple.
“I thought you were getting better,” I say quietly, unable to hide the worry in my voice.
Her eyes flick up to mine for a split second—something flickers there. Guilt? Fear? I can’t tell.
“I know,” she whispers.
I gather her fully into my arms then, pulling her against my chest. She melts into me immediately, face pressing into my shoulder like she’s been waiting for permission to collapse.
I hold her tighter.
“You need to see a doctor,” I murmur into her hair. “This isn’t just being tired anymore.”
She goes still at that.
And that’s when the dread starts creeping in again.
Because she doesn’t argue.
She just holds onto me.
And I can feel it.
She’s hiding something.
---
Lizzie’s POV
Yes.
I’m pregnant.
And honestly? I have no idea how Y/N hasn’t figured it out yet.
All the signs were there. The exhaustion that sleep wouldn’t fix. The dizziness. The nausea that came out of nowhere. The sudden aversion to smells I normally love. I mean—come on.
I figured it out three weeks ago.
The morning I had to sit down on the bathroom floor because the room wouldn’t stop spinning, it clicked. The joke I’d made a month earlier echoed in my head.
With how often we’ve been having sex? I might get pregnant anyway.
I’d laughed when I said it.
I wasn’t laughing when I drove to the pharmacy.
I bought one test.
Then I bought three more because I didn’t trust the first one.
They were all positive.
Every single one.
I just sat there on the edge of the tub staring at them, heart pounding so loud I could barely hear my own breathing. It wasn’t fear exactly. Not the kind that makes you want to run.
It was shock.
Because we’d agreed to wait.
A few more years. Let our schedules calm down. Let the tours space out. Let filming slow down. We were going to plan this. Do it properly. Be responsible.
This wasn’t the plan.
But the second the shock settled?
I touched my stomach.
And I smiled.
Not because it was convenient. Not because the timing was perfect.
But because it was ours.
A tiny, impossible, reckless little piece of us that somehow slipped through all the precautions and decided it didn’t care about calendars.
I knew Y/N would love it.
That’s the thing. I never doubted that for a second.
She would panic for exactly five minutes about logistics. Then she would cry. Then she would start planning nurseries and looking at baby shoes and calling herself a “cool parent.”
The thought alone made my chest feel too full.
I almost told her that night.
She was asleep beside me, one arm thrown over my waist, breathing slow and steady. I remember staring at her in the dark, whispering the words in my head.
You’re going to be a parent.
But I stopped myself.
I wanted it to be special.
Something she’d remember forever.
So I picked Valentine’s Day.
Perfect, right? Romantic. Symbolic. A love that literally made life.
And that’s when I made the mistake.
I started trying to hide it.
Which is ridiculous, because apparently I am the worst secret-keeper alive.
I denied sex—not because I didn’t want her. God, I wanted her constantly. But even though my stomach was still flat, I was convinced she’d notice something. That she’d feel something different. That she’d put her hand on me and just know.
So I pulled back.
Blamed being tired. Blamed nausea. Turned away at night when all I really wanted was to curl into her and tell her everything.
And now?
Now I see the way she looks at me.
Worried. Confused. Second-guessing herself.
She thinks she did something wrong.
And that makes the guilt settle heavy in my chest.
Because she didn’t.
She did everything right.
She loved me through the distance. Through the sickness. Through the bathroom floor at two in the morning.
And I’ve been keeping the best news of our lives from her… because I wanted it to be perfect.
I look at her now—hovering in the bathroom doorway, eyes soft with concern.
Valentine’s Day is just a few more days away.
Just a few more days, Lizzie.
You can hold it in for a few more days.
I swallow the guilt and force a small smile. I don’t want her spiraling. I don’t want her blaming herself for something that’s actually… beautiful.
I reach up, my fingers brushing her wrist before sliding higher, curling gently around her hand. She steps closer immediately, like she’s been waiting for permission.
“Hey,” I murmur softly.
She kneels in front of me again, her thumb brushing my cheek. “You scared me.”
I nuzzle into her touch, pressing a light kiss to her palm before leaning forward and resting my forehead against her jaw. “I’m okay,” I whisper.
It’s not a lie.
Just incomplete.
“Can you take me back to bed?” I ask quietly.
Her arms are around me before I even finish the sentence.
She lifts me carefully, like I’m fragile, like I might break if she moves too fast. I wrap my arms around her neck and tuck my face into the warmth of her shoulder, breathing her in. Safe. Steady. Mine.
She lays me down gently, pulling the covers up around us.
I don’t let go.
I cling to her, one leg sliding over hers, my hand fisting lightly into the fabric of her shirt. She strokes my hair, slow and soothing, still worried.
“I’m fine,” I murmur again, pressing my lips to her collarbone. “Just tired.”
She hums softly, unconvinced but choosing not to push.
Her hand settles over my waist.
Over our secret.
And for a second, I almost tell her.
Almost.
But Valentine’s Day is just a few days away.
Just a few more days.
“I love you,” I whisper, already drifting.
“I love you more,” she answers immediately.
I smile against her skin and let sleep pull me under—curled against the person who’s about to become a parent and doesn’t even know it yet.
---
Y/N’s POV
Two days later, I couldn’t take it anymore.
I stopped on the way home and bought takeout from that Thai place she loves. The one she used to crave at midnight. I told myself maybe she just needed something familiar. Something comforting.
“Smells good, right?” I said lightly as I set the containers on the coffee table.
The second I peeled open the lid—
Lizzie bolted.
No hesitation. No warning.
Just up and running for the bathroom.
My stomach dropped.
I followed her immediately, heart pounding in my ears, and found her on her knees again. I knelt beside her like I always did, pulling her hair back, rubbing slow circles along her spine while her body shook.
“It’s okay,” I whispered automatically. “I’ve got you.”
But this time it didn’t feel okay.
This time it felt wrong.
When she finished, she looked drained. Pale. Fragile.
I didn’t say anything. I just slid one arm under her knees, the other around her back, and lifted her. She didn’t protest. She just let her head fall against my shoulder as I carried her to the couch.
I sat her down carefully, then dropped to my knees in front of her.
“Liz,” I said quietly.
She gave me that small, tired smile she’s been giving me for weeks. “I’m fine.”
“No.”
The word came out firmer than I expected.
Her smile faltered.
“No more,” I said, shaking my head. My hands were resting on her knees, and I realized they were trembling. “You need to see a doctor. I can’t just— I can’t just watch this.”
“I told you, I—”
“No.” My voice cracked this time. “Please.”
That got her attention.
“I’m scared,” I admitted, and the words felt like they were tearing out of me. “I’m really scared.”
Her expression softened immediately.
“I thought you were getting better,” I whispered. “And then it keeps happening. You’re not eating. You’re dizzy. You can’t even smell food without—” My throat closed up. “I don’t want to lose you.”
Her eyes widened.
“And if you’re upset with me,” I rushed on, the fear finally spilling over, “if that’s why you’ve been pulling away, if I did something wrong—just tell me. We can fix it. We don’t have to be intimate. I don’t care about that. I just— I can’t stand here and watch you get sick.”
My vision blurred.
“I love you,” I choked. “You’re more important than anything.”
She reached for my face immediately.
“Hey. Hey.” Her thumbs brushed under my eyes, catching the tears before they fell. “I’m not upset with you.”
“Then why won’t you go to a doctor?”
She hesitated.
And then she sighed softly.
“I already did.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“I went,” she said gently. “A few weeks ago.”
My stomach dropped again—but this time for a different reason.
“What did they say?” I whispered.
She stood up slowly. “Wait here.”
Every worst-case scenario my brain had ever imagined detonated at once.
Wait here?
Why wait here?
She disappeared upstairs, leaving me sitting on the edge of the couch, hands clasped together so tightly my knuckles turned white.
I was already going pale.
Cancer.
Chronic illness.
Something we didn’t catch in time.
I barely heard her footsteps coming back down.
When she returned, she was holding a small paper bag.
She stood in front of me, eyes soft but nervous. “I didn’t plan on telling you this way,” she said quietly. “I wanted it to be special.”
My heart was slamming against my ribs.
“Lizzie,” I breathed, barely able to stand, “please.”
She handed me the bag.
My fingers felt numb as I reached inside.
The first thing I pulled out was fabric.
Small.
Tiny.
A little shirt.
I unfolded it slowly.
Newest member of the band.
I froze.
The room went completely silent.
My eyes lifted to hers.
“You’re pregnant?” My voice came out thin. “Not sick? Pregnant?”
She nodded.
A small, almost tearful smile forming on her lips.
“Yes.”
And suddenly everything—the nausea, the exhaustion, the dizziness, the condoms, the joke—
Made sense.
I just stared at her.
“You’re… pregnant,” I repeated, like I was trying to teach my brain how to understand the word.
Not losing her.
Not sickness.
Life.
Our life.
Growing inside her.
“You’re pregnant?”
Lizzie closes the distance between us.
She cups my face in both hands, thumbs warm against my cheeks, and makes sure I’m really looking at her.
“Yes,” she repeats softly. Lovingly. “I’m pregnant.”
Something inside me snaps.
Not in a bad way.
In a breaking-open way.
The tears come before I can stop them. Hot. Sudden. Relentless.
“Oh my God,” I breathe—and then I’m crying. Actually crying. My shoulders shake, my vision blurs, and the only thing I can manage through it is, “Thank God. Thank God.”
I surge forward and pull her into me, wrapping my arms around her so tightly I’m afraid she might scold me for it. I bury my face in her neck, and the relief pours out of me in uneven sobs.
“I thought you were really sick,” I choke out. “I thought—”
I can’t even finish it.
For weeks I’ve been bracing for bad news. For hospitals. For something I couldn’t fix. And instead—
Instead it’s this.
She holds me just as tight, one hand sliding into my hair, the other rubbing slow circles between my shoulders like I’d done for her on the bathroom floor.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers against my temple. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to tell you in a special way and it got out of hand.”
I pull back just enough to look at her, my hands moving carefully—so carefully—to cradle her face.
“No,” I say immediately, shaking my head through tears. “No. Everything’s okay. It’s okay.”
My laugh comes out watery and broken. “You’re not sick.”
“I mean, I kind of am,” she jokes weakly.
I let out another shaky breath and press my forehead to hers.
“You’re pregnant,” I say again, softer this time. In awe. My hands slide down instinctively, hovering at her waist before resting gently against her stomach. “There’s a baby.”
“Our baby,” she whispers.
I look up at her like she’s hung the stars.
“You scared me,” I admit quietly. “I don’t ever want to think about losing you again.”
Her eyes fill at that, and she leans in, kissing me slow and grounding.
“You’re not losing me,” she murmurs against my lips. “You’re gaining someone.”
A wet laugh escapes me as I pull her back into another hug—careful this time, protective.
“You are pregnant,” I whisper into her hair.
And then I start laughing.
Not polished. Not controlled. Just pure, overwhelmed joy spilling out of me.
“You’re pregnant,” I repeat, pulling back to look at her again like maybe I imagined it. “You’re actually pregnant.”
Lizzie smiles—but there’s something hesitant in it now. Something searching.
“Are you… okay with it?” she asks softly.
That makes me stop.
Her hands slide down to mine, squeezing gently. “We said we’d wait. A few more years. Until things calmed down. I know this wasn’t the plan.”
I stare at her for a second.
Then I shake my head slowly.
“Plans change,” I say.
She studies my face carefully, like she’s bracing for disappointment.
I step closer, cupping her cheeks in my hands.
“Lizzie,” I breathe, my voice steady now. “You are the love of my life. Do you understand that?”
Her eyes immediately gloss over.
“Having a kid with you?” I continue softly. “That’s not ruining a plan. That’s… that’s an extension of us. Of what we already are.”
My thumb brushes over her cheek.
“I’m terrified,” I admit honestly. “Absolutely terrified. We don’t have calm schedules. We don’t have perfect timing. I don’t know how we’re going to balance everything.”
Her fingers tighten around mine.
“But with you?” I whisper. “With you, I won’t regret anything.”
Her breath hitches.
“As long as you’re good with this,” I add gently, searching her eyes now. “As long as this is something you want… then I want it. I want all of it. The chaos. The late nights. The diapers. The noise. I want it with you.”
A tear slips down her cheek.
“You’re sure?” she asks in a tiny voice.
I laugh softly, leaning my forehead against hers.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
My hands drift down, resting carefully over her stomach again.
“We’ll figure it out,” I murmur. “We always do.”
She lets out a shaky breath, relief washing over her face like sunlight breaking through clouds.
“I want it,” she whispers.
I smile—slow, warm, steady.
“Then we’re having a baby.”
And suddenly the future doesn’t look scary.
It looks loud.
It looks messy.
It looks perfect.
I rest my forehead against hers, still smiling like I’ve just been handed the entire universe.
“We’re having a baby,” I repeat softly, like I’m testing how it feels in my mouth.
Lizzie laughs through her tears, nodding. “We are.”
I pull her into me again, slower this time, both of us careful now in a way we weren’t before. My hands settle at her waist, thumbs brushing just under her ribs, like I’m already guarding something precious.
“We’ve got this,” I murmur.
“We do,” she agrees.
And we stand there for a long moment in the middle of our living room, surrounded by abandoned takeout containers and tear-streaked cheeks and a future we didn’t plan but somehow fits perfectly anyway.
It’s only later—much later—that we’ll sit in a quiet doctor’s office, holding hands again, listening to a heartbeat.
And then another.
But that’s a story for another time.
---
---
Extra Scene
Later, after the tears settle and the adrenaline fades, we’re curled up on the couch.
I insisted she eat something—plain toast, crackers, ginger tea. Nothing aggressive. Nothing that could even think about upsetting her stomach again. She rolls her eyes at me, but she eats it.
Now she’s tucked into my side, one of my hoodies swallowed around her frame, her head resting against my chest while my fingers lazily comb through her hair.
The house feels different.
Same walls. Same furniture.
Different future.
“I still can’t believe I didn’t figure it out,” I mumble, staring at the ceiling.
She tilts her head slightly. “Figure what out?”
“That you’re pregnant,” I say, glancing down at her. “Liz, every single symptom was textbook. Nausea. Dizziness. Exhaustion. Food aversions. You practically glow under fluorescent lighting.”
She laughs softly. “I thought the same thing.”
I narrow my eyes at her.
She lifts her chin, teasing. “I kept thinking, any minute now she’s going to gasp dramatically and point at me like she solved a mystery.”
I pout instinctively.
She immediately leans up and kisses it.
Right on the pout.
I try to stay offended. I fail.
“I was worried,” I mutter, the humor fading into something softer. “I thought it was something big. Something serious. My brain didn’t go anywhere else. I didn’t want to.”
Her expression shifts, gentler now.
“I know,” she says quietly.
“I wasn’t thinking about pregnancy,” I admit. “I was thinking hospitals. I was thinking bad news. I was thinking about losing you.”
She reaches up and cups my cheek.
“You’re not losing me.”
“I know,” I whisper, placing my hand carefully over her stomach again. “I just… when I love something, I panic about it.”
She smiles at that.
“Well,” she says lightly, “you’re about to love something else very loudly.”
I let out a soft laugh and tighten my arm around her.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Guess I better start practicing not spiraling.”
She hums contently, shifting closer.
And as we sit there—quiet, warm, full of cautious excitement—I can’t stop the small, awed smile from spreading across my face.
CW: Threesome, PIV, protected & unprotected sex, cunnilingus, masturbation, mentions of alcohol, constant bickering, overstimulation, dirty talk, mentions of birth control, mentions of breeding towards the end, Santana lowkey degrades Quinn and Quinn is really into it
A/N: My first fic featuring Santana! I’m thinking about starting to write for her as well! Also, my first (sort of) poly fic, which I surprisingly really enjoyed writing lol, so if you’d like anything else like this please let me know! This is I think the longest thing I’ve ever written and as a result there are some parts that are pretty good and some parts that are… not as good lol but please bear with me because I really wanted to get this out for you guys asap! I’m not sure how this one will even do, but if you do read it, I hope you like it :)
“Okay… before I let you do this, there are a few rules you’re gonna have to follow,” Quinn began with her arms crossed over her chest sternly, her strict tone making it all the more obvious that she was not fucking around.
Santana raised one perfectly plucked brow, her own arms crossing over her chest almost instinctively to mirror Quinn’s stance. She seemed hesitant, but nodded her agreement nonetheless. “Okay, fine. What are these ‘rules’ I need to follow?” The raven haired girl asked, accentuating the word ‘rules’ with finger quotes, which visibly pissed Quinn off enough to almost earn a chuckle from her.
The former head cheerleader let out a huff, strong jaw clenched tightly as she took a step closer to Santana, trying (and failing) to intimidate the shorter girl. “Number one,” she barked, holding up a single finger in Santana’s face. “You’re wearing a condom. Yes, she’s on birth control, but I don’t give a fuck. You are not cumming inside of my girlfriend. Got that?”
Santana cringed at Quinn’s unnecessary use of vulgarity, but before she could tell her to knock it off, the blonde was holding another finger up in her face. “Number two; don’t try to ask for anything extra. You’re not eating her out and she’s definitely not sucking you off. You can fuck her, and that’s it.”
“Jesus, Quinn!” Santana reacted, her face screwing up in disgust. “Do you have to be so fucking vulgar?”
Quinn scoffed. “Oh, get over yourself! I’m about to let you sleep with my girlfriend, and you’re complaining about me being vulgar? What, do you think this is gonna be a nice, safe for work threesome? How else do you want me to describe this shit?!”
Santana froze. She wanted to snap back, but she didn’t really know how. It wasn’t like Quinn was wrong…
The blonde rolled her eyes and shook her head as she realized her friend wasn’t going to respond to that, and continued on explaining her rules. “And number three,” her finger popped up. “You may kiss her, but only for a few seconds at a time. And no tongue!”
Santana sighed exasperatedly, scrubbing her hands over her face in frustration. “Quinn, do you actually want to do this?” She asked, watching as the taller girl’s face fell in surprise. “Because if you don’t, then I can leave. I’m not gonna force you to do something that’s gonna make you uncomfortable just because you feel sorry for me.”
An indecipherable emotion flashed in Quinn’s eyes, (could it be guilt?) and all of a sudden, the blonde found herself reliving the night this whole plan had been made just a few short weeks ago.
It had been nearly 10 PM when Quinn’s phone started blowing up with a dozen text messages from Santana asking if she’d meet her at a bar on campus. Quinn was hesitant, but when another text came through, this one simply reading ‘please,’ she knew she had no choice but to go. Santana being desperate enough to say please was a rarity, and it had Quinn worried that something really bad had happened.
Santana was already there when Quinn arrived at the bar, and even without speaking to her, she could tell that she was both upset and a little tipsy. Quinn slid into the barstool beside hers, and as soon as their eyes met, the Latina’s mouth started running like a faucet.
It turned out that Santana and her on again off again girlfriend were off again; and despite this being the fifth or sixth time they’d broken up in the past year, (Quinn had lost count after the third time this had happened) Santana seemed pretty positive that their relationship was truly over this time.
The raven haired girl seemed genuinely upset, and although she’d never dare shed a tear in front of her long time frenemy Quinn Fabray, she had to knock back quite a few drinks to lighten her mood enough to avoid fully breaking down.
After an hour or two of listening to Santana rant and rave about how betrayed she felt, and how she’d given her ex everything and gotten nothing in return, and how she swore she’d never love again, Quinn began drinking too. She’d had much less than Santana, (which became obvious fairly soon) but it was still enough to give her a pleasant buzz. And soon enough, the topic changed from Santana’s heartbreak to something much more interesting for two college aged girls – their sex lives.
The conversation started when the Latina began to whine about the ‘lack of pussy’ she’d be getting from that point forward, to which Quinn suggested that she just hook up with random girls to get her fill until she started dating again.
Santana wasn’t satisfied with that solution and, in a move she most likely wouldn’t have made if she was sober, admitted that she didn’t really like hooking up with strangers.
The idea was so absurd that Quinn couldn’t help but laugh. The Santana Lopez didn’t like to fuck random girls? Yeah, right. Taking a stranger home, banging her, and then throwing her out first thing in the morning seemed right up Santana’s alley. But she insisted that it wasn’t, explaining that she preferred to know someone at least a little bit before sleeping with them.
She still didn’t quite believe what she was hearing, but in the sake of keeping the conversation moving, Quinn decided to entertain her friend by asking if there were any girls she knew that she would be interested in hooking up with. Surprisingly, Santana froze like a deer in headlights, glancing at Quinn hesitantly before bursting into a fit of drunken giggles. She shook her head vehemently, and insisted mid laughter that Quinn didn’t want to know the answer to that question.
But predictably, hearing that only made the blonde want to know even more.
She pushed and pushed and pushed until the Latina finally relented and agreed to tell her. Santana rested her elbows on the bar and buried her face in her hands, still giggling deliriously, before turning to glance at Quinn. With a mischievous (and yet entirely serious) look in her eyes, Santana mumbled out two simple words – ‘your girlfriend.’
Hearing that hit Quinn like a bus, and if she were any drunker, (or maybe any more sober) she wouldn’t have hesitated to leap out of that barstool and knock Santana’s teeth down her throat. But luckily for Santana, the blonde was just the right amount of drunk to be curious as to why her friend wanted to fuck her girlfriend. (Other than the fact that you were breathtakingly gorgeous, of course…)
Santana just sighed, rolling her eyes as Quinn demanded to know why she was so desperate to fuck you of all people. There was an unmistakeable blush on the raven haired girl’s cheeks as she explained that she’d always thought you were hot, and knowing from all the time spent in the cheerio’s locker room that she and Quinn were both working with the same… equipment made her occasionally think about what it would be like to have sex with you. Occasionally.
She braced herself for the bitch slap she just knew was coming, but when a few seconds went by without the sting of Quinn’s palm against her cheek, she hesitantly opened her eyes to see the blonde sitting beside her, seemingly in deep thought.
Santana knew better than to ask Quinn what was on her mind, but even if she did, Quinn certainly wouldn’t have told her the truth that, somewhere underneath all the possessiveness, anger, and jealousy brewing inside of her, was an undeniable feeling of lust. Quinn’s stomach twisted with envy, but she couldn’t ignore the way her cock twitched to life underneath her skirt at the mental image of her best friend fucking you like only she got to do.
After a few minutes of silence from the blonde, Santana cautiously said her name, hoping to get her attention. Quinn’s head indeed snapped up, but rather than chastise her like Santana had been bracing for, she simply shook her head, mumbled that she had to go, and slammed a twenty dollar bill on the counter before shrugging her coat on and rushing out the door.
Santana groaned in annoyance at Quinn’s dramatics and stumbled towards the door to try and follow after her, but by the time she stepped outside the blonde was already gone. She just sighed and went back inside to pay her tab before deciding to get an Uber and head home early. Clearly, she’d already had more than enough to drink if she willingly told her best friend that she fantasized about fucking her girlfriend…
When Quinn walked through the door of your shared apartment that night, she was immediately all over you despite the fact that it was nearly one o’clock in the morning. You could feel how hard she was through her clothes, but you turned her down anyway, noticing that she was obviously way too drunk to properly consent to having sex. She grumbled and pouted when she rolled off of you and lied straight to your face when you asked her why she had the world’s most raging boner after coming home from a night out with her best friend. You sighed defeatedly, a little worried about why she was so clearly turned on, before deciding to just let it go and trust her. Quinn loved you, and you knew she would never step out on you like that. So, you put all your doubts aside and helped her get ready for bed before crawling in beside her and falling asleep next to her just like you always did.
The next morning you were rudely awoken by the sound of your girlfriend’s phone dinging obnoxiously with what seemed like a thousand text messages. You tried to wake her up and get her to turn her phone off a couple of times, but she was knocked out after the night she had. So, with an annoyed groan, you reached over her sleeping form and grabbed her phone from the nightstand. You’d only intended to silence it or turn it off, as you always thought going through your partner’s phone was a total violation of their privacy, but one of the messages that popped up on her screen intrigued you enough to unlock the device and read through this plethora of texts she was getting.
They were all from Santana – multiple short messages, some of which were barely comprehensible due to her hungover state, that all contained some variation of apology. You scrolled through to see if you could find any context, and when you did, your jaw dropped.
Santana, in a guilty ramble, said she wasn’t sure if Quinn remembered, but last night during a conversation about their sex lives, she’d said something ‘stupid and insensitive’ about how she’d fantasized about having sex with you. She went on to say she knew Quinn was mad because of the way she abruptly left the bar, and apologized about a hundred more times before you finally stopped reading.
You barely had time to process what you’d just read (not that it made any difference in the way your body was reacting) when all of a sudden Quinn was awake and snatching her phone out of your hands. She swore under her breath as she scrolled through all of Santana’s texts, realizing you’d likely read them all and pieced together what had happened last night.
Your girlfriend tossed her phone to the side, fully prepared to beg for your forgiveness, but before she could even get a word out, you were laughing nonchalantly. Quinn was surprised to hear you say that it was no big deal, and that you talked to your friends about your sex life all the time, and that she couldn’t control what Santana thought about or said when it came to you. But she was even more surprised when you smirked, straddled her lap, and moved your lips to the shell of her ear to ask in that sexy whisper if that was the reason she’d come home so fucking hard last night.
Her eyes nearly popped out of her skull at that, and you could feel her getting hard beneath you as her hands flew to grip your hips. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, trying to decide whether she should just lie, (even though she knew she couldn’t hide the way her boner was pressing into you) or tell the truth and admit to her depravity.
Luckily for her, you didn’t give her a chance to respond, instead pressing your lips to hers passionately and spreading your legs for her when she rolled you both over to get on top of you.
Quinn fucked you then and there, thrusting so hard that the headboard slammed against the wall repeatedly as she released all that pent up horniness from the night prior. And when you whispered in her ear as she was buried deep inside of you that you wondered what it would feel like to have Santana fucking you instead, she let out an almost animalistic growl, jealousy blooming in her chest as she pinned you down to the mattress and came harder than she had in a minute.
That moment right there was more than enough for you to know that Quinn was definitely into the idea of having a threesome… even if she was too stubborn and jealous to admit it.
Afterwards, as you lay your head on your girlfriend’s bare chest, you gently approached the topic at hand so you could talk about without the conversation being dictated by the lust between the two of you. Quinn knew there was no hiding it at this point; you’d both seen and felt the way she reacted to the mere mention of bringing Santana into the bedroom, so she put her pride aside and admitted to you that yes, she liked the idea of watching her best friend fuck you – she really liked the idea.
It was a relatively long conversation as Quinn needed a little reassurance that you belonged to her and her alone, even if you brought Santana home to spice things up. But in the end, you agreed that this was something you both wanted to try, so it was decided that Quinn would reach out to Santana to see if she really was interested in joining the two of you for a night.
And unsurprisingly, it turned out that Santana was more than interested in that. So a lengthy discussion was had between your girlfriend and her best friend, plans were made, and the countdown began to the night you all decided to give in to the desires shared between the three of you.
The sound of Santana’s voice saying her name brought Quinn back to the present, and her head snapped up to look at the raven haired girl, noticing the way her perfectly sculpted eyebrows were fraught with worry (and maybe a little disappointment.)
“I’m serious, Quinn. If you’re not okay with this, then–”
“I am okay with it,” the blonde interrupted, nodding her head adamantly. “Really, I am. Why would I have agreed to this if I weren’t okay with it? I mean, seriously… do you think I’m that much of a pushover?”
Santana hesitated for a second, but before she could say anything in response, Quinn spoke up again. “What, are you getting cold feet or something? Don’t back out on my girl now, Santana. She’s been waiting for this. She wants to get fucked tonight, and not just by me.”
Quinn had a feeling that the teasing challenge of her words would kick Santana back into gear, and she knew she was right when her friend took her bottom lip between her teeth, shifting restlessly on her two feet. “Fuck, okay…” she breathed out, combing her fingers through her long dark hair. “I’m good. I’m ready. Let’s do this.”
Quinn’s eyebrow raised skeptically, and she eyed Santana cautiously for a few seconds to see if she’d change her mind and back out. When she didn’t, the blonde nodded her head and turned around to slip her key into the lock on the door to your shared apartment.
“Baby,” Quinn called out as she and Santana both stepped inside. “We’re here! Where are you?”
A few seconds passed with no sign of you and, just when Quinn was about to call out for you again, the bedroom door opened and you stepped out in a short, baby pink satin nightgown with black lace trim, your face bare and your hair flowing effortlessly down your back.
The shocked look on both of their faces had butterflies swarming in your chest as you stepped in front of them, the blush on your cheeks uncharacteristic for someone who was about to get tag teamed by her girlfriend and her best friend.
“Hi…” you mumbled shyly, looking down at the floor to avoid eye contact as two pairs of eyes roamed over your body.
“Well, isn’t this a nice surprise?” Quinn teased, her voice an octave lower than usual as she stepped toward you and grabbed your hips, pulling your body flush against hers. “Here I was thinking I’d come home to find you in one of my tee shirts and some sweatpants. But no, you wanted to get dressed up all pretty for our guest, didn’t you?”
Your breath hitched as Quinn pulled you against her, your hands flying up to brace against her chest. You bit your lip shyly, glancing over your girlfriend’s shoulder to look at Santana before turning your attention back to Quinn. You nodded your head softly, earning a dark chuckle from the blonde.
“Dirty little thing…” she grumbled, giving your hips a squeeze before crashing her lips onto yours possessively.
You gasped into the kiss, your arms instinctively looping around her shoulders as one of her hands traveled down to give your ass a squeeze. Things were getting heated fast, and it was obvious that Quinn was trying to show off in front of Santana, but you didn’t mind. The longer you felt the Latina’s eyes on you as you made out with your girlfriend, the more the nerves and shyness you felt gave way to the familiar tingling of arousal in between your legs.
Quinn pulled away a minute later when you both ran out of breath, pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, and turned to look at Santana with a smirk. “Alright, Lopez… let’s see you try to beat that.”
Santana scoffed and shook her head. “God, you are so immature.” She stepped closer to you, her heels clicking against the floor. “You don’t have to make everything a competition, Quinn. We’re not in high school anymore.”
Your girlfriend opened her mouth to argue, but quickly closed it when she saw the soft, charming smile Santana gave you as she reached a hand up to tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. “You look beautiful tonight,” she said earnestly, her voice gentle and quiet. It was obvious that right now, she wasn’t all that interested in bickering with Quinn.
You could feel your cheeks heat up at Santana’s compliment and, despite your efforts to play it cool and not make Quinn too jealous, you couldn’t help the shy smile that pulled at your lips. “Thanks…” you whispered, gaze dropping to your feet.
You were surprised when you felt Santana grip your chin in between her fingertips, gently tilting your head up to meet her eye again. “Don’t look away from me,” she said, an almost desperate edge to her voice. “You don’t need to be shy. We’ve known each other since you and Quinn got together.”
You breathed out a soft sigh, nodding your head as you stared into Santana’s big brown eyes. She was a few inches shorter than Quinn, making her closer to your height, and you were enamored by how easy it was to get lost in her eyes.
Santana smiled softly and, before you could even say anything, asked, “Is it okay if I kiss you?”
Your eyes widened in surprise. It shouldn’t have come as such a shock to you, considering your plan was to have sex with the woman, but it was jarring to hear those words coming from someone other than your girlfriend.
Almost instinctively, you looked over at Quinn. You could tell she was jealous by the way her jaw was clenched and her nostrils were flared, but you could also tell that she was getting rather worked up already. She was shifting her weight from one foot to the other, arms crossed over her chest as she leaned against the wall all nonchalant – all signs that you’d learned throughout your relationship that meant she was probably trying to keep herself from popping a boner.
Unconvincingly, Quinn rolled her eyes, nodding her head and hoping you couldn’t see how desperate she was when she did so. (You could.)
Satisfied with your girlfriend’s response, you turned back to Santana and nodded your head. “Yeah,” you whispered shakily. “You can kiss me.”
With your permission, Santana leaned in, her hand still cradling your cheek gently, and pressed her lips to yours.
Your breath hitched at the foreign feeling. It had been a long time since you’d kissed anyone other than Quinn, and you’d forgotten how different it was to kiss another person. Santana’s lips were slightly fuller, and they moved against yours with all the gentleness and hesitancy of a first kiss, even though you both knew what you’d be doing by the end of the night.
You felt her free hand move to rest on your waist, and you, hesitantly, curled your arms under hers to rest your hands on her upper back.
You pulled back a few seconds later to catch your breath, looking at the brunette with starry, lust filled eyes. She smirked at you, swiping her thumb across your bottom lip to clean off the messy smear of her (or maybe Quinn’s) lipgloss. “What do you think?” She asked lowly. “Did you like that?”
You swallowed thickly and dropped your gaze to the floor, suddenly feeling too shy to look at her. Unable to find your voice, you just nodded softly.
Before Santana could say anything, Quinn stepped up behind you and grabbed your hips, resting her chin on your shoulder. “You don’t have to be so shy, sweetheart,” she purred in your ear, pressing a kiss right below it. “I’m right here, okay? I’ve got you.”
You couldn’t help but melt into your girlfriend’s comforting, familiar touch, your nerves settling for the first time all night. It wasn’t that you were scared, or that Santana made you uncomfortable, it was just that this whole experience was new and very, very different from what you were used to. You were about to have sex with your girlfriend’s best friend, and even though Quinn was aware and would be present for the whole encounter, part of you couldn’t help but feel guilty for how much you wanted this.
As if she could read your mind, Quinn spoke up from behind you. “Please don’t look so guilty, baby. You’re breaking my heart,” she murmured pleadingly, moving to wrap her arms around your waist as Santana took a step back to give you a little space. “You don’t have to feel bad about wanting this, okay? The thought of watching someone else fuck you… it makes me feel crazy jealous. But, at the same time, I’ve been hard all fucking day just thinking about it. So please don’t get that pretty little head all worried… you’re not the only one who wants this.”
In an effort to both prove her point and get you going, Quinn pressed her hips against you from behind, allowing you to feel just how hard she was through the fabric of her jeans. You gasped at the sensation, your back immediately arching into her so you could feel every inch of her erection pressed against you. She looked at Santana over your shoulder and shot her a smirk, quietly telling her that you were good to go.
Santana smirked back, feeling a rush of excitement and a renewed sense of desire wash over her. She came closer and grabbed both of your hands in hers, bringing them to her lips and pressing a gentle kiss to the back of each one. “Are you ready to bring this into the bedroom, pretty girl? I’d love to see what’s underneath that sexy little nightgown you’ve got on…”
With Quinn grinding her hips against you from behind and Santana looking at you and talking to you like she was, it was almost automatic the way you nodded your head. “Yes…” you breathed out. “Yes. Let’s go to the bedroom…”
You grabbed Santana’s hand and dragged both girls into you and Quinn’s shared bedroom, having to carry half of your girlfriend’s body weight since she was more focused on desperately dry humping you from the back than walking.
Once you’d stepped through the doorway, Quinn immediately scooped you up bridal style in her arms and tossed you on the bed before crawling on top of you eagerly.
Before you could even say anything her lips were on yours, swallowing every word that was on your tongue as she pried your legs apart and lodged herself between them. With a smooth roll of her hips, she ground herself against you, sending a spark of pleasure shooting through your core.
You threw your head back, breaking from the kiss automatically. “Quinn…” you whined in a strange mixture of desire and embarrassment, cheeks turning red from both how hot this was, and from the fact that Santana was right there.
Quinn moved down to press sloppy kisses to your neck, grumbling an inpatient, “What?” against your soft skin.
As if she was answering for you, Santana sat down on the mattress right next to you, smirking knowingly at the sight of her best friend’s desperation. “Jesus, Quinn…” she chuckled, shaking her head in amusement. “You’re acting like you don’t have access to her 24/7. I’m the guest here… don’t you think it’s impolite not to let me go first?”
Quinn actually growled at that, snapping her head up to send her best friend (or more like best frenemy at the moment) a deadly glare. “Santana, I will kick your ass,” she threatened through gritted teeth, earning a sarcastic frightened gasp from the brunette.
Before your girlfriend could bare her teeth like a wild animal again, you gripped her shoulders and placed a tender kiss to her cheek, instantly softening her sharp edges. “You know, she does have a point, baby…” you said softly (and with much more respect than Santana.) “You can have me whenever you like; Santana can’t. Maybe you should let her have a turn first…”
Quinn let out a sound between a grumble and a sigh, eyes flicking between you and Santana with a cautious look on her face before she relented and rolled off of you with a huff.
Santana smirked triumphantly and quickly moved to take Quinn’s place, hovering over you with a heated look in her eyes.
But just as the Latina was about to kiss you, your girlfriend interrupted again with a slightly obnoxious ‘ah ah ah.’ You and Santana both looked over to see what her objection was now, but before any biting words could leave the raven haired girl’s lips, Quinn smirked at her, leaning over to grab something from the drawer of the nightstand before tossing it beside you.
Santana scoffed as she looked down at the small foil square lying on the mattress, quickly snatching it up and holding it up to Quinn in an almost accusatory manner. “What is this?” She demanded.
Quinn smirked, crossing her arms over her chest as one of her eyebrows rose cockily. “That’s called a condom, Santana,” she explained in a mockingly simplistic tone. “That’s what you wear when you don’t want to get a girl pregnant.”
The Latina huffed irritatedly, flicking the silver foil packet at her friend as she rolled her eyes. “I know what a condom is, you dipshit,” she snapped. “I just don’t know what the hell you expect me to do with a condom that small.”
Quinn scoffed, although she couldn’t deny that she was starting to get a little nervous now. There was no way Santana was actually bigger than her… right? “Oh, get over yourself, Santana. That’s an average sized condom. What, do you expect me to believe you need a magnum?”
Santana smirked wickedly, knowing that what she was about to say would rile Quinn up. “I don’t need you to believe me. Your girlfriend’s about to experience it firsthand…”
Quinn’s eyes went dark, a low growl emanating from her throat as she clenched her fists angrily. “Are you trying to leave with blue balls and a broken fucking nose, Santana?”
Before the Latina even had a chance to respond, you whined in annoyance below her, throwing your head back frustratedly. Both girls eyes snapped towards you, eyebrows raised in surprise. It was almost as if they had forgotten that you were a person with the ability to speak and not just some prize they were fighting over.
“Baby, what’s –”
“What’s wrong is that I’m tired of hearing you two argue when you’re supposed to be fucking me,” you cut Quinn off, an unintentional (but adorable) pout on your face. “I thought we all agreed to this because you both wanted me, but it kind of seems like you’d rather be at each other’s throats than pay me any attention. I mean, seriously… it’s like I’m not even here.”
A wave of both guilt and embarrassment washed over both of the girls as they realized you were right; they were both being total jackasses and practically ignoring you in favor of bickering like they used to do back in high school.
Your girlfriend was too stunned to speak, so Santana was the one to take the initiative and comfort you first. She sighed defeatedly, offering an apologetic smile as she hovered over you. “You’re right, babydoll. We’ve both been acting like kids. I’ll… I’ll try to stop pushing Santana’s buttons so much, okay? I’m sorry.”
You nodded, accepting her apology, before turning your head to look at Quinn expectantly. She chuckled softly as your eyes met, knowing you wanted an apology. Combing her fingers through your hair, she leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead. “I’m sorry too, sweetheart. I shouldn’t act so damn jealous. I mean, I’ve made it pretty clear that I want this. I promise I won’t snap at Santana so much, or interrupt her when she’s just trying to give you attention. I’ll do better.”
You looked between the girls as they both apologized and doted over you, a satisfied smirk on your face. “That’s what I like to hear,” you purred, resting one hand on Santana’s upper back and interlacing your fingers with Quinn’s with the other. “Now… will someone please touch me before I lose my mind?”
“Gladly…” Santana mumbled above you before crashing her lips onto yours passionately, her tongue instantly pushing past your lips to tangle with yours.
“Mmm… fuckin’ sexy…” Quinn husked out upon hearing the little moans you were letting out. Not knowing what else to do with herself and desperate to get her hands on you, she maneuvered herself to sit behind you, spreading her legs so that your head lay between them. She slipped her hands into the small gap left between you and Santana and palmed your tits, slow and gentle, the way she knew you liked.
You whined at the sensation, back arching into your girlfriend’s touch as your lips parted from Santana’s, instead smearing across her cheek as you tilted your head back. “F-fuck…” you moaned softly as Quinn rolled your nipples between her fingertips through the fabric of your nightgown, snickering darkly behind you at the realization that you weren’t wearing a bra.
“You like that, baby? Having these perfect tits played with like this while Santana fucks your mouth with her tongue?” Quinn asked, her voice a whole octave deeper than usual from how turned on she was.
You whined at that, face flushing in embarrassment. You opened your mouth to respond, but Santana’s lips were on your neck before you could, earning a surprised gasp from you. Humming at the pleasure, you squeezed your thighs together in desperate need of some friction, nodding your head fiercely. “Y-yes! I like it! I-I really like it…” you rambled shakily.
Quinn hummed in satisfaction, rewarding you with a harsher tug at your nipples. “Good girl,” she purred. “That’s what I like to hear.”.
As Santana sucked a mark into your neck, Quinn’s hands moved up to your shoulders, her slender fingers slipping underneath the straps of your nightgown and sliding them down to your biceps. She smirked down at your cherry red cheeks. “Do you wanna take this pretty little nightgown off?” She asked teasingly. “Show off that perfect body to our guest?”
Your breath hitched at the question, a mixture of nerves and desire battling inside you. Sure, you wanted this, but were you really ready to let someone other than your girlfriend see you naked?
That question was answered for you a few seconds later when Santana sunk her teeth into the conjunction between your neck and shoulder, pulling a surprised yelp from you. It was rougher than what you were used to, but God, it was turning you on. You looked back at Quinn, eyes hooded with desperation, and nodded your head confidently. “Yes…” you practically whispered. “Yes, take it off.”
Both girls sprung into action once they got your permission, working together this time instead of butting heads like they usually did. Santana sat up and moved to straddle your thighs, allowing Quinn the space to grab the hem off your nightgown and pull it up, up, up, and over your head, exposing your perky breasts and hardened nipples.
“Oh my God…” Santana groaned as her eyes roamed your bare chest. You could see the clear outline of her hard cock through her jeans, and the sight only made you want her more.
You heard Quinn snicker from behind you, and you knew without even looking that she had the proudest smirk on her face right now. “Doesn’t she have the most perfect tits you’ve ever seen?” Your girlfriend gloated, cupping your breasts in her hands and rolling her thumbs over your nipples. “She gets so needy and wet when you play with them…”
“Fuck…” Santana breathed out, biting her lip as she watched Quinn play with your tits for a few more seconds before looking up at her hopefully. “Can I…?” She trailed off, putting her hands up and making obscene squeezing motions in the air.
Quinn laughed and shook her head at that before nodding down towards you. “I don’t know. Ask Y/N, not me…”
You smiled softly up at Quinn, noticing that she was doing her best to let you make your own decisions instead of making them for you. When you looked back down to Santana, you bit your lip and nodded. “Yes… you can touch them,” you allowed, your cheeks turning red and your eyes darting to the side as you added, “I-I’d really like it if you put your mouth on them…”
The Latina smirked, gripping your waist and running her hands up and down your sides as she leaned down to place a chaste kiss to your lips. “Well then that’s what you’ll get, baby…” she promised softly before kissing down the column of your neck, down your sternum, up the side of your breast, and finally sucking your nipple into her mouth.
You moaned at the feeling of her hot tongue rolling over the peak of your breast, your back arching into her touch as she brought her hand up to pinch your other nipple. You could practically feel the warm wetness seeping out of you, soaking the seat of your panties through.
Santana released your nipple with a vulgar ‘pop’ before moving on to the other one and enveloping it in her mouth. A noise somewhere between a whine and a moan fell from your lips and, before you could stop yourself, you were reaching down to tangle your fingers in her jet black hair. “Please…” you begged almost instinctively, hips bucking up in search of friction that just wasn’t there. “T-take your clothes off. I want you to fuck me now…”
Santana’s eyes widened in surprise, an eager smirk tugging at her lips as she processed your words. ‘Damn,’ she thought to herself. ‘This girl really wants it bad…’
Before the brunette could even give you an answer, (which was going to be a resounding, enthusiastic ‘yes,’ of course) both your attention and hers was grabbed by the feeling of the mattress shifting and the sound of clothes rustling.
You both looked back at Quinn and saw that she had been quick to obey your request, having instantly stripped herself down to just her bra and underwear just as soon as you’d asked.
Santana smirked at the sight, eyes raking up and down her friend’s toned body. “Damn, Fabray…” she said, sitting back on her knees to begin removing her own clothes. But rather than taking you and your girlfriend both by surprise and giving Quinn a compliment, Santana just joked, “How’d you know she was talking to you?”
Before Quinn had the chance to get defensive, you shot Santana a warning glare and smacked her exposed knee as she pulled her jeans off. “Be nice…”
Santana’s mouth fell open in mock (sort of) offense, but before she could protest the treatment she’d just received, Quinn snickered cockily. “Yeah, Santana,” she teased, pushing her shoulder playfully. “Be nice to me.”
The Latina grumbled something under her breath but Quinn wasn’t listening. “Besides,” she interrupted rather loudly, “I’m her girlfriend. I get to be naked around her whenever I want.”
Santana just rolled her eyes dismissively and mumbled an annoyed ‘whatever’ before looking back down at you. And when she saw that you’d managed to slip your panties off unnoticed in the middle of her Quinn’s childish squabbling, she felt like she was gonna combust right then and there.
“Oh, holy fuck…” she choked out, her hands shaking with the effort it took to restrain herself. The sight of your exposed pussy – soaking wet, puffy with arousal, and deliciously inviting had her cock throbbing so intensely that she felt lightheaded.
Quinn chuckled darkly as she looked down at you and realized what Santana was reacting to, an undeniable feeling of pride blossoming in her chest at the fact that her friend thought you were so fucking sexy, but you were all hers… even if she lets her fuck you just this once.
With no hesitation, the blonde reached down and gripped your thighs, pulling them apart and allowing her best friend to see the way your cunt blossomed open. “Isn’t that the prettiest fucking pussy you’ve ever seen?” Quinn asked, enamored by the way you whined and squirmed, cheeks red with embarrassment. “It’s so fucking tight, too. You can barely slip a finger in. But if you get her wet enough, it’ll stretch just enough for you to fit your cock inside. It’ll be the most incredible orgasm of your entire life…”
You whimpered in both arousal and embarrassment at the way Quinn described your pussy to Santana, as if she was trying to sell her on fucking you. But judging by the way she was nearly drooling as she desperately palmed at the unmistakable tent in her boxers, it was safe to say Santana was already sold.
Quinn smirked as she watched Santana rub herself through her boxers, knowing from personal experience that she was probably so hard it hurt. So, like the good friend she is, she smiled down at you and asked, “What do you think, baby? You ready to let my best friend fuck you?” She nodded towards the Latina, who was essentially just jerking herself off through her underwear at this point. “I think she’s ready. I bet she’s got a nice, big load saved up for you…”
Your breath hitched as your eyes fell on Santana and you saw the way she was touching herself. You felt arousal seeping from the entrance of your aching pussy, and before you knew it you were nodding your head. “Yes,” you breathed out shakily. “I-I’m ready…”
Santana sprung into action at that moment, unclasping her bra and tossing it to the side carelessly before slipping her fingers underneath the waistband of her boxers and pulling them down.
It almost seemed like slow motion as you watched the Latina pull the fabric down her lower half, her cock bouncing free and slapping against her stomach with a small splatter of precum like something from a porno.
You gasped at the sheer size of her cock as she pulled her boxers off fully, your face flushing red as your mind raced with the logistics of it all. How the hell were you supposed to fit that inside of you?
It wasn’t her length that was so intimidating; her length was pretty average. Her cock was actually an inch or two shorter than Quinn’s, who was very proudly boasting about eight and a half inches, so you weren’t worried about taking that at all.
Her girth, on the other hand, was a different story.
Just from the small glimpse you’d seen so far, it was obvious that Santana was thicker than Quinn – significantly thicker. You already struggled to stretch around Quinn, who was pretty average in terms of girth, but Santana was like a goddamn soda can. It was a little ridiculous, really…
Your thoughts were interrupted by the feeling of your girlfriend’s hands gently gripping your shoulders. You jumped a little, startled by the sudden touch that brought you back down to reality. “Sweetheart…” she started softly, all the lust that was in her voice gone and replaced with concern. “Are you okay? You’re trembling, baby…”
You quickly nodded your head and were surprised not to feel the resistance of the mattress beneath you. You glanced down and realized that at some point you’d propped yourself up on your elbows, probably in an attempt to get a closer look and confirm whether or not the thickest cock in the universe really was just a few feet away from you.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine…” you lied, swallowing thickly. “I just… zoned out for a second there, I guess…”
Santana sighed softly and sat down on her calves, pulling a little bit of the blanket to cover her lap as she began to get the feeling that now might actually not be the time to be fully nude and erect. “Is it… is it me?” She asked carefully, trying not to let it be heard in her voice how disappointed she felt at the thought of that. “Am I making you… uncomfortable?”
You shook your head vehemently, guilt washing over you as you realized you’d made Santana feel like she’d done something wrong. “No, no, no, it wasn’t you, it wasn’t…” you interrupted yourself with a frustrated groan, scrubbing your hands over your face. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Santana, okay? I promise. I just… I felt a little intimidated when I saw your… you know. You’re just really, really… thick.”
Her brown eyes widened in surprise, mouth falling open in shock as if she hadn’t been the one bragging about her size not even twenty minutes ago. “Oh…” Santana mumbled, trying to ignore the way her cock twitched underneath the blanket covering it at your admission that her size intimidated you. “You’re nervous about… taking it?”
You nodded, obviously embarrassed as you played with your fingers anxiously. You heard Quinn breathe out a laugh behind you as she kissed the side of your neck. “Well, she’s not just gonna stick it in, baby…” she teased, knowing that a little humor sometimes helped to lighten your nerves. “We’ll make sure you’re nice and prepared for her, okay? And I think I know the perfect way to do that…”
Neither you nor Santana had a chance to ask Quinn what she meant before the blonde hooked her arms under yours and yanked you higher up on the mattress, making sure there was plenty of room below you. She scooted out from behind you and moved further down the mattress, lying down on her stomach and spreading your thighs open to put her head between your legs. She looked up at you with a smirk, face just inches from your cunt, and snickered at the look of awe on your face. “How about I lick this pretty pussy, baby?” She husked out, kissing the insides of your thighs sloppily. “Think that’ll get you nice and wet enough to take Santana’s cock?”
You let out an odd mixture of a sigh and a moan, reaching down to tangle your fingers in your girlfriend’s long blonde hair as you sat up just enough to look down at her. “Fuck, yes…” you whispered, pussy throbbing with anticipation. “Eat me out, Quinn… get me wet enough to take her.”
You didn’t have to ask Quinn twice.
Making intense eye contact with you, your girlfriend flattened her tongue out and licked one slow stripe all the way up from your soaking wet entrance to your swollen, pulsing clit, a satisfied hum rumbling from her throat at your familiar taste.
You whined deliciously at the feeling, heat bubbling in your stomach from just that little bit of stimulation. “Shit…” you whispered shakily, arms shaking with the effort of holding yourself up.
Santana, feeling so turned on she thought she might explode, was unsure what to do with herself. Sure, it was hot watching you get eaten out, but she didn’t really know how to join in, or if she even should. Then she noticed the way you could barely hold yourself up but obviously wanted to look down at Quinn, and she sprang into action. Copying Quinn’s move from earlier, she slid in behind your head and spread her legs, making sure to put a pillow behind your lap so you weren’t lying on her bare erection. (Though at this point she would welcome that.) This new position allowed you to be propped up just enough to watch your girlfriend eat your pussy, while also being comfortable and not having to hold yourself up. And it provided Santana with an incredibly sexy view, which was a nice bonus.
Quinn began to speed up, practically burying her face in your cunt and letting her tongue roam all over, earning the hottest reactions from you. Santana chuckled darkly as you moaned and squirmed around, taking the opportunity to reach down and grope at your tits a little more. “Does that feel good, princess?” She purred, thumbs brushing over your sensitive nipples. “You like having your pussy eaten? God, I wish I could get a taste…”
The combination of Quinn eating you out so sloppily while Santana played with your breasts and talked dirty in your ear had you hurdling towards the edge faster than usual. You moaned desperately, thrashing around on the bed and bucking your hips against Quinn’s tongue as you squeezed your eyes shut. “Mmm… fuck, I’m so close!”
Quinn pulled back just enough to mumble out an, “I know, baby, I know…” against your pussy, the vibrations of her low, rumbling voice making your toes curl. Your girlfriend licked one more stripe up your pussy, wanting to savor your taste before you came and it was all over, before attaching her lips to your clit and sucking softly, just the way she knew drove you crazy. Slowly thrusting in two long, slender fingers, she curled them upwards against your g-spot, looking up at you with those captivating hazel eyes. “Cum, baby. All over my tongue. Let go for me…”
With that, the knot that had been tightening in your belly snapped, and you let out a loud, raw moan as your orgasm (the first of many you’d have tonight) washed over you. You chanted Quinn’s name over and over, tugging at her hair almost viciously as your cunt fluttered around her fingers and your clit pulsed against her tongue. She gradually slowed down the thrusting of her fingers and sucked more gently on your clit, trying to wean you off her touch, until your high was over and your body slumped against the mattress in exhaustion.
Quinn gently pulled her fingers out before crawling up your body to press a loving kiss to your lips, allowing you to taste yourself, which reignited a bit of your arousal already. She pulled back and looked at you with a smile. “You did so good, pretty girl. So good for me,” she paused, glanced up at Santana briefly, and then looked back down at you and amended, “You did so good for us.”
Santana, desperate to finally get inside you already, moved out from behind you. But before she could get on top of you, Quinn grabbed her arm to stop her. “You said you wanted to taste her, right?” The blonde husked out.
Santana’s stomach dropped with adrenaline, her cock twitching in excitement. “Yes…?” She confirmed cautiously, wondering what her friend had up her sleeve.
With a devious smirk on her face, Quinn inched closer to the shorter girl. “Then open up,” she instructed, and when Santana opened her mouth simply to ask why, she took the opportunity to slip two fingers into her mouth, the same two fingers she’d just used on you.
The Latina moaned at the taste of your essence, eagerly licking every drop of it off of Quinn’s fingers before pulling off of them with an obscene ‘pop.’
“Jesus fucking Christ…” she groaned, pre-cum dribbling from her angry red tip. She looked over at you, who was watching the whole interaction with a mesmerized look on your face, and practically said, “I-I can’t wait any more… please tell me you’re ready for me.”
You bit your lip, stomach fluttering with arousal at her desperation, and opened your legs invitingly. “I’m ready for you. Come fuck me, Tana…”
She groaned at the nickname, and then, confusingly, climbed off the bed and walked over to the pile of discarded clothes on the floor. You and Quinn shared a bewildered look, but when you looked back and saw Santana pull out a small, instantly recognizable golden foil square, it clicked.
Quinn chuckled from beside you as Santana made her way back over to the bed. “You brought your own condoms?” She teased, a perfectly plucked eyebrow raised speculatively.
Santana rolled her eyes as she sat back on the balls of her feet, tearing open the small packet before rolling the latex ring down her stiff length. “Of course I did,” she mumbled, climbing on top of you after she made sure the condom was on correctly. “I figured you’d underestimate my size…”
Quinn scoffed at that, crossing her arms over her chest. She was definitely feeling slightly insecure, and you knew it would take a little love and attention to assure her that her cock was more than good enough to please you. But for now, she leaned over and grabbed a bottle of lube from her bedside table, tossing it at Santana who caught it readily. “There you go, ‘Tana.’ Put some of that on your third leg before you split my girlfriend in half…”
You chuckled softly and rolled your eyes at Quinn’s dramatics. You knew that while she was a little bit jealous, she was mostly joking, and it was cute to see her all pouty like this. “C’mere…” you said, patting the space next to you on the mattress invitingly. “Come lay beside me. I want you close to me…”
Quinn’s fiery eyes softened at that, and she happily obeyed your request. She lay down on her side next to you, propping her head up with one arm while the other reached down to allow her hand to rub your bare stomach softly. She shot a look at her friend and said, “Don’t make her wait any longer, Santana. She wants it…”
Santana’s eyes widened in surprise at that, but she nodded eagerly and quickly sprang into action. She popped open the cap on the bottle of lube and squirted a generous amount on the head of her cock, rubbing it all the way down her shaft before wiping her sticky hand on the sheets. (They’d have to be washed after this, anyway.) She then poured more lube over your cunt, using two fingers to spread it through your folds and smirking at the way you jumped at the surprise of the cold liquid.
Once you were nice and slicked up enough to take her, Santana grabbed her cock and slapped the tip of it against your clit a few times, enjoying the way it made you squeal and your hips jump, before trailing it up and down your slit. “You ready?” She asked.
“Yes,” you nodded immediately, hands already fisting the sheets as your cunt clenched desperately around nothing. “Yes, I promise I’m ready, Santana. Just… put it in me, please…”
Unable to ignore your pleading any longer, Santana nodded eagerly. She sucked in a deep breath to prepare herself before positioning her tip at your entrance and moving to hover over you. As slowly as she could manage, she pushed her hips forward, groaning pleasantly as she finally entered you.
She’d only put in the first few inches, but it was already enough to have you whining and thrashing, your knuckles turning white as you gripped the sheets. She was so damn thick, and it hurt like hell, but that didn’t stop how badly you wanted it. “Oh my God…” you whimpered breathlessly.
From beside you, Quinn shushed you gently, prying one of your hands from the bedsheets and letting you squeeze hers for comfort. “Hey, hey, you got it, baby…” she soothed, bringing your hand to her lips to kiss the back of it. “Don’t forget to breathe, angel…”
You nodded, sucking in a shaky breath. Santana used the opportunity to slowly push in another inch or two, stopping immediately when you yelped in pain. Her eyes widened, stomach sinking with guilt. “Shit! I’m sorry…” she mumbled, bringing her hand down to rub at your side soothingly. If looks could kill, the one Quinn was giving her would have her six feet under. “I-I’m so sorry, Y/N. Are you alright? Want me to pull out?”
You shook your head immediately. “No, no, don’t pull out…” you breathed, sweat beading on your forehead as your body tried to adjust to the thick intrusion. “I’m fine, Santana. I swear. Just give me a few minutes to get used to it.”
She nodded understandingly, her hand trailing up and down your side. “Of course,” she mumbled. “Just… take deep breaths and try to let your body relax. Don’t let your muscles get all tense…”
You nodded, taking a deep breath in and letting it out slowly as you relaxed your body as much as you could, your eyes fluttering shut.
Santana could tell it helped a little judging by the way your walls became less tense around her shaft, no longer squeezing so hard that she couldn’t move, but instead relaxing just enough so that the intoxicating tightness remained, but she could still move her hips when you were ready.
You were taken by surprise when the Latina pressed her plump lips to yours, swallowing the little gasp you let out when she did so. She just couldn’t help herself when you were fully naked underneath her with your pretty face twisted up in a mixture of pleasure and pain as you tried your hardest to adjust to her thickness. You moaned softly as she slid her tongue in your mouth, massaging it against yours gently as you tangled your fingers in her silky black hair and kissed her back.
And when Quinn joined in to press sloppy, wet kisses to the side of your neck and shoulder, you were canting your hips up automatically, wordlessly telling Santana that you were ready for more.
She happily obliged, carefully pressing her hips forward and slipping in just a few more inches. She paused again to give you time to adjust to having more of her in you, but you weren’t having it; you wanted all of her.
You braced your hands on her shoulders and pushed her back slightly until her lips were no longer on yours. Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion as she stared down at you like you were punishing her, and it was hard not to pull her back in at the sight.
“Santana…” you grumbled, trying not to get distracted by the way your girlfriend was now marking your neck up. “Stop being so gentle. I’m ready now…”
Her eyes widened in surprise. (And maybe a little hope.) “Ready for all –”
You cut her off by pulling her back down for a quick kiss. “Yes, Santana,” you mumbled against her lips. “Ready for all of you.”
You could feel her twitch inside of you as she swore under her breath, her head spinning as she realized this was actually happening – she was actually about to fuck you.
“Okay, okay…” she whispered, nodding her head eagerly as she took a deep, steadying breath before leaning down to kiss you again. She held herself up with one arm, snaking the other arm down to squeeze your hip tightly as she finally, finally sunk all the way into you.
“Oh, God!” You moaned out breathlessly, the pain you’d felt beforehand nothing but a slight tingle in the background as an overwhelming sense of pleasure took hold. The unbelievably satisfying sensation of being filled to the brim had you feeling dizzy with ecstasy, and you knew it wouldn’t take long for Santana to work you to your orgasm.
And judging by Santana’s reactions, it appeared she felt the same way you did. A strange, but alluring mix of a growl and a moan tore from her throat as her hips became flush with yours, sending a satisfied shiver up her spine. “Fuuuuck, you’re so tight, baby…” she drew out in a pleasured grunt, pulling her hips back a few inches before pushing them back forward slowly in an experimental thrust.
You yelped, not out of pain like you had earlier, but out of pleasure. Your back arched upward, your stomach pressing against the brunette’s as she fucked you into the mattress.
You were surprised to hear a moan coming from Quinn, but when you looked over at her and saw her hand shoved down the front of her underwear, furiously stroking her cock, it made sense.
The sight made your stomach drop in need that was instantly met by Santana’s quickening thrusts, a moan falling from your lips as you made eye contact with your girlfriend. “Fuck, Quinn…” you started, your voice unstable and shaking with pleasure. “Mmm… do you like watching this? Me getting dicked down by your best friend?”
The blonde nodded desperately, mouth dropping open in an erotic ‘O’ as her face turned beet red. Her breath was hitching with every stroke of her hand, eyebrows furrowed as her chest heaved. ‘Jesus Christ…’ you thought to yourself. ‘I didn’t realize she was so into this…’
Santana snickered darkly above you, clearly getting some kind of perverted satisfaction out of this, just like Quinn was. “Of fucking course she likes this…” she spoke gruffly, rutting into you harder, making the bed frame squeak. “She’s been fantasizing about it since I first told her I wanted to fuck you. She loves watching me give her girlfriend some good dick while she lays there and jerks off like a fucking loser. Isn’t that right, Q?”
“Nngh…” your girlfriend groaned, pouting involuntarily at Santana’s words, even as she stroked her dick faster. “Shut up, Santana! She’s my girlfriend; you’re lucky I’m even letting you fuck her. And don’t forget who gets to c-cum inside her at the end of the night…”
Santana scoffed and rolled her eyes, thrusting into you harder and faster, Quinn’s words clearly spurring her on. “Yeah, if you can even get it up again after you cream your pants…” she spat through gritted teeth, not because she was angry, but because she was so fucking close.
You let out a strangled moan beneath Santana as you began rubbing your clit, your hips jerking at the sensation since your pussy was already sensitive from your first orgasm. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum!” You yelped, squirming under the Latina as she fucked into you steadily, causing a filthy squelching sound to echo off the walls of the room.
Santana smirked, satisfied to see the mess she’d reduced you to. “Oh, yeah? You gonna cum, baby? You like hearing me and Quinn at each other’s throats, don’t you?” She asked, groaning at the way your pussy was beginning to clench around her.
“Yes! Yes, I do – oh, fuck!”
Quinn moaned softly beside you, eyes trained on your face like you were a work of art as her hand continued moving underneath her briefs. “Cum, baby…” she breathed out, her own balls drawing up as she grew closer and closer. “Cum for us. Let Santana feel what it’s like to have that perfect fucking pussy cumming around her…”
Quinn’s filthy encouragement (combined with the way Santana was dicking you down expertly, of course) had you spiraling into your second orgasm of the night, your entire body stiffening as a scream the neighbors could probably hear tore from your throat. Both girls names blurred together as they fell from your lips interchangeably, your hips bucking up of their own accord as your cunt squeezed Santana relentlessly, sending her over the edge too.
“Fuck! Fuck! Mmm… God, baby…” Santana panted and moaned breathlessly as her hips rutted into you sloppily before stilling against you, her cock buried deep inside you as she came. Her eyes rolled back in her head, arms trembling with the effort of holding herself up as she filled the condom to the point she was almost worried it would burst.
When both of your highs were finally over, Santana took a deep breath to prepare herself before pulling out of you and flopping onto her back beside you, panting and completely spent. “Jesus Christ…” she chuckled breathlessly, shaking her head in disbelief. “To be honest, I assumed you were just biased, Quinn, but… that really is the best pussy I’ve ever had.”
You blushed at the dirty compliment, but before you could even respond, your own girlfriend was climbing on top of you with an eager growl. “Oh, don’t I know it…” she grumbled.
Your eyes widened when you looked down to see that Quinn had taken her underwear off and was still fully erect, her cock leaking pre-cum desperately. “Quinn…” you breathed out, looking back up at her. “Did you not…?”
“Cum? No, I didn’t,” she answered, kissing your neck sloppily. “Wanted to save my load for this pussy. I might make her use a condom, but I don’t have to. I get to breed you…”
Santana shot up beside you, looking down at the two of you with wide eyes. “Breed her?!” She exclaimed in disbelief. “What… how… I-I thought she was on birth control!”
You rolled your eyes playfully. “I am on birth control. She just likes to pretend.”
Santana’s shoulders relaxed, and she let out a sigh of relief before chuckling, running a hand through her sweat slicked hair. “Shit, I guess I can’t blame her…” she said, looking at you with a smirk. “I mean, I’d throw a baby in there…”
Your eyes widened comically at that, but Quinn stiffened, shooting her best friend a deadly glare. “Like hell you would…” she grumbled, gripping her cock and running it up and down your swollen, dripping folds. “I’m the only one who’s putting a baby in here…”
You gasped, hips bucking at the overstimulation of Quinn’s touch. “W-would you two shut up?” You breathed out. “Like I said, I am on birth control. Neither one of you are putting a baby anywhere…”
“Maybe not…” Quinn shrugged, pressing soft kisses along the column of your throat. “But I’d sure fucking love it if you’d at least let me try…”
You bit your lip, looking up at your girlfriend and the puppy eyes she was giving you just for the chance to fuck you. You’d already cum twice tonight, and you were so overly sensitive, but Quinn was just so gorgeous like this, all desperate and on top of you, and the dick was amazing, and God, you loved her to death…
You chuckled softly. What was there to even think about?
“Yes. Okay, baby, fine… you can fuck me,” you nodded, heart fluttering at the look of excitement on Quinn’s face as you agreed.
“God, yes…” she whispered, positioning her cock at your entrance and pressing a kiss to your lips. “Thank you, baby…”
Before you could even say ‘you’re welcome,’ Quinn pushed inside, stealing all the air right from your lungs. “F-fuck…” you gasped out breathlessly, clutching at her back as she bottomed out.
You weren’t sure if it was the sensitivity from the two orgasms you’d already had tonight, or if it was the stark contrast between Quinn and Santana’s sizes, but something about the way she felt inside you tonight was already making you see stars. Sure, Santana was thicker, much thicker, and that in and of itself was euphoric; but Quinn was longer than her, and after being with Santana, it really felt like Quinn was all the way inside your belly.
“G-God, Quinn…” you moaned softly, wrapping your legs around her waist as she began pumping in and out of you, not bothering to let you adjust to her size – you were already used to her.
“I know, baby, I know…” she whispered, pressing a desperate kiss to your lips. “I know it feels so fucking good. Just take it for me, yeah? Just take it…”
The feeling of your walls, hot, slick, and swollen from all they’d been put through tonight, was like heaven to Quinn. Part of her hated herself for the wave of relief that washed over her upon the realization that, even after Santana had split you open on her much thicker cock, you were still nice and tight and snug for her. You were perfect – all for her.
Quinn was already close from the way she’d edged herself while watching Santana fuck you, and she was desperate to get you there before she spilled inside you. Luckily, she knew your body like the back of her hand.
Reaching a shaky hand between your two bodies, Quinn began to gently rub your clit in circles, making sure not to overstimulate enough that it hurt, but just enough to drive you wild. As predicted, the feeling made you squeal, your hips bucking against her hand as her cock pressed against your cervix with every single thrust. “O-oh, Quinn!” You cried out. “I-I’m gonna cum, baby!”
The blonde nodded eagerly, panting above you. “I know, sweetheart. I can feel you clenching around me. I can tell you’re close…” she whispered brokenly, dropping her face to the crook of your neck. “Cum for me, angel. Cum for me and I’ll give you it all. I’ve got such a big load for you…”
Goosebumps broke out across your skin, your ears ringing, vision blurring, and body contorting almost unnaturally as your third orgasm of the night crashed into you like a freight train. You think you screamed Quinn’s name, but you couldn’t be sure. It was like touch was the only sense you could feel, the other four floating somewhere just out of your reach. Your legs locked around her hips, nails scratching down her back as you felt the heavenly, most satisfying sensation of her cum spilling into you. The warmth spread throughout your lower belly like a comforting hug, somehow making you feel safe, grounded, protected, and loved.
One by one, all your senses returned to you, and the first thing you heard when you came back down to earth was the sound of Quinn’s exhausted voice repeating ‘I love you’ in your ear over and over again. You chuckled breathlessly, pressing a tired kiss against her cheek, before saying, “I love you, too.”
A few minutes passed while you and Quinn came down from your high, and the second she pulled out of you, Santana was springing to her feet and pulling on her underwear. “Well, I guess I’ll head home… you two probably wanna… cuddle or something.”
You frowned, pushing yourself up on shaky arms to look at her. “What? No, Santana, don’t go…” you argued, feeling your chest ache at the thought of her just leaving like that. “Stay here tonight. With us. You already fucked me… what’s a little cuddling?”
The Latina hesitated, (even though you could tell that she really did want to stay) and looked between you and your girlfriend. “I mean, I guess I can stay… if that’s okay with Quinn…” she murmured.
You both turned to look at Quinn expectantly, and she scoffed out a laugh, rolling her eyes fondly. “I mean, yeah, I kind of figured you’d stay. You’re not just gonna fuck my girlfriend then leave…”
Santana chuckled, and you couldn’t miss the smile on her face as she climbed back into bed. She lay on one side of you while Quinn lay on the other, both their arms draped over your stomach. And as you found yourself drifting off to sleep, utterly blissed out and a little sore, you found yourself thinking you could definitely get used to this arrangement. (Even if it meant a little less space in your bed.)
ALEXIA PUTELLAS X READER | 5.1k | you refuse to miss one of alexia's important matches, but your baby clearly has other ideas
warnings: reader is pregnant, pregnancy mentions and all that nothing bad or anything though everything is soft and happiness
a/n: much longer than intended but a fic i've wanted to write for ages! so i hope you all really like it!!
any and all feedback, comments, reblogs etc are very appreciated and welcome <3
The hotel room felt far too quiet for a day that's supposed to be this big. Almost eerily and uncomfortable if it wasn't for the mix of Alexia's pacing and you struggling to get your clothes on and fitting so they felt just right against your body.
You'd long tuned out the slight sound of Alexia's feet against the rough hotel flooring. She was far from composed and the pacing was definitely an anxious, restless mix where her hands keep finding her hips, then her hair, the bridge of her nose. All while her eyes darted from towards you, then back in front of her and back to you again.
You were the cause of her anxious pacing while you just sat on the edge of the bed trying to get the elastic of the skirt to feel comfortable underneath your, now, very rounded out stomach. Alexia doesn't even remember how she let you come with her to this champions league final, especially when the last two weeks have been filled with false alarm hospital visits.
Well if Alexia thinks hard enough she definitely remembers the way you kissed along her neck, holding her hands above her head while you rocked your hips against her thigh and wouldn't let her properly touch you if she didn't agree to you coming along.
You've never missed any of Alexia's important matches since you started dating so you definitely weren't going to let being very heavily pregnant stop you from missing this one. Also the logic that it was being held in Spain so you wouldn't technically be leaving the country helped Alexa come to terms with what she'd agreed to once the lust haze left her mind.
But right now she was having doubts and her concern was endearing even if it was bordering on annoying you a little bit. Though you will admit your entire pregnancy Alexia has been nothing but supportive and the perfect partner and you know everything right now is coing from a place of love.
And you couldn't help the warmth that flooded your chest at the thought, especially when you looked down and were reminded of the little family and life you were building together. The most perfect mami that Alexia was going to be. You couldn't wait for your little bean to already be here. You just know the post pregnancy hormones are going to go crazy once you see Alexia holding your little baby girl.
So much you might try to convince Alexia to put another one inside you already.
'Amor,' Alexia's voice is soft, with a slight strain to it. She stopped in front of you, eyes softening at the sight of you sitting there, her jersey you struggled to get on that just sits on top of your bump leaving it fully exposed.
But there was no way you weren't about to wear one of her jersey's, you needed that closeness to her, even more now that you were in these final stages. And Alexia would never complain seeing her name across your back.
'Por favor,' Alexia kneeled down in front of you, you knew exactly what she was asking of you without her even needing to say it. You kept your eyes focused on your stomach, your hand rubbing slow circles where the baby had been kicking all morning.
Alexia grabbed hold of your hand that was just sitting beside you on the bed. Softly rubbing her thumbs against your knuckles before lifting your hand to her lips, kissing each knuckle gently. You knew exactly was she was doing, but no amount of sweetness from her could outweigh your stubbornness.
'Ale,' You drawed out, 'I'm fine,' You looked up at her, heart softening at the amount of concern evident in her eyes. You wanted her to stop worrying and just focus on the match, but you knew that was the least of her worries right now.
She could control football to an extent, even if she couldn't she still knew exactly how things could play out. But when it comes to you and your baby, there were so many unknowns, nothing Alexia could predict or fully prepare for and it made her panic a little. More than she'd ever admit to you. She doesn't like the thought that anything could just happen to either you or the baby and she wants to do her best to protect you both from everything bad.
'You're nine months pregnant, cari,' Alexia countered almost immediately like she'd preplanned and knew exactly how the start of this conversation was going to go, 'The baby could come at any moment,'
You raised your eyebrow at her, 'And you're playing a champions league final. Kind of important too, no?'
Your attempt at humour and lifting the tension that filled the air of the hotel room, all from Alexia alone, doesn't land the way you hoped. Instead you see her jaw tighten, her thumb stills over your knuckles briefly and she takes in a deep breath, 'Mi amor, I love you, but this is not the same thing,'
You just smirked, 'Exactly,' You say gently, Alexia thinking you are finally going to agree with her, 'The final is much bigger,'
Alexia deadstared ahead of her, trying to keep what little patience she had left. You breathed deeply feeling the baby kick yet again, she'd really been putting you through it lately but you just took the hand that was already holding Alexia's and held it against your stomach.
Alexia's entire body softened and relaxed feeling her baby girl, she leaned down resting her forehead against your stomach and closed her eyes, 'Can't wait to meet you,' She whispered out. you could tell just from the slight tremor in her voice that her eyes were glossy. You loved teasing her for it but you were honestly the same way towards the little baby that had been growing inside you for the last nine months now.
But you were more than ready for her to make her appearance sooner rather than later, but maybe not today. Any day after today. You loved being pregnant and everything that came with it like being spoiled by Alexia and the newfound appreciation for your own self. But you were also at the point where you just wanted to meet your little baby, hold her in your arms.
'Ale, bebé, your entire family will be at the match,' You thought right now was the perfect time to reason with her, 'Your mami, Alba, wouldn't it be better if I was with them if something happens instead of being here alone,' Your free hand rested on Alexia's head, gently running your fingers through her hair.
She looked up at you, her cheek gently resting against the skin of your stomach. You could see the deep thoughts running through her mind and the way her eyes flickered towards your stomach before back up at you, you knew she was considering what you were saying, 'If anything feels not normal you will tell someone, sí?'
'I promise, mi amor,' Your fingers brushed over the side of Alexia's face, cupping her jaw gently, your thumb rubbing her cheek. She leaned into your touch, smiling softly.
That was enough for Alexia to break, she had a match to worry about and she knew you would be in the best care of her family and she knows exactly where you'd be so she could potentially keep a little eye on you. Though knowing Alexia she will get very involved in the game and her mind will be taken off of worrying about you.
'Mmm okay, I trust you,'
════════════════════════
The stadium is already loud by the time you make it to your seats. The familiar noise of the stadium settles into your bones in a way that instantly calms you. Alexia was already out on the pitch warming up, you gave her a little wave when she looked, squinting in your direction and you saw her shoulders drop before she went back to her drills.
The constant hum of anticipation, the drums, chants and thousands of voices rising and falling like waves, since finding yourself amongst Alexia's world this feeling had started feeling just like home in a way. You couldn't imagine your life without any of this.
You almost felt calmer than you did in the hotel.
You sat there settled in between Eli and Alba, your bump on full display now covered in temporary barcelona tattoos and glitter. There were some kids you ran in to on the way into the stadium that begged you to let them and you just couldn't say no.
'How cool do I look now with my new tattoos?' You looked so proud and amused while the glitter on your stomach glimmered in the sunlight, leaning back a bit in your seat to show it off even more.
Alba shook her head and handed you a bottle of water, 'At least you aren't let any nerves get to you right now,' She fully knows how you are normally a bundle of nerves whenever you're sat watching any of Alexia's important matches. You always just wanted to see your girl happy and hated how much she put on herself whenever they lost, 'You know what they say, stress could bring on the baby,'
'Wouldn't that just add to the day? Could you imagine, only Ale's baby would be born at a stadium,' You laughed, your hand resting under your stomach holding it to try to relieve some of the pressure off your body and give you some very brief relief, 'Not even a day old and already on the pitch,'
The two of you and your laughter got lost in amongst the rest of the noise in the stadium. Alba's hand on your arm, 'Maybe we shouldn't joke about it, the universe might actually listen to us and make it happen,'
You could see Eli give you both an amused raised eyebrow which made you laugh a bit more, grinning at Alba, while brushing off a bit of the glitter that had fallen onto your lap.
Chants continued to ripple through the stadium. The sound vibrated through your chest, you'd grown used to this rhythm over the years and you always basked in it. Especially when you got to watch your wife control the pitch with so much certainty you could never tear your eyes away whenever she was out there.
You loved seeing Alexia in her element, doing what she does best. The more you grew to know and love the game, the more appreciation you had for everything Alexia does. Football has become such a big part of your life too now and you'd never complain about curling up against Alexia's side while she watched a match replay.
Urging her to talk you through what she sees or is looking for whenever she rewatches matches, heart swelling with so much pride when you got to hear how her mind worked. You'd never played, only watched the occasional game here and there before her, so you loved every minute of getting to hear from inside the head of someone who's life has always revolved around football.
The scores were level going into the second half, the noise in the stadium definitely helped you to try to ignore the dull ache in your lower stomach that came and went in waves, gradually building as the second half went on.
'Are you okay?' Alba noticed your constant shifting in your seat, the way you were fidgeting with the cap of water bottle you were drinking from, how your grip changed on it every now and then.
'Sí, don't worry,' You smiled reassuringly. But you were trying to convince yourself that you hadn't noticed how this was differing to the cramps you'd been feeling over the past two weeks.
The last two weeks all you had to do was move slightly or drink some water and it would stop those cramps and false contractions. Right now nothing was working and you just knew this was different. But unfortunately for Alexia, you were way too stubborn for your own good.
You just breathed a bit more deeply, hand rubbing your stomach trying to will this baby to just wait. You were also trying to telepathically will Barcelona to just score again so they could win this without needing to go into extra time, because you wanted to see out this final but you knew you'd actually be having this baby in the stands if you waited that long.
Alba shot you a look and then one to Eli from behind you, the pair didn't believe you but would be keeping a very close eye on you from here on out. You rolled your eyes, you love them though, 'God you two, I'm fine,' You waved them both off.
Alba kept eyeing you suspiciously, she was not convinced in anyway and was prepared to have to drag you out of the stadium herself if it came down to that. She would not like to face her sister's wrath if anything happened to you or this baby.
Your poor Alexia, none the wiser to what is happening in the stands right now while she argues with the ref like the fate of this game depends on it. Well it probably does, you remember the roar of the crowd in disbelief when the ref gave a free to the other team in a spot they could've easily scored from. Like she'd been trying to help them win since this second half started, the crowd getting more loud as the game went on like that.
But Alexia, down on the pitch, she's just as fired up as the crowd is. Sharp gestures, hands up and palms out with disbelief written across her face while she's protesting yet another bad call from this ref. Her captain's armband tight around her bicep, jaw set and eyes holding this intensity that would normally have you squeezing your thighs together and trying to plan how you could make this riled up Alexia take it out on you.
The crowd erupts loudly at whatever decision Alexia is currently disputing. The noise vibrating through you, through the contraction that is very clearly stronger than the last one. The pressure constantly building and becoming uncomfortable.
Alexia just throws her hands up one last time before jogging back into position, still shaking her head. Your clueless Alexia, completely and blissfully clueless to her baby that is trying to make a dramatic entrance into this world.
Your breathing was deeper and less controlled and you were barely trying to hide how you were feeling because that was using up way too much energy you just didn't have in you anymore. Just when you were almost at the point of giving in and telling the two that were watching you like a hawk that you needed to leave.
That's when a throug ball perfectly split the defence. Rolling straight into space and directly into Alexia's path. You could just feel the tension that suddenly filled the air, it became slightly dizzying the sudden adrenaline rush mixed with the contraction that decided to come on harder than any of the others in this moment.
Alexia of course, took the first touch beautifully, as if there was any doubt, 'Careful' Alba had a gentle hold on your arm because you were already halfway standing, you could just feel what was coming. You know that look on Alexia's face as the keeper comes out and she skilfully rounds them.
The roar of the crowd and the chanting of Alexia's name is like no other when that ball rippled the back of the net. You were instantly on your feet the minute that ball went in. Of course it just had to be Alexia to get the winning goal in the dire last minutes of a final.
You cheered, well tried to as best you could but the moment you fully got to your feet you were almost doubling over holding onto your stomach. Alba didn't even hesitate, it was as if she predicted this was going to happen.
But you kept your eyes out on the pitch as best you could while you were being ushered out of the stands. You couldn't help the smile that was splitting your face, your entire being also beaming with so much pride watching Alexia get engulfed by her team out on that pitch after her goal.
You pressed your forehead briefly to Alba's shoulder, 'Okay, sí, we're going,'
But even as you said it, your mind drifted. Drifting to the thoughts of you being back in these stands, or well not these ones but back in a stadium with a small, wriggling baby in a little Barcelona kit with a tiny number matching her mami's. Your daughter balanced on your hip while Alexia scored and turned to the crowd.
Instead of blowing one kiss towards you like she normally does when she scores. She'd blow two. One for her wife and one for her niña. And the thought made your chest ache in a completely different way, making you smile despite the contraction currently squeezing tight around you.
You're finally ready to get to a hospital and meet your daughter.
════════════════════════
By the time any staff could get the word to Alexia the final whistle was already echoing through the stadium followed by an eruption of cheers and chants in the crowd and before Alexia knew it she was being jumped on by her teammates who were closest to her.
Barcelona had just won yet another champions league and everyone was over the moon celebrating with each other. Teammates all screaming, collapsing into each other, someone found a flag waving it around in everyone's faces, cameras all rushing towards each player and group.
Somehow through all the chaos and the madness Alexia managed to slip into a small unoccupied space where she could breathe and immediately turned to where you were supposed to be. Scanning the crowd.
Her eyebrows scrunched together, sure the stands were just a sea of blaugrana and maybe it would've been easy for you to get lost within it. But Alexia could pick you out in any crowd, you always said it was her superpower and you were never quite sure how she could do it, 'No matter how crowded the room is, you're always the first one I see,'
So when she couldn't spot you, or her mum or her sister, her heart started to race and she was ignoring everyone turning quickly towards the bench where a staff member was making her way towards Alexia.
The noise of the stadium was still erupting around her, teammates shouting and cameras flashing but it all becomes distant background noise to Alexia. The sounds all muffled like her head had been pushed underwater.
Alexia's ignoring the hands grabbing her shoulders in celebration, she's ignoring Patri trying to loop her arm around her neck. Instead shrugging her off and blindly ripping off the armband to shove into her hands without really looking. Leaving a confused Patri while she just keeps going towards the tunnel.
Breaking into a half jog that the staff member is trying to keep up with. Her ears are ringing and not from the noise of the stadium. There's only one thought in her head, well maybe two thoughts, but that's just you and your baby daughter. She doesn't even remember how she gets from the pitch to the car to the hospital it's all just a blur as her heart beats rapidly against her chest.
════════════════════════
'She's here?' Your head lifts at the sound of Alexia's voice, soft and a little timid like she didn't want to disturb the peaceful quiet that filled the room.
Your eyes are heavy, half closed with exhaustion but the second you see her standing there in the doorway, something in you lightens up and also relaxes just that bit more. Alexia's presence was always so calming for you, and comforting which was something you needed more than ever right now.
Alexia hasn't moved since speaking, one hand still braced against the door like it's keeping her tethered to reality instead of getting lost in her head at the sight of you and her newborn daughter resting on your chest.
She just stands there, eyes so softly looking at the two of you. Her two girls. The new bundle of joy wrapped up in your arms. You nod slowly, 'She really just didn't want to wait, needed all the attention on her, very dramatic,' By the time you reached the hospital it all happened so quickly.
'Only because you left it to the very last minute to get here,' You'd almost forgotten Alba and Eli were in the room with you. They were the most amazing and since Alexia couldn't be there you were glad to have such supportive and loving people there with you. Even if Alba was now calling you out, 'Ale, your daughter was almost born in those stands. Two very dramatic girls on your hands now. Good luck,'
Alba laughed and playfully nudged Alexia's shoulder, shoving a clean hoodie into her hands to put over the top of her kit she was still wearing before moving aside so Eli could embrace her daughter in a tight, 'Mija, she's aboslutely beautiful,' Alexia's throat tightens, if her eyes weren't starting to get glassy they definitely were now.
A final squeeze of her shoulder and they made their way out the room to give you both the time you needed together with your daughter. When Alexia reaches you both she doesn't look at the baby first, her full attention is on you.
Your cheeks felt warm under her gaze, both her ands came to gently cup your face, 'You're okay?' Your smile softened with how much love and care for you was evident in her voice.
'Amor, I'm okay,' Your voice was soft and small but content and Alexia seemed convinced that you were okay. She leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead and letting her lips linger there for a minute while you leaned into her touch.
'What was Alba saying about this little one being born at the stadium?' Alexia finally sat on the seat next to the hospital bed, her hands now touching your arms just needing to be close to you. An amused smile on her face while her eyes were glued to your daughter resting in your arms.
'I thought we could make it to the end of the match,' You smiled sheepishly and Alexia could hear it in your voice.
'How far did you get?' Alexia assumed she already knew the answer but she asked anyway.
'Well I saw your beautiful goal mi amor, but then she decided you'd had enough of the spotlight for today,'
'Oh did you now,' Alexia was talking to your daughter, her hand timidly reaching out to adjust the little beanie on her head, fingers hovering beside her tiny head, still a little in disbelief she's allowed to touch something so small, so perfect, 'I guess that's okay, you are far more adorable and important,'
'Ale,' You whined a little, 'You and your match is just as important and you won, sí?' You were a little pouty in your state of exhaustion.
Alexia softened and leaned her head against your shoulder before pressing a kiss right there, 'Sí, mi amor, we won,' Her hand that was resting against your arm was absentmindedly tracing patterns against your skin, a constant reassurance that this moment was real and not just made up in her imagination.
She had been dreaming of this moment for months now, what it would be like to see you holding your daughter, to actually see your daughter for the first time. No amount of daydreaming could ever compare to this moment, she needed to make sure it was really happening.
'It's okay if you want to go celebrate you know, like with your team and all,' You suddenly got a little insecure, feeling like you were keeping Alexia here, if you weren't so tired those thoughts would've never had a place in your mind but you couldn't keep the irrational thoughts at bay.
'Qué?' Alexia looks at you like you've grown an extra head. Her eyebrows scrunched together like you said the most outrageous thing. Which to her you have because where else would she want to be right now than here by your side.
'You won a really important final Ale,' You shrugged a little, 'It's a big deal,'
Alexia just stares at you, eyes flickering down to your daughter who was starting to wriggle a little. Even she agreed with Alexia that you were being silly, which is what Alexia was thinking making her smile even wider.
'Amor,' Her hand cupped your face, thumb brushing your cheek, 'Why would I want to be anywhere else? You've just done the most amazing thing, you just had a baby…our baby. I already have my celebration right here,'
Your chest tightens a little at the way she says it, like it's the most certain thing in the world being here right now. Alexia just presses another soft kiss to your temple, lingering there for a second. You blink back the sudden burn in your eyes, 'Yeah?'
'Sí,'
A knock at the door and Alba appearing brought you both out of your little bubble, though Alexia did not move away from you at all, only turning her head to look towards the door, 'Not to interrupt anything but you have a waiting room full of people,' The look on Alba's face told you everything you needed to know, Alexia sighed softly.
'It kind of looks like…a children's birthday party exploded,' Alba tilts her head trying to think if that is even the right words to describe the chaos that's erupted in the waiting room of this hospital.
All you could think of was the poor staff trying to navigate their jobs with the loud gremlins, who have just won a champions league, invading the hospital. The thought made you snort and shake your head affectionately.
Alexia's closes her eyes briefly, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose, 'No,'
'Oh yes,' Alba was happy to bask in the torment Alexia went through daily with some of these girls, 'It's absolute chaos out there. They tried to be quiet but Vicky stepped on a balloon and then almost took out a nurse. I'm surprised they weren't kicked out the minute they stepped in,'
'They always just look like they're up to no good, even before they've done anything,' You laughed out, your village may be full of chaos but you wouldn't trade it for anything in the world, 'They just want to meet her Ale,' You rested your head on Alexia's shoulder, a little yawn escaping past your lips, 'They want to meet their capi's baby,'
Alexia threw on the hoodie, already having made sure her hands were clean before she gently grabbed her daughter from your arms, 'Get some rest mi amor, you are absolutely perfect, thank you,'
════════════════════════
Alba was not wrong when she was describing how the waiting room looked. Alexia's eyes widened in a mix of horror and amusement. There were bright pink and blue balloons and some confetti filled gold ones, every where. A banner that said 'Happy Graduation', another glittery banner that just didn't match anything else in the room.
The girls had stopped by a random corner store on the way to the hospital and grabbed anything that looked festive and colourful enough. There were little plushies, each one picked out their own, way too many plushies for one baby to need. Alexia's lips pressed together not really knowing how to process everything.
And in the middle of the plushie shrine was the champion's league trophy with Alexia's medal hanging off of it.
Loud chatter filled the otherwise empty hospital waiting room, though if you were there you would've joked that they just scared away anyone else who was there. But the minute Alexia came into view Cata was shushing everyone and the room became so quiet.
It almost felt eerie, Alexia can't recall if she's ever heard this group be as quiet as they are right now. All just quietly staring at Alexia holding her little baby girl. Some unshed tears that matched Alexia's own, some nervous hands holding tightly onto some balloons and plushies and other little gifts they found at this random store.
'Everyone,' Alexia's soft voice cut through the silence, 'Meet our little Amèlia,' She's holding her little baby so carefully but her face is so proud to be showing her off to the people that mean so much to her, the people that were going to be in this little baby's life for a long time.
One by one, or small groups at a time they didn't crowd but they came to have a better look at little Amèlia, cooing at how small she was and how cute. They all couldn't believe she was here and they got to be part of this moment. Seeing their captain become a mami was surely something so special and they would all carry with them for many years to come.
One by one it was all going perfect, until Vicky came through the sea of people stopping in front of Alexia and just looking straight at Amèlia in her arms, 'Hi,' Her voice was soft, 'I'm Vicky,' She smirked a little, briefly glancing at Alexia and then the others before looking back down at the tiny baby again, 'I'm your older sister,'
Vicky is absolutely glowing, hands on her hips, proud smile on her face turning to look at the others, 'That's my little sister,'
Laughter breaks through the group and soon enough Clara and Pina are squeezing their way past shoulders and balloons, nodding along with Vicky, 'Yeah! We're her big sisters,' Pina agreed.
'I'm sure she'll look just like me, so why confuse everyone in saying we aren't related,' Clara shrugged like it was the most normal thing in the world and that it just made it all make sense.
Alexia groans instantly, eyes closing as she tips her head back taking a deep breath, 'No…no we are not doing this,' Trying to get any kind of control back over this group but there's no use in fighting it, they somehow always get what they want and Alexia almost always gives in to them.
Summary: Pietro had died protecting Reader, and Reader devoted herself to helping her girlfriend Wanda through grief. But what happens when Wanda blames the reader for her brother’s death?
Word Count: 8,956
Warning: Angst, Grief, Fluff, Reader’s pronouns are she/her.
A/N: Welcome to the Happy Ending. If you haven’t read the first part, go read it first. And if you plan to read both Sad and Happy. I suggest you go to Sad first! Enjoy 😉
Main Masterlist
Part 1 || Sad Ver.
---
---
Previously
Rio regarded her for a long moment.
Then she said something no one else had.
“Death is not cruel,” Rio said. “But it is precise.”
She stepped closer, until Y/N could feel the cold certainty radiating from her.
“You may not take what belongs to me,” Rio continued. “But there are… exceptions.”
Y/N’s breath hitched.
“Exceptions?” she repeated.
Rio smiled—not kindly this time.
“Every resurrection has a cost,” she said. “And the universe always collects.”
Y/N didn’t hesitate.
“Name it.”
Rio’s eyes flicked—not to Y/N’s body, but somewhere deeper.
“Careful,” Death murmured. “You might already be paying it.”
The air shifted.
And for the first time since this began, Y/N realized—
She had found what she was looking for.
And it terrified her.
---
Y/N returned to the compound before dawn.
The building was quiet in that hollow way it only ever was when the world hadn’t woken up yet—lights dimmed, footsteps absent, even the air feeling heavier. She moved through the halls like a ghost, jacket still smelling faintly of cold and something else she couldn’t name.
She didn’t stop at her room.
She went straight to Wanda’s.
Y/N stood in front of the door longer than she meant to. Her hand hovered, fell, clenched into a fist, loosened again. For a moment she almost turned away—almost decided that Wanda’s silence was answer enough.
Then she knocked.
Once.
Nothing.
She knocked again, a little firmer this time.
Footsteps shuffled on the other side. The door opened just enough for a tired, irritated Wanda to peer through.
And then she saw her.
For a split second—just a heartbeat—relief crossed Wanda’s face. Raw, unguarded. Like she had been afraid Y/N wouldn’t come back at all.
Then it vanished.
Her jaw tightened. Her eyes hardened.
“What do you want?” Wanda snapped. “I told you to leave me alone.”
She started to close the door.
“Wanda—wait.” Y/N’s voice cracked just slightly. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to see me. I just… I need to show you something.”
Wanda scoffed. “Show me what? Another apology?”
Y/N shook her head. “Please. Just—trust me. Once.”
Silence stretched between them. Wanda searched Y/N’s face like she was looking for a lie, or a weakness, or a reason to say no.
Finally, with a sharp exhale, she stepped back and pulled the door open.
“Five minutes,” she said coldly. “That’s all you get.”
---
They moved quietly through the compound. Wanda didn’t say a word, arms crossed tightly over her chest, bare feet padding against the floor. She was still in her pajamas—thin fabric, no jacket.
They reached the exit.
Y/N stopped suddenly.
“What—?” Wanda began, irritated.
“You’ll feel cold,” Y/N said softly.
Before Wanda could argue, Y/N slipped off her own jacket and stepped closer, gently draping it around Wanda’s shoulders. Her hands brushed Wanda’s arms—warm, familiar.
Wanda froze.
Heat crept up her neck, color blooming across her cheeks despite herself. She hated that her body still remembered Y/N so easily. Hated that she still leaned into the warmth before she could stop herself.
Y/N didn’t notice.
She was already turning toward the car, keys in hand, like this was the most natural thing in the world—like she hadn’t been treated like a stranger for weeks.
That hurt more than Wanda wanted to admit.
---
The drive was quiet.
Too quiet.
Wanda watched the city blur past the window, unease crawling under her skin. “Where are we going?” she asked finally.
“You’ll see,” Y/N replied.
“That’s not an answer.”
Y/N tightened her grip on the steering wheel. “Just—please. Stay with me.”
When the car pulled into the motel parking lot, Wanda lost it.
“You have got to be kidding me,” she snapped, yanking the door open. “Why the hell would you bring me here?”
Y/N stepped out quickly. “Wanda, calm down—”
“Don’t tell me to calm down!” Wanda shouted, magic flaring faintly at her fingertips. “You disappear for days, ignore everything I say, and then drag me to some rundown motel in the middle of nowhere?”
“Wanda, please—”
“No. I’m done listening—”
“You don’t have much time, Y/N.”
The voice was smooth. Amused.
Both of them turned.
A woman leaned casually against the motel railing, dark hair falling loose around her shoulders, eyes sharp and far too knowing. The air around her felt wrong—like the world bent slightly in her presence.
Wanda’s stomach twisted instantly.
“Who is that?” Wanda demanded, stepping closer to Y/N, jealousy blazing hot and sudden. “And why does she feel like that?”
Y/N swallowed. “Wanda—”
Wanda’s glare snapped back to the woman. “Who the hell are you?”
The woman smiled lazily. “Oh, I’m nobody you need to worry about.”
Y/N turned to her quickly.
“Rio—I’m sorry. Thank you. Really.”
Rio’s gaze softened, just a fraction. Something old and endless flickered behind her eyes.
“You’re welcome, darling.”
Wanda stiffened instantly. “Darling?”
Y/N rushed on, words tumbling over each other, heart pounding. “Um—about the payment, what should I—”
Rio moved.
One moment she was an arm’s length away, the next she was right in front of Y/N, fingers curling into the front of Y/N’s shirt as she pulled Y/N down without warning.
The kiss wasn’t brief.
It was claiming. Overwhelming. The kind of kiss that stole breath and thought alike, heavy with intent and something far deeper than affection. Y/N’s body went rigid in shock, mind blank, hands frozen uselessly at her sides. She didn’t respond—couldn’t—but she didn’t pull away either.
Time fractured.
Then Rio pulled back just as suddenly.
Y/N stood there, stunned, lips parted, chest rising too fast. She blinked like she’d just been dropped back into her body.
Behind her—
Wanda’s magic erupted.
Red energy flared violently around her hands, raw and uncontrolled, grief and jealousy and fury crashing together in a single, devastating wave.
“What,” Wanda said, voice shaking with rage, “did you just do?”
Rio smiled slowly, unbothered, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. She glanced at Y/N once more, almost fond.
“That will do,” she said lightly. “Payment accepted.”
Y/N swallowed hard. “That’s… that’s it?”
“For now.” Rio’s gaze flicked back to Wanda, amused. “Remember—forty-eight hours.”
She stepped back—and then she was gone. No smoke. No sound. Just absence.
Wanda surged forward. “Get back here—!”
Nothing.
Silence slammed down around them.
Wanda turned on Y/N so fast it felt like being struck.
“What. Was. That.” Wanda demanded.
Y/N finally found her voice, small and shaken. “Wanda, I swear—I didn’t know she would—”
“Oh, don’t,” Wanda snapped, eyes blazing, pain cracking straight through her anger. “Don’t stand there like you didn’t let her. Like you didn’t just—”
Her voice broke. Her fists clenched, red magic trembling violently around her hands, unstable and dangerous.
“I’m sorry,” Y/N blurted out, stepping closer. “I am. But—we don’t have time for this. Please.”
Wanda laughed harshly. “You think you get to decide that?”
“Wanda,” Y/N said urgently, “we really don’t have time. You need to come inside. Now.”
“I am not going anywhere with you,” Wanda snapped, trying to shove past her. “You’re going to listen to me for once—”
Y/N didn’t argue.
She turned abruptly and walked toward the motel room, key already in her hand.
“Hey!” Wanda followed immediately, fury propelling her forward. “Don’t you dare walk away from me—Y/N, listen to me!”
Y/N unlocked the door and stepped inside without another word.
Wanda stormed in after her, ready to scream—
And froze.
The room was dim, curtains drawn halfway. The air felt heavy, charged, like the moment before a storm breaks.
And standing in the middle of the room—
“Pietro…?” Wanda whispered.
Her knees nearly gave out.
He looked the same. The same crooked grin tugging at his lips. The same familiar stance, weight shifted onto one foot, arms crossed loosely like he’d just walked in late and expected a lecture.
“Hey, sis,” Pietro said softly.
Wanda’s breath hitched violently. The world tilted.
“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “No—this isn’t funny. This isn’t—”
She took a step forward.
Then another.
Her hand lifted, trembling, hovering inches from his arm. She was terrified to touch him. Terrified that he’d vanish the second she did.
“You’re dead,” she breathed. “I felt you die.”
Pietro’s expression softened, all teasing gone, replaced by something achingly gentle.
“I know.”
A broken sound tore out of her chest.
Wanda surged forward and wrapped her arms around him, clutching him like she could fuse him back into existence if she just held on hard enough. Her face buried against his shoulder as sobs wracked through her, raw and uncontrollable.
“I’m here,” Pietro murmured, arms coming around her automatically. “I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”
Wanda shook violently in his arms. “I thought—I thought I lost you. I didn’t protect you. I—”
“Hey,” Pietro whispered, pressing his forehead to hers. “None of that. I chose it. You know that.”
Her fingers twisted into his shirt like an anchor.
Behind them, Y/N stood silently near the door.
Her chest ached so badly she thought it might split open. Tears blurred her vision as she watched Wanda cling to her brother, watched the grief that had frozen Wanda for so long finally crack open and spill free.
This was why she’d done it.
This moment.
Y/N wiped at her eyes quietly, careful not to make a sound. She took one last look—at Wanda holding Pietro like he was the only thing keeping her alive—and then turned toward the door.
Pietro noticed.
His gaze lifted over Wanda’s shoulder, meeting Y/N’s. Recognition flickered there. Gratitude. And something else—something heavy.
He nodded once, subtle.
Thank you.
Y/N swallowed hard and slipped out of the room, closing the door softly behind her.
The hallway was empty.
She leaned back against the wall, pressing her fist to her mouth as a silent sob tore through her chest.
Forty-eight hours.
That was all he had.
That was all she’d bought him.
And somehow, it still didn’t feel like enough.
---
The door clicked shut softly behind Y/N.
Wanda barely registered the sound.
She was still holding Pietro, arms locked around him like if she loosened her grip even a little, reality would remember what it was supposed to be and tear him away again. Her hands shook against his back. His heartbeat—real, solid—thudded under her palm.
She pressed her face harder into his shoulder.
“You’re warm,” she whispered, like it was a revelation. “You’re real.”
Pietro let out a quiet breath, one hand rubbing slow circles into her back, grounding her the way he always used to when nightmares woke her up in Sokovia. “Yeah. Guess death didn’t cool me off much.”
A weak, broken laugh escaped her, immediately turning into a sob.
“I hated you,” she confessed shakily. “After you—after you died, I hated you for leaving me. And then I hated myself for it.”
Pietro pulled back just enough to look at her, thumbs brushing away her tears. “Wanda… you don’t get to carry that. Not this.”
Wanda’s fingers tightened in his shirt. “Are you—” Her voice trembled. “Are you back? For good?”
The question hung between them, fragile and desperate.
Pietro’s smile softened, and that was answer enough before he even spoke.
“Unfortunately… no.”
Her heart dropped straight through her chest.
“How long?” she whispered, already knowing she wouldn’t like the answer.
“Forty-eight hours,” he said gently. “That’s all I get.”
Tears welled up instantly, spilling down her cheeks before she could stop them. “No. That’s not fair. You can’t just— you can’t come back and then leave again.”
“I know,” he murmured, brushing her hair back from her face. “Trust me, if I had a vote, I’d complain.”
She let out a shaky, broken sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
“I just got you back.”
“And you’ve got me,” he said firmly. “For two whole days. That’s more than zero, yeah?”
Wanda shook her head, grief clawing its way back up her throat.
Before she could spiral, Pietro gently grabbed her hands.
“Hey,” he said, squeezing them. “No wasting time crying about the clock. We’ve done enough of that.”
She looked at him, eyes red and glassy.
“We make the most of it,” he insisted. “Deal?”
She hesitated.
He raised a brow. “Maximoffs don’t waste second chances.”
That did it.
Wanda let out a slow, trembling breath and nodded.
“Okay,” she whispered.
“Good,” Pietro said, relief flashing across his face. Then, with sudden familiar energy, he tugged her toward the bed. “Now sit. I need updates.”
Despite everything, she huffed out a quiet laugh as he pulled her down beside him.
“Updates?” she repeated.
“Yes!” he said, eyes bright in a way that made her chest ache. “I die, and suddenly the world keeps going without me? Rude. I want details.”
She stared at him, overwhelmed by how him he still was.
“Tell me everything,” he said, leaning back against the headboard like they were kids again in Sokovia, whispering under thin blankets. “What happened after? Did we win? Did you become terrifyingly powerful? Did anyone finally admit I was the better twin?”
She sniffed, wiping her face with the sleeve of her pajama top. “We stopped Ultron.”
He nodded approvingly. “Good. I always knew we would.”
“And yes,” she added softly, “I became terrifyingly powerful.”
He grinned. “I never doubted that either.”
Her voice grew quieter. “We joined the Avengers.”
His brows lifted. “You? Living in a big shiny tower with Americans?”
She rolled her eyes faintly. “It’s not a tower anymore.”
“Disappointing.”
Despite the ache twisting inside her, she found herself talking. About missions. About learning control. About how strange it felt to be trusted by people who once feared them. About Vision—carefully, briefly.
Pietro listened like someone starving for stories, eyes wide, interrupting occasionally with dramatic reactions or exaggerated offense.
“And Clint?” he demanded. “Is he still grumpy?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“And Steve?”
“Still noble.”
“Annoying.”
Wanda smiled through her tears.
Pietro watched her carefully as the smile lingered a little too long before fading.
“And Y/N?” he asked casually.
The question hit differently.
Wanda’s shoulders tensed.
Pietro caught it immediately.
“What?” he pressed, brows lifting. “Don’t tell me I die and you two don’t at least get dramatic about it. Are you engaged already? Secret wedding? Tiny Maximoff-L/N babies running around?”
Despite herself, Wanda let out a small, watery laugh. “No.”
Pietro leaned back against the headboard, folding his arms. “Hmm.”
She looked down at her hands.
“It’s not like that,” she said quietly.
His tone softened. “Then what is it like?”
Wanda swallowed.
“We were… good,” she admitted. “After Sokovia. After everything. She was always there. Always beside me.”
Pietro nodded knowingly. “She’s good at that.”
“I wasn’t,” Wanda whispered.
He didn’t interrupt.
“I shut her out,” she continued. “When you died, I couldn’t look at her without seeing…” Her voice cracked. “Without seeing you.”
Pietro’s jaw tightened slightly, but he stayed silent.
“I blamed her,” Wanda confessed. “I told her I wished it had been her instead of you.”
The words hung heavy between them.
Pietro inhaled slowly.
“Sestra,” he sighed.
Not angry.
Not disappointed.
Just… tired.
Wanda couldn’t look at him.
“I know,” she whispered quickly. “You don’t have to say it. I know it was horrible. I know I—”
“Hey.” His voice was firm now.
She finally looked up.
“I don’t need to scold you,” he said gently. “You’ve been punishing yourself enough.”
Her eyes filled again. “I was drowning.”
“I know.”
“I saw you die in her arms,” Wanda continued, the memory ripping through her all over again. “And she was alive. And I hated that she was breathing when you weren’t.”
Pietro’s jaw tightened, but he reached out anyway, brushing a tear from her cheek.
“You were grieving,” he said. “Grief makes you cruel sometimes. Especially to the people who are still there.”
“She didn’t deserve it.”
“No,” he agreed quietly. “She didn’t.”
The honesty stung—but it didn’t wound.
Wanda’s hands trembled in her lap. “She looked at me like I’d shot her,” she whispered. “And she still stayed.”
Pietro huffed a small, sad laugh. “Of course she did.”
Wanda glanced at him.
“She’s always loved you like that,” he said. “Like you hung the moon and she was just lucky to see it.”
Her chest ached.
“I told her to leave me alone,” Wanda admitted. “And she listened.”
Pietro tilted his head. “And how did that feel?”
She hesitated.
“Empty,” she said finally. “I kept telling myself it was better. That I didn’t need her hovering. That I was stronger without her.”
“And?”
She swallowed.
“I wasn’t.”
Silence settled over them again, softer now.
“You know why I ran toward those bullets, right?” Pietro asked quietly.
“I ran because she would’ve done the same for me,” he said. “For you. For anyone she loves.”
Wanda’s breath hitched.
“You think I don’t know what I was doing?” he continued gently. “I saw her moving. I saw the angle. I made a choice.”
His gaze locked with hers.
“It wasn’t her fault.”
“I know,” Wanda whispered.
“Do you?” he pressed softly.
She nodded, tears sliding down her cheeks.
“I was just so angry,” she admitted. “At the world. At Ultron. At myself. And she was the only one close enough to hurt.”
Pietro leaned his forehead lightly against hers, the way he used to when they were children hiding from bombs.
“Then stop hurting her,” he murmured.
Wanda’s breath trembled between them.
He hesitated only a second before continuing.
“I’m here,” he said quietly, “because Y/N made a deal with Death.”
The words didn’t make sense at first.
“With… what?” Wanda whispered.
“Death,” Pietro repeated, calm but serious. “Not a metaphor. Not magic gone wrong. The real thing.”
Wanda pulled back slightly, eyes widening.
“She found death and asked for me,” he continued. “Argued with her. And pleaded for me to return.”
Wanda’s chest tightened painfully.
“What did she give?” she asked, already afraid of the answer.
Pietro exhaled slowly.
“She offered her life.”
The room went completely still.
“No,” Wanda breathed.
“She said take me instead,” Pietro said softly. “Bring him back. Let him stay. Let Wanda have her brother.”
Wanda’s vision blurred instantly. “No,” she repeated, shaking her head harder. “She wouldn’t—”
“She would,” Pietro corrected gently. “You know she would.”
Her knees weakened.
“I refused,” he said quickly, steadying her before she could spiral. “I told her absolutely not. I’m not trading my idiot sister’s girlfriend for myself.”
Despite the devastation, a faint, watery huff escaped Wanda.
“She argued,” Pietro went on. “For a while.”
Wanda could almost picture it—Y/N standing stubborn and desperate in front of something ancient and inevitable, refusing to back down.
“When I wouldn’t accept it,” he said, “she begged for something else. Temporary time. Forty-eight hours.”
Wanda’s throat tightened painfully.
“And Death agreed?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“But… for what?” Wanda pressed.
Pietro’s jaw shifted slightly.
“That,” he admitted, “I don’t know.”
Silence fell heavy.
“She didn’t tell you?” Wanda asked.
“She didn’t know yet,” Pietro said. “Death doesn’t always announce the full cost upfront.”
Wanda’s heart pounded violently.
“But it shouldn’t cost her life,” he added quickly. “That was the condition. I made sure of that.”
“Shouldn’t?” Wanda repeated faintly.
Pietro’s expression darkened slightly—not fearful, but wary.
“Nothing involving Death is ever free,” he said quietly. “And nothing involving love is ever simple.”
Wanda pressed her hands to her face, breathing uneven.
“She was willing to die,” she whispered. “For me.”
“Yes.”
“I told her I wished it had been her.”
“I know.”
“I pushed her away.”
“I know.”
“And she still—” Wanda broke off, choking on the weight of it.
Pietro squeezed her hands firmly.
“She loves you,” he said. “Not halfway. Not safely. Completely.”
Wanda looked at him, terror rising in her chest.
“What if the cost is worse than dying?” she whispered.
Pietro didn’t lie.
“It might be.”
Her breathing hitched.
“But you don’t get to undo what she did by pushing her away again,” he said gently. “If she walked into Death itself for you… the least you can do is walk back down the hallway and talk to her.”
Wanda’s gaze flicked to the door.
Forty-eight hours.
Her brother, sitting alive in front of her.
And somewhere outside this room—
The woman who had loved her enough to challenge Death.
Wanda swallowed hard.
Because for the first time—
Her fear wasn’t about losing Pietro again.
It was about what she might lose if she didn’t fix this now.
---
Wanda stared at the door like it might disappear if she looked away.
Forty-eight hours.
Her brother sat beside her, solid and warm and breathing.
And somewhere outside this room was the woman who had stood in front of Death itself and said, take me instead.
Wanda’s chest tightened painfully.
“I told her to leave me alone,” she whispered. “I told her I couldn’t even stand being in the same room as her.”
Pietro didn’t flinch.
“And yet she brought you here,” he said quietly.
Wanda’s hands curled into the fabric of her pajama sleeves.
“I don’t deserve her,” she said.
Pietro huffed softly. “Probably not.”
She shot him a look through her tears.
He softened immediately.
“But love isn’t about deserving,” he added. “It’s about choosing. And she keeps choosing you.”
Wanda swallowed hard.
“She offered her life,” she repeated faintly, like saying it again might make it less real.
“Yes.”
“And you refused.”
“Of course I did.” He nudged her lightly. “What kind of brother would I be if I let your girlfriend die for me?”
A shaky breath escaped her.
“I don’t even know what the cost is,” she said. “I felt something when that woman—when Death—was near. It wasn’t over. It was just… waiting.”
Pietro’s expression grew thoughtful.
“Then you don’t waste time,” he said.
Wanda looked at him.
“You don’t spend the next forty-eight hours drowning in guilt,” he continued. “You spend them living. With me. And fixing what you broke with her.”
Her throat tightened.
“What if she doesn’t want me anymore?” she whispered.
Pietro stared at her like she’d just said something ridiculous.
“Wanda,” he said gently, “she crossed realms for you.”
The words settled deep.
“She still loves you,” he added. “That part was very obvious.”
Wanda let out a weak, tearful laugh. “How?”
“The way she looked at you before she left the room,” he said softly. “Like she was afraid you’d wake up from a dream.”
Wanda’s heart clenched.
“The way she looked at you before she left the room,” Pietro repeated softly. “Like she was afraid you’d wake up from a dream.”
Wanda blinked back fresh tears.
“I don’t know how to fix this,” she admitted.
Pietro studied her for a moment, then gave her shoulder a small nudge.
“You start by walking out that door and talking to her,” he said gently. “Not tomorrow. Not after I’m gone. Now.”
Wanda’s stomach twisted.
“And you don’t get dramatic about it,” he added quickly. “No tragic speeches. Just honesty.”
She let out a shaky breath.
“But,” Pietro said, suddenly brightening, “before any of that… I am starving.”
Wanda stared at him.
“I died,” he reminded her. “That’s a lot of calories.”
Despite herself, she huffed a laugh.
“You’re impossible.”
“And hungry.”
Right on cue—
There was a soft knock at the door.
Both of them turned.
Wanda’s heart jumped into her throat.
The door opened slowly, cautiously.
Y/N stepped inside, arms full of paper bags, the smell of takeout filling the small motel room. She hesitated just past the threshold, eyes flicking between them like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to be there.
“Sorry for interrupting…” she said quietly.
Her gaze landed on Pietro, then shifted to Wanda, careful. Guarded.
“I thought maybe… breakfast?”
There was something painfully tentative in her voice.
Like she was bracing herself to be told to leave again.
Pietro’s face lit up instantly.
“You,” he said, pointing dramatically at the bags. “Are my favorite person right now.”
Y/N blinked, startled. “Uh… thanks?”
Wanda stood slowly.
For a second, she didn’t know what to say. The memory of their fight, of the kiss, of everything she’d thrown at Y/N, hovered heavy between them.
But Y/N didn’t push.
She simply stepped forward and set the bags down on the small table, movements careful, almost distant.
“I didn’t know what you’d want,” she said softly. “So I got… everything.”
Pietro leaned over eagerly, peeking into a bag. “This is true love.”
Wanda didn’t laugh this time.
She was watching Y/N. Watching the way her shoulders stayed slightly tense. The way she avoided standing too close. The way her eyes lingered on Wanda for only a second too long before dropping away.
She looks tired, Wanda realized.
Not physically. Emotionally.
Y/N cleared her throat softly as she finished setting out the food.
“I’ll… I’ll leave you two alone after you eat,” she said, keeping her tone neutral. “I just wanted to make sure you had something.”
Wanda’s chest tightened.
“Y/N—” she started.
Y/N glanced up quickly, almost startled to hear her name.
“It’s okay,” Y/N added quickly. “I can go now if you’d prefer.”
The words were gentle. Prepared. Like she’d rehearsed them.
Pietro’s brows shot up.
“Excuse me?” he said, looking between them. “Absolutely not.”
Y/N blinked. “I just thought—”
“You thought wrong,” Pietro cut in lightly.
Y/N hesitated, then looked at Wanda.
Not long. Just enough. A silent question.
Is it okay if I stay?
Wanda’s throat closed.
She wanted to say yes immediately. Wanted to cross the room and pull her close and undo weeks of damage in a single breath.
But the words stuck.
Before the silence could stretch too far—
Pietro moved.
In a blink, he was across the room, wrapping his arms around Y/N in a tight, dramatic hug. Y/N let out a startled sound, then laughed softly as she hugged him back just as tightly.
“I missed you,” Pietro said into her shoulder.
Y/N’s arms tightened for a second, emotion flickering across her face before she managed to steady it.
“I missed you too,” she whispered.
Wanda watched them carefully. The ease between them.
The history. The love.
And she saw it then—clearly.
Pietro wasn’t just her brother. He was Y/N’s best friend.
They pulled apart slowly.
Pietro clapped his hands once. “Now that we’ve established I am beloved by all, can we eat?”
That finally earned a real laugh from Y/N.
They sat together—awkward at first, a triangle of history and hurt and second chances. But as Pietro tore into the food with exaggerated enthusiasm, the atmosphere began to shift.
“Remember that time,” Pietro said between bites, “when Y/N tried to teach us how to steal bread and we both got caught?”
Y/N groaned. “You both ran.”
“You said run!” Wanda protested weakly.
“I said wait,” Y/N corrected.
Pietro grinned. “Details.”
Wanda found herself smiling despite the ache in her chest.
“And then you came back for us,” Wanda added quietly.
Y/N shrugged lightly. “Of course I did.”
“After getting yelled at by that shopkeeper,” Pietro added.
“You deserved it,” Y/N shot back.
“You stole cheese.”
“It was good cheese!”
Wanda laughed—really laughed this time—and for a moment, the motel room didn’t feel small or fragile or temporary.
It felt like Sokovia.
Like broken rooftops and shared blankets and whispered plans about futures they weren’t sure they’d live to see.
Pietro leaned back in his chair, satisfied.
“We were unstoppable,” he said proudly.
Y/N smiled softly. “We were reckless.”
“Same thing.”
Wanda looked between them, heart full and aching all at once.
Because this—
This was what she had been missing.
Not just Pietro.
Not just Y/N.
But the three of them.
Together.
And as they talked about cold nights on the streets and terrible stolen meals and the way Y/N always pretended she wasn’t scared—
Wanda realized something else.
The forty-eight hours weren’t just a gift.
They were a warning.
Time was precious.
And she had already wasted too much of it.
---
When they finished eating, the room grew quieter—not heavy, just aware.
Pietro leaned back in his chair and clapped his hands once. “Alright. Enough sitting around. I have been dead. We are doing something.”
Y/N smiled faintly. “What do you want to do?”
He didn’t hesitate. “I want to see the States. Properly. Not just through battlefields and briefings.”
Wanda’s lips curved softly. “We could.”
And just like that, the decision was made.
A few minutes later, they were on the road—Y/N behind the wheel, Pietro in the passenger seat, Wanda in the back at first before Pietro insisted she switch so he could “supervise navigation.”
They started with New York. No disguises beyond sunglasses and hoodies, no grand plans. Just driving through the city, pointing at landmarks, laughing at how unimpressed Pietro pretended to be.
“So this is the famous skyline?” he said, squinting. “Sokovia had charm.”
“It also had bombs,” Y/N replied dryly.
“Details.”
They walked through Central Park, grabbed street food, took ridiculous photos with tourists who had no idea who they were. Pietro insisted on racing taxis down short blocks just because he could. Wanda’s laughter came easier than it had in months.
From there, they didn’t stop.
Y/N booked flights on impulse. LA next. Then San Diego. Then San Francisco. The Golden Gate Bridge at sunset. The ocean wind tangling Wanda’s hair. Pietro standing on the beach with his arms wide like he was greeting the entire horizon.
They took photos constantly—selfies crammed together, blurry shots from Pietro moving too fast, quiet candid moments Y/N captured when Wanda wasn’t looking.
They ate too much. Slept too little. Talked about everything and nothing.
Forty-eight hours was cruelly short.
But they stretched it thin, filled every second with movement, with laughter, with life.
By the time they reached the final hotel, exhaustion had settled into their bones. The city lights outside the window glowed softly, indifferent to the ticking clock none of them mentioned out loud.
There were only a few hours left.
The air felt different now—thinner somehow.
Y/N stood in front of Pietro, eyes shining but steady.
He smiled at her, softer than before.
“Hey,” he said lightly. “No crying yet.”
She huffed a quiet breath that almost became a laugh. Then she stepped forward and hugged him tightly.
“I love you,” she said against his shoulder. “You were the best brother and the best friend the universe could ever give me.”
Pietro’s arms wrapped around her firmly. “I know,” he teased gently, but his voice was thick. “You weren’t so bad yourself.”
She pulled back just enough to look at him. “Thank you. For choosing me that day. Even if I hate that you did.”
He squeezed her hand once. “Always.”
Y/N swallowed hard, then nodded to Wanda.
“I’ll give you two some time,” she said quietly.
And before she could lose her composure, she turned and walked out onto the balcony, closing the door softly behind her.
Wanda didn’t move when Y/N stepped out.
She stayed wrapped in her brother’s arms, her forehead pressed against his chest like she was trying to memorize the rhythm of his heartbeat. The room was dim, quiet except for the distant hum of the city outside and the slow, inevitable passing of time.
They talked softly at first—about childhood.
About the apartment in Sokovia. About the cracked tiles in the kitchen. About the way Mama used to hum while she cooked, even when there wasn’t much to cook. About Papa’s terrible jokes that only he found funny.
Wanda laughed through her tears. “He thought he was hilarious.”
“He was,” Pietro insisted. “We just lacked taste.”
Silence settled for a moment, warm and heavy.
Then Pietro grew thoughtful.
“I saw them,” he said quietly.
Wanda pulled back slightly. “What?”
“Mama and Papa,” he clarified. “On the other side.”
Her breath caught.
“You’re lying,” she whispered, half afraid to believe it.
“I’m not,” he said gently. “Time works differently there. But sometimes… they look in.”
Wanda stared at him, stunned.
“They watched us?” she asked softly.
“From time to time,” Pietro said. “When we were little. When things were hard. They couldn’t interfere. But they were there.”
Wanda’s throat tightened painfully.
“And now?” she whispered.
“They check on you,” he said with a small smile. “Especially you.”
Her eyes filled instantly.
“They’re proud of you, Wanda,” Pietro continued. “Despite everything. Despite the mistakes. Despite the anger. They see how hard you fight. How much you love.”
A sob tore from her chest.
“I’ve done terrible things,” she cried. “I lost control. I hurt people.”
Pietro cupped her face gently.
“You survived,” he said firmly. “You grew. That’s what matters.”
Tears streamed down her cheeks freely now.
“They’re not disappointed?” she asked, voice trembling like a child’s again.
“Never,” he answered without hesitation. “They know how much you carry. And they are proud of the woman you became.”
Wanda broke then, pressing her face back into his shoulder as she cried openly, the kind of crying she hadn’t allowed herself since she was a teenager.
“I’m going to miss you so much,” she whispered.
Pietro held her tighter.
“I know,” he murmured. “I’ll miss you too.”
The clock ticked on.
But for that moment—
She was just a sister in her brother’s arms again.
---
The last hour felt different.
Quieter.
Like the air itself knew.
Wanda stayed close to Pietro, fingers curled tightly in his shirt as if she could anchor him through sheer will. Neither of them mentioned the time anymore. They didn’t need to.
Then—
There was a knock at the door.
Soft. Deliberate.
Wanda’s body went rigid.
The handle turned, and Y/N stepped inside first, eyes already red, jaw set in that way it did when she was trying to stay strong.
And behind her—
The woman from the motel.
Wanda’s eyes flashed instantly, anger flaring hot and instinctive.
“You!” she snapped, stepping forward.
Magic sparked at her fingertips—
But Pietro caught her wrist gently.
“Easy, sestra.”
Wanda’s glare burned into the woman. The memory of that kiss flashed sharp and ugly in her mind.
Rio met her gaze calmly. Unbothered. Ancient.
“Good evening,” Rio said mildly.
Wanda’s jaw tightened.
Y/N swallowed and spoke quietly. “Wanda… this is Rio.”
“I know who she is,” Wanda bit out.
Rio tilted her head slightly. “Death,” she corrected gently.
The word settled heavily in the room.
“It’s time,” Rio said, not cruelly. Not kindly. Just certain.
Wanda’s fingers tightened around Pietro’s sleeve.
“No,” she breathed, though she had known this moment was coming.
Pietro turned fully toward her.
“Hey,” he said softly.
Her composure cracked again, tears spilling freely.
“I’m not ready,” she whispered.
“You were never good with goodbyes,” he teased gently.
She laughed through her tears.
They wrapped around each other tightly, desperate and unashamed.
“I love you,” Wanda choked out.
“I love you too,” Pietro answered immediately. “Always.”
She pressed her forehead to his one last time, memorizing every detail—the warmth of his skin, the curve of his smile, the sound of his voice.
He pulled back slowly.
Then his eyes found Y/N.
She was standing a few steps away, hands clenched at her sides to keep them from shaking.
He walked to her and pulled her into a firm hug.
“You kept your word,” he murmured.
Tears slid down her cheeks freely now.
“I will always keep it,” she whispered.
He pulled back just enough to look at her. “Protect her.”
Y/N nodded, voice breaking. “Always.”
Pietro smiled at both of them one last time.
Then he stepped toward Rio.
Rio offered her hand—not commanding, just waiting.
Pietro took it.
They walked toward the door together.
Wanda held her breath.
Y/N stepped closer to her side without thinking, their shoulders nearly brushing.
When Pietro crossed the threshold—
He didn’t fade.
He didn’t crumble.
He simply… disappeared.
Rio with him.
The door swung gently shut.
Silence filled the room.
Wanda’s knees trembled—but she didn’t collapse.
She didn’t scream.
She didn’t break.
She stood there, tears streaming down her face, but steady.
Because this time—
She had been able to say goodbye.
---
Silence lingered long after the door had closed.
The room felt larger now. Emptier.
Y/N stood still for a moment, giving Wanda space, watching carefully in case the grief hit too hard. But Wanda remained upright, breathing unevenly, eyes fixed on the place where her brother had vanished.
After a few seconds, Y/N stepped closer—slowly, cautiously.
“Wanda,” she said gently.
Wanda didn’t look at her.
“We can… stay here tonight,” Y/N continued hesitantly. “Or we can drive back to the compound now. Whatever you want. I’m fine either way.”
Still silence.
“I got another room,” Y/N added quietly. “For myself. So you don’t have to worry. I just thought—”
She didn’t get to finish.
Wanda crossed the distance in two quick steps and wrapped her arms tightly around Y/N.
The force of it made Y/N stumble slightly.
“Wha—”
Smack.
Wanda hit her chest—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to sting through fabric.
“You idiot,” Wanda breathed, voice thick with tears.
Y/N blinked, confused. “What?”
“You absolute idiot,” Wanda repeated, hitting her chest again lightly.
“I don’t understand—”
“I heard,” Wanda cut in. “From Pietro.”
Y/N went still.
“He told me,” Wanda said, her voice trembling. “You offered your life.”
Y/N’s jaw tightened. She didn’t deny it.
“You offered to die for him,” Wanda pressed. “For me.”
“It made sense,” Y/N said quietly.
Wanda stared at her like she’d lost her mind. “You think that’s noble? You think that fixes anything?”
“You told me,” Y/N said suddenly, voice breaking, “you wished it had been me.”
Wanda froze.
“You said you wished I had died instead of him,” Y/N continued, tears spilling freely now. “So I thought… maybe I could fix it. Maybe I could give you what you wanted.”
Horror washed over Wanda’s face. “I didn’t mean that.”
“I know,” Y/N whispered. “But you said it. And I would have done it.”
Her voice steadied, even through the tears.
“For you, I would do anything.”
The words landed heavy.
Wanda’s hands trembled against Y/N’s chest.
“And you think I could live with that?” Wanda demanded, voice cracking. “You think losing you would heal me?”
“You have Vision,” Y/N continued, forcing the words out even though they tasted like glass. “I’ve seen the way you are with him.”
Wanda’s face fell.
“He makes you calm,” Y/N went on. “You talk to him. You let him in. You don’t look at him like he’s a reminder of everything you’ve lost.”
“That’s not—”
“I saw it,” Y/N interrupted gently. “The way you chose him on that mission. The way you stopped choosing me.”
Wanda’s breath caught.
“I know you don’t love me anymore,” Y/N said, voice trembling but steady in its pain. “Not the way you used to.”
“That’s not true.”
“And Pietro…” Y/N swallowed hard. “Maybe he was wrong.”
Wanda’s eyes flashed. “Don’t.”
“He saved me,” Y/N said softly. “But you needed him more than I did. You still do.”
The words were quiet.
Devastating.
“I thought,” Y/N continued, “if I could trade places, if I could give him back to you permanently, then you’d be whole again. And maybe… maybe that was the right thing.”
Wanda stared at her like she’d been struck.
“You think I need Pietro more than you?” she whispered.
Y/N looked away for a second, jaw tight. “He was your twin. Your other half. I’m just—”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” Wanda snapped, gripping her shirt.
Y/N’s voice broke anyway. “I’m just the girl you loved before everything fell apart.”
Silence crashed down between them.
“You saw me with Vision and decided that meant I stopped loving you?” Wanda asked, disbelief mixing with hurt.
Y/N’s eyes filled. “You stopped looking at me.”
“Because it hurt!” Wanda shot back. “Because every time I looked at you, I saw the moment I lost him!”
“And I saw the moment you wished I had died instead,” Y/N whispered.
That stole the air from the room.
Wanda’s grip loosened slightly.
“You don’t get to decide what I feel,” Wanda said more softly now, but no less intense. “You don’t get to rewrite my love because you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared,” she said quietly. “I just… didn’t want to be the reason you kept hurting.”
Wanda stepped closer, forcing Y/N to look at her.
“You are not second to my brother,” Wanda said firmly. “You are not replaceable. And Vision—”
She took a breath, steadying herself.
“Vision is a good listener,” she continued. “A friend. He was… calm. Safe. Nothing more than that.”
Y/N’s eyes searched hers, uncertain.
“I talked to him because he didn’t carry history,” Wanda admitted. “He didn’t carry guilt. But that was never love. He was like my therapist.”
Her voice softened.
“Pietro was my twin. My blood. My first home,” she said gently. “But he was not my other half.”
Wanda’s hand came up, cupping Y/N’s face.
“You are.”
The words landed between them, heavy and certain.
“I was grieving,” Wanda continued, tears slipping freely now. “And I know that’s not an excuse. It doesn’t justify what I said. It doesn’t undo the way I treated you.”
Y/N’s breath trembled.
“I was scared,” Wanda whispered. “Scared that if I let you close, I’d lose you too. Scared that loving you meant watching you die like everyone else.”
Her thumb brushed gently under Y/N’s eye.
“But pushing you away almost cost me you anyway.”
Y/N’s composure cracked, tears spilling down her cheeks.
“I will spend the rest of my life apologizing for what I said,” Wanda said fiercely. “For telling you I wished it had been you. For making you feel like you weren’t enough.”
Her voice broke.
“But I need you,” she finished softly. “Not as a hero. Not as a sacrifice. I need you alive. Here. With me.”
Silence hung between them, fragile but real.
“I don’t want a world where you trade yourself away,” Wanda whispered. “I want a world where we fight for each other. Together.”
Y/N’s hands came up slowly, resting against Wanda’s waist like she was afraid she might vanish.
“You really mean that?” she asked, voice small.
Wanda didn’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
Y/N let out a shaky breath, forehead falling gently against Wanda’s.
“I thought I’d already lost you,” she admitted.
“You didn’t,” Wanda said. “And you won’t. Not if I have anything to say about it.”
They stood there, holding each other—not out of desperation now, but choice.
And for the first time since Sokovia—
The space between them didn’t feel broken.
It felt like something being rebuilt.
Wanda rested her forehead against Y/N’s for a moment longer, breathing her in like she needed to anchor herself.
“Thank you,” she whispered suddenly.
Y/N blinked. “For what?”
“For bringing him back,” Wanda said, voice trembling. “For giving me those two days. I don’t care how temporary it was. You gave me a chance to say goodbye.”
Y/N swallowed hard. “You deserved that.”
Wanda pulled back slightly, searching her face.
“What was the cost?” she asked quietly.
The fear in her eyes was unmistakable.
Y/N hesitated.
“I… think it was the kiss,” she said slowly, brows knitting together. “I’m not entirely sure. Rio just— she said that would do.”
Wanda went very still.
“The kiss,” she repeated flatly.
“I didn’t promise that,” Y/N added quickly. “I didn’t know she was going to—”
Smack.
Wanda’s palm hit her chest again.
“Wanda—”
“How,” Wanda demanded, jealousy flashing hot and unfiltered now, “did you end up kissing another woman as payment?”
“I didn’t promise to kiss her!” Y/N protested. “I asked about the cost and she just— she stepped forward and—”
Smack.
“You still let her!” Wanda snapped, red energy flickering faintly at her fingertips. “You just stood there!”
“I was in shock!” Y/N shot back. “She’s literally Death!”
“That doesn’t mean she gets to put her tongue in your mouth!” Wanda burst out.
Y/N stared at her, caught between exasperation and disbelief.
“I did not participate,” she insisted. “I was too stunned to breathe!”
Wanda hit her chest again—less forceful now, more flustered than furious.
“She called you darling.”
“That was not my fault!”
“And you thanked her!”
“Because she gave you your brother!”
Wanda huffed in frustration, hands coming up again—but this time Y/N caught her wrists mid-swing.
“Okay,” Y/N said, breath uneven. “You need to stop.”
“I will not stop—”
Y/N kissed her.
Not gently.
Not carefully.
Just enough to shut her up.
Wanda froze instantly, eyes wide, magic flickering out in surprise.
For a split second, everything stopped.
Then Y/N seemed to realize what she’d done.
She pulled back quickly, releasing Wanda’s wrists. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have— I just—”
Before she could finish—
Wanda grabbed her shirt and pulled her back in.
This time, the kiss wasn’t accidental.
It was deliberate.
Wanda kissed her hard, months of anger and fear and jealousy pouring into it. Y/N let out a soft, startled sound before melting into her, hands instinctively sliding to Wanda’s waist.
Wanda deepened the kiss without hesitation, one hand tangling into Y/N’s hair like she was afraid she might disappear again.
When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing hard.
“Don’t,” Wanda said, voice low and shaking, “ever apologize for kissing me.”
Y/N blinked, stunned.
“I am still yours,” Wanda continued, forehead pressing to hers. “And you are still mine…right?”
Y/N’s breath hitched, but she nods.
“And if Death thinks she gets to mark you like that,” Wanda added fiercely, “she can get in line.”
A shaky laugh escaped Y/N before she could stop it.
Wanda kissed her again—softer this time, slower, intentional.
Not out of jealousy.
Not out of fear.
But because she chose her.
And this time—
Y/N didn’t pull away.
---
They didn’t argue anymore that night.
There were no more dramatic declarations, no more jealousy, no more shouting. Just quiet. Just closeness.
They stayed in the same room.
At first, it was tentative—Wanda sitting beside Y/N on the edge of the bed, neither quite sure who should move first. Then Wanda simply slid under the covers and reached for her like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Y/N didn’t hesitate.
She wrapped her arms around Wanda immediately, pulling her close, careful but firm—like she was afraid that if she loosened her grip, Wanda might slip away again.
Wanda tucked herself against Y/N’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. Familiar. Safe. Alive.
“I’m here,” Y/N murmured sleepily into her hair.
Wanda tightened her hold in response.
And for the first time since Sokovia—She slept. Not the shallow, restless drifting she’d grown used to. Not the kind where nightmares waited just beneath the surface. She slept deeply.
When morning light filtered through the curtains, Wanda stirred slowly.
For a second, she panicked—disoriented, expecting emptiness.
Instead, she found Y/N still there. Arm draped securely around her waist. Face relaxed in sleep. Breathing slow and even.
Wanda stayed still, studying her.
The faint crease between her brows that only appeared when she was exhausted. The softness in her expression that she never let the world see.
This is what I needed, Wanda realized.
Not distance.
Not punishment.
Not silence.
This.
She cursed herself quietly for pushing her away. For convincing herself she didn’t need this closeness when it had been the only thing grounding her all along.
Carefully, Wanda pressed a gentle kiss to Y/N’s shoulder. Y/N stirred but didn’t wake, her hold tightening instinctively. Wanda smiled softly.
They stayed two more days at the hotel.
Not dramatic. Not world-shaking.
They ordered food. Walked along the shoreline. Talked about Pietro—this time without collapsing under the weight of it. They took a few photos together, just the two of them. No ghosts. No time limits.
Wanda reached for Y/N openly now. In public. In quiet moments. Without fear.
And Y/N—Y/N stayed exactly where she had always been.
Beside her.
When they finally packed up to return to the compound, it didn’t feel like running away from something.
It felt like walking back together.
Hand in hand.
---
Five Years Later.
Morning sunlight spilled softly through the kitchen windows, warming the wooden floors and catching in the faint swirl of flour in the air.
Y/N shuffled into the kitchen, hair still messy from sleep, wearing one of Wanda’s oversized sweaters. She paused in the doorway for just a second—taking in the sight.
Wanda stood at the stove in soft pajama shorts and a loose top, humming under her breath as she poured pancake batter into the pan with careful precision. Domestic. Calm. Safe.
Y/N crossed the room quietly.
She slipped her arms around Wanda’s waist from behind and pressed a slow kiss to the side of her neck.
Wanda squealed in surprise. “Y/N!”
But the protest melted into a soft sigh as Y/N continued kissing along her neck and shoulder, still half asleep and clearly not planning on stopping.
“Good morning,” Y/N mumbled against her skin.
“You’re going to make me burn breakfast,” Wanda murmured, though her hands relaxed over Y/N’s arms.
Y/N just hummed in response, pressing another lingering kiss just below her ear.
Wanda shivered slightly. “You are impossible before coffee.”
Y/N’s only reply was another kiss.
With a small laugh, Wanda poured a fresh batch of batter into the pan, flipped the pancakes, then gently untangled herself just enough to turn around.
She cupped Y/N’s face and kissed her properly—slow, deep, familiar—arms wrapping around Y/N’s neck as she leaned into her.
Y/N immediately responded, hands sliding to Wanda’s hips, grounding her.
When they finally pulled apart, Wanda rested her forehead against Y/N’s.
“Could you go wake up Pietro?” she asked softly.
Y/N smiled, brushing a thumb over Wanda’s cheek. “Yeah.”
She leaned in for one more quick peck before heading upstairs.
The house was quiet except for the faint sizzle from the kitchen below.
Y/N pushed open the bedroom door gently.
Little Pietro was still asleep, curled on his side, clutching his plushy tightly against his chest. His dark hair was a soft mess against the pillow, lashes resting peacefully on his cheeks.
Y/N leaned against the doorframe for a moment, just watching him.
Three years old. Safe and loved.
She crossed the room quietly and sat on the edge of the bed, brushing her fingers gently through his hair.
“Hey, speedy,” she whispered softly. “Time to wake up.”
He stirred, blinking sleepily.
“Mama?” he mumbled.
Y/N’s heart melted.
“Yeah,” she said gently. “Mommy made pancakes.”
His eyes opened a little wider at that.
“Chocoate chif?” he asked hopefully.
Y/N grinned. “Of course.”
He rolled toward her, arms reaching up instinctively. Y/N scooped him into her arms easily, pressing a soft kiss to his messy hair before standing.
“Ready to race downstairs?” she asked.
He nodded enthusiastically, wrapping his arms around her neck.
Y/N carried him down the stairs, his sleepy giggles echoing through the house.
In the kitchen, Wanda’s smile widened the moment she heard them.
She wiped her hands quickly on a towel and turned around dramatically. “Where’s my baby?”
Pietro squealed happily in Y/N’s arms. “Mommy!”
Wanda laughed and stepped forward, gently taking him from Y/N. She peppered his cheeks with kisses, making him squirm and giggle.
“You smell like sleep,” she teased, kissing his forehead again.
Y/N pressed a kiss to Pietro’s hair and another to Wanda’s cheek before sliding back into place at the stove, flipping pancakes with practiced ease.
“Go sit,” she told them softly. “I’ve got this.”
Wanda carried Pietro to the table, settling him into his chair while he excitedly narrated everything he was going to do that day—run fast, draw fast, eat fast.
“Not too fast,” Wanda warned playfully. “We like keeping you in one piece.”
Y/N brought the stack of pancakes over, setting them down with a small flourish. “Breakfast for the fastest Maximoff in the house.”
Pietro beamed proudly.
Wanda looked up at Y/N over their son’s head, eyes warm and steady in a way they hadn’t been years ago. There was no fear in them now. No distance. Just love—grounded and sure.
As they ate, Pietro insisted on telling them a story about a dream he’d had, full of superheroes and flying and “Grandma and Grandpa and uncle P watching from the clouds.” Wanda’s hand stilled for a moment at that, and Y/N’s gaze met hers across the table.
They didn’t say anything.
They didn’t have to.
After breakfast, Pietro ran off to grab his favorite toy car, zooming it across the living room floor. Wanda leaned against the counter, watching him with soft awe.
Y/N stepped up behind her again, this time resting her chin on Wanda’s shoulder without startling her.
“I love you,” Y/N murmured.
Wanda smiled, turning her head to kiss her gently.
“I love you too,” she whispered back.
Outside, the world kept moving. Missions still happened. Responsibilities still waited. But inside this house, there was warmth. There was laughter. There was a small boy racing toy cars across hardwood floors.
And there were two women who had once challenged Death itself—
Now standing in a sunlit kitchen, choosing each other in the quiet ordinary of every day.
Wanda reached back and laced her fingers with Y/N’s.
Natasha Romanoff & Fem!Child!Reader
Natasha is tasked with interrogating you to find out what happened to your dead parents
[A/N] Y'all, it's only Monday and I am having a week of it 😂 Luckily I have some fun things planned so hopefully it will turn around 😘 Hope you guys enjoy this one! ❤️
It’s not that Natasha minds interrogations. In fact, she rather likes them. It wasn’t that long ago she was on a mission with Steve, and she got to kick a guy off a building to get him to talk. Not that Natasha often resorts to torture or violence. She’s too sophisticated for that. When it comes to men it’s quite easy to get them talking. Ask the right questions, make the right noises, they’ll soon crumble.
This is outside her skill set though.
They’re not in the usual interrogation room today, instead moving into one of the meeting rooms to keep the atmosphere more relaxed given this isn’t technically an interrogation. When Natasha enters the room Steve is already there, his eyes lit up with amusement as he glances over at Natasha “Meet Y/N,” He says, “And her friend is Marmaduke.”
Natasha looks over at you, sat cross-legged on the floor, your ratty teddy bear sat in your lap as you roll a toy car up and down the floor enthusiastically. No, you weren’t the usual type Natasha interrogated but after two and a half hours with Steve and Clint getting nowhere Clint had tapped out and Natasha was called in.
“What have you learnt so far?” Natasha asks.
“That her and the bear are very good at lots of things but opening up apparently isn’t one of them.” Steve says, unable to hide the trace of enjoyment and fondness in his voice. Natasha gives him a look “What? This is way more interesting than our usual interrogations.”
Natasha looks at you again, trying to gage your age – maybe six, seven years old at most? You seem relatively calm and content for a child whose parents had mysteriously died, leaving you alone in your house to fend for yourself for months “Hey,” Natasha says softly, squatting down in front of you “My name’s Natasha. What’s your name?”
“Y/N!” You announce, “And this is Marmaduke.”
Natasha is momentarily surprised by the enthusiasm and the volume of your voice, but she smiles reassuringly “I was hoping I could ask you a few questions about-”
“Yes!” You interject “Me and Marmaduke are good at questions.”
Natasha glances over at Steve who just grins back at her, clearly enjoying this. Natasha takes a deep breath “Can you tell me how old you are?” You tilt your head to the side “Do you know your numbers?”
“Yes, me and Marmaduke are good at numbers. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, once I caught a fish alive-”
“Right, that’s fantastic-”
“6, 7, 8, 9, 10, then I let it go again-”
“Her and the bear are very fond of singing.” Steve remarks.
“Me and Marmaduke know another one, it goes, the animals went in two by two, hurrah, hurrah-”
“You can count all the way to ten, that’s fantastic.” Natasha interjects quickly “But do you know how old you are? When was your last birthday?”
“There were lots of presents, all wrapped up and a cake with candles.”
“Yeah? Can you tell me how many candles were on the cake?”
“Lots.”
Steve grins, reaching out to nudge your shoulder “Hey kid, Marmaduke wants to tell us how old you are.”
You give him an old-fashioned look “You can’t hear him.”
“Don’t need to,” Steve says, “I can tell by his expression.”
You can’t help but crack a smile and then giggle, clasping the bear close to your chest.
Natasha sighs internally, sitting down cross-legged in front of you “Well, however old you are, you’re still quite little.” Natasha says evenly, “And I bet it was a little bit scary living all by yourself. No one to cook your dinner or tuck you into bed or read you a bedtime story.”
“Me and Marmaduke read the stories.” You say, “We played camping and exploring in the living room.”
“That sounds like fun.” Natasha says “I bet it was still a little scary though. Especially at night time.”
You turn your attention back to Steve and hold up Marmaduke, pretending he’s bitten him. Steve reacts instantly, opening his mouth in faux outrage and pretending to be severely wounded. Natasha watches thoughtfully “You must miss your parents.”
After a moments silence you say “It wasn’t real. Only pretend.”
Steve ruffles your hair “Thanks kid, I won’t go get my rabies shot just yet then.”
You giggle and Natasha sits back, not sure where to go now. Interrogating kids isn’t really an Avengers task but there was something different about your case. No one had noticed anything amiss at first. It wasn’t until school returned in the fall and you didn’t show up that the alarm was raised and a member of staff came to do a welfare visit. You’d opened the door and had seemed cheery enough. When asked where your parents were you’d let the staff member upstairs, showing them your parents decaying corpses “They won’t wake up.” You’d told them, seemingly oblivious to the situation.
No signs of forced entry and you seemed okay despite being left to fend for yourself over the course of summer vacation. It should’ve been a police matter but fearing there was something sinister at play here they’d handed over the case to the Avengers. You were the only person who’d been home at the time, but they weren’t having much luck getting any useful information out of you. An autopsy is being completed on your parents but with no security cameras or any leads it was looking difficult to say what had happened to them.
Natasha tries a different tactic, tapping your bear on the head “He’s cute. Where did you get him?”
“Marmaduke’s my friend.” You tell her proudly, hugging him tight.
“He seems like a very good friend.” Natasha pauses “If Marmaduke could talk-”
“He can but only I can hear him.”
“I see.” Natasha says “So tell me then… Is there anything that Marmaduke would want me to know?”
You think for a moment, looking down at the bear in your hands “He says that sometimes it was scary.” Your voice is quiet “But as long as we were together it was okay.”
Natasha and Steve talk to you for another hour but don’t have much success. By that point you’re hungry and fed up of answering questions so they let Wanda take you off their hands, taking you through to the kitchen to get some lunch. There’s something about you that Natasha can’t shake off. Like Steve, she’s already fond of you – your lack of definitive answers had been a little infuriating but you’re a cute kid. There’s a nagging thought in the back of Natasha’s mind that she’s missing something though. Something crucial.
It takes a couple of weeks for the autopsy results to come back and they don’t yield as many results than they’d hoped for “First of all,” Tony announces “Mr and Mrs Peterson were apparently not who we thought they were. They have been identified as Dmitry Kuznetsov and Mila Ivanova.”
“They were using fake aliases?” Steve asks.
“Looks like it. They were registered as Adam and Kate Peterson at the kids’ school, and that’s how the neighbours knew them. Moved in last year, neighbours said they were friendly enough but kept themselves to themselves. Never any problems or complaints.”
“What do we know about them?” Natasha asks.
“Not much but the crucial information is that Mila Ivanova was a Widow, raised in the Red Room just as you were.”
Natasha bristles at the mention of her upbringing but pushes it aside and thinks. Sadly, the name doesn’t ring a bell. She knew so many girls and so many of them had died, it was easier to try and forget. Clint mulls this over “So they were on the run?”
‘Or undercover.’ Natasha thinks, remembering her own childhood. Dmitry, Russian name… Could have links to Dreykov.
Not that Dreykov is a problem anymore. Natasha had been reunited with her family a few months ago and had taken him down, bringing the Red Room down with it. In fact, now she thinks about it, this had all happened only a few days after the date they suspect your parents had passed away.
“Y/N might not even be their child.” Natasha mulls out loud “Widow’s can’t get pregnant.”
“Y/N didn’t indicate that was the case.” Steve says.
“Maybe she didn’t know. How did they die?” Natasha asks.
“We don’t know.” Tony confirms “With no visible wounds and the amount of time that’s passed it’s hard to say what happened.”
“Maybe some kind of suicide pact?” Clint suggests “They were worried someone was going to come after them so they offed themselves before they could?”
“Doesn’t explain why Y/N was just left there though.” Steve says.
“Maybe they panicked but they were wrong. We did take down the Red Room, could have something to do with that.” Natasha thinks for a moment “Has the house been searched?”
“From top to bottom. Nothing suspicious but then there could be anything hidden away that we haven’t uncovered yet.” Tony says “The important thing now is getting Y/N somewhere settled. It’s a wonder the little one isn’t more traumatised. She’s coping remarkably well considering.”
That night Natasha appears in the doorway to the temporary bedroom they’d set you up in the compound, trying to make it as child-friendly and welcoming as possible. You’re already in bed; Marmaduke tucked in beside you with a book open in your lap. Natasha clears her throat and you look over “Hey kid… Do you have a minute?”
You nod and Natasha crosses the room to sit on your bed. She studies your expression for a moment “You know something… I think you and me are quite similar.” You don’t say anything “Did you know your parents had aliases? Fake names? They weren’t who they said they were.”
You still don’t say anything which surprises Natasha. You’d had plenty to say in the interrogation, though much of it was irrelevant. Over the past couple of weeks, you’d gained a reputation as a right little chatterbox, always singing and happily talking about something. Everyone had grown incredibly fond of you. Natasha leans forward “Did you always live in that house?”
You shake your head “No. Marmaduke did but not me.”
“I see. Did you always live with your parents?” You say nothing “Dmitry and Mila I mean.” This time a little shake of your head which all but confirms Natasha’s suspicions “I didn’t always live with my parents either. When I was a little girl I got to spend three years with them. My… ‘Adopted’ parents that is. It was nice. I had friends and a little sister. Then I got sent back. To somewhere not very nice.” She meets your gaze “I think you know where I mean.”
Silence fills the room. You keep your wide-eyed gaze on Natasha before she speaks again “I knew where I was going but my little sister didn’t. She thought it was an adventure. I’d already been and I knew how bad it was but there was nothing I could do. Me and my sister were drugged and when we awoke, we were in the back of a truck. I was left with a dilemma. Did I tell her the truth? Warn her that we were going somewhere where it was kill or be killed. Tell her that her childhood was over. That she was about to witness unimaginable horrors and there was nothing either of us could do to stop it. We could only play their games and hope we survived.” Natasha holds your gaze “Or I could lie. Tell her it was going to be okay. That it was only temporary, and we’d be home before she knew it.”
“Which did you do?” You ask quietly.
“Neither. I just held her.” Natasha admits “At first I was mad at Meli- my Mom. None of us had prepared her for what was coming. I knew. I knew I was brave and strong enough to survive but Yelena… My baby sister…” Natasha’s voice trails off “I suppose though, my Mom wanted her to have some nice memories. Since the rest of her childhood was so…”
Natasha’s voice trails off and neither of you says anything. She didn’t mince her words but she knows now that you’re tougher than you look. That in a weird, twisted way, you’re her little sister too.
“How come you got to go then? To live with Dmitry and Mila.” Natasha asks “Was it a punishment or a reward?”
There’s a moment’s hesitation and Natasha can see you weighing up your options. Eventually you go with the truth and mumble “Reward.”
She smiles – she knew her interrogation skills weren’t that rusty “Reward, huh? What did you have to do?”
“I passed my first test, and I was the first in my class. They asked if I wanted to go and I said yes.”
Natasha nods. She remembers her own childhood, how desperate she would’ve been for a break from the Red Room. She knows in your shoes she would’ve said yes too “Do you know what they were doing?”
You shake your head “No. They just needed me so they could blend in. I got to go to school, I made friends, and they gave me a teddy bear and toys. All I had to do was stay quiet and keep a low profile.”
Natasha watches your expression carefully and she can tell you’re being truthful now. You look terrified, aware that she’s caught on. You’d been raised in the Red Room just as she had been. You were being raised to be a Widow, just like her. For a moment Natasha is struck by just how small you look. Had Natasha herself been that small once? “And what was it like?”
“It was nice. Me and Marmaduke slept in at the weekends, we went to a real birthday party and we got to eat candy.”
“You didn’t want it to end.” A statement, not a question.
Silence again before tears fill your eyes and you whisper “I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry.”
“Didn’t mean to what?”
A tear trickles down your cheek and you sniffle, pulling Marmaduke into your lap “Am I going to prison?”
“Why would you go to prison sweetheart?”
“Because I killed them.”
Natasha’s breath catches. Maybe she should’ve seen this coming. You were only a kid but you were still a Widow. Trained to be resourceful, cunning and above all else, to kill. But Mila was a Widow too. And Dmitry a fully grown man. How could a child-
“There was ketamine.” You burst, as if the words have just been waiting to pour out “In the cupboard. They didn’t think I saw it, but I did. I only meant to knock them out for a while, to confuse them, so I could run. I think I used too much though. Me and Marmaduke packed a bag, and we were going to leave but then we got scared. Someone would come after us and we couldn’t tell anyone the truth… We went upstairs but they weren’t waking up.” You sob “I’d killed them.”
Natasha reaches out, taking one of your hands in hers “How did you get them to ingest the ketamine? You tricked them?”
“Me and Marmaduke put some in their drinks. And a little in their food just in case it wasn’t enough.”
“How did you even know what the ketamine would do?”
“I knew it was a drug but that’s all.”
Natasha’s mind is reeling from your confession. The autopsy hadn’t picked up any traces of ketamine, but it had been months. Maybe it had been missed. Maybe it was out of their systems. You let out a small sob and Natasha looks at you, really looks at you. She’d started to suspect your behaviour from the interrogation room had been an act, a façade to hide how cunning you could really be but she can see now that beneath all that Red Room training you’re still just a frightened kid. And now you were in way over your head.
“Am I going to prison?” You gulp between sobs.
Slowly Natasha shakes her head “No… No Sweetheart, you’re not.”
“But I-”
“The ketamine didn’t kill them.” Natasha says, keeping her voice as even as possible “We um… There was an autopsy. You know what that is, right?” You nod “Well, it turns out, your parents- Mila and Dmitry, they… They were hit on the head. Blunt force trauma. That’s what killed them.”
You furrow your eyebrows “But no one else was there-”
“We think it was another Widow. Someone who knew you were all there and was able to get in and out without detection. You must’ve made a mistake because there was no ketamine found in your parents’ systems. They must’ve not drank the tainted drinks.”
You breathe out a slow sigh of relief “You think… You think they tipped them away? They didn’t drink them?”
“Exactly. You didn’t kill them Sweetheart.” Natasha squeezes your hand “Maybe best we don’t mention the ketamine to anyone else though.” She slowly reaches over and wipes a tear away from your cheek “You don’t have to feel guilty anymore because you didn’t do anything. And there’s no Red Room anymore so you’re perfectly safe now. You never have to go back. You can just be a kid now.”
If only Natasha had confirmed Dreykov’s kill all those years ago. Brought the Red Room down sooner. You never would’ve gone through this. If you’d been able to hold on just a few more days whilst she took down the Red Room… Yelena would’ve found you eventually. She could’ve saved you.
You’d saved yourself.
“You really weren’t scared whilst you and Marmaduke were all alone in that house?”
“We kept the door locked and we slept in the living room with Mila’s knife under our pillow. I was scared the Red Room would come and get us. Maybe we should’ve ran away but we didn’t know where to go.”
Natasha nods “Well… You’re safe now. That’s the main thing.” She taps the bears head again “You love this bear, huh?”
“He’s my best friend.” You mumble “I didn’t want them to split us up.”
Ah. Natasha remembers her own personal belongings being non-existent in the Red Room. Clothes were handed out; you got no say in the style. Toys were a luxury the Widows weren’t afforded. A teddy bear? Forget about it. They would’ve burnt Marmaduke in an incinerator the moment you got back.
You look at her, your teary eyes sceptical “And you’re sure I didn’t kill them?”
“A thousand percent sure.” Natasha strokes her thumb over the back of your hand “How did you last all those months? Where did you get food?”
“There were lots of cans. And Dmitry had cash in his safe, lots of it. We went to the grocery store once a week, switching it up every time so no one grew suspicious.”
“You’re a brave girl.” Natasha whispers, giving you a small smile “I guess you know I grew up in the Red Room too.”
You nod “Everyone knows you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me then? When we first brought you here. I could’ve helped you.”
“I did. Me and Marmaduke answered your questions.”
Natasha smiles, reaching up to pinch your cheek “Smart too.”
You look at her “What’s going to happen to us?”
Natasha hesitates, her hand cupping your cheek “Well… I hope you’ll stay here. You’re my little sister now. And I’m gonna look out for you. Marmaduke too.”
“My sister?” You ask, your eyes wide with hope.
Natasha nods “Yeah. I’ll see what I can do, alright?”
You nod and Natasha helps tuck you in, pressing a kiss to your forehead “No more worries.” She murmurs “I’ll sort everything out now. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Natasha straightens up and walks away, pausing in the doorway to look back at you. They’d never figured out your age or your birthday. Maybe you weren’t sure of them yourself. Now she knows you’re a Red Room girl Natasha will look up your information. You deserve a proper birthday party when the time comes.
As for what you did… Natasha will do everything in her power to make sure it doesn’t get out. Maybe you don’t believe her but Natasha will never tell anyone the truth. She’ll swear everyone to secrecy; make sure they never talk to you about the mysterious circumstances surrounding your parents death. As far as you’re to be concerned, they were murdered. There’s no way she’s going to let you live with the guilt. It weighs her down every single day. Natasha won’t let it weigh you down. Not her little sister.
We will smile to end each day in places we won't walk
About the time Alexia tore her ACL and your recovery plan include ragebaiting her into trusting you
》 Alexia Putellas x Reader
》 words count: +16.4k
》 Ein Stück des Weges gemeinsam gehen [German, idiom]: (lit.) To walk a part of the journey together; (id.) To cross paths for a while; (fig.) To share a chapter of life
“I just don’t understand why we’re changing the plan now, like this–”
Alexia’s tone is sharp, arms wrapped tight across her chest. She isn’t simply annoyed, she’s vibrating with a dangerous fury.
The room tenses even more, unspoken words and worries filling the air in a way that is almost suffocating.
Every single person here knows why a change of plan is needed, no one seems too keen to voice it. The most recent scans are passed from hand to hand, like the answers are somehow hidden in the papers scattered on the table.
Jonatan straightens up, his gaze darting around for backup among the men in suits crowding the space. The footballer’s personal trainer doesn’t have any useful insights or significant observations, the medical staff doesn’t offer any idea or suggestion that could explain the situation.
“Because you aren’t recovering the way we hoped”
Everyone turns to you, speaking for the very first time since this disaster of a meeting started.
Someone stiffen, breathing deeply but silently, so as not to trigger the metaphorical bomb. They’re all used to your blunt honesty, they should not be surprised. If anything, the fact you waited until this moment to speak out is unusual. Barcelona’s head coach glances at you, only a second, before moving to the other side of the table, studying the captain.
For the first time since she walked in, Alexia’s eyes found yours.
“Am I wrong?”, you continue, gaze fixed on her, “Or are we all dancing around the real reason we are all here?”
“I couldn’t put it quite that way”, a bold man from management interjects.
“Since when softening the blow has done the players any good?”
“We’re not starting now”, Patricio, the head of the medical team, interrupts, trying to make order before this blows out of proportion.
“An ACL recovery is not a linear path”
“Yeah, but it’s not supposed to be a downfall either”
The voice raising from someone on her team is rigid, mask of professionalism cracking under the pressure of the situation and the reason behind the meeting, “What are you implying?”
It may not be their fault Alexia’s injury is not progressing as well as everyone is hoping, it’s no one’s fault really, but they are definitely not doing enough to improve the situation.
Until now.
“No one is implying anything”, Patricio states once again, too calm. “We’re looking at the scans, the tests, the assessments. We suggest a different approach. Alexia is significantly behind schedule–”
“Stop talking like I’m not here!”
Alexia rises from her seat, the legs of the chair scrape on the floor unpleasantly. She quickly uncrosses her arms to drop her hands on the table, loud.
A sign of irritation, for most.
To you, the movement is a subtle, betraying evidence – her knee failing to support the weight of her own indignation.
If possible, the stiff air tenses even more. An uncomfortable silence cast a veil on any attempt of explanation, any tentative hint of reasoning. There’s no space for understanding when everyone has a different take on the situation, different motivation.
Alexia has never felt so alone in a room full of people there for her.
No one is looking at her, no one is seeing her.
No one is understanding.
They’re all too busy trying to assess the damage, to uncover the reasoning behind this failing approach. To fix her.
What went wrong?
Was it the surgical reconstruction? The treatments? Maybe the entire rehabilitation protocol?
What can be done to fix it?
There’s a voice in Alexia’s head, loud and sharp – What if I am the problem?
Around the table, the discussion rises again in hushed tones and pointless remarks. You’re not talking, the only person you want to listen to you is currently trapped inside her own mind.
What’s the point if she isn’t listening?
After a failed attempt of getting her attention, the midfielder jolts away when her personal trainer puts a hand on her shoulder. She’s suddenly awakened, back in the room she wishes to flee as soon as possible.
“Do I have a say in this?”, she challenges, ignoring their questions.
“She’s one of the best physios we got and her programmes are solid”, Patricio says, pointing at you with a pen and the trace of a tired smile, “She’s also the best rehabilitation physical therapist you could ask for”
“I’m not asking–”
Jonatan cuts off, appearing more firm than she has even seen him. “No, Alexia, you don’t have a say in this–”
“You do”, you interject, speaking directly to her without a care of the other people’s gazes. The resolution in your voice is final, “You have a say. Give me one conversation, once chance. Then you can decide”
And just like that, the meeting is over.
~
The first time your fingers graced her knee is to tape her before yet another interview. You are the only physio already in the facility and she doesn’t want to be in front of the camera with such discomfort.
In between awards for her performances throughout the previous season, the irony of her own body’s betrayal could be funny if not so fucking painful.
“Do you have a favourite colour?”, you ask while she reluctantly hoists herself onto the treatment bed without muttering a response.
She can’t tell if you’re making fun of her or joking around.
“Just whatever, I’m already late”
“As you wish”
Your hands are fast and precise, cutting and stretching the tape as if the motions come naturally – as if you don’t need to think where to put it. The footballer fixes her gaze on the ceiling, taking in the smell of medical cream, while you work on her with a care she’s too stubborn to acknowledge.
You don’t comment about the way her muscles twitch under your fingers, both from pain and from the intrusion in her personal space.
“Done! You like it?”
She scoffs as soon as she notices the colourful pattern covering her knee, definitely not subtle under the shorts. It’s the most stable she felt in a long time, but she’s not going to comment that out.
“You think you’re funny”
“I have plenty more where that came from”, you claim as you leave the room – not before patting her calf with a grin.
~
Three days later, pacing in the treatment room, Alexia is making it impossible for Irene to enjoy her recovery session.
It’s not like she’s hiding, or stopping Carlos to do his job.
She’s simply there.
Relentless, stiff in her movements, yet stubborn. Complaining, muttering under her breath, not making any sense. Not listening. Pacing.
As if someone could call it pacing.
“Can you, at least, stop grumbling?”
“I prefer she sits down”, the older man states, his hands firm on the defender’s calf. “But I agree, the grumbling is quite annoying”
Alexia doesn’t respond, but she sinks into a chair.
It is due to the fatigue more than anything else, her friend and the physio think, but they’re nice enough to not point it out. They all know anyway.
After a couple minutes of just silence and the distinctive smell of sports cream to fill the space, Carlos speaks out without even looking away from his hands working on stiff muscles, “She really is one of the best”
“I don’t doubt that”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Alexia must have spoken with you a handful of times since you joined Barcelona’s medical team a couple of months prior to her injury. Someone said you accepted the job to gather more data for your research, someone else said you’re waiting for a challenge.
All she knows is you never treated her, not even once. And this is a problem for her.
Alexia doesn’t trust you.
She’s used to her routine, she’s comfortable in her own circle. Not trusting easily, the ones close to the midfielder are people she picked herself, people she knows care about her as much as she cares about them.
“Why don’t you have a problem with them dismissing your programme?”, the blonde asks, almost upset.
Carlos has been with Barça since she can remember, by her side from the very first senior team’s call up. He’s a good one, reliable and experienced. Trusted.
But the rehabilitation programme that her personal trainer and the club planned, crafted around her and her needs, is not working. She can feel it, right through tired bones and fucked-up ligaments.
The older man doesn’t answer, he wraps some tape around Irene’s calf, patting her gently to let her know he’s done. The defender cracks a smile, dropping off the massage table and making her way to the door – not before giving an encouraging squeeze at her teammate’s shoulder.
Once they’re alone he admits, “I asked for her to take over”
“What?”
“Alexia, our plan is not working and you deserve a better one”
“I trust yours”
“I know, but it’s not working”
They all know.
It’s clear, loud and easy to read between the lines of the failed tests and poor assessments’ results.
Alexia is suddenly grateful for the chair supporting her weight, her legs once again not able to support the cruel reality of her injury. She feels sick, tired.
But, most of all, hopeless.
“Give her a chance”
~
The next week passes in a blur of meticulous measurements – the movements Alexia is barely able to complete, the portions of a new diet, the data in a progress’ chart she doesn’t understand.
The team is outside, training in full swing after the first matches of the season.
It feels wrong, not being there with them.
On the field.
But she’s here, sidelined. Forced in a gym that smells like someone else’s sweat and cold metal.
Carlos is scribbling on a notepad, shaking his head and avoiding her gaze. Patricio hovers around, like he doesn’t have something more important to do. Even her own personal trainer made the journey, like this new set of tests is some monumental event.
The eyes of the entire group are on her, scrutinizing each single movement and twitch of her body – every time her knee fails to do what suppose to. Pointing out every second more she needs to catch her own breath, every evaluating point she’s missing, every sequence she’s executing with a hint of hesitation.
Alexia hates this, but she’s probably hating herself more.
“Does it take three people to hold a goniometer and two more to count?”, you comment in passing, entering the gym to seek some rubber bands.
It’s clear as the day, bright as just the city towards the end of summer can be, that the midfielder is uncomfortable.
You don’t stop long, but you catch Carlos’ tired hint of a smile and his dismissal of the rest of the party.
~
Barcelona had an amazing season last year.
Winning, breaking records, dominating in all competitions.
Alexia loved every single minute of every single game, even the one when they weren’t winning yet. Every pass, every goal, every loud cheer from the stands. She lived through it all, like a force inside filling her blood.
But now, as she enters the Théâtre du Châtelet for another awards ceremony, she almost resents it.
Not any awards ceremony, this one time.
The Ballon d’Or.
Last year was magical, unbelievable. It felt like an honour she doesn’t deserve and a recognition she fought her entire life for. Humbly accepted, raised with both gratitude and the distinctive emotion that constricts the chest with pride – she earned it.
This year, before separating to be guided to their seats by a nervous usher, Alba jokes about causing a scene to put her out of her misery. Nothing more than a signal and they can flee through a back door. The blonde genuinely thinks about it, then shakes her head, amused by her sister and her loyalty.
The ceremony passes in a blur of polite smiles and well timed applause, rehearsed speeches and some genuine reactions. Time stretches slowly as she smooths nonexistent creases in her dress and holds on fresh memories.
Ada Hegerberg shifts beside her, subtly nudging on her arm as a clip plays out to introduce their category. She’s very nice.
When Alexia hears her own name she rises on her feet, confidently, and blocks everything out. The rhythmic clapping of the crowd, the flashes and strategically placed lights of the stage. The silk of her gown catches on the compression sleeve hidden beneath, the itchy reminder that the woman on the screen isn’t in the room.
She smiles, she lifts the trophy in favor of the camera, she does her speech.
The gold ball is heavy, heavier than the first time. And for a moment, even if just for a brief one, holding the biggest individual recognition in football in front of these people, she thinks she doesn’t deserve it.
*
The office given to you is one of the smallest ones in the facility, but the windows are big and overlook the main training field so you don’t complain. As the last arrived, it’s not like you can be picky.
In the quiet time between the end of the season and the start of the Euros tournament, your sister Cris dragged you to buy more furniture the room can actually fit. She sat on a chair without legs while you tried to build everything, following the instructions word by word. She judged, didn’t lift a finger, and sipped a drink way too loudly.
Despite the lack of support, you managed to do a decent job.
The bookshelves covering an entire wall are filled with manuals, publications, and volumes with penciled notations and folded corners. Some have faded traces of comments back from your university years, others are untouched for you to find the time and willpower to get through them.
Small vases and green plants cover any available surface, meticulously watered every morning by a schedule you follow like religion to make sure they all get the needed attention.
The chairs in front of the desk have all their legs and a stuffed walrus, once belonging to your nephew, is towering over one. The examination bed on the side makes a questionable sound every time someone sits on it, but the poster with an unhinged motivational quote is a good enough distraction.
The door is ajar when you sense someone approaching, still busy answering a few emails with music playing softly in the background. Not loud enough to disturb anyone, but enough to fight the irritating rhythm of your typing.
Alexia’s presence is heavy, the crutches restrict her movements as she hover by the entrance. You’re not sure if she will say anything, not even assuming she is going to take a seat.
Maybe, for now, acknowledging you as a possibility is enough.
“I’m interrupting a session?”, she asks, pointing the toy in front of you with a nod.
It’s her first time in your office.
“He’s my assistant”, you reply, playing along with mock seriousness, “Please, meet Dr. Wallace. He’s a bit of a prick, honestly. Very self-conceited. But he does overtime with me, so I let it slide”
The Catalan woman doesn’t laugh, but the corner of her mouth twitches.
You will take it.
When she fully enters the room you stop the music and close your computer, leaving space for the enthusiastic voices of the B team training outside. She slowly settles into the free chair, almost reaching for the stuffed animal before closing her hand in a fist on her lap.
You pretend not to notice and she ignores your smugness.
“How do you know your plan is going to work?”, she asks after a moment, straight to the point.
“I don’t know”
That makes her hesitate, tensing up under your gaze.
She’d already be out of the office if not for the lingering discomfort in her knee, subsided by the position. The mere thought of getting on her feet is painful enough.
“Alexia, I don’t know you”, you find her eyes, as sincere as possible, “I’ve seen all your exams and all your scans, read over all the assessments and my colleagues notes. I’ve done the math. Twice. But I don’t know yet”
Honesty is better than a lie, at least you’re sure of that.
They are giving her timelines based on sponsor deals and trophies and hopes. It’s dangerous, you tell her as much.
“Then why should I trust you?”
“Because I don’t have assumptions or pretenses to know it all. This is a career-threatening injury, rehab is not like any other. And all ACL tears are different, so every recovery is different”
“You’re saying there’s no plan”
“I’m saying I want to understand it, first. I’m saying I want to map out where we actually are, beyond textbooks and expectations–”
You can tell she’s not reassured, so you try again. “If it makes you feel better, Dr. Wallace and I do have a plan. I’m not a complete fraud, I know what I’m doing. I’m telling you we will adjust on the way, we will find the best path as we go”
The tension in her shoulders loosened a little. It doesn’t disappear, but she doesn’t appear frozen on the spot – helpless.
Alexia doesn’t really trust you yet, not after only a simple conversation and some measured words of commitment. Nevertheless, she stays. She lets you explain, she listens.
It’s a tiny step, but it’s a step forward and that’s already progress.
*
The atmosphere at the Estadi Johan Cruyff is incredible, thousands of supporters waving the Blaugrana colours and signing their hearts out. It’s such a different perspective from the one you’re used to. From your seats, you can even smell the freshly cut grass.
It’s not bad, just different.
“You look like you’ve never watched a football game in your life”
When you turn to her, Alexia’s eyes are fixed on the pitch, but the lips twitch in a smirk. She’s perched on the edge of the seat as if nothing could stop her to sprint on the grass – despite the injured leg stretched out. A signal, a moment of distraction, and she will run to where she truly belongs.
“How does the offside rule work, once again?”, you bait.
It’s still a bit tense between the two of you. It’s not uncomfortable, but she doesn’t trust you yet.
However, her answers don’t consist entirely of grunts and monosyllables anymore. She doesn’t roll her eyes at your questions, scoffing as she repeats the same movements over and over again until you’re satisfied. She still flinches when you touch her knee, subtly, almost imperceptibly, but you see it. You feel it under your fingers.
But you’re moving forward, one step at a time.
“How did you even end up here?”, she asks with a hint of curiosity in the way her gaze shifts on you.
“Well– They begged me to fix the face of women football in Europe”
“And when I start considering the idea you’re not as bad as I thought”
“Bold to you to assume I will not get worst”
The midfielder smiles, despite herself.
For the rest of the game, you let her be herself.
She needs to watch, studying it. She needs her space because she can’t do much besides cheering for her teammates, giving out instructions and pointing out some obvious tactics she is able to spot even from the sideline.
On the pitch, the team’s confidence is growing at each pass. It’s just a matter of time before an idea will spark and a play will change the curse of the events.
The Barça captain spots it before you, obviously.
Probably before everyone else.
Aitana cuts between the opposing squad’s lines, finding Keira with a sharp pass. The ball is back on her feet like nothing, two players out of position to try to block her run. On the stands, Alexia leaps up from her seat as soon as she catches movement on the box. The younger midfielder sees it too, shifting and hitting a lob that sailed over the defenders. Beside you, the blonde cheers even before Pina nudges the ball in the back of the net.
As simple as that, like second nature.
Like it couldn’t be any other way.
You may be not really into the game itself, but even you can tell Alexia belongs in a football pitch.
~
The award season is in full bloom, going as strong as Alexia’s recovery, but a blinding contrast to her rehabilitation’s reality.
She’s progressing in weight-bearing, but her range of motion is still disappointing. The exercises and tests outlined in the previous rehab programme left space for your own observations and insights.
At first, you observed close by – writing on a small, yellow notebook. It’s irritating. The pen danced on paper every time Alexia tried a movement or even hesitated before completing an exercise, like a rhythmic judgment as loud as her own muscles.
Now, notebook fully scribbled with your handwriting, all you do is order her around, talking and teasing.
~
The day following Barcelona’s victory against Bayern Munich in the first match of the season held at Camp Nou, Alexia barges into your office after spending at least ten minutes pacing in the corridor.
As much as she can pace with a swollen knee and bruised ego.
The team is showing up, maintaining their perfect streak and scoring goals as if setting records after records is a normal Thursday.
They are doing everything they can to make the captain feel included. She keeps her turn in choosing the matchday playlist, even if her name is stuck on the list of unavailable players. She travels with the squad when possible and watches training from the sideline if the schedule doesn’t interfere with her own rehabilitation.
But it’s not the same thing.
Alexia wants to get back.
“You can take over”, she states.
“Please, come in and take a seat”, you say back, gesturing to the chair in front of you without even taking your eyes off the laptop.
For a few minutes, the only noise in the room is the rhyming typing. You mutter something under your breath every time the in-box lights up with a new message, trying your best to ignore Alexia’s good leg bouncing under the desk.
It makes your eyes twitch.
“You done?”
“You heard me?”, she retorts, not stopping.
You have to write the next email three times before it starts to sound less passive-aggressive and more professional, gaze still fixed on the screen. You still have to water your plants.
“I heard you– I just not believe you”
“Try me”
The laptop closes firmly in front of you, physically removing the last barrier between your eyes and hers. You study her, silently. Her frown, arms wrapped around her torso, jaw clenched. The leg is still bouncing, as if to challenge your patience.
“You fully in?”
“Yes”
“You trust me?”
Alexia doesn’t answer right away, you know it’s an unfair question.
But she’s here, she’s in front of you, asking for help.
After looking you up, searching online your published medical articles on ACL injuries in female sports. After learning about your studies and other athletes you helped before coming to Barcelona. A world champion skier who won another title three months after coming back, some basketball players with the fastest recovery in the league, footballers who praise you on every given opportunity.
She digs so much she even found your high school final thesis and your personal Instagram account.
“I’m willing to”, she says so honestly you’re almost taken aback.
The silence that fills the room after that is not uncomfortable, but definitely charged. At least her leg stops the annoying bouncing movement, gaze fixed on you as you pick the yellow notebook out of nowhere.
“I will take it”
~
The time when Alexia couldn’t even spare you of a single glance was pivotal in your observation.
She was too focused on her rehab, too focused doing every exercise with commitment, too focused on pushing way too hard during the tests. She didn’t notice how you took everything in – not at first.
The movements, studied and unconscious ones alike. The frown on her face, the grimaces and the discomfort badly hidden. The way her knee reacted against her will, moving on its own commands or not moving at all. The stubbornness, the pushing too much too soon. The disappointing results and the numbers making no sense out of context.
You noticed everything and you noted it.
A pattern forming, a routine outlining right in front of your eyes.
The barriers of ACL injury are usually hidden, the hardest ones buried so well that are almost impossible to uncover. Even after recovery. It’s not just a torn ligament, it’s a disconnection. The brain screams commands that, no matter how loud, the body will not listen – will not obey.
“Make yourself comfortable”, you gesture as soon as Alexia enters the treatment room.
The physiotherapy bed is built to be uncomfortable, she is sure about it, but nothing in the rehabilitation process has been comfortable so far.
“Someone explained to you what Arthrogenic Muscle Inhibition is?”
“I looked it up online”
“I could make you run a few laps for that sentence alone”, you comment, only half-joking. “You’re lucky your knee is so fucked up it could be child abuse or something”
You push a machine closer, working on setting it up before scanning Alexia.
Sometimes showing the problem, making it as real as possible, it’s the only way to really face it.
“The surgery is a trauma. A trauma more severe than the injury itself”
“I definitely feel traumatised”, she retorts, skeptical about your explanation.
“Oh, she has jokes”, you say to no one in particular, slightly amused but used to athletes’ emotional reactions to such situations. “The brain’s response to this kind of trauma is cutting out the connection with the danger zone – the knee, in your case. It’s like your brain is trying to protect your body from more damage”
It’s a defence mechanism, really.
Her quad is not strong enough, making even lifting her leg a challenge. Her left thigh is still significantly smaller than her right one, despite the hard work. And because she couldn’t use her quad to stabilize her knee, she started walking by “locking” her knee or swinging her hip. A limp you noticed immediately, slowing down recovery.
Alexia stares at her leg, as if to rebuild that connection with will force only.
If someone can, it’s probably her.
“It’s a vicious cycle, one of the many someone can fall into in rehab, but we can break it– if I’m annoying enough”
She jolts when you place the cold electrode pads on her thigh and knee, targeting the muscle group you want to stimulate.
“We can’t fix AMI with traditional weightlifting, so we trick your brain”, you say with a grin so open the footballer has to raise an eyebrow.
“Why do I sense you’re gonna enjoy this?”
“I’m gonna enjoy it more than you”
You explain how the NMES machine works as simply as you can.
The device sends an electrical current, basically forcing a contraction without the brain’s permission. The stimulated nerves trigger the muscles to contract and relax, similar to voluntary movement, but controlled externally. The brain sees the muscle moving, sees it can do it without more damage, and starts to trust it again.
“Wanna see something fun?”, you ask her after a few minutes, turning a screen with different graphs in her direction.
“I don’t like your idea of fun”
“Squeeze”
Alexia does, just to prove a point.
The line on the screen barely moves.
“That’s pretty embarrassing”, you comment, “They might want the shiny gold ball back”
“They should take back your medical license”
The machine hums with a low-frequency buzz that feels like energy crawling under the footballer’s skin. You watch her face as the current forces the muscles to jump, forces the brain to remember the leg still belongs to Alexia and Alexia only.
You smirk, “Make the line hit the red zone”
She tries again a few times, fixated more on the muscle and ignoring the indistinctive voices of her teammates coming in for recovery after their training session.
You tap with insistence at a spot on the screen.
Finally, the line spikes.
“It’s alive!”
Alexia looks at you, and, for the first time, there is a genuine smile on her face – despite her frustration.
~
After the first few real sessions, Alexia’s commitments to your rehabilitation programme surprised everyone but you.
The midfielder is still pretty vocal about her complaints and her doubts, skeptics about your methods. She may do the exercises with a frown, but she does them all. She follows your advice, she doesn’t push too hard on her own.
It’s not like you ever questioned her professionalism or her dedication, but you’re not taking her trust for granted.
You are slowly earning it, proving something to her.
And she’s proving something to you too.
Carlos comes to you one afternoon, hands behind his back. The gym session allows the injured players and the team to train together for a few hours. The two of you observe the girls doing their own circuits, sometimes more competitive than required and sometimes missing a beat or two to mess around.
You try to pay attention to everyone, observing all the players. The team is a blur of energy and loud laughter.
Lucy Bronze is close to breaking some personal records, while Claudia and Mariona are balancing each other so well you may start pairing them for physio sessions to save yourself from the younger girl’s enthusiasm. Vicky Lopes, recently promoted from the B team, is trying to prove something or pulling a muscle – you make a mental note to talk with her.
Your eyes, however, shift towards a corner every few minutes.
Alexia is doing her own exercises with precision, pushing her knee enough to feel something. You can tell she’s holding back, she wants to do more, but she is learning to listen when her body is asking to stop – not letting her stubborn mind convince her to keep going.
“I hoped she could let you in”, Carlos says after a while, gaze fixed in the same direction.
"Barely"
“Still means a lot, trust me”
You smile, not doubting it for a second.
~
Before the Christmas lights are rummaged out from basements, you are already checking out presents after presents for all the people in your life.
It may be simply hatred for the season, or a more profound trauma you’re not going to unpack with a therapist, but you can’t be bothered with the holiday spirit. So you plan ahead and make sure you do everything you have to do before everyone else spirals in a limbo of repetitive songs and ugly sweaters.
“You better come home for Christmas”, your sister says, her voice ringing in your head as you try to decide between two pretty much identical decorative ornaments your grandma not-so-subtly have been sending you for weeks now.
Her timing should be studied.
“I’m working that week”
“You work all weeks, even the Pope takes days off”
You shouldn’t have picked the phone.
“I don’t do Christmas, you know that”, you try again, giving up and dropping into the shopping chart both the identical ugly crystal Santa’s hats.
“I know you don’t do Christmas, but you’re going to send nana to the Creator sooner than planned if you skip another one–”
Cris pauses for a moment, barely enough for you to hope she’s dropping the topic, but then you hear the familiar sounds of your nephew’s adventures, commotions, and your efficient clean up.
It’s over before it even starts.
“Teach me your tricks, some of my patients act so much like child I could use them”
“They still work with you too, I’m not that stupid”, she retorts, wise as only a big sister can be. “Your said patients don’t do Christmas?”
“Rehab doesn’t and I have already called nana”
You check out of your mental lists a few more items, heading to the cashier’s desk after a quick run in the sweets’ section. Everyone has their own weakness.
“What did she say?”
“That I’m gonna send her to the Creator too soon”
After a few days of radio silence from your sister you almost believe she dropped the topic.
Wishful thinking.
Cris calls early in the morning, knowing you’re probably getting ready for the day and it’s not so easy to escape her. Plants watered and office set up, her voice fills the room while you’re half-listening to her and throwing together data in some research papers.
“You can send emails from home”
“Not convincing me with remote work”, you fight back, tempted to remind her once again, even if you don’t have patients on Christmas, you still have research papers that could use your focus.
It’s a part of the job you really love, especially the work you’re putting in with some colleagues in England to investigate the causes, consequences, and prevention of ACL injuries in women’s sports.
“It could be grandma’s last Christmas"
“She tries that every year, it’s doesn’t work when she has a better life expectancy than mine”
The gentle knock on your door makes you pause, time bantering with your sister flying faster than you realised. Alexia takes a seat on the treatment bed with a dismissive nod when you gesture an excuse with your free hand, trying to wrap the call.
You love Cris, but she is relentless.
“I have to go, I will call you tomorrow if you stop be annoying”
“Fine, but this is not over”, she concedes before firing off her last shot, “Your nephew likes Christmas and he miss you”
“This is emotional blackmail”
The call ends just like that, with a sentimental whiplash you both know works way too well. The methods can be as brutes as effective.
“Troubles?”, Alexia asks with a smirk, her legs swinging like an impatient child who would really like to be entertained.
“My sister is a pain in my ass”
“Younger?”
“Older”, you correct, motion her to lie down so you can check her knee and assert a few movements, evaluating her range of motion.
“She lives close?”
You usually don’t indulge conversations too personal, but since Alexia seems curious enough to let you do your tests and measurements without the usual grumbles and complaints, you indulge her.
So tell her– some things.
The years apart when you studied or worked abroad, the times your mother disappeared for weeks to some absurd places with a few days notice as soon as you and your sister were old enough to survive on your own. Cris’ presence, even from a far, always warm and always strong. Your nephew, Toby, the one and only man of your life, so wild and unbothered by chipped teeth and scraped knees. The decades-long fight against Christmas.
The session stretches out in a tangle of shared childhood memories, blurred family stories and tradition, ways to survive loud affection from loved ones.
The next day, when you enter your office barely five minutes later than usual, Dr. Wallace is dressed in a tiny Christmas hat waiting for you on the desk.
~
Winter in Barcelona is different from what you’re used to, never quite freezing or biting into the bones. It’s like even the weather is trying to sweeten you, charming you into believing snow can be warm too here.
It’s cold outside when Alexia comes into your office, trying to hide her limp. You can read her body better than her right now, you don’t even need to see her knee to know it is swollen.
Too swollen.
It was fine yesterday, perfectly iced after a few exercises on the treadmill. You didn’t lecture her about not pushing too much, trusting your cautious approach about this amazing progress.
You trusted her to trust you.
You ask her once if she pushed at home, alone.
The session is cancelled even before the lie is completely out of her mouth.
“Take a ride home, we have nothing to do here today. Ice it before and after some stretching exercises, don’t you dare weightlift a single kilogram”, the deafening absence of anger in your voice is worse than any fight she was bracing for. “If you want to do my job, go get the degree. If you want to be Alexia Putellas, stop self-sabotage and trust me”
~
They keep handing Alexia awards, praising her performances and reassuring her she’s going to come back even stronger. She smiles politely, shakes hands and says exactly what they want to hear.
Every time a new trophy is added to the list, she is not sure if she needs to scream so loud they will question her sanity, or if she needs to cry so much to risk dehydration. Maybe she should punch something so hard the ACL couldn’t be the most severe injury.
The brighter side is, every physio session after another title for the previous season is announced, you try to ragebait her into a new milestone.
Questionable tactics, but efficient.
“In the 2022 edition of the International Federation of Football History & Statistics Women's Awards– well, that is mouthful”, you read out loud, looking at the phone while the footballer is fighting against resistance bands under the watchful eye of Dr. Wallace. “Alexia Putellas won the Player of the Year award for a record second time. She also won the Playmaker of the Year award for the second time– what a showoff, with teammates Keira Walsh and Aitana Bonmatí placing third and fourth respectively”
“Are you done?”
“Are you done with your exercise?”
“I did a rep more”
You know, you can multitask.
“Dr. Wallace says your form was questionable”
As a good enough answer, she flinches the band to knock the peluche off the chair carefully placed right in front her. You gasp in pure shock, bringing a hand on your chest for good measure.
She wants to be dramatic? You can put on an Emmy-worthy show.
“You know what? You could use ten minute of heel prop”
“Oh, come on!”
It’s a passive extension exercise, nothing too crazy, but Alexia hates it. She has to sit with her heel propped up on something and with nothing supporting her knee, letting gravity pull it into full extension. And she must sit perfectly still, so there’s nothing to distract her from the dull, grinding ache in the back of the knee joint.
When she’s really annoying, you even stop the music playing softly in the background during your sessions, making her sit in complete silence while you watch her with a sardonic grin.
“If you move your pretty leg by one centimeter, I’m resetting the timer”
“Whatever, I know you never set it right anyway”, she mutters as she places the poor staffed animal under the heel for support.
~
The schedule in January is packed and challenging. The squad travels back and forth, preparing for the Champions League knockout stages while also defending the Supercopa title and messing up the Copa de la Reina one.
After reluctantly overhearing a quite animated phone call about the RFEF being the RFEF, Alexia’s muscles tensing under your hands even if you’re trying your best to do the opposite, you think it is time for a miracle.
“I have a Christmas present for you”, you say out of nowhere as the blonde Catalan finishes with her stretching.
“A bit late”
“Do you want it or not?”
She follows you outside, skeptical. It’s a misty morning at the training ground, empty since the team is away for a game. You stop on the sideline, right in the middle of the pitch, and Alexia almost collides into your back.
“You remember how to jog?”
“Barely”
“I will take it”, you step onto the pitch, pushing up the zip of your jacket and clapping your hands to get her attention. “Straight jog, nothing fancy. Follow the midfield line and don’t die”
At least ten different emotions pass on Alexia’s face, one trembling over the other and mixing together. It looks like relief, before turning into panic, to finally set on pure determination. She braces herself on the sideline like she’s ready to fight an army with bare hands and one good leg.
It definitely feels that monumental.
You’re now used to the Spanish theatrics, “They don’t pay me for my overtime, you know”
The athlete scoffs, shaking her head to hide a smile. She takes a deep breath and then walks in on the grass. She reaches the center of the pitch before actually starting to jog. You push her gently, but firmly, to the other end and follow close behind.
“My grandma can do better than this and they had to amputate her diabetic foot”
“I bet your family is so proud of you”
“I am, indeed, the golden child”, you retort, happy with the few jogs on the line and the growing confidence.
Until you see her immediately stop, face pale and trembling. She drops on the ground a moment after you reach her, taking her hands away from her knee.
“Talk to me”
“It popped”
Oh.
A whisper, genuine fear in her words, “I felt it pop”
You don’t say anything, just hold her gaze long enough for her to focus on your breathing and slow down her panic.
When she’s back on the earth with you, when your hands on her knee don’t feel like a ghost, you perform the Lachman test right there on the grass, pulling the tibia forward to check the ACL’s integrity.
It’s perfect.
The graft is as strong as it could be, firmer than the one she was born with. You tell her as much. Honest, understanding.
“It’s scar tissue snapping. It’s fine, it’s a good thing. It sounds worse than it is– It means the joint is opening up”
A pause.
Then, she exhales.
“If you fucked my knee again– I swear, I’ll kill you”
“First, I could love to see you try with a fucked knee”, you retort with a genuine smile, helping her up with ease. “Second, you still have to do a full lap before we’re done here”
“I almost died”
“I'm going to walk behind you. If you slow down, I’mma trip you. Vamos!”
She doesn’t doubt you for a second.
~
The other girls find out about Alexia’s first jog and it’s a chaotic mess of cheering and hugging. It’s good to see them so happy about their captain’s progress, celebrating a step forward as something monumental.
It warms your heart, even if you don’t really belong there.
It’s difficult to have such a strong bond in such competitive environments. Alexia misses her teammates in a way it’s impossible to hide, despite the professional and detached mask she still puts on sometimes. But you have been watching her for months now, you can tell when a veil of pain covers her eyes.
When the squad’s loud excitement flows from the training ground to the treatment room, when they run around the grass and she’s stuck on the sideline – or worse, on the stands. When they travel for games, she’s learning to move again.
When she feels like she’s not really part of the team because of her injury.
You see it and you can do something about it.
Small, but still something.
So you plot with Patri and a few of the younger girls, involving Irene for a semblance of professionalism.
Alexia comes into the gym for her morning session with the entire team waiting for her, grins on their faces and hands behind their backs.
She senses danger immediately.
“What is this?”
“Team bonding”, you answer, eyes lighting up with a spark she has never seen before. “Please, stand on the foam pad”
She does, because she’s committed to the recovery plan, but when she notices Dr. Wallace on the ground with a tennis ball nearby, she knows she’s in trouble.
Even the stuffed animal is threatening her.
“Now, please, try to survive”
Before the footballer can utter a word out, her own teammates, one by one, start to draw tennis balls at her. Lightly at first, avoiding her bad leg and just being as annoying as possible. When the captain gains confidence on the unstable pad, some balls come faster and she even goes as far as catching a few to throw back.
The room fills with more laughs than ever for such a place, releasing a tension built on more than one person. You let them play for a while, before the girls have to leave for their own training.
“I saw you aiming to my head”, she claims, helping you gather the offending items.
If you manage to fire a ball or two yourself it is to test the progress.
It’s research, really.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about”
“Dr. Wallace has better aiming than you”
As a good enough answer, you throw a ball in her stomach, making her fold dramatically – still smiling.
“Get back on the foam pad”
“Are you actually trying to kill me?”
“I had to make sure your balance is good enough”, you explain, moving your hands around. “Stand on the fucked up leg and close your eyes. Without visual cues, your brain has to rely entirely on internal sensors. Let’s build your instincts back”
Alexia wobbles violently, losing her balance more times than not. She keeps trying. You stand behind her, arms protectively around her without touching.
It gets better, before it gets worse.
It happens so fast you don’t have time to brace yourself.
Her knee gives up and she drops back, falling on your chest and crushing the two of you on the ground. Your arms are still wrapped around the athlete, as if still steading her.
The laughter that erupts from you is full, straight out from the belly. She follows soon after, laughing in a way you haven’t possible.
A sound you will do everything in your power to hear again.
~
“Are you sure about it?”, Jonatan asks.
The men crowding the room are both hesitant and hopeful, not used to hanging on every word of a woman.
It’s irritating and empowering at the same time.
They know they have to listen, they know you’re the only one with the answers to their questions. But that is definitely not stopping them to doubt, to inquire – to just believe they know better.
They don’t.
“Do I look unsure?”, you fight back, too calm for someone who spent the past half hour sharing the reasons behind her choices and her decisions.
“The results–”
“The results are one of the reasons why I’m sure”
“There’s been undeniable progress”, Patricio interject, impressed by the tests and evaluations, “The ones upstairs want to make sure the time is right”
You don’t roll your eyes at the political talks, but the unsaid is loud enough.
The ones who bet on you want to know if taking a leap, trusting you to get one of their most valuable players back on her feet, worth it. They want to know if she’s back on her feet properly – to run, to score, to win.
The ones who care more about the club, the face of football, want to know if their precious Ballon d’Or winner would get back.
They want to know if such a huge symbol of Barça colours would still shine as bright.
They want to know if Alexia Putellas is still a name they like to hear chanted from the stands, if it is still their Alexia Putellas.
The ones who don’t dare to say it out loud want to make sure the injury hasn’t ruined her forever.
The ones who care about Alexia want to know if she’s really ready to be back.
“You have the numbers, the scans, the tests and even my notes, right here to review on your own if you’d like”, you state, final. “This is my professional opinion, and, mind you, I’m the one who actually got the progress we currently discussing”
“We’re not doubting you”
“You’re questioning me, I know the difference”, you retort.
The conversation circles back to the scans and your evaluations, the Catalan’s progress and feelings on her rehabilitation, the team dynamic’s changes and the medical opinions on more than the ACL – even the marketing team’s approach to a possible coming back for the Champions League knockout stage.
“I trust her”, Alexia’s personal trainer adds from his seat on the table, improvements and changes right under his nose for months now.
He’s the last to talk after almost an hour of discussion.
“So, it’s settled?”
Carlos and Patricio nod with conviction, along with a few other coaches and staff members. The club’s representatives seem both happy and relieved by the decision. You stay composed, determination and something deeper firing up your eyes.
You know you’re right.
Alexia is ready to get back.
~
It’s late when you are ready to go home, you expect to be the last one to leave the facility with the backlog of paperwork waiting on top of your desk.
What you do not expect is Alexia Putellas, quietly leaning against the wall outside your office. A smirk you’re getting used to curving her lips, one hand in her pocket and the other holding something by her side.
“You scared the shit out of me”
She dismissed it with a sheepish shrug, handing you a paper bag.
Churros.
“Not exactly a healthy snack”
“I’m celebrating”, she comments, taking one out as she walks by your side to the parking lot. “And last time I checked, you were my physio and jailer, not my nutritionist”
You raise an eyebrow at her words more than the way she chews her dark chocolate-covered churro, “Jailer?”
“You locked me up away from the pitch”
You don’t point out you’re also the one allowing her to get back, “You’re so dramatic”
“It’s fine, I’m a free woman now”, she says, genuine smile on her lips despite the teasing tone.
The two of you reach the parking lot with no real rush, saying goodbye to the few people closing up the facilities for the day.
Alexia keeps her baiting up for the entire walk, almost skipping, unable to physically contain her enthusiasm. You get it, she truly must feel like she served time and she’s now free to be.
The journey is still long thought, you both know.
But there really isn’t a good reason to ruin the moment.
When you reach your car, you steal a few churros from the bag before saying goodbye, “Just don’t make me regret it”
You see the footballer hesitate for a second, calculating something in her head, before taking a step closer and wrapping you into a hug.
It’s warm, different from the brief and half-hearted ones you shared before.
You’re now familiar with the show of affection this team takes pride in, but this one is different.
In the way her arms hold into your body, the sweets’ bag trapped between your jacket and her hand. In the way you can feel her relaxed shoulders, breath hold into a few unsaid words.
In the way her smile grows when you hug her back as tight.
“Oh, you’re definitely gonna regret it”
~
Slowly, one training day at time, Alexia is reintegrating with the group.
Moving around the pitch with her teammates, sharing the same space during gym sessions, even pairing up with someone for light exercises. It’s not much, not really if she stops to think about her life as an athlete hardly a year ago, but it’s something.
It’s progress.
It’s everything.
She’s on time for every physio session prior to her daily work. Not that she was late before being allowed on the grass again, but she has a different light in her eye. And she doesn’t complain that much anymore.
Some mornings, you find a beaming blonde waiting for you by the door before your first coffee of the day kicks in. Teasing, even if you’re early yourself. The younger woman brings breakfast on Wednesdays, to soften you in the middle of the week. On match day you hand her a few packets of figurines for the stamp album you gifted her as a joke. You criticise her pastry’s choices, she grumbles about the duplicates – none of you really mean it.
Sometimes you have to hold her back a bit.
More often than you like to admit, you let her be.
Not because Alexia can’t push, she does anyway, but because you know she will go all over if you’re not as annoying as her.
The footballer’s desire to get back where she belongs is so strong, and quite riveting, that you find yourself dragged into her stubbornness. You close an eye if she does more reps or exercises than allowed, even two if you notice her skipping through her programme.
There are times when you’re the one pushing her.
“Plant that foot!”, you command, shaking your head.
As a good enough answer, Alexia rolls her eyes, turning more sharply around the cones. Still not planting her foot.
The coach next to you annotates something on his pad as the Catalan jogs back, repeating the exercises. It’s a fast linear path with cones to point out the segment where Alexia is supposed to cut direction.
Sprints and cuts, she can do it in her sleep.
Or should.
You walk to the other end of the makeshift obstacle course, waiting for her to finish.
“You literally circled around that cone”
“I did not”, she fights back, catching her breath, “I did what you told me to do”
“I definitely haven’t told you to do– whatever that was”
It’s a classic pattern, compensatory movements to cover the ones her mind doesn’t trust the body enough to do. Alexia is using her hips and lower back to turn instead of the knee. And she knows.
Her face morphs into an unpleasant wince, eyes naturally shifting toward where her teammates are entertained in a pickup game.
You lightly push her shoulder, catching her attention, “Remember my nana? She cuts better than you”
“I really must meet her now”
“Alexia”, your tone is almost condescending, hand firm on her shoulder. “If you don’t plant that foot like you mean it, I will have to explain to club management their precious Ballon d’Or and who-really-knows-how-many awards winner somehow forget how to actually play football. Now, let’s do it all over again without thinking you will die”
“You’re so mean”
“You like it like that”
Alexia shakes her head, amused, fixing her posture and returning to her exercise with a new-found energy. “If my knee explode, you will hear from my lawyer”
Threats aside, the form of her sprints is more clean and her cuts are rapid, confident.
That doesn’t stop you from screaming “Pivot!” every time she approaches a cone.
~
Before you actually realise how late it is, you have filed a dozen reports and updated almost as many physio programmes. You’re glad for the productivity hours, but your stomach is pretty pissed with you for skipping lunch and drinking more coffee than water.
Taking advantage of the surprisingly empty facility, most staff out on the field with the players for a session under the Barcelona sun, you lower your guard in the canteen.
Alexia finds you there, slumped in a chair with questionable stability, chewing on a protein bar.
“This is the saddest thing I’ve ever seen in my life”
“I have seen you trying to sit on a bench a few months ago”, you retort, sipping from a colourful energy drink, “You will be fine”
The younger woman scoffs, but with a genuine smile on her face.
It’s almost a shame your comments do not have quite the same effect on her anymore, ragebaiting her is a fun and effective method.
“I hope that’s a sad snack and not your lunch”
“You have nothing better to do?”, you ask, trying to hide the blushing growing on your cheeks for whatever reason. “Last time I checked, you were my patient and biggest pain in the ass, not my nutritionist”
“It must be your lucky day”, she states, inviting you to follow her to the kitchen in the player lounge. “As a matter of fact, I have nothing better to do so let’s feed you properly”
The space is modest, but well organised. A small but stocked fridge, two microwaves that must belong to a different era, and a surprisingly clean stove. In a few minutes, Alexia has plates and ingredients out for you to replicate a simple recipe.
When you almost burn the eggs while attempting an omelet, she bans you from ever coming close to a fire again.
“You’re a doctor”, she comments from the high barstool across you, eyeing skeptical your cutting technique. “How can you not know how to slice tomatoes?”
You point the knife in her direction before trying to defend yourself, “First of all, I’m not that kind of doctor–”
“Please, slow movements”
“Second, I’m not a chef”
“It’s pa amb tomàquet, there’s literally nothing easier than pa amb tomàquet”
Maybe your cooking skills are not remarkable, but you survived until now so at least your basic life skills are good enough to feed you. You never had the time or the patience to cook a proper meal, why start now that lunch is provided or pre-made and dinner is only a few taps on your phone away?
When you almost slide your hand open trying to cut yet another tomato, Alexia decides to intervene showing how to assemble the simple dish.
Much to your displeasure.
“You know what? Your sister is right. With this attitude, you will never find a good party”
“Introducing the two of you is, to date, the worst decision of my life”
“Good, there’s time for improvement”, she replies, coming closer. “Now, try again and please don’t kill yourself”
~
Match after match, won with Alexia still sidelined but barely contained in her seat, award after award, conferred to a version of Alexia Putellas she is just now learning to mourn; you can tell the excitement of her return is thrumming.
Everyone is waiting for her comeback like the thunder following lighting, the perfect storm waiting to overwhelm everything – or reestablish order.
The draw for the Champions League knockout stages is held at UEFA headquarters in Nyon, stopping a video session in the middle of training. Barcelona topped their group, successfully dodging the more challenging opponents.
Playing the first leg at Stadio Olimpico will not be easy, Alexia told you there aren’t easy games in the Champions League, but with the second leg to be played at Camp Nou you see her eyes sparkle.
Now, however, her troubling leg and loud comments are getting on your nerves.
At the third ignored request to stop, your hand finds her left knee with intent. The gesture is casual enough, your finger gently grazing her scar over the jeans but your irritation is clear. You just really hate that habit of hers.
“We shouldn’t have let them score”, she comments as a good enough explanation, gaze still fixed on the pitch.
The Camp Nou is buzzing, has been for the past hour, and you’re sure will not subside because Roma rallied and scored a consolation goal. Not with waving flags, fan chanting, and Barça playing in complete control of the game.
“You’re winning 6-1 on aggregate, Alexia. You’re fine”
You know it’s really not about this match. The team is handling it with precision and unapologetic dominance, the midfield is commanding every play with ease and goals are coming from all over.
Everyone is doing their part and more.
But you know Alexia feels like she’s failing, herself as much as the team, by not being on the field – by not doing her part.
Making her understand her only job is focusing on recovery, that doing it is how she’s helping herself and her teammates, has been the most challenging part of your job.
So you have an idea.
Sometimes it surprises you how stupid your ideas can be.
Ten minutes before the final whistle, you disappear between the corridors and tunnels of Camp Nou. You have to pull some strings and drop some names, but when half an hour later the stands are mostly empty and the squads are getting ready to leave and celebrate, you can drag Alexia to the sideline.
All you need to do is push her buttons with well placed comments and teasing remarks, her following you more curious than irritated.
On the otherwise empty pitch, maintenance staff reassess the grass with care and let you pass as they notice you with Alexia and the old man who is unofficially in charge of managing the entire stadium.
“You have five minutes”, he tells you, voice softer than necessary.
“It will be more than enough, thank you. Is not like she can really keep up anyway”, you joke.
Alexia doesn’t have the time to retort or fight back, pushed closer to the penalty area.
You produce a ball from behind your back like a magician’s trick. It’s a peace offering and a challenge wrapped in a sphere.
She doesn’t even realise until it’s kicked in her direction.
The athlete stops it like second nature, only recently getting re-used to the feeling of a ball around her feet. It comes naturally, if a bit stiff at first. But it’s too familiar for her to not feel like coming back home.
“What are you waiting for?”, you ask, dragging her back into the pitch and out of her head. “Do I need to whistle? Kick the ball, Alexia!”
She sends the sphere back to you with precision, not sure what you’re actually asking her or why you went out of your way to play catch at Camp Nou.
“Try to score, just– without fucking up your knee and all my precious work”
She complies, nudging the ball into the net before turning to you with a frown, “This is– stupid. I feel like an idiot”
“That shot sure was embarrassing”, you grumble, retrieving the ball and positioning yourself between the posts with a smirk.
Alexia’s brow shifts more, kicking the ball toward the goal as soon as your pass comes close enough. You move fast enough to tip the ball away, mocking the blonde athlete even more.
If you have to poke the bear to have a reaction, you will.
“If that’s the best you can do, they definitely overrate you”
“If I do the best I can, your ego will never recover”
“I put you back on your feet, Putellas”, you quip back, mocking a goalkeeper’s stance. “I think I will survive”
“Try to survive”
“Try not to kill me”
The words are barely out of your mouth when you see the ball flying from her feet to the bottom corner of the goal. Fast, clinical.
She smirks almost as much as you do.
The next minutes are a blur of light-hearted mocking comments, Alexia scoring more times than not even if she’s not really putting much force or commitment into it. You want her to get familiar again with the feeling, controlling the ball – back in control of her body.
If they let you mess around for more than planned, no one beside the few people in the stadium needs to know.
~
Alexia pushes open the heavy door of the treatment room with her shoulder, coming in later than usual for a media commitment. She enters the space with a headache and a stiff knee, bothered by something more than the rain.
She expects witty comments from you and teasing from her teammates, but she only finds Carlos checking the settings on an ultrasound machine and Jana sprawled on a bed with her leg wrapped in a cooling sleeve.
“And she finally arrives!”, the younger girl quips lightly, looking pleased with herself for a reason Alexia doesn’t feel like investigating.
“I’m ten minutes early”
“I've been bored for half an hour”
“And you still have another to go”, Carlos interjects, his gaze swifting from the machine to a tablet, making sure the numbers check out. His tone is easy and familiar when she addresses the blonde, “On the bed, cap. I’m running the show today”
Alexia obeys, but her eyes instinctively scan the room one more time.
The door of your office was open when she passed the corridor, no one inside but Dr. Wallace carefully placed on a chair.
She doesn’t ask, but Jana makes a face that lets Alexia know she has not managed to hide her curiosity as well as she hoped.
“Your favourite doctor is not coming”, Jana chirps, tilting her head back with a growing smirk. “Took the day off. Personal stuff, you know”
“Since when does she take days off?”, she means it as a joke.
“Since when do you care?”
Carlos immediately clocks the joking tone, the mischief in her words. And, from how the midfielder tenses under his hands, it works perfectly. He shakes his head, before saving the situation, “It’s her birthday”
In the next hour, between usual gossip and three different brands of tape, the Catalan finds out you’re actually older than what she thought and a tradition with a childhood friend gets you in Madrid every year on this day, clockwork.
“Don’t worry, she left instructions and notes”
The session with Carlos is light and familiar, Jana narrates in great detail the latest episode of her favourite dating show and the man fakes, poorly, disinterest. Alexia, however, is too distracted to pay attention.
She finds herself tracking the rain pouring outside from the window, wondering why you haven’t mentioned your birthday but ignoring why she cares so much.
A few days later, you enter your office before the sun is even fully up – in the hope of catching up on some work and surviving the Monday morning.
You notice it with the light still out.
Sitting right in the center of your desk, somehow protected by Dr. Wallace as the way is prompted holding it, there is a small box and a neatly wrapped gift.
You close the door behind you as you round the table. The scrapped paper reveals a book, hardcover with questionable graphics, and the laugh that bursts out at you is as loud as amused when you read the title.
“The Art of Being a Nit-Picker: an 11-step program for the most unpleasant person in the room”
On the first page, Alexia’s handwriting fills the white space messily – I know you only read things that come with a bibliography and endless footnotes, but let’s try something new. Dr. Wallace actually suggested this, I just picked the cupcake. We both can’t wait for your notes! Good read and happy birthday.
She signed it with the autograph she usually gives to kids, number 11 clear and without rushing the letters – to be extra annoying, you think.
The box is clear, containing a single, cartoony decorated cupcake. Dark chocolate, the only chocolate you actually like, with a candle on top. You take a bite, way better than the protein bar you usually have for breakfast.
The warmth in your chest definitely comes from the sugar hit.
~
It’s a sunny afternoon when basically half the coaching staff is crowding the sideline with beam smiles and attentive eyes.
Alexia is officially back in training with the team, taking active part in the sessions and getting involved in contact drills.
A few younger players go easy on her, out of respect and maybe a fear someone will have to talk them out to.
However, when Vicky attempts a nutmeg as Jonatan is explaining a play, you can’t contain a laugh at the blonde’s shocked face.
The more experienced players, on the other hand, seem to enjoy the lingering uncertainty.
Irene and Marta follow Alexia like a shadow, as if instructed to be as frustrating as possible. Keira dribbles around her like she’s a training dummy, while Jana, who is barely back from the injury herself, makes fun of the older woman like they are siblings.
It’s clear if Alexia is really bothered by her teammates’ behaviour she could raise an eyebrow and they could stop, but the truth is the teasing is just another sign she’s back.
A trainer turns to you as another attacker-defender drill takes over, “You think she’s ready?”
You don’t have to respond.
On the pitch, the ball is moving fast between Alexia and Patri. The Catalan pivots on her left foot, avoiding Lucy imposing presence, and controlling the ball to shoot. You see Irene approaching with a clean but firm tackle, half aspecting Alexia jumping out of the way and half praying she actually does.
She doesn’t hesitate.
With a quick movement, the ball is on her other foot to fly on goal.
She helps Irene up with a smirk, “Better luck next time”
The entire sideline beams in cheers, coaching staff clapping at the scene with enthusiasm. Pride overflows your body in an unfamiliar but warm way, hands by your side but a soft smile on your face. Your gaze and Alexia’s lock for a brief moment, enough for you to share a grin and maybe something more.
“She is ready”
~
“Are you cheating on me?!”
Unannounced, Alexia’s voice resonates your office with a playful tone and theatrics you’re way used to by now. It’s too early for it.
“Not only you’re not the lone player I am fixing”, you start, wrapping tape around Jana’s knee, “You’re not even my favourite one”
The captain acts so offended, both you and the younger defender have to hold back laughter. You finish your work with gentle hands, letting the two footballers chat the time away with ease.
Jana says goodbye to Dr. Wallace more cheerfully than to you, but you let it slide when you notice the smirk she sends to Alexia as she closes the door behind her.
There’s not real bite into your words, more amusement, “Next time, knock”
“I’m here almost as much as you are, it’s practically my office too”
She entertains herself with the stuffed toy while you prepare the treatment bed for her, cleaning it and making sure it’s ready to welcome a final assessment before the next match.
The team is getting ready for the second leg of the Champions League semifinal. The away game at Stamford Bridge was intense, exciting. The return one at Camp Nou will be even more.
For Alexia?
It will be special in a unique way.
You can feel it on her muscles, working on her with firm, yet oh-so-caring, hands. But you can also see it in her avoiding eyes and hear it in the soft murmurs when you touch a sensitive spot. She jokes, but it’s not as baiting as usual. And she talks, but it’s missing the usual depth note your conversations colours with lately.
“Should I suggest to Jonatan to take you out of the matchday squad?”
“Should I suggest to Laporta to fire you?”, she fights back, frowning at your threat.
You don’t add more, hands still manipulating her knee as a good enough reassurance.
She’s ready, her body is ready. Her mind has been ready even longer. A comfortable silence fills the office after that, you work on her muscles with attention while she ruminates on something you hope she will eventually share.
“My work here is done”, you declare, tapping her calf to signal she can get off the bed.
“Do you have a date with another of your girlfriends after or–?”
“You know you are the only one for me”, you indulge her jokes, shaking your head amused by how ridiculous she can be when comfortable. “But no, I kept the best for last so I can go home with a smile on my face”
She waits a bit before taking the seat in front of you, Dr. Wallace secured between her arms and legs stretched under your desk as if she owns the place.
Before you know, the last reports of the day are completed, the sun is getting down and the last rays cast a beautiful light throughout the window.
“I don’t think I can go back to– I’m not who I was”
Alexia’s voice is barely louder than a whisper when she finally speaks. You hear it only because she means for you, and only you, to hear. She holds onto the stuffed animal before continuing, “I just think I– I can’t be that player anymore”
“Is it a bad thing?”
She raises an eyebrow, recalling your habit of reading out loud critic articles and award motivations she was honored with during her recovery, teasing about new rising talents and accomplished players who deserve more recognition than her.
“That player won two Ballon d’Or”, she says eventually, matter of fact.
“They started giving them to women– when? Yesterday? Does it mean there weren’t great players before the individual trophies? Or that the footballers who have not won are not good enough?”
She roll her eyes at you, “You know it’s not what I mean”
“Do you think your contribution to the sport is solely related to how many Champions League you will win or how good you will do with Spain this summer?”
“I don’t even know if I will be there”, she mutters under her breath, twisting Dr. Wallace’s soft arm between her fingers.
“You will be”
“I don’t know, they expect me to do that and more and–”
“The people who really matter to you are just happy for you to be back”
When she doesn’t fight back, you rise from your seat to cross the distance and find a place on the chair next to her. Before you can hesitate, or think too much, one of your hands is on her arm and the other linger on her face. She holds a deep breath, closing her hazel eyes.
You definitely aren’t thinking – at all.
“You told me you weren’t the same player after Turin, and I bet you weren’t the same who won her first Champions League or the one who wore the Barcelona crest for the first time”, the voice out of your mouth is almost as gentle as your touch. “You are not the same player you were before the ACL, Alexia, you’re right about that”
“It’s not comforting”
“It’s not a bad thing”, you interrupt her with a smile, more used than amused of her stubbornness. “That version was invincible, and she still broke. This version? This version is evolving, growing. Allow yourself to change, Alexia. You may surprise yourself”
You hold her gaze until you feel her finally exhaling, closing her eyes before a single tear can run on her cheek.
“Besides, I prefer the version I’m looking at right now. Still annoying, don’t get me wrong, but–”
“Perfect, you ruined the moment”
The both of you burst into a roar of laughter, loud enough to cover the pounding beat of your hearts.
“You’re welcome”
~
Alexia doesn’t play in the home game at Camp Nou against Chelsea, much to her dismay, but when she makes her entrance at Estadi Johan Cruyff is pure chaos.
You check her knee one last time before nodding in Jonatan’s direction and back to the blonde, “Please don’t die”
“Can’t make any promise”
The supporters are louder than you have ever heard, the players and staff on the bench can’t be contained and, for every single one of the barely twenty minutes played, Alexia’s smile is brighter than the sun – of the last one, you’re sure.
After a comfortable win against Sporting de Huelva, Barcelona is mathematically unbeatable in the league and secures the fourth consecutive title. While the girls run on the pitch to celebrate, unconcerned about possible injuries as they pile on top of each other, Carlos lets you know the team won the league with a perfect record for the second season, and achieved 61st consecutive league victory.
Interesting stats for sure, but, even for a nerd like you, it seems like a moment to commemorate without too much thinking.
And you don’t think at all when later, while president Joan Laporta thanks the team for their tireless effort throughout the season and the staff for the work behind the scenes, you let Alexia kiss you in a hidden corner of a beachside restaurant.
~
The next day you arrive on time and that, for you, is unusual – since you’re always clocking in early. Plants unwatered, despite the beaming Barcelona sun, you hardly manage a cup of coffee before making your presence known in the treatment room.
The girls are coming in waves, some more affected than others by the late celebrations the management encouraged yesterday. But the season is not over, there still are games to play and trophies to win.
Alexia is talking with Jonatan when you busy yourself with Ana-Maria and a sore spot in her outer thigh, not alarming yet definitely something you will pay close attention to. The Swiss player is chatty and usually a conversation you indulge in, but today you can’t summon the energy for small talk.
The one and only thought in your head, flipping back and forth like a bouncing ball beating in your skull, is Alexia.
The kiss.
Kisses, plural.
You may have let her kiss you the first time, her lips barely a brush. Certain, but oh-so-gentle. The hand behind your neck holding on more firmly when you responded, when you kissed her back. When you initiated the second kiss, and the third one. When you couldn’t tell who broke the distance again after that, mind too dazed by the note of wood in her perfume, the buzzing taste of champagne lingering on your tongue, and the bodies so close and so good together it feels wrong to take them apart.
“My turn?”
Alexia’s voice almost startles you, too focused on your work on Ana-Maria to notice her coming closer and patiently waiting for you to finish.
The Catalan midfielder looks nervous as you prepare the treatment bed for her, but you honestly can’t point out the real reason.
Is it because you have to evaluate her knee’s response after the game, checking the reaction?
Is it related to finally being back on the grass, playing?
Is it something else entirely?
When your hands find her knee, she tense immediately
“Does it hurt?”
“No, no–”, she interrupts herself, closing her eyes for a moment before turning to you. “Yes. I mean, it doesn’t hurt. But– it doesn’t feel comfortable”
“It’s normal, it needs to get re-used to the work”, you reassure her, increasing the firmness of your touch when you feel her muscles relax under your hands. “Alexia, you played almost twenty minutes of a really emotional game when I could have let you eleven, just to be poetic”
“Just to piss me off, you mean”
“That too”
Ten minutes are all you need to evaluate the condition of her knee and assess the situation, the bit of swelling is not worrying and you can tell there isn’t fluid. Another thing you make a mental note to pay attention to.
You tell her that much, “Ice and try not to go full all in, today nothing more than lightworkload and all the things you hate”
“You kill my joy”, she jokes.
“And I take pride in it”
A bit passes between the two of you, Alexia stays close as you prepare the treatment bed for the next player – Patri, who is excusing herself to finish a conversation with a coach.
You almost make it out alive.
“About yesterday–”
Almost.
“I’m really happy you’re back”
“Not what I meant”, she quips back, studying your face with an attention and a care you still cannot place.
“It’s the only thing that matters”
You definitely will not make it out alive.
“So– We’re doing this? We’re going to pretend it never happened?”, she asks with a steady voice, her eyes chasing yours.
The footballer’s gaze linger on you for a bit, but when it locks with yours it’s clear she’s not happy with the way you’re dismissing it all.
Yet, without a doubt, you’re sure she will respect whatever decision you’re ready to make for both.
She is not going to like it, she is probably going to try and fight it. However, eventually, she will accept it as it is.
Your choice.
“I would prefer that, yes”
Alexia doesn’t respond, not with words anyway, but she nods and her face morphs in a grimace it’s supposed to resemble a smile.
It will haunt you for days, every time your gazes lock for a brief moment.
~
Patricio requests a meeting at his office while the team is occupied with endless video analysis of Wolfsburg.
You don’t think much of it, it’s not unusual for you to have one on one with the head of the medical team.
Every single day on Ciutat Esportiva you have been nothing but professional, committed to the work and to your patients. Every single match day, travel day, and late hour serves as a testament of how good at your job you are.
The one and only mistake you allowed yourself to indulge in?
You couldn’t even label it as a mistake in the first place.
So you enter the room with a smile and the attitude of someone who will face whatever thrown at them.
“Do you have plans for the summer?”, he asks as soon as you take a seat.
The both of you are not really fond of small talks, but you indulge him, sensing more than curiosity for your vacation.
“Just a few weeks off and then I will be in London to catch up with some colleagues about the research papers we are finalising"
“I have read a few of your papers, I’m sure it will be enlightening”, he comments, genuine in his nice words.
Patricio is a good man, one of few words but almost always well placed. He was the one approaching you, proposing you this position in the Barcelona medical team. He was the one pushing and fighting behind the scene with the management, after Carlos’ request, to suggest the change in Alexia’s recovery programme.
You know you don’t really owe him anything, everything you achieved is the merit of your hard work and commitment, but you’re not too proud to admit he played a role.
“Thank you”
“But I have to be honest”, he continues, small smile growing under his mustache. “I would like the idea of you accepting the updated contract for next season”
“I’m thinking about it, Patricio”, you admit without the hint of a lie in your voice. You have been thinking about their proposal since they put it on the table a few weeks ago. “But I still don’t have an answer”
The contract you signed last year ties you to the club for another season, but they apparently appreciated your work so much they have a different idea of how the business relationship could look after the World Cup.
You exit the man’s office more nervous than when you entered.
~
In the last game of the league’s season, Barcelona's unbeaten run came to an end.
The two goals from the Madrid CFF’s striker came before halftime, enough to secure a victory no one really saw coming. The home side’s game plan is clear, with a well-organised defence and a targeted counter-attack.
It works perfectly.
They capitalise on mistakes by both Barça and the referee’s questionable calls. Not enough to excuse the weak attempts to get the game back on track.
The final whistle decrees the first defeat as team manager for Jonatan and the end of the record run for the team.
But it’s a good thing he’s the one facing the press after the game and not Alexia, who enters the locker room equally kicked and pissed.
You linger in the room for a couple of minutes, assessing the general humor and making sure all players receive attention if needed. The game caused stiffness not only in the morale.
“My professional advice is avoiding the press altogether”, you suggest to Alexia, handing her an ice pack with a small smirk. “Not a PR expert, but that is not the face of someone who just scored for the first time after an ACL injury”
Alexia scored the team’s consolation goal not even two minutes after entering onto the pitch, a loose ball into the penalty area she simply couldn’t miss.
“Yeah, well– it meant nothing”
Her gaze drops on the floor before you can properly study it, before you can find out if she really thinks so. If she really thinks she has not made another huge milestone in her recovery. If it really thinks it means nothing.
You kneel right next to her, seated on the bench with her teammates floating around in different conditions of distress. The ice is cold on her skin, the contrast with your warm hands is evident. You secure it around the knee with ease and care, making sure she can move around and get ready to leave.
“I think it means everything”, you admit in a whisper, loud enough for only her to hear and honest enough for the words to really sink in.
~
The Philips Stadion is crowded with supporters, chants and heated humidity. On the pitch, Irene freezes in the middle of her run and the Blaugrana fans are left speechless – Barcelona now down by two goals.
The rhythm is off, passes are skipping past too soon or too wide and the press is disjointed between defense and midfield lines. They’re not making the most of some good chances, running in circles and missing opportunities. When a good attempt comes, there’s always a better block from Wolfsburg. The frustration is visible in the slumped shoulders of the players, the ghosts from Budapest and Turin traveling all the way to Eindhoven.
Ewa Pajor and Alexandra Popp gave Wolfsburg a strong lead to take into the second half, seeking to win.
On the bench, the silence is even heavier as halftime approaches.
The medical bag is on your feet, you sitting with some members of the staff – usually not the physio assigned on the sideline during games. Your gaze darts across the grass, jaw set so tight to bring headache tomorrow, but your eyes always come back to Alexia.
The Catalan is vibrating with tension, unable to mask her frustration. She is off the bench a lot, raising her arms and encouraging her teammates, but every time she sits back, her hand subconsciously grips her knee.
When the referee finally whistles, Alexia starts her warm up even before all the players are out of the pitch, giving away pats on the back and encouragement. You stay close, paying attention to hers and Geyse Ferreira’s movements.
You look at Alexia after a few minutes, really look at her.
You see the scars, the troubling legs. You see the uncertain steps, the ups and downs. The milestones. The setbacks. The woman who didn’t trust herself, until she could not do it. The old version, the new version, and the version in between.
Alexia in the meeting room.
Alexia in her office, paying more attention to a stuffed toy than you. Alexia on the treatment bed, downplaying her pain. Alexia embracing her pain. Alexia messing around with her teammates, letting them mess with her – letting you mess with her. Alexia complaining, then fully trusting, but never stopping complaining.
Alexia entering in your life like you enter in hers. Slowly, tiptoeing around, while filling the space with care, stretching exercises and teasing comments.
Alexia in the secluded corner of a beachside restaurant.
“Alexia”, you say, voice low and more steady than how you feel, as you step her before she joins her teammates for the halftime’s last minutes. “You earned it, you deserved it. Take it. You will not die today”
Alexia nods once, doesn’t smile, but her eyes are sparkling with a light you only saw a few times. She walks into the tunnel, disappearing under the chanting fans and the prying cameras.
You don’t know what happens in the locker room, what is said and what goes unsaid, but the team that walks back out is unrecognizable.
It’s a tidal wave, crushing on the grass immediately. Patri scores once, then again in a blur of two minutes. The stadium erupts in a completely different passion, pumping blood in your veins as loud as the cheers from the stands. The tension on the bench finally breaks into pure adrenaline, no one able to stay put for more than a few seconds.
It’s everywhere.
The spark is ignited and Barcelona returns to do what they do best – quick passes, combination plays and goals. The momentum is firmly in the team’s favour.
And, because life and football sometimes can be so cruel, Fridolina Rolfo is the one kicking the ball into her former club’s net.
The stadium erupts into an even wilder roar when Alexia walks closer to the sideline. Everyone is on their feet, everyone is celebrating.
Your gaze locks on the blonde woman for the rest of the game, never really drifting apart. Every step, every pass, every cut on the grass. You see everything – you see her.
It passes in a blur, too fast for you to understand anything beside excitement. Too fast and exciting to process it properly.
The feeling Barcelona is laying the foundation for something special, something incredible.
The feeling Alexia is raising from her own ruins to build even stronger foundations.
Draping in sweat and gold medals, the team lifts the Champions League’s trophy for the second time in their history. The players are taking turns celebrating with it, making angels of confetti and hugging each other to hold more than just tired limbs and aching hearts.
In the middle of the chaos, you manage to avoid embarrassing pictures, glory reserved to the athletes as you rather work “behind the scenes”, and to deter Claudia from attempting a backflip.
It’s a victory almost as big as the final.
When you reach the stands, it takes you way too long to find your sister and your nephew, waving widely and pointing to confused security guys. Irene has to have a few words with one of them, but not long after they are as close as they can get.
“You won the Champions League!”, your sister screams, holding you.
“I’m not the one playing”
“She’s being humble, it’s a team win”, Alexia interjects with a grin, way too pleased with herself when you roll your eyes.
Her family is close by, you recognise them from some encounters outside the training facility early on the recovery journey. Her own sister teasing without shame or intent to hurt feelings, her mother smiling with her eyes in a way that reminds you of Alexia.
It makes you glance down at the floor, face warm with a blush you can’t control.
“Did you have fun?”, Alexia asks eventually, focusing on Toby, barely tall enough for his face to pop up from the stands’ railing. He hides behind his mother’s legs, surprisingly shy.
The boy is usually a tornado, jumping around like taking a breath is not required. So you expose him, “He has a crush”
“Who doesn’t?”, your sister retorts and you have to talk yourself out the idea of strangling her with all those cameras around.
Next time she asks for tickets for a sold out Champions League final, she better go to someone else. You know it is more for the kid’s sake than hers, football-obsessed little menace, but you’re going to make her work for it.
“It’s nice to see you again, Cris”, the Catalan woman says, genuine, with a matching blush on her cheeks.
Apparently, your sister is having the time of her life too.
“Congratulation for the gold and your comeback”
“More the team’s comeback, I’m barely–”
Your nephew’s voice raises, quiet but fearless, “You played good”
Alexia doesn’t argue, takes the compliments as she usually reserves to kids’ unquestionable opinions, but she comes closer to the railing to high-five him.
“Don’t get too cozy with the enemy”, you say, chuckling at his failed side-eye’s attempt. “He’s a madridista”
“I’m not a madridista!”, he objects, almost offended by your accusation, then turning to Alexia to defend himself in her eyes. “I am not! Aúpa Atleti!”
The midfielder breaks into a genuine laugh, bothering you for not knowing the basics of football tifo, but it’s enough to make him come out of his shell.
Alexia and Toby eventually find common ground on their hate for Real Madrid – your sister has to placate them before they could start a definitely no-child-approved chant.
When the chaos, the team and the people on the pitch eventually claim back their queen, the captain stares between you and Cris, asking permission to take the boy with her. To feel the grass after a victory, she says.
You don’t know what it means, if it even means anything, but Alexia is allowed to haul him over the railing and encourages him to join a small group of kids. For the next ten minutes, Alexia Putellas and your nephews kick a stray ball around in a confetti covered football field.
Your sister’s eyes burn into the side of your head, but you can’t look away from the scene.
~
Barcelona celebrates for days, the city beaming under the sun and the team’s performance.
For you, however, it’s time to draw a few lines.
Without the pressure of the domestic league’s games and the mission of getting Alexia back on her own feet, you thought it could finally mean obsessing on your research papers and getting a tan.
It is not.
The RFEF is pressing on the club for information about players’ conditions and medical dossiers you rather burn than share with the man pestering your in-box. You worked with other federations in your career, sport at the highest level demands some sort of communication between National and Local, but you don’t trust them to treat those women the way they deserve.
You were not fully aware of how deep and twisted the conflicts behind closed doors are, how messy the situation between the players and the RFEF is – poisoning their lives as bad as their careers.
After a conversation with Patri following the first callup post the Champions League, you spend a few nights reading articles and reports.
A coffee with Alexia and Irene turns into dinner and ends with a plan of action you’re the most pushy to.
A complete dossier for each player, exercises and insights about each own condition and health. You provide your external perspective, your professional opinions and your personal number – you can’t be at training camp, but you can be there for them in some ways.
Vicky calls one afternoon to ask for clarification about an exercise added on her plan to get it right; Irene makes it known to who matters that you’re trusted; while Jana double checks with you every single thing the physios tell her.
Alexia doesn’t call, but she texts.
Confirming follow-up appointments and sessions in between the work she’s doing with her personal trainer and the commitments with the National, sending reminders to eat a real meal instead of surviving on caffeine. Sharing pictures of dogs and sunsets, to “take your head out of the books”, and ignoring your screenshots of unhinged tweets.
It’s light, even if the atmosphere is tense.
The final squad is confirmed early in July, you’re just back from a medical conference in London that mostly took the will to live away from you. It’s probably the exhaustion that makes you text her, that makes you ask her to meet in a cafeteria right outside Barcelona.
Alexia enters the place a few minutes later than planned, wrapped in a hoodie way too warm for the weather.
“Fancy meeting you here”
“You’re late”, you answer, no real bite into it.
“I see– You are not reading the book I gave you”
You don’t talk much. The air is already echoing with friendly conversation and the scent of fresh pastries, the unsaid is a guest you both welcomed long ago.
When you notice Alexia’s hands, steady but tracing the rim of her cup over and over like some sort of prayer, you bite the bullet.
“Try to not overthink it too much”, you say softly, trying to meet her eyes. “You’re managing minutes, it’s fine–”
“I’m not thinking about football”, she admits, finally looking up.
A small, sad smile touches her lips. You don’t answer immediately, but you hold her gaze with honesty. After a moment, you reach into your bag to pull out something.
Dr. Wallace.
The tone of your voice is gentle, mocking seriousness, “I had a very important meeting with Dr. Wallace, we agree on something. Someone must come to New Zealand to make sure you don’t fuck up my amazing work”
“Like I wasn’t the one doing the actual work”
Alexia reaches out, her fingers brushing the soft fabric of the toy. You have to push it toward her, nodding at her questioning gaze.
“Don’t die down there”
The stuffed animal isn’t just a mascot. It’s a comforting presence for anyone coming into your office with stiff muscles and career-threatening injuries, it’s a witness of progress and resilience – of failures, too, but offering a soft edge.
Right there, late afternoon in a cafeteria outside Barcelona, Alexia understands the toy represents more than an inside joke, more than a gift for the most important tournament of her life.
In the last shared hug before saying goodby, she tries to put all her gratitude, every bite of emotion she went through during her time working with you, into it.
Maybe, even something concealed, but never truly hidden.
You’re Spiralling Again (Leah Williamson x Reader)
A/n: this post mentions death, grief, alcohol abuse and mental health issues. If you feel you may be uncomfortable, please DNI
“How are you doing this week?” Your therapist asked as you sat slouched in the chair with your head in your hands.
“Not great” you sighed. “It was the six month anniversary last week and I really struggled” you gulped, trying to fight back tears.
“Anniversary’s can be difficult” she nodded, almost in a way that was encouraging you to express your feelings. “Especially the first few significant ones” she explained further.
“I just still get this sense of guilt all the time and I don’t know how to ever make it go away” you sobbed.
You wanted nothing more than for this woman to wrap her arms around you, to tell you it wasn’t your fault and that everything would be okay. But she couldn’t do that, therapists don’t just hug you and the pain magically stops.
“There’s no need for you to feel any type of guilt for what happened” she sighed.
“Maybe if-”
“Y/n” she inputted, tone still soft and emphatic as you released a sob. “You can’t blame yourself, okay? You were in complete control. You were sober and you have your full drivers license” she repeated, like she’d repeated every day since you met her.
“There was nothing you could have done to prevent him from crashing into you” she added.
“I’m sorry” you muffled, wiping away your tears as you nodded to her, trying to show her that, somehow, deep down, you knew it wasn’t your fault.
“It’s hard losing any type of family member, but losing your sibling is extremely difficult” she explained. “I understand you two were very close”
You and your older sister, Quinn, were as close as any two sisters could be. Quinn was only two years older than you, but she was your absolute rock. Growing up, she stood at the side of every pitch, cheering you on, despite having no interest in football whatsoever. She was so proud of you for making it as a professional footballer and you were so proud of her for becoming a lawyer.
When you signed for Arsenal, Quinn was over the moon. Not that she supported Arsenal, or any team for that matter. But her best friend, Leah, also played for Arsenal, so instead of having to see two matches every weekend, she now only had to see one.
Leah Williamson was a family friend. Your parents were friends and her and Quinn bonded right from the offset. One would think that Leah and you would be friendly, seeming as you had a lot in common with football, but you just never clicked. You didn’t hate Leah or anything, she was a nice person and you talked occasionally at work, but that was about the extent of your relationship.
Since the night of the crash, every single second of your last hour with Quinn has been engrained in your memory. You weren’t sure if you were choosing not to let any of it go because it was the last moment you had with your sister, but it didn’t seem like you could forget it.
“Quinn if you are not ready in the next 30 seconds, you can walk!” You shouted from the bottom of your sister’s staircase. She’d somehow convinced you to drop her to her work Christmas party tonight.
“Sorry, I’m coming” she yelled back, bolting down the stairs with heels in hand.
“Are you ever this late for court?” You smirked as she flung a heel at you.
“Are you always this annoying?” She mimicked your tone, picking the heel up that she’d thrown at you. She settled on the third step and fixed her shoes before she stood up, finally becoming taller than you as she patted you on the forehead.
“Are we picking up Paul on the way?” You asked, watching Quinn shake her head.
Paul was Quinn’s very sophisticated lawyer boyfriend and they’d been together since first year in law school. They did live together, but you presumed when he wasn’t here that he needed to be collected from elsewhere.
“He’s meeting me there, he got caught up in the office earlier and is only on his way home now” she rolled her eyes, indicating she was annoyed with him, so you didn’t push it.
“Come on, you’re delaying me” she smirked, pulling you outside as your protests began and she set the house alarm and locked the front door.
As you set off driving, Quinn hooked her phone up to the car radio and started blasting Christmas music.
“Seriously?” You groaned.
“Get into the spirit! It’s Christmas” Quinn laughed.
“It’s November 29th, Quinny” you mumbled, turning your indicator on to swing a right.
“But look at all the pretty lights” your sister giggled, pointing out the window at the lights that were hung around the street.
You missed that giggle now.
“Speaking of Christmas” you said, turning the radio down slightly. “What’s our plan? Are we going to mum and dads?” You asked.
“I don’t think we have a choice” she playfully rolled her eyes. “Come spend Christmas Eve with me and then we can go to theirs on Christmas morning” she smiled, watching as you nodded in agreement.
“Are you bringing your new girlfriend?” She wiggled her eyebrows at you as you couldn’t help but laugh.
“We broke up” you shrugged, taking a sharp left as you continued on the drive.
“Hey, that was a long one. What was it? Three? Four months?” Your sister smirked.
“Well I’m sorry that we can’t all have a relationship like you and Paul where you fell in love with the first boy you met” you bit back, glaring down at the massive rock on Quinn’s ring finger that Paul had put there about 8 months ago.
“I have this footballer friend that I think you’d love” Quinn bit her lip, trying not to start laughing straight away, but couldn’t help the snicker that was starting to come out.
“Please, no talking about Leah at Christmas” you grunted.
“You just said it wasn’t Christmas!” Quinn argued back.
“You won’t make it to Christmas if you bring her name up in my car again” you moaned, watching as Quinn laughed.
Quinn didn’t make it to Christmas.
“Then I’m turning the radio back on” she argued, turning the volume up full blast to listen to Last Christmas by Wham! “Sing with me” she giggled, as you caved and the two of you started singing.
You stopped at the next junction, watching the lights flick from red to green and you began moving off carefully. As you got to the middle of the junction, you noticed from the corner of your eye, strong headlights approaching you from the left hand side and you watched an oblivious Quinn continue singing. Then everything went black.
You’ve never asked how bad the impact was, or what way your car flipped and spun. All you know was that it was bad enough that it killed your older sister.
“We were really close” you nodded back, finally answering the therapist who sat opposite you, after having not answered for a few minutes.
“What are you doing to help yourself, Y/n?” She asked carefully, not sounding too pushy or like you should be doing something. “Have you been trying not to drink?”
“I’m going back to work this week” you nodded as she smiled at you.
“I think it will help to distract me and going back on meal plan’s will help stop drinking” you added.
Once Quinn passed away, you’d replaced the support you once got from her with the support of a bottle of wine, or vodka, or whatever you could get your hands on.
“That’s great news, that’s a really big step for you” she added, making you seem like you were the best person in the world. “Do you have someone there that you could speak to? Or who could relate?”
Leah had taken some time off after Quinn died too. The pair of them had been the best of friends for a long time, but obviously the relationship between her and Quinn and you and Quinn was very different. Nobody judged you for the fact you hadn’t been to work since the accident, especially not Leah. Losing someone as special as Quinn took a toll on everyone who knew her.
“I work with one of Quinn’s best friends” you mumbled quietly. “So, I guess I do”
-
Your first day back at work was a bit strange. You’d reached out to just your agent who informed the management team that you’d be starting back today. You got up and tried to get into some type of a regular routine, showering and eating some breakfast. You had your bag all ready from the night before and only had to throw your shower stuff in it.
You got to the front door and your hand hovered over your car keys. You hadn’t driven since the accident, despite your dad getting you a brand new car, and not asking for a single cent in return. You picked your keys up before ridding yourself of the thought of driving, opening the cabinet and throwing the car keys inside them. You took off by foot towards the training centre, which was about an hour walk from your house.
The centre had changed in the last six months, so they’d organised for one of the coaches to meet you at the door and show you where the changing rooms were now. She met with you a smile, but didn’t push much for a conversation. You thanked her when you got to the changing rooms and headed inside to get into your training gear.
“Y/n?” Alessia chirped from the door. “I didn’t know you were back today” she smiled, but you knew the smile wasn’t friendly, it was empathetic.
“Yeah” you nodded. That was the first word Alessia had heard you say in six months.
“Jesus Christ Alessia, why do you bring all of this shit to training?” Leah moaned, flinging the door open with handfuls of bags that all seemed to belong to Alessia.
“Y/n” Leah whispered, gobsmacked, proceeding to drop Alessia’s bags on the floor. “You’re back” she added.
“I’m back” you replied.
“I didn’t see your car in the-” Alessia began before she was cut off.
“Alessia” Leah frowned.
“I walked” you mumbled, lacing your boots up and standing up. “Nice to see you” you politely said to Leah.
“You too” she nodded back, standing away from the door to let you get by her.
“You” Leah darted her eyes towards Alessia.
“I wasn’t thinking” Alessia sighed, putting her head in her hands. “Think Alessia, think” she muttered to herself.
Leah waited until everyone had arrived, not allowing anyone to leave the changing room before she gave them a stern word of warning that you were back today and to be mindful of their wording of things with you.
The girls on the Arsenal team had all been amazing during this rough period in your life. They gave you exactly what you needed, space. Of course, they checked in through texts and all of them had shown up to Quinn’s funeral, which you really appreciated. They didn’t need to do that.
You hadn’t seen any of them since the funeral, well, all except one.
-
“Y/n, pet, are you ready?” Your mum gently asked as she came into your bedroom.
You’d gotten changed into some presentable looking clothes, but were sat on the edge of the bed, staring out your bedroom window.
“I promise, we won’t be there for long” she whispered, sitting down beside you and wrapping your arm around your shoulders.
“I just don’t know if I can go, mum” you sighed. “All of Quinn’s friends are going to be there and what? I’m just expected to mingle and pretend like my sister isn’t dead?” You huffed back, trying to pull away. Only, she gripped you tighter.
“If you don’t want to go, I’m not going to make you” she cooed, pulling your head against her chest like she did when you were little. “I’ll tell dad you’re not feeling up for it, and we’ll stay in, just the three of us” she smiled.
You knew all three of you could use a distraction, and their friends were all very supportive. The Williamson’s were throwing their annual New Year’s Eve party and they’d applied no pressure whatsoever for your parents or you to attend, but your dad thought it might be a good idea to gain some form of normality for even a few hours.
“It’s fine, mum” you nodded, standing up and following her to the door. “It might help distract me a little” you added.
The Williamson’s only lived a short drive from you, so the three of you took a taxi to get there. Your dad, like usual, sat in the front and your mum sat in the back, clutching your hand as she reached over the empty seat between you. A seat that Quinn should have been squished into right now, complaining about how she was always forced to sit in the middle.
You briefly greeted Leah’s mum and dad, nodding politely as they pointed in the direction towards where people your age were. You weren’t an overly big drinker, and you knew most people would be drunk already. You whispered to your mum that you were just going to find the toilet and she pointed you upstairs, knowing this house like the back of her hand by now. She just left out where exactly upstairs the bathroom was.
You took an educated guess by the look of the doors, but unfortunately, you picked the complete wrong door. You swung Leah’s bedroom door open, finding the girl lying on her bed and scrolling through her phone. Her eyes darted towards you as the door opened, and she sat up abruptly, clearing her throat.
“Sorry, I was just looking for the bathroom” you mumbled quietly.
“You can use mine” Leah said, pointing at her en suite bathroom as you stepped further into the room and closed the bathroom door behind you.
“Thanks” you nodded when you came out of the bathroom, heading back to her now closed bedroom door. Strange, you were sure you’d left it open.
“How are you?” Leah asked, motioning her eyes to the empty space beside her at the foot of the bed.
“It’s not getting any easier” you blurted out.
“No, it isn’t” Leah shook her head, despite agreeing with your statement. “Feel free if you want to hide tonight to take shelter in here” Leah smiled.
“Do you have any wine up here?” You asked as Leah’s lips curled into a smile.
“White or red?” She playfully opened her empty bedside drawer, making you giggle. “I can go grab a bottle and some glasses” she got up from the bed and walked towards the door, looking back towards you, realising you hadn’t answered.
“White” you replied.
“And you call yourself an Arsenal player?” She tutted sarcastically. “Can I get you anything else?” She added, waiting for you to shake your head as she headed off downstairs.
Leah came back after about five minutes with a bottle of wine and two wine glasses.
“Got the good stuff” she smiled and you offered her a soft smile back while she poured the wine.
You and Leah talked and talked. Not noticing the hours ticking towards midnight. The first thing that had pulled you both out of your conversation was the noise of people shouting down from 10.
“We should probably go downstairs” you whispered, waiting for Leah to nod in agreement, only she didn’t. There was silence until it reached the cheers downstairs, indicating it had just struck midnight.
“Happy new year” Leah breathed out.
“Happy new year” you echoed.
Maybe it was the wine, but when Leah leaned in, your hand swung behind her head to close the gap between you. It was a rough kiss, one you felt like you needed to help you forget everything.
“Fuck, you don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do this” Leah groaned, slipping her tongue into your mouth.
You wish she never said that, because all you could think was how her name was casually dropped into the last conversation you and Quinn had. Would Quinn be happy that you were kissing Leah? Did Quinn want you to end up with Leah? Did Leah tell your sister that she was into you?
Eventually, the thoughts got too much, and you pushed your teammate away.
“I can’t do this” you sobbed, running to the door. “I’m sorry” you added, closing the door and heading for the staircase to go find your parents.
-
Your teammates helped you settle back into training, getting you back to a normal routine. They were careful not to press you for too much, or be overbearing on your first day back. They mainly let you lead the conversation, mainly because they were afraid Leah would shout at them for saying or doing something wrong.
You’d spent an extra long time getting ready to go home, hoping most people would have left by the time you got out of the shower and got dressed. As luck would have it, everyone was gone. All except one.
“Still here?” Leah asked, knowing full well you were. She’d practically stood guard at the door to make sure you hadn’t snuck out past her.
“Yeah, I’m just leaving now” you nodded back, grabbing the last of your things and standing up.
“Can I drive you?” Leah blurted out. “You’re on my way” she shrugged, like it was more of a rhetorical question than a real one.
“Yeah, okay” you agreed, politely.
Leah opened the boot for you to put your bag into and when you walked to the passenger door, it was already open for you to get in. It was like Leah wasn’t giving you the option to change your mind.
The drive was silent, music hummed quietly from the radio but there wasn’t a word from either of you. Leah didn’t need directions to your house, she knew exactly where you lived, having dropped Quinn there or collected her from there hundreds of times.
“There you go” Leah smiled softly when she pulled up outside your house.
“Thank you” you smiled back, watching the girl pop the boot open with the button on the door,
“See you in the morning” she added, waiting for you to close your front door before she drove off.
-
The next morning, you were due into the centre at 9am, so, you set your alarm for 7am, giving you enough time to get ready before the long walk. You still weren’t ready to drive yet. You didn’t think you’d ever be ready to drive again.
You got downstairs around 7:20am and opened the curtains in the living room to see Leah’s car parked outside. The blonde had her hood up and head pressed against the steering wheel of her car, looking like she’d fallen back asleep. You frowned as you slipped your feet into your house slippers and went out to the car. You gently knocked on the window and the England captain jumped out of her skin before rolling it down.
“What are you doing here?” You asked.
“You’re on the way” she repeated her line from yesterday. “I can wait here until you’re ready. There’s no rush”
“Just come in, you idiot” you groaned, turning on your heels and heading inside. “Do you want coffee or tea?” You asked.
“No, I’m all good” Leah hummed back. “I can do this every day for as long as you need” she stated, eyes planted on your kitchen window, looking at the garden that you used to keep so well organised.
“Okay” you nodded, much to Leah’s surprise. “You don’t need to wait outside, you can knock when you’re here” you smiled.
“Deal” she stuck her hand out for you to shake, making you laugh as you shook it.
Every single day, Leah collected you and dropped you home from training. She never once broke the speed limit, not even by a singular mile. You liked how Leah’s face scrunched up in frustration when a cyclist was slowing down the drive, but she never tried to overtake them, always just trailing behind and shouting at the cars beeping her and trying to encourage her to overtake.
You and Leah started to talk a little bit more, neither of you having the courage to bring up Quinn or the New Year’s kiss. But you found other things to talk about, like how blue the sky was, or how excited you were to play again this weekend.
Since you’d started training, Arsenal had given you a few weeks to settle back in before rushing you to play again. It was a game at home in Meadow Park against West Ham, and not that it would be an easy win, but it was definitely an easier game to come back to.
With about 20 minutes to go, you were gestured to your feet to go on. You took your substitution bib off and tucked your jersey into your shorts as you stood next to the fourth official, inputting your number onto the board.
You were coming on in place of Lia, who squeezed you tightly and wished you best of luck as you jogged on to a round of applause from your teammates and the crowd. You think you may have even seen some of the West Ham girls clapping.
You were feeling electric on the ball. You’d played a really good pass over the top that Alessia managed to take down and smash into the top corner.
“Coming for my job with those long balls” Leah smirked as she patted your head. You felt Katie jump on your back and Alessia squish your face. Despite Alessia scoring the goal, they were all just so proud of you.
You moved out to the right to try and help break up West Ham’s attack, and as you turned to run, you felt an excruciating pain in your knee. You dropped to the ground, clutching your knee as play continued on. Alessia and Beth rushed over to you, not being far enough back in any way to help defend.
“Y/n, what is it?” Alessia pouted, hunkering down to be closer to you.
“Knee” you breathed out as Beth started frantically making signs at the bench. It was Leah who won the ball back and booted it so hard out of play, it nearly flew out of Meadow Park.
“It’s her knee” Alessia mouthed at Leah, a frown mounting her face instantly as she attempted to get closer to you.
The physios were crowded around you, so Leah couldn’t get near to you at all. She didn’t know why of all people, why right now, why this was happening to you.
You were taken off and to the hospital where they confirmed you’d torn your ACL. You felt miserable. It’d taken you six months to even gather enough strength to drag yourself back to work and now you were going to be out for a minimum of nine months.
You got some texts from your teammates, but you blanked them all. The night it happened, you fell off the wagon a little bit, drinking an entire bottle of wine in a very short space of time.
You didn’t even tell any of them when you were going for your surgery, you didn’t want any of them to know. Arsenal also respected you needed privacy and didn’t post any updates on social media afterwards.
So, you don’t really know how Leah found out. Maybe your parents told her parents, but there she was, at your doorstep. You’d been drinking more regularly and heavy now. Worse than after Quinn died.
“I just brought you a few things” she mumbled, shopping bags full to the brim in her hands.
“Did you bring the entire shop?” You frowned as she smirked. “Just leave them in the kitchen” you added, using your crutches to assist you to get back to the living room.
Leah went into the kitchen with the bags of shopping, putting everything away, before coming into the living room. She disposed of the empty bottles of wine you’d had lying around, concerned at just how many bottles she was getting rid of. Leah didn’t think you were drunk right now, and she was right, you hadn’t drank yet today.
“I’ll see you later” she grumbled, looking a bit defeated.
“Could you stay?” You asked, sounding a bit needy.
“I can do whatever you need” she smiled.
“In that case-” you teased, making her laugh. “Are you hungry?”
“Starving” she nodded. “Want me to get a pizza or something?” She hummed, pulling out her phone to order as you listed off what you wanted.
“So, did they say when they want you to come back in?” Leah asked, sitting down next to you.
“They told me I can take a few weeks” you shrugged. “I have to let the scars heal” you explained, but Leah knew that already. She’d been through this herself.
“I’m here for you, the entire time” she squeezed your hand softly, and you didn’t pull away, much to Leah’s surprise.
“I’m so sorry, Leah” you sobbed, completely out of nowhere.
“No, please don’t cry” Leah pouted, readjusting herself on the couch to get a grip on your waist. “I know why you’re saying sorry, and you don’t need to”
“I was just a mess at New Year’s” you muffled. “The timing of everything was just wrong”
“I know” Leah nodded. “I’m sorry if I pressured you in anyway, I-”
“You didn’t” you shook your head. “It was just when you told me you wanted it for so long, it just reminded me of how Quinn always told me she wanted us to end up together” you groaned.
“She told you that too?” Leah laughed softly. “That girl” Leah shook her head, a smile still on her face, but a look of longing was gleaming in her eyes.
“Only maybe once a day” you giggled back, watching Leah laugh and cry at the same time.
Grief was the worst.
“She really loved you, Y/n” Leah admitted. “And I think she knew that I loved you too” she sighed.
“I’ve wanted to do this for so long”
That’s what Leah had said when you kissed.
“You- you love me?” You stuttered out.
“I think Quinn was trying to wingwoman for me, which is a selfless thing to do for your best friend when it’s your little sister” she softly chuckled to herself. “But that was just Quinn, wasn’t it?”
“I meant it, Leah” you said firmly.
“Meant what?” Leah frowned.
“The timing was the only thing that was wrong” you reassured her, as you moved yourself closer to her. “Who I kissed wasn’t the problem” you confirmed, leaning in and pressing your lips to hers.
“Are you sure?” Leah asked, waiting for you to nod before she pulled you back in for a kiss. “I promise, I’ll look after you” Leah hummed, in a caring tone of voice. You squeezed her tightly into a hug, and stayed there for a long time in complete silence.
Maybe Quinn was right. Maybe you should give Leah a chance.
-
You and Leah took things very slowly, neither of you wanting to push the other to the point that it was too much. Nothing was official between the two of you, much preferring to just enjoy the comfort the other was offering.
Leah was coming over at least three times a week, just stopping in to check how you were doing. Sometimes she brought shopping, sometimes little gifts, but all the time she brought that cheeky little smirk that you couldn’t help but kiss. It hadn’t went further than a steamy kiss, but you were both fine with that for now.
She kept it to herself about the empty glass bottles that she found in the kitchen. You weren’t really making an effort to hide them, because you didn’t really care. As much as Leah was helping, really, your bottle or two of wine a day was the only thing truly worth living for right now.
-
Nine months post Quinn’s death and two months into you and Leah’s situation, she finally decided to bring it up. You, however, weren’t the first one she spoke about it to.
“I want to take you somewhere” Leah breathed out from behind you on the couch. You had your back pressed to her front and she had her arms wrapped around you, watching TV.
“Right now?” You asked, pausing the show you were watching.
“Is that alright?”
“I can go get ready” you nodded back. You threw on a matching tracksuit, and runners, meeting Leah who was downstairs pacing and mumbling to herself. “Ready?”
“Uh, yeah” Leah mumbled.
Leah drove the two of you around for so long that you felt like she’d either gotten lost or was debating to bring you where she wanted to go. But once she hit that road, you knew exactly where she was driving.
“Leah” you warned.
“I know” she nodded back. “I just think it’ll be good for you before you go back to work”. Leah parked and got out of the car, grabbing something from the boot before she opened your car door.
“Please come with me” she sighed, holding out her hand for you to take.
“Don’t let go of my hand the whole time” you pleaded.
“Wouldn’t dream of it” Leah let your hand slide into hers, and you noticed she was clutching a bunch of Quinn’s favourite flowers in her hand.
You hadn’t been to Quinn’s grave since the funeral, neither your mum or your dad could face it either. They’d been a few times, but not too many.
“It’s so tidy” you whispered quietly.
“Me and dad come up once a week to sort it out” Leah nodded. “I’m just going to put these down, okay?” She wiggled the bunch of flowers in her hand as you let go of her hand briefly so she could place them down properly. She quickly stood back up and protectively took a hold of your hand again.
“What’s that?” You asked, pointing at a black armband that was wrapped around a little lion teddy bear.
“Uh” Leah hesitated. “It was my armband for when we wore them the first game after-” she choked, not being able to get to the end of her sentence.
“It’s okay” you pouted, squeezing her hand.
“I know it’s hard for you being here” she began. “But I’m here. I’m always going to be here, and even if you decide you hate me, I’m still going to be there” Leah whispered.
“You’ve been great, Lee” you nodded back.
“I know everything right now feels like your world is falling apart. But, I want to be your support. You don’t need to rely on anything else” you noticed how Leah said anything rather than anyone. You maybe should have been smarter to realise that it was Leah who was the one getting rid of your endless stream of bottles, and not your mum.
“It just makes it easier” you muffled, wiping a tear with your free hand.
“Trust me, I know” Leah agreed. “I just can’t watch you do it to yourself, and I really want to support you. I love you, Y/n” Leah admitted.
“Can you drive me home?” You asked.
“Course I can” she nodded.
“I’ll follow you down in a second” you smiled
“You sure?” as she waited for a few seconds to make sure that was what you wanted. You knelt down as best as you could with your wobbly knee, and Leah didn’t once look back, respecting your privacy.
“Hi Quinny” you stuttered. “I’m sorry I haven’t been here, it’s just so hard to see you this way” you waited and waited for her to respond, but of course, it never came.
“I miss you more than I ever thought was possible and I just hope wherever you are, you can forgive me” you couldn’t help the stream of tears that were falling from your eyes.
“Of course she forgives you, pet” your mum sniffled from behind you. “She, and everyone knows it wasn’t your fault” she continued.
“What are you doing here?” Your lip quivered as you spoke.
“Leah called me” she explained.
“Oh”
“Something going on with you two?” Your mum asked, knocking her shoulder into yours as she knelt down beside you.
“It’s very new” you replied. “She’s just been this constant since I went back to work that I didn’t really know I needed” you shrugged, feeling her arm wrap around you.
“Here” your mum said, rummaging around her bag as she pulled out a notebook. “Look at the page I have the bookmark in” she gestured to it.
“Is this Quinn’s?” You frowned, noticing the handwriting was in fact your sister’s. Before your mum could answer, your eyes scanned the page as you read Quinn’s words. She was a bit obsessed with journaling.
January 1st 2021
Last night was wild! We went to Leah’s parents New Year’s party and she was 100000000% making eyes at my sister. I tried to tell Leah to go for it, but she made it seem like I was MAD. I’ve tried to convince Y/n sooo many times to go for it too and she doesn’t seem pushed either!! I wish the two of them would see they are made for each other.
“I know things have been difficult since Quinn left us, but don’t let that stand in the way of you being happy with Leah” your mum hummed.
“Can you help me up?” You asked, holding your hands out for your mum to help you back to your feet. You walked back to the car park, linked to your mum.
“Hello, darling” your mum squeezed Leah’s cheek.
“Hello, Mrs. Y/l/n” Leah smiled. Your mum knew Leah very well from her being friends with Quinn and playing football with you, as well as the family connection.
“Can I leave her with you?” your mum asked, watching Leah nod her head.
“I’ll make sure she gets home” Leah nodded.
“I’ll see you later, love” your mum squeezed you tightly.
“Bye, mum” you whispered, waiting for her to walk off.
“You okay to walk from here?” Leah smirked as you rolled your eyes at her playfully before she opened the passenger door for you. Just before she put the keys in the ignition, you gripped Leah’s cheek and pulled her in for a kiss.
“I want to be with you properly, Lee. I’m just so all over the place at the minute, but you’ve been the only real positive thing that makes me happy” you hummed.
“We can take it as fast or as slow as you need” Leah smiled.
“Go on then” you encouraged her, as she placed her hand over yours.
“Will you be my girlfriend?” Leah asked.
“Yes” you smiled, a genuine smile, as you kissed Leah again. “Oh, and Leah?”
paring: clarisse la rue x daughter of apollo!reader
description: for years, you and clarisse walked a thin line between cheap taunts and open contempt. tired of being her favorite punching bag, you decided to pull away completely, you vanished from trainings, dodged every confrontation, stopped responding altogether. the silence broke her. without you there to provoke or challenge, clarisse’s rage exploded unchecked, turning the whole camp into a minefield. but during capture the flag, what started as a deadly fight between two furious souls, ended up becoming a moment of raw confession.
warnings: enemies to lovers; blood; insults; and a very hot kiss (english isn't my first language, sorry in advance!)
a/c: first of all, happy new year! and second, i've been stuck on this writing for over two weeks and only realized how long it had become when i finished, but i'm obsessed with this woman so i forgive myself for that. enjoy the reading!
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The summer afternoon at Camp Half-Blood was one of those that felt lazy and suffocating. The sun beat down hard on the lush green hills. You were sitting on the wide porch of cabin 7, leaning against one of the golden columns that gleamed as if Apollo himself had polished them. The wooden planks under your legs were warm from the sun, almost burning the skin through your worn jean shorts.
Your fingers fiddled absentmindedly with the string of a bow leaning beside you, winding and unwinding the thick cord, as if that repetitive motion could undo the tight knot you had felt in your chest for weeks. And it had a name.
Clarisse La Rue.
Just thinking the name made your heart give an annoying leap, an explosive mix of pure anger and a frustration that gnawed from within. She had been pursuing you like a stubborn shadow since the day you arrived at camp, with sharp provocations like blades, burning stares, pushes that seemed calculated to throw you off balance.
She labeled you "princess of the sun," as if being a daughter of Apollo were an unforgivable weakness, something soft and useless in a world of monsters and wars. And you always fought back. With cutting words, with constant presence in training, with a stubbornness that bordered on masochism. Because stopping would mean admitting defeat. It would mean she was right. But what gnawed at you the most was not just the anger. It was that treacherous confusion, a feeling you buried deep, but that surfaced in moments like this.
Sometimes, in the intervals between blows, you swore you saw something in her brown eyes, a gleam that was not pure contempt, an almost imperceptible hesitation before she turned her back and marched away. As if she were fighting against something she did not even understand herself. And that drove you crazy. Because you hated not understanding. You hated feeling that, deep down, those constant fights were the only thread connecting you both.
And it only got worse in that last training session.
The camp seemed swallowed by the storm. The sky was so low and gray that it gave the impression the clouds were touching the treetops, and the rain fell in thick curtains, almost solid, turning the training field into a living swamp. The tall grass had already become a slippery carpet of reddish-brown mud, and every step produced a wet, sucking sound.
The air smelled of soaked earth, wet iron, and wet pine, the classic scent of a bad day at camp. In the background, the colorful cabins looked like blurred ghosts through the water running incessantly down the roofs.
You were in the center of that chaos, sword in your right hand, the handle slippery even with the leather strip you had wrapped to improve grip. The orange camp t-shirt was stuck to your skin like a second cold layer, the fabric heavy with rain and sweat. Your hair clung to your forehead and cheeks, dripping water into your eyes with every blink. You had already lost count of how many times you wiped your face with the back of your muddied hand.
On the other side of the improvised combat circle, Clarisse seemed untouched by the rain. Water ran down the reinforced bronze armor, down the muscular arms, down the curly brown hair she wore tied in a tight ponytail, but even so not losing its volume. The electric spear hummed low, a sound almost inaudible under the drumming of the rain, as if the weapon were eager.
She held the shaft with the naturalness of someone born with it in her hands. There was no tension in her shoulders, no hurry in her feet. Just that predator posture waiting for the right moment.
"Ready for another round, princess of the sun?" her voice cut through the noise of the water, hoarse and low, loaded with a mockery that was already almost routine.
You did not answer with words. You just adjusted the grip on the sword, bent your knees to lower your center of gravity, and advanced.
This time, you were not as impulsive as in the previous weeks. You had spent the last nights training alone in the woods, repeating sequences that Luke taught you in the morning classes: high feint, low cut, wrist twist for counterattack. It was not enough to turn the tide against a daughter of Ares with a divine spear, but it was enough not to fall in the first seconds.
You faked a strong descending blow to her right shoulder. Clarisse raised the spear to block, exactly what you wanted. At the last instant, you twisted your wrist, changed the blade's trajectory to a horizontal cut at her left ribs. The movement was faster than previous times. The tip of the sword grazed the bronze of her armor, producing a hiss of metal being scraped.
Clarisse grunted, a short sound of genuine surprise. She stepped back half a pace, swung the spear in a wide arc to keep distance, and counterattacked with a low thrust, aiming at your thigh. You sidestepped, let the tip pass inches from your leg, and responded with an upward blow, targeting the forearm holding the spear.
Metal clashed. Blue sparks jumped from the point of contact, Ares's spear reacting to mortal steel. The impact traveled up your arms like a shock wave, but you held your stance, did not retreat. For the first time in weeks, you felt you were really fighting, not just surviving.
"Better," she admitted, voice neutral, almost as if commenting on the weather. But there was a new gleam in her brown eyes. It was not pity. It was interest.
You did not let the compliment go to your head. You advanced again, combining two quick cuts, one high, one low, to force her to defend in sequence. Clarisse blocked the first with the spear shaft, deflected the second with the tip, and twisted her body in a movement that seemed rehearsed. The spear shaft came like a lateral whip, aiming at your temple.
You ducked your head at the last second. The shaft whistled overhead, brushing the top of your head and pulling out some wet strands. The movement left you exposed for an instant. Clarisse did not waste it: she advanced with a direct thrust to the chest.
You crossed the sword in front of your body, blocking the spear with the flat of the blade. The impact was brutal. Your feet slid half a meter in the mud, your knees buckled, but you held. You pushed back, using leg strength to gain space, and counterattacked with a wide circular blow, targeting her shoulder.
She deflected with ease, but you saw it: the movement was a little slower than usual. She was really exerting herself now.
You circled each other for long seconds, breathing heavily, the rain hitting your faces like cold needles. The field around had gone silent, the other campers stopped pretending to train and formed a distant semicircle, watching.
You attacked again. High feint with the sword, followed by a low kick to unbalance. Clarisse jumped back, but the kick grazed her shin. It was not strong enough to hurt, but enough to make her frown.
"You've been training in secret," she said, almost like an accusation.
You did not answer. You just advanced once more, sword swinging in a descending arc that forced Clarisse to raise the spear diagonally to block. The clash was so strong you felt your teeth grind. But this time, when she tried to counter with the spear tip, you were already moving: you twisted to the side, let the thrust pass, and landed a shallow cut on her left arm, nothing deep, just enough to tear the t-shirt sleeve and leave a red scratch on the skin.
Clarisse stopped. Looked at the cut. Then at you.
For the first time in a long while, her face was not just a mask of indifference. There was something there, irritation, yes, but also a flash of reluctant respect.
You felt your chest rise and fall quickly. It was not victory. Far from it. But it was… something. Something that made the blood run hotter despite the freezing rain.
And then she attacked for real.
The spear became a blur. Quick, precise thrusts, forcing you to retreat, block, dodge. You managed to keep up longer than ever, dodged three, blocked two, counterattacked once. But Clarisse was a force of nature. In a movement you barely saw, she swung the spear shaft in a low arc, swept your legs with surgical precision.
The ground came up to meet you. You fell on your back in the mud, the air leaving your lungs in a painful whoosh. The sword slipped from your hand, sinking into the puddle a few meters away. You rolled to the side, coughing, trying to prop yourself on your elbows. Your whole body ached, ribs, shoulders, lungs, but it was not just physical pain. It was the weight of weeks accumulated, of showing up every day, of fighting back, of feeling that inexplicable pull that brought you back to her even when everything screamed to stop.
Clarisse stopped above you, spear pointed at the ground, drops running from the tip like metal tears. She did not speak right away. She just looked at you. Long. As if trying to understand something.
But you knew she had exhausted her sympathy for that day.
"Do Apollo kids get weak without sunlight or do you just fight badly?"
You lay there, in the cold mud, the rain pounding your skin as if Zeus himself were unloading his fury on the camp. The clay stuck to your back, cold and sticky, and every breath came in irregular puffs, your chest burning with exhaustion and humiliation.
Your hands trembled as they braced on the slippery ground, fingers sinking into the puddle, and you raised your gaze to Clarisse, teeth clenched so hard they hurt. Those words echoed in your head like a monster's echo in the labyrinth. As if you were just another joke, a second-class demigod who could not handle it without her father's shine to light the way.
Anger rose like bile in your throat, hot and bitter, mixing with the taste of rain and earth. You hated this, hated how she saw you, as if your affinity for bow and arrow made you useless in a real fight. Apollo kids healed, prophesied, shot from afar, but up close? In Clarisse's world, that was weakness.
And there, under the clouded sky that blocked any ray of sun, you felt exposed, vulnerable, as if the whole camp were watching your defeat. You knew the curious eyes were fixed on you both, the Ares bully and the Apollo daughter who could not defend herself.
"Do you think it's funny?" you spat the words, voice hoarse and broken as you struggled to stand.
Your knees buckled for a second, but you rose, ignoring the throbbing pain in your legs and the tingling in your arms. The sword lay a few meters away, half sunk in the mud, and you grabbed it with a quick motion, gripping the handle as if you could squeeze the frustration out.
"Using me as a damn punching bag since I got here." The frustration was noticeable in your voice. "I'm not your toy, Clarisse."
For a fleeting instant, something you almost missed in the rain blur, her brown eyes flashed with a glimpse of dissatisfaction, a subtle and imperceptible flicker, as if seeing you there, muddied, was not the trophy she expected. It was as if a shadow passed behind that armor of coldness, an echo of reluctance, as if humiliating you was not her choice, but a curse from Ares, the god who demanded victories at any cost.
She blinked, and the moment vanished, swallowed by the rain, leaving only the impassive bully as always.
"Then go back to your bow, sun daughter," she shot back, voice low and emotionless, raising the spear again to guard position. "Or keep trying. Does it make a difference?"
As you stood there, sword in hand, staring at Clarisse under the incessant rain that turned the training field into a muddy swamp, her words echoed in your mind like the clang of an anvil in Hephaestus's forge. Of course it made a difference, at least for you.
That rivalry had not arisen from nothing; it was like a wound that slowly infected, accumulating layers of resentment since the day you stepped into Camp Half-Blood. You gripped the sword handle tighter, ignoring the tremor in your arms, and for a second, old memories flooded your head, feeding the anger that kept you from retreating.
But you could not get lost in them now, not with the rain still falling and Clarisse waiting for your next move; you felt all that history weighing on your shoulders and your heart tightening.
"It does make a difference. For me, it does." Because no matter how much you did not understand the reason, you wanted it to make a difference for her too.
And then you let the sword slip through your fingers, following the flow of the rain running down your arms. Clarisse raised one eyebrow, for the first time showing a reaction different from the indifference you were used to seeing. The blade sank into the mud, and then, placing one hand over your ribs, you turned your back, starting to limp away.
But Clarisse would not let it go.
"Is that it? You're going to quit the fight like a coward?" her voice was loud, the hoarse timbre followed by a thunderous crash soon after.
You did not answer, your eyes narrowing as you struggled to stay steady in your walk. Legs weak, feet sticking in the mud as if it were there to increase your humiliation.
"Apollo daughter, I order you to come back! Pick up that sword and fight me." The shiver that ran down your spine made you stop the slow limping. You could hear the whispers of the other campers, all gathering around the commotion forming.
They must have thought you crazy for defying the orders of the Ares daughter, but you were tired. Not of Clarisse. Even against everything you believed, you would never tire of her, but you were tired of living this vicious cycle that led nowhere.
Then, turning slowly and painfully, your eyes met hers. They were sharp, disgusted, and fierce. Jaw clenched, fingers whitened around the spear from the force gripping it. It was anger.
"Find someone else, La Rue. I'm done." And with that, you left for good, bumping into some campers while hearing Clarisse's howls, the ones she shouted to the four winds about how you were a coward just like the other sun children.
You accepted the coward title she yelled at your back. Because, this time, giving up was not weakness. It was survival.
You let out a long, heavy sigh, throwing your head back against the warm column, eyes half-closed against the golden light filtering through the leaves of nearby trees. The camp was still dotted with some puddles that were slowly evaporating, and the distant sound of laughter and sword clangs in the training field echoed as a reminder that camp life went on, indifferent to your internal turmoil.
It was then that light but determined footsteps climbed the porch steps. You opened your eyes and saw Annabeth approaching, her braids tied in a practical ponytail. She carried a clipboard full of scribbled notes, strategies probably, because Annabeth never stopped planning.
Without ceremony, she sat beside you on the step, crossing her legs and observing you for a long moment with those stormy brown eyes that seemed capable of dissecting any puzzle.
You felt the air grow a little heavier. Annabeth was not the type to show up for small talk.
"You're making that face again," she said at last, voice low and direct, cutting the silence like a dagger. "Like you want to strangle someone with your bare hands. Let me guess: Clarisse?"
You snorted, a sound that came out more bitter than intended, and looked away to the distant fields, where tiny campers picked strawberries under the relentless sun.
"When do I not want to strangle her?"
Annabeth tilted her head, studying you with an intensity that made you want to fidget, but you stayed still, fingers tightening the bow string harder. There was a long pause, the kind of silence that weighs, loaded with expectation.
"But never for real." She started slowly, choosing words as if building a perfect trap. "You know, I observe people. It's what I do. Strategy, patterns, weaknesses. And there's one thing about Clarisse that I can't ignore."
Your stomach twisted. You raised an eyebrow, trying to sound casual, but your voice came out tense.
"What? That she's an unbearable bully?"
Annabeth gave a small, almost imperceptible smile, but did not answer right away. Instead, she leaned a little closer to you, lowering her voice as if the air itself could listen.
"She provokes you more than anyone here. Way more. It's not just casual bullying. It's… obsessive. She shows up out of nowhere just to poke you. Watches you when she thinks no one notices. And when you fight back?" Her eyes gleamed with something between amusement and seriousness. "She seems… alive. Like that's the highlight of her day."
You felt heat rise up your neck, hot and treacherous, and crossed your arms over your chest as if you could contain the turmoil starting to form inside you. The sun seemed more intense suddenly, burning the skin.
"That's crazy, Annabeth. She does it because I'm an easy target. Apollo daughter, bow and arrow, healing… everything Ares kids despise."
"No." The word came firm, sharp, making you turn your face to her. Annabeth did not blink. "With others, it's quick. A shove, a threat, and she moves on. With you… she prolongs it. She invents reasons to meet you in the training field. She stays after everyone leaves, just for one more round. And those looks…" She paused, letting the words hang in the hot air. "It's not just hate. It's something she doesn't know how to handle."
Your heart beat harder, an irregular drumming echoing in your ears.
"What exactly are you insinuating?" You swallowed hard, feeling your throat dry despite the air's humidity.
Annabeth raised her hands in an innocent gesture, but the smile on her lips was sly.
"I'm not insinuating anything definitive. Just saying it might be an interest she doesn't know how to express. Ares kids are raised for war, for brute conquest. More… subtle feelings? They have no tools for that. So they turn it into fight. Into provocation. Into anything that keeps the person close. Instead of asking you for a walk in the woods… she knocks you down in the mud and calls you weak. It's her way of saying 'hey, you matter.'"
The words hit like an arrow to the chest. You felt the air escape for a second, the world around blurring, the sun, the distant sound of laughter. Everything reduced to that absurd, impossible idea Annabeth had just planted. Your face burned, and you let out a dry, forced laugh that came out strangled and too loud in the porch silence.
"Impossible," you said, voice sharper than intended, shaking your head vehemently. "Out of any consideration. Clarisse doesn't like anyone besides herself and the glory of battle. She's just a bored bully seeking attention. And I… I give her rope for it. I show up, I fight back, I stay there taking hits every day. That's why she insists. If I really ignored her, she'd get tired quickly and find another toy to break. And that's what I'm doing now."
The words came out quick, defensive, as if saying them aloud could convince her, and yourself. But Annabeth just watched you for another long moment, brown eyes penetrating, as if seeing through your armor of denial.
"Skipped training today?" She asked with narrowed eyes, and you looked away to your feet. "You know what Chiron thinks about you skipping sword practice."
"I know! But I just… need some time from Clarisse, away from her." Your answer was frustrated, your hands slapping your thighs nervously. "Because I know if she calls me I'll go, and I can't do that anymore."
The silence stretched, tense and heavy, the sun beating on your back like an additional weight. Finally, she shrugged, standing with fluid grace and brushing imaginary dust from her cargo pants.
"Maybe it'll work," she said, voice neutral, but with a tone suggesting the opposite. "But it's only a matter of time until she comes looking for you, because one thing I know: nobody spends so much time and energy trying to knock down someone who means nothing."
She descended the porch steps slowly, footsteps echoing on the wooden planks, leaving you alone once more. The sun continued relentless, the strawberry scent sweeter than ever, but now everything seemed distant, muffled by the buzzing in your ears.
You tried to laugh at the idea. Tried to bury it deep, as you did with everything that destabilized you. But deep down, Annabeth's idea terrified you. You just did not know in what sense.
[...]
The sun of the following morning rose lazily over Camp Half-Blood, filtering through the leaves of the ancient trees that lined the training fields. The air still carried the damp coolness of the previous night, mixed with the smell of dew on the grass and the distant sound of birds singing.
You were on the way to the training field, your feet sinking slightly into the still soft earth, the quiver of arrows bouncing against your back with every step. You knew you could not skip training forever, so you decided to end it once and for all.
After the conversation with Annabeth, and that seed of doubt she had planted, you had decided it was time to change. To pull away. To stop feeding it. But the process was slow, as if every fiber of your body still wanted to turn and face the challenge that Clarisse represented.
You saw her from afar, as always: standing in the center of the combat circle, the electric spear spinning in her hands as if she were bored, the curly hair tied in a ponytail with tight braids that could not tame all the rebellious strands. She wore the bronze armor, marked by old scratches, and her brown eyes scanned the field like a predator waiting for prey.
When she spotted you approaching, something changed in her posture, her shoulders straightened, her mouth curved into a short smile that was half mockery, half anticipation. Clarisse did not smile, except for this kind of smile. She took a step forward, blocking your path with the naturalness of someone who commanded the ground.
"Hey, princess of the sun," her voice came out hoarse, loaded with an authoritative tone you knew well. "Didn't show up yesterday… running from me? Let's double the bet, see if you learned anything from the last beating."
You stopped a few meters from her, feeling the sun hitting your back like silent encouragement. Your heart raced, but you swallowed the impulse to retort with a barb. Instead, you shook your head slowly, your voice coming out low and different from what you were used to.
"Not today, Clarisse." There was a brief but heavy silence, like the air before a storm.
Her eyes narrowed, the remnant of that smile dying on her lips. You saw the muscle in her jaw tighten, a subtle sign of discomfort that she rarely let slip. Clarisse was not used to refusals, especially not from you, who always showed up, always bit the bait.
"What?" She tilted her head, as if she had not heard right, stopping the spear spin and resting it on her shoulder, the low electric hum echoing in the air. "You heard me. Come on. Grab the sword."
The insistence came as expected, the tone sharper now, loaded with a frustration she tried to mask with authority. You felt a tightness in your chest, part guilt, part hesitant relief.
"No. Find someone else today." Without waiting for a response, you walked around her slowly, your feet moving with a deliberation that seemed forced, as if your body wanted to stay.
You headed to the adjacent archery range, where straw targets swayed lightly in the breeze, ignoring the weight of her gaze on your back.
Clarisse stood there for a long moment, her fingers gripping the spear shaft so hard that her knuckles whitened. She hated being ignored, hated the feeling of something slipping out of her control, like a battle turning for no apparent reason. But she pretended not to care.
She huffed loud enough for you to hear, turning to a group of nearby campers and barking an order for an improvised training.
"You there! Line up. Let's see if anyone here is worth anything." Her voice came out rougher than normal, but she marched away, pretending the refusal did not bother her.
Deep down, however, it burned, a spark she did not know how to extinguish.
The afternoon dragged on hot and stuffy, the high sun turning the dining pavilion into an outdoor oven. You were sitting at the table of cabin 7, the plate of salad and cheese almost untouched, the fork spinning absentmindedly in the food while your siblings chattered about the next capture the flag.
That was when Clarisse passed by your table, flanked by two Ares siblings who were laughing at some inside joke. She stopped abruptly, leaning over the table with one arm supported, the woody smell of her soap and metal invading your space.
"What happened to you, princess of the sun?" she said, voice low and provocative, eyes fixed on yours as if waiting for the usual spark. "Tired of taking a beating and decided to hide behind the bow like a coward?"
You raised your gaze slowly, feeling the old impulse to respond with venom rise in your throat. But you swallowed it, forcing a soft tone, almost neutral, as if commenting on the weather.
"Maybe. But I'm fine like this, thanks." No barbs, no anger. Just a tame response that slipped like water.
Clarisse blinked, the mockery freezing on her face for a second. She expected the fight, needed it in a way, to feel that things were in place. But there you were, responding without biting the bait, without giving the fuel she wanted. Frustration rose like bile, but she did not externalize it: she straightened slowly, her lips curving into that same forced smile that did not reach her eyes.
"Fine. Have fun with your little arrows." She turned and marched away, steps heavier than necessary, leaving an uncomfortable silence at the table. Deep down, it gnawed at her, as if you had stolen something from her without effort.
The following days passed in agonizing slowness, and you saw the effects seep into Clarisse in subtle ways, like slow poison. At first, it was almost imperceptible: during group training, she attacked with more ferocity than normal, the spear spinning in a blur that left opponents breathless.
But then came the first real explosion, during combat with an Ares sibling, she did not hold back the blow, the spear tip tearing his skin and leaving a deep cut on his arm.
"What the hell is this, Clarisse?" the boy shouted, pressing the wound as blood ran. She just grunted.
"Even the coward Apollo kids don't whine like you," but her eyes were distant, the anger not directed at him.
The explosions multiplied over the days: yelling at campers who made silly mistakes, punches on training bags that echoed louder than necessary, and she had become quieter during meals, she who always dominated conversations with battle stories, now stayed silent, chewing food with her gaze fixed on the Apollo cabin table. Her siblings exchanged nervous glances, whispering that "she's worse than normal," but no one dared confront her.
One afternoon, the air was heavy with the buzz of insects and the distant echo of laughter from younger campers playing near the lake, but on the porch of cabin 6, where you and Annabeth were sitting, the atmosphere was quieter, almost introspective. A light breeze stirred the pages of Annabeth's notebook, which she held firmly, ink-stained fingers tracing lines and diagrams. The smell of dry earth and pine resin hung in the air, mixed with the polish you used on your bow, an oily and familiar aroma that calmed your nerves.
Annabeth was leaning forward, her brown eyes shining with that calculating intensity that made her the best strategist at camp.
"So, I talked to Luke earlier," she began, turning a page with a quick gesture. "He thinks we can turn the game in the next capture the flag if we mix the teams in an unexpected way. The Ares kids will expect a heavy defense on the eastern border, as always, but we're going to infiltrate a quick hunt through the western flank…"
She drew an arrow on the paper, the pencil scraping against the surface.
"And that's where you come in. It's time to abandon that bow a little. I'm putting you on the hunt, you're fast, precise, and can cover ground without making noise."
You were sitting on the step beside her, the bow balanced on your lap as you passed the soft cloth over the curved wood, feeling the smooth texture under your fingers. The movement was rhythmic, almost meditative, a welcome distraction from the thoughts that stubbornly returned to Clarisse. Upon hearing Annabeth's words, you could not help a low laugh, the sound escaping soft like a breeze, without raising your eyes from the bow.
"You sounded like Clarisse just now," you murmured, voice low and casual, but with a subtle note of something more, perhaps nostalgia, perhaps contained irritation. Clarisse always picked on your bow, calling it a "coward's weapon," as if only close combat was worthwhile.
Annabeth stopped writing at the same instant, the pencil freezing in the air. She raised her gaze slowly, analyzing you as if you were a puzzle to be solved, shoulders slightly tense, the way your fingers gripped the cloth for a second longer than necessary. The expression on your face had changed: the corners of your mouth curving downward almost imperceptibly, eyes shifting to the horizon instead of meeting hers.
"Speaking of Clarisse…" Annabeth said, tone neutral, but with sharp curiosity behind it. She closed the notebook slowly, crossing her arms over it as if preparing for a deeper conversation. "I heard a Hermes kid say earlier that he saw her punching trees last night after curfew. Those near the forest edge. He said she seemed… possessed. With a lot of anger."
You felt a tightness in your stomach, as if an invisible arrow had hit dead center. Your expressions changed before you could control them, eyebrows furrowing for an instant, lips pressing into a thin line. You swallowed hard, the sound audible in the silence that followed, and shrugged, forcing your shoulders to relax as you returned to polishing the bow with more deliberate movements.
"Oh, really?" The words came out casual, but you kept your eyes fixed on the bow, as if the polishing required all your attention. "Clarisse angry doesn't seem like news to me."
Annabeth narrowed her eyes, tilting her head slightly to the side, like an owl assessing prey. She knew you too well to let it pass.
"You're worried," she said, voice low but firm, no beating around the bush. It was a statement, not a question, loaded with that sharp perception that made her annoyingly accurate.
You laughed again, but this time the sound came out forced, as if laughing at something ridiculous, an inside joke that was not funny. You shook your head, still without looking at her, the cloth sliding faster over the wood.
"Holy shit, you are!" Annabeth shot back, eyes widening a little in genuine surprise, mixed with a trace of amusement. She leaned closer, the notebook now forgotten on her lap, as if the conversation had taken a more interesting turn than any capture the flag tactic. "I mean, I already imagined you were but seeing it happen right in front of me is another thing."
You paused for a second, fingers freezing on the cloth, but soon resumed the movement, slower now.
"I don't care what Clarisse does or doesn't do," you said, voice distant, as if talking about something trivial, like the weather or the dinner menu. "She can punch whatever she wants. Trees, people, whatever. It's not my problem." You shifted your gaze to the distant field, where campers trained with swords, the metal clang echoing like a distant reminder.
Annabeth huffed softly, a sound that was half frustration, half affection. She leaned back against the porch pillar, crossing her legs and watching you with that calculated patience.
"You know, I said maybe your idea of pulling away would work. Maybe. And maybe isn't certainty. Look at what's happening, she's exploding all over the place, you're here pretending not to notice… pretending very badly by the way. But it might be that ignoring doesn't put out the fire like you think it will, but actually just makes it burn slower. Or worse, spread."
You felt her words seep in like a seed planted in the fertile soil of your mind, but you shook your head again, forcing a smile that did not reach your eyes.
"Annabeth, seriously. Let's get back to the tactics?" You changed the subject with trained naturalness, returning to polish the bow with more vigor, as if the words could be erased by the repetitive motion.
She hesitated for a moment, eyes still fixed on you, as if deciding whether to insist or not.
"Okay, okay. But can I say one last thing?" She leaned toward you, trying to meet your eyes, and when she did, she continued. "Pretending you don't feel won't make the feelings go away."
You did not answer, blinking slowly and taking time to shift your eyes from Annabeth, pretending to return attention to your bow. She sighed, giving up, opened the notebook again, and turning the pages with a sharp gesture, continued her line of reasoning.
"Fine, Luke told me about a new route that…"
But as she continued, talking about positions and traps, you felt that seed germinating deep in your chest, an uncomfortable doubt, a worry you did not want to name.
The conversation repeating in your head like a persistent echo. Annabeth had planted it there, and no matter how much you denied it, you knew it would not disappear so easily. The sun continued to descend, lengthening the shadows across the porch, and the camp followed its rhythm, oblivious to the quiet turmoil forming inside you.
What was the daughter of Ares doing to you?
[...]
The day of capture the flag dawned with the rising sun tinting the treetops orange and pink, filtering through the branches in beams that danced on the dew-wet ground. The air was charged with anticipation, the smell of pine mixed with the sharp metal of weapons being prepared and the nervous sweat of the campers. The teams gathered at the edges of the forest: the blue team, led by Annabeth and Luke, and the red team, by Clarisse.
You felt the weight of the light armor on your shoulders, the sheathed sword at your side, missing the weight of the bow on your back, a reluctant commitment to Annabeth's plan to put you on the hunt, far from safe arrows.
"Blue team, positions!" Luke shouted, the plumed helmet swaying as he adjusted his shield.
You waved to him from afar, taking command of the hunting group on the front line: a handful of agile campers, including Hermes kids and some younger ones from Apollo and Athena, all with eyes shining with excitement.
The Camp Half-Blood forest swallowed them as if it were a living and hungry entity, the ancient twisted trunks of oaks and pines forming natural corridors of deep shadow, where the midday sunlight barely pierced the thick canopy of leaves.
The ground was covered by an uneven carpet of dry leaves and broken branches that creaked treacherously under boots, betraying every step. Further ahead, the stream that divided the territory into two sides murmured low, like a constant warning: crossing the water meant enemy territory, and whoever carried the opposing flag back to their own side won. Traps were scattered everywhere.
"Advance slowly, cover the flanks," you ordered, voice low but firm, cutting the tense silence like a celestial bronze blade.
The knot in your stomach tightened with every second, it was not exactly fear, but the sharp awareness that, in that moment, everyone there was both hunter and prey. The enemy flag was hidden somewhere in the depths, protected by traps, sentinels, and probably Clarisse and her Ares squad thirsty for blood.
Your mission was simple and brutal: distract, delay, wear down the opposing team for as long as possible, give your side a chance to advance.
You nodded to your group. They did not hesitate: they nodded back, spreading out in a fan formation, silent as shadows. Camp training did that to you: it turned teenagers into something lethal, almost instinctive.
You went alone eastward, moving like one of Artemis's hunters, light feet, controlled breathing, every muscle alert. The heart beat in a steady rhythm, synchronized with the distant echoes of battle: the muffled clang of swords clashing, short cries of surprise, the occasional snap of a trap being triggered.
A sudden rustle to your right made you freeze in place. Your hand flew to the sword hilt, fingers closing tightly on the worn leather grip. You held your breath, ears attuned to the slightest noise. The leaves moved again, slowly, deliberate, as if something (or someone) was testing the ground. The air seemed heavier, the pine smell now mixed with sweat and metal.
You approached centimeter by centimeter, body low, back brushing the rough bark of a tree. Your pulse thundered in your ears. One more movement in the foliage, and you leaped to the side, sword unsheathed in a fluid arc, ready to cut whoever it was.
But from the middle of the bushes emerged Percy Jackson, also in combat stance, Riptide already extended in his right hand, the celestial bronze blade gleaming with a cold, almost watery shine, as if capturing nonexistent light. His sea-blue eyes, always so expressive even in chaos, widened for a fraction of a second before recognition hit. You both lowered your weapons almost at the same time, metal scraping lightly against the air.
"Oh, it's you," you both said in unison, the words coming out in a relieved breath that turned into a low, nervous laugh. Your chest still rose and fell quickly, adrenaline running through your veins.
Percy ran his free hand through his messy blond hair, sweaty and disheveled as always, and gave a crooked smile, one of those that made the whole camp seem less dangerous for a moment.
"Almost cut you in half, dude. Thought it was one of those Ares brutes coming to hunt me again." He capped Riptide back into pen form with a familiar click, but kept his eyes alert, scanning the forest around. "Listen… Clarisse is loose out there alone. Really alone. She dismissed her platoon. She's got a look that… I don't know, like she wants to destroy anything that moves. Be careful, okay? She's fiercer than normal, and that's saying something."
You felt a shiver run down your spine. Clarisse La Rue alone? That did not add up. She was the type who led by shouting orders, wielding the electric spear like an extension of her own arm, always with half a dozen Ares siblings behind her. But the rumors of Clarisse's bad mood had been piling up for weeks, so for some reason you were not surprised. You shook your head, pushing the worry to the back of your mind.
"Thanks for the warning, Percy." You gave a half smile, trying to sound confident, but he knew you too well. He tilted his head, blue eyes studying you for a second longer, as if he could see through the facade.
"Hey," he said, even lower, taking a step closer. "If you need backup, yell. Or whistle that ridiculous way you do. I'll find you." He gave a light punch to your shoulder, the casual and familiar gesture that always reminded you why you had survived so many things together, monsters, prophecies, sleepless nights. "And don't go playing the lone hero, okay? We've done that before and almost turned into hydra barbecue."
You laughed low, the sound muffled by the forest.
"You don't go throwing yourself at everyone like last time, Seaweed Brain. Someone has to pull you out of the water when you overdo it."
He rolled his eyes, but the smile stayed, genuine and warm amid the tension.
"Deal." He waved once, already turning to the shadows. "Good hunting."
And then he vanished among the trees, as silent as he had arrived. A shadow of blond strands blending into the forest green.
You took a deep breath, adjusted the sword in your hand, and advanced again, deeper still. Percy's warning echoed in your head like an unspoken prophecy, but you pushed it all to the corner of your mind. Focus on the mission. The enemy flag was waiting. And Clarisse, wherever she was, probably too.
The forest closed around you again, alive, watchful, and you pressed on.
It did not take long for another noise to alert you: a muffled shout, followed by the clang of metal and a fierce grunt. You ran toward it, branches whipping your face, heart racing. Bursting into a small clearing, the scene hit you full force.
Clarisse, with the electric spear humming in the air, facing a younger camper, a blue team boy barely out of childhood, with eyes wide in terror. He was one of the distractions in Annabeth's strategy, a harmless bait to draw enemies into traps. But Clarisse was not playing fair. Her brown eyes burned with blind rage, face twisted in a snarl, and she advanced like a bull, spear raised for a blow that was no joke.
"Clarisse, stop!" you shouted, but it was too late, she lunged, the spear cutting the air with an electric hiss.
Without thinking, you threw yourself forward, stepping in front of the child like a living shield. Your sword rose in a quick arc, colliding with her spear in a crash that echoed through the clearing, sparks flying where metal met metal. The impact reverberated through your arms, muscles protesting against her brute force.
The child blinked, stunned, and you barked an order without taking your eyes off Clarisse.
"Run! Go to Annabeth, now!" The boy did not hesitate, stumbling away as he vanished into the forest.
Clarisse stepped back one pace, arm muscles flexed under the armor, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. Her eyes fixed on yours, a mix of surprise and bitterness gleaming in them.
"Oh, so now you want to fight?" she spat, voice hoarse and bitter, as if the words were accumulated poison. "Tired of running?"
You kept the sword raised, feet planted firmly on the soft ground, feeling the vibration of the impact still running through your arms.
"What is happening to you?" you shot back, voice firm but loaded with a concern you could not fully hide. "He's just a kid!"
"What is happening to you!" Clarisse growled back, lunging with brutal force, the spear spinning in a skillful arc that forced you to retreat, blocking the blow with a clang that reverberated through the trees.
She was a force of nature: every movement precise, fueled by a rage that seemed to come from within, broad shoulders moving with lethal grace despite the fury. You counterattacked, your sword cutting the air in an attempt to disarm her, but she deflected with ease, the electric hum of the spear increasing like a warning.
The fight intensified, the clearing ground turning into a chaos of stirred leaves and foot marks. Clarisse attacked without mercy, her thrusts strong enough to make your arms ache with every block, she spun the spear like an extension of her own body, alternating between high and low strikes, forcing you to dance in circles to avoid the electric contact.
Her curly hair escaped the tight braid, sticking to her sweaty face, and you noticed her hands. They were wrapped in white bandages stained with dirt and dried blood. It was not just rumors about her punching trees.
"He doesn't deserve your fury!" you shouted between one block and another, trying to penetrate her wall, spinning to the side and counterattacking with a lateral blow that she parried with an animalistic grunt.
She huffed, eyes narrowed into slits of pure rage, lunging again with a series of quick strikes that made you retreat to the trees.
"Shut up! You don't know anything!" The words poured out like venom, cold and cutting, without a hint of explanation, just raw rage, as if every syllable was another weapon. Another spear spin, and you felt the air crackle near your shoulder, the ozone smell mixing with sweat and earth.
You tried to press, not just with the sword, but with words.
"What is making you like this?" But she remained cold, an impenetrable wall, responding only with more thrusts, more growls.
"It's none of your business! Just fight or get out of the way!" The fight continued, the sun filtering in intermittent rays over you, the sound of metal against metal echoing like a personal duel amid the greater chaos of capture the flag.
Deep down, you knew this went beyond the game; it was something that had been fermenting for days, a spark Annabeth had predicted, but that now burned uncontrolled between you two.
The fight intensified with every breath, the clearing air charged with the metallic smell of sweat and ozone from Clarisse's electric spear. She attacked with growing fury, the blows coming faster, heavier, as if each thrust was an attempt to crush not just your defense, but something deeper within herself.
"You think you can judge me?" she snarled, hoarse voice echoing among the trees, spinning the spear in a wide arc that forced you to jump aside, your sword blade scraping against hers in a high-pitched hiss. "After hiding like a coward behind a stupid bow and arrow?"
Her brown eyes were dark, almost black with rage, teeth clenched in an expression of pure contained hatred, but you saw beyond, saw the cracks in that emotional armor she wore like a second skin.
You blocked another blow, feeling the impact reverberate through your arms, and shot back with sharp words, using her rage as an opening.
"Judge? I'm trying to understand, Clarisse!" Your voice came out firm, provocative, knowing she was not the type to sit and talk about feelings. "You're destroying yourself out there, punching trees, hurting campers who don't deserve it."
She huffed, the muscles in her bandaged hands gripping the spear shaft so hard you heard the leather creak. Clarisse hated vulnerability; rage was her native language, and you would use it to pull something from her, even if in pieces.
"Shut that mouth! You know nothing about me!" Another blow came, brutal, the spear cutting the air with an electric hum that made the surrounding leaves tremble.
She was angrier now, movements losing some of their usual precision, replaced by brute force that made the ground shake with every step. You dodged by inches, counterattacking with a lateral blow that she parried with an animalistic grunt, eyes blazing.
"You disappear like a coward and now want to play therapist? Go to hell!"
The fight became increasingly wild, the rhythm accelerating like an uncontrolled heart. Clarisse lunged without pause, her breathing heavy and irregular, sweat running down her face and mixing with the curly strands. You felt exhaustion starting to weigh, but persisted, blocking and retaliating, words coming out between the metal clangs.
"So that's it? Rage because I got tired of being your punching bag? Or are you going to keep pretending you're just a bad-tempered Ares daughter?" She did not really answer, just more coldness, more closure, lips curling in a sneer of disdain as she attacked again, the spear spinning in a blur that forced you back against a tree.
And then came the blow that changed everything. Clarisse, blinded by a fresh wave of fury, perhaps from your words poking too deep, spun the spear with demonic speed, the tip grazing. The impact knocked your helmet off, which flew aside with a crash, rolling through the damp grass.
A sharp pain burned your cheek, a superficial cut you felt immediately, warm blood slowly trickling down your skin. You froze for an instant, hand flying to your face, fingers coming away stained red. The world seemed to pause, the forest sound muffled, heart pounding in your ears.
Clarisse stopped too, eyes widening for fractions of a second, spear still raised in the air. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, face pale under the layer of sweat and dirt, as if the blood on your face had pulled her from the rage fog. She blinked, jaw locked, but said nothing, just a cold, loaded silence, as if fighting against something internal threatening to escape.
It was not visible remorse, not yet; it was a hesitation, a crack in the wall she built.
You raised your gaze slowly, eyes burning with a mix of pain and determination, the cut throbbing like a living reminder. With a deep sigh, you brushed away the strands of hair falling on your face in a majestic way, the gesture slow and deliberate, like a goddess recomposing herself after battle. The sun filtered through the treetops, illuminating the blood on your skin like a war mark.
"Fine," you murmured, voice low and resolute, echoing in the tense silence. "It'll be your way then."
Without hesitating, you threw the sword to the ground with a dull clang, the blade sinking into the soft earth. Clarisse blinked again, surprise freezing her expression for a moment, her eyes narrowing in confusion, the spear still in a defensive position, as if she could not believe what she was seeing. She was a statue of contained fury, muscles tense but motionless, waiting for the next move.
And you did not make her wait. You lunged at her with bare hands, feet propelling you forward in a fierce leap. Clarisse raised the spear instinctively, the electric hum increasing like a warning, but you were faster, grabbed the shaft with both hands, feeling the vibration run through your arms, and used the momentum to push her back.
The impact unbalanced her, her feet slipping on the damp grass, and she fell on her back with a heavy thud, the air escaping her lungs in a surprised grunt.
You straddled her body in an instant, legs locking hers to the ground, hands still gripping the spear and pressing it against Clarisse's neck. The pressure was firm, not lethal, but enough to immobilize her, the cold metal brushing her skin. She struggled for a second, eyes blazing with renewed rage, but you held her in place, the weight of your body and the determination in your eyes anchoring her.
Clarisse grunted again, teeth clenched, bandaged hands pushing back with brute force, but she remained closed off, cold as ice, without uttering a word about why, just more rage pouring out in stares and silent growls, as if admitting anything would be a greater defeat than the fight itself. The clearing seemed smaller now, the world reduced to the two of you, trapped in that clash that went beyond swords and spears.
Clarisse began to thrash beneath you with renewed strength, arm muscles tensed to the maximum, bandaged hands pushing the spear shaft away from her neck. Her body writhed like a cornered animal, legs trying to free themselves from yours, chest rising and falling in heavy gasps.
A low growl escaped her throat, pure fighting instinct, eyes still burning with that endless cold rage. The spear vibrated between you, the electric hum crackling like a threat, but you maintained the pressure, forearms trembling from the effort.
"Clarisse, stop!" Your voice came out louder than intended, trembling in the middle.
She continued for another second, teeth clenched, face red from effort, but then something changed. Her eyes, those brown eyes that always seemed to challenge the entire world, caught the wet gleam in yours. Tears. Not many, just enough to blur your vision, to run hot down the cut on your cheek and mix with the blood.
You had not even realized they were there until that moment.
"Please, just stop!" Your voice broke on the last words against your will.
Clarisse faltered. The strength in her arms diminished suddenly, as if someone had cut the strings keeping her tense. The spear slipped a few centimeters to the side, its weight now inert against the ground. She stopped thrashing. Stopped fighting. Lay there, on her back in the damp earth of the clearing, chest still panting, eyes fixed on yours, but now without the wall of ice, just raw confusion, almost frightened, that she tried to hide behind controlled breathing.
"Since you won't talk, I'll talk." You said, voice hoarse and intense, the cut on your cheek still bleeding, drops falling onto the bronze of her armor.
You let out a shaky sigh, slowly easing the pressure on the spear, but without getting off her. You could not. Not yet. The words came then, as if they had been waiting for that exact moment of silence to escape, one after another, without filter, without long pauses.
"I saw you, Clarisse. I always saw you. You, in the center of the training circle, spinning that spear as if the world were too small for you. I hated it, hated how you looked at me as if I were just easy prey, as if I were worthless beyond arrows and safe distance. We fought, we provoked each other, we hated each other… or at least that's what I thought it was. All that rivalry, that fire that ignited every time you opened your mouth to call me princess of the sun or coward. I came back. Always came back. Even knowing I'd take a beating, even knowing you'd laugh in my face. I came back for you."
Your voice lowered, almost a whisper, but the words kept coming, heavy, inevitable.
"I didn't know what it was about you that pulled me back. It wasn't just anger, not just wounded pride. It was… more. I needed to be on your radar, Clarisse. Needed you to see me, to challenge me, to not let me go unnoticed like you do with the others, those newbie campers who arrive, try to impress, and then become just another face in the crowd for you. I didn't want to be forgotten. Not by you. No matter how much it hurt to take hits, no matter how much you made me feel small… I came back because deep down I couldn't stand the idea of you erasing me from your mind."
You swallowed hard, feeling another tear escape, but did not wipe your face. Let it fall.
"You can think I'm a fool. You can think I'm masochistic, crazy, whatever. I don't care. But I found out that, in the end, I just… care about you. Really care. Seeing you destroying yourself like this, exploding at everyone, letting that rage eat you alive inside, it hurts me too. Hurts me more than any blow you've ever given me in training. Because I know there's something inside you that's not just fury. I know there is. And I can't pretend anymore that I don't see it."
The silence that followed was dense, almost palpable. The forest around seemed to hold its breath, no birds, no wind, just the distant and muffled sound of capture the flag continuing without you. Clarisse remained motionless beneath you, eyes still fixed on yours, jaw locked, but now without strength, without defense. She said nothing. Did not deny, did not confirm, did not explode. Just breathed, lips parted as if the words were there, stuck, but unable to come out.
You waited. Waited for her to say anything, an insult, a growl, a "get off me." But she just looked, and for the first time since you had known her, Clarisse La Rue seemed completely, painfully, without armor.
Clarisse continued lying under you, body still tense like a drawn string, but no longer fighting. The spear lay loose between you, the electric hum reduced to a low murmur, almost inaudible. Her chest rose and fell in short, irregular breaths, as if each inhalation hurt.
The brown eyes, always so sharp and challenging, now stared into yours, widened in a way you had never seen before: it was not anger, not mockery. It was something rawer, more exposed. Fear, perhaps. Or the panic of someone who had just been truly disarmed.
She blinked once. Twice. The locked jaw trembled slightly, a muscle pulsing at the corner of her mouth. You felt the heat of her body through the armor, the sweat sticking the fabric to her skin, her heart beating so fast it seemed to want to break through her ribs. Clarisse swallowed hard, the sound loud in the clearing silence, and looked away for a second, as if facing you was too much. But soon returned, because running away was never her style.
The bandaged hands, which before pushed with brute force, now lay motionless at her sides, fingers slightly curved as if wanting to grasp something that did not exist. She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened again. No sound came out. Her throat worked visibly, as if the words were there, jammed, burning.
You saw the exact moment her tears threatened to come. Her eyes grew brighter, the inner corners reddening subtly. But Clarisse La Rue did not cry. Never. Instead, she pressed her lips so hard they turned white, nose wrinkling in a grimace of pure effort to stay whole. A low sound, almost a muffled groan, escaped from deep in her throat, not from physical pain, but from something much deeper, something she had buried under layers and layers of anger, pride, and fear.
"You…" The voice came out hoarse, broken, as if unused to saying such things for years, perhaps never.
She stopped immediately, clenching her teeth as if she had betrayed herself. Her eyes scanned your face: the cut on your cheek, the dried blood mixed with tears, the strands of hair stuck to your skin. Something in her expression broke a little more. Guilt, perhaps. Or recognition.
Clarisse turned her face to the side, looking at the trees as if they could offer an escape. Her breathing trembled now, more shallow.
"Damn…" she murmured, so low you almost did not hear. It was the most vulnerable voice you had ever heard from her, without armor, without mockery, without shield. Just Clarisse. Raw. Scared.
She looked back at you, and this time did not look away. Her eyes were wet, but the tears did not fall, she would not allow it. Because Clarisse does not cry.
"You can't… just say those things," she whispered, voice failing in the middle. "You can't come here, knock me down, make me…" She stopped again, fists clenching at her sides, nails digging into palms even through the bandages. "It's not how it works."
But she did not push you away. Did not thrash. Did not yell. Just lay there, pinned under you, breathing the same heavy air, her eyes saying everything her mouth refused to release: that you had hit the mark, that she felt the same emptiness when you pulled away, that the rage of the last days had been her trying to fill the hole you left. That she also did not want to be forgotten. That, in some twisted and brutal way, you were too important to her.
A muffled sigh escaped your lips, not quite knowing if it was from surprise, from exhaustion after the near-deadly fight minutes before, or from relief. Your hands were trembling, still hesitant as you slowly moved the spear away from Clarisse, your posture straightening over the daughter of Ares, sitting on her stomach. The weapon slipped from your fingers to the side of your bodies, falling to the grass- and dry-leaf-covered ground.
Both too absorbed to care about the intimate position. Clarisse breathed deeply, chest trembling. Slowly, you began to move, hands bracing on the ground beside her to stand, as if giving space was the next logical step, the inevitable end to that exposed vulnerability.
"Fine," you murmured, voice soft, almost resigned.
But before you could fully rise, her hands acted. Hesitant, as if she herself did not know if she could, or should, do that. The bandaged fingers closed around your waist, firm enough to stop you from going, but without the usual brutality. It was not the confident grip with which she handled the spear, which seemed a natural extension of her body, a weapon forged to destroy.
It was something new, trembling: palms brushing the bronze armor, before lowering to your hips uncovered by the protection, thumbs pressing lightly against the fabric of your clothes, as if testing the ground of an unknown world. You felt their heat for the first time like this, without anger, without provocation, and a shiver ran up your spine.
Unlike what Clarisse might think, that you would stiffen, fight back, or flee, you relaxed into the touch. Your muscles, tense from the fight, softened like wax in the sun. The gaze, which burned with determination moments before, softened into something warmer, more open. A sigh escaped your lips, and you stopped resisting, letting your body weight settle again.
As if instinct took over, without her needing to think, Clarisse raised her torso slowly. The abdominal muscles contracted under you, and she sat up, the movement fluid despite the hesitation in her eyes. Your body slid naturally, from her stomach to her lap, fitting perfectly there, as if it had always belonged.
Your thighs adjusted around hers, faces now dangerously close: breaths mixing, the smell of sweat, earth, and something sweeter, her woody soap, invading your senses. The rebellious curly strands brushed your forehead, and your eyes locked, inches apart, the clearing world reducing to that point.
Still hesitant, as if everything were unexplored territory, she, who did not know how to be gentle, who only knew the world through punches and spears, raised her hand slowly. The trembling fingers hovered in the air for a second, as if asking silent permission, before touching your face. The palm marked by bandages dirty with dried blood brushed the injured cheek with a delicacy that seemed impossible coming from her.
"All I know is how to fight…" she murmured, voice hoarse and low, eyes fixed on the superficial cut she herself had caused.
Her thumb, trembling and hesitant, passed slowly below the wound, tracing around the red line with a lightness that contrasted with all the previous brutality. The pain throbbed, sharp but bearable, and you closed your eyes instinctively, a subtle grimace crossing your face. Clarisse pulled back a little, startled, fingers freezing in the air as if she had burned you on purpose. Her eyes widened, panic returning in a fresh wave.
She had never known how to be gentle, and perhaps she would not learn now.
"And hurt people." She completed, voice failing at the end, as if admitting that was the final blow she did not know how to dodge. "I don't deserve you caring about me."
Clarisse pulled her hand away from your face as if the touch burned her inside, the bandaged fingers moving away slowly, hesitant but decided. The thumb still hovered in the air for an instant, trembling, before falling to the side, as if she feared prolonged contact could worsen the damage she had already done. Her brown eyes, so intense moments before, now avoided yours, fixing on the superficial cut on your cheek.
Before her hand could fully withdraw, you acted on instinct, fingers closing around her wrist, a firm but gentle touch, nothing like the brutality of the previous fight. Her skin was rough under the bandages, hot and pulsing, and you felt her accelerated pulse against your palm, as if her heart was trying to escape.
After so many years on Clarisse's tail, you knew better than anyone that the daughter of Ares had a certain issue with touches. She hated being touched, always yelling around "don't touch me, idiot" or "get your hands off me before I rip them off you." So it was a risk you were taking when, with a smooth motion, you guided her hand back to your face, pressing it lightly against your cheek, ignoring the sting of pain that came with the contact.
"It's not your fault," you murmured, voice low and comforting, like a balm on an open wound. "I should have paid more attention to my rear guard… that's what you always say, isn't it?"
The words came loaded with a sincerity you did not even know you held, eyes fixed on hers, trying to convey that the cut on the skin was nothing compared to what was fermenting in both your chests. You felt her muscles relax a little under your touch, as if that simple gesture had defused a bomb about to explode.
"Clarisse?" you called when no response came from her. "It's not your fault."
This was no longer about the blow that gave you a cut on the cheek, it was about everything. Her angry nature, her drive for victory, her craving for war… and Clarisse felt it.
A strange atmosphere settled then, confused and electric, like the air before a storm you do not know if it will bring rain or sun. Your faces were too close, noses almost touching, breaths intertwining in warm puffs that made loose hair strands dance.
Clarisse's eyes wandered slowly over your face, almost reverent: from the eyebrows furrowed by recent pain, past the lashes wet with unshed tears, to the parted lips, soft and inviting under the filtered forest light.
She swallowed hard, throat working visibly, and for a moment, everything she wanted to say bubbled inside her, how beautiful you were, there, with the sun gilding your skin, eyes shining with a vulnerability that left her breathless. She wanted to say how beautiful you were the first time she laid eyes on you, when she was sure something was wrong with her.
When she decided hating was easier than desiring.
You were beautiful like a sun goddess she always teased, whom she had always seen as something beyond a rival: someone who truly saw her, behind the armor of rage. But the words did not come. Clarisse did not know how to vocalize that without sounding stupid, without turning the moment into something weak or ridiculous. She did not know how to say she was sure Aphrodite's blessing had fallen on you the moment you were claimed.
"You are…" she began, but stopped, lips moving without sound, heart pounding like a war drum that did not know how to pause.
You drew closer slowly, almost without noticing, an invisible magnet pulling your bodies, her thumb tracing the line of your jaw, awkward, as if she did not know how to do this, lips tilting toward each other in agonizing slowness. The world around dissolved: the rustle of leaves in the light wind, the distant song of a bird, the smell of resin and earth, everything reduced to the growing heat between you, to the tingling on the skin where her hands touched.
Your eyes closed instinctively, heart racing as if about to leap from your chest, and you felt her breath brush your lips, hot and hesitant, a whisper of possibility.
But then, the sound echoed through the forest like distant thunder: the summoning horn, deep and prolonged, announcing the end of capture the flag. A victory, for some team, it did not matter which in that instant. The air vibrated with the echo, and at the same time, celebratory voices erupted not far away, cutting the clearing silence like sharp blades.
Hoarse laughter, triumphant shouts: "We got it! Victory for the reds!, and Clarisse immediately recognized them: her cabin siblings, children of Ares, with their rough voices full of warrior pride, approaching quickly through the trees, heavy steps crushing leaves and branches along the way.
Panic flashed across Clarisse's eyes like lightning. She acted fast, instinctive, like the warrior she was: the hands on your waist suddenly tightened, and with a skillful twist, using her own body weight as leverage, she reversed the positions.
You felt the world spin for a second, the soft ground receiving your back with a dull thud, and suddenly she was on top, thighs locking yours, the electric spear fallen to the side, but her body simulating a fighting position: one arm braced beside your head, the other pretending to press as if immobilizing you.
Her curly hair fell like a curtain around your faces, but her eyes, oh, her eyes still burned with that confused fire, a mix of interrupted desire and forced relief.
Just in time, the campers burst into the clearing, a group of sweaty and euphoric Ares children, the blue flag, the enemy team's flag, your team's flag, waving in one of their hands like a conquered trophy.
"Clarisse! We got the flag from those Athena nerds!" one shouted, his broad face splitting into a fierce grin, while the others slapped each other's backs, the air filled with the smell of victory and sweat.
They paused for a second upon seeing you both, but laughed loudly, interpreting the scene as what it appeared: a common fight, Clarisse dominating yet another opponent.
"Hey, look at the boss beating up the Apollo little girl! Good one, Clarisse!"
Clarisse raised her gaze to them, forcing a smile that did not reach her eyes, a sneer of mockery she mastered so well. But before getting up, she looked at you one last time: the brown eyes lingering on yours for an eternal second, full of everything unsaid, of interrupted promises and feelings still boiling beneath the surface. There was a silent plea there, "later," mixed with a vulnerability only you saw.
Then, she rose, accepting the outstretched hands of her siblings, who dragged her into the celebration, slapping her shoulders with strong pats and guttural laughter. You managed to hear a "don't touch me" amid the commotion.
"Come on, Clarisse! Time to rub it in those losers' faces!" They pulled her away, the group moving like a victorious pack, voices echoing farther and farther through the forest.
You lay there, on the damp earth, chest rising and falling in heavy breaths. A long sigh escaped your lips, loaded with a mix of frustration, relief, and something sweeter, a timid hope taking root in your chest. You rested your head on the soft ground, feeling leaves stick to your sweaty hair, and closed your eyes slowly, letting the exhaustion from the fight and emotions settle like a fog.
You still felt the tingling on your skin where her hands had touched, the almost-kiss hanging in the air like a persistent perfume, mixed with the smell of sweat and crushed pine. The cut on your cheek throbbed lightly, a sharp reminder of the chaos that had turned into something inexplicable.
Suddenly, a familiar voice cut through the silence, echoing out of nowhere like a whisper from the wind.
"Well, that was... intense." You knew that voice, clear and sarcastic, but without a body to accompany it, as if the air itself was speaking.
You sat up in immediate alert, body rising in an instinctive leap, eyes scanning the empty clearing around: ancient trees with mossy bark, bushes swaying lightly in the breeze, but nothing beyond shadows and leaves. Your heart raced again, a wave of paranoia climbing your spine. Was it a trick? A monster? Until the air in front of you rippled subtly, and Annabeth materialized there, inches from your face, removing the invisibility cap with a casual gesture.
Her brown eyes shone with a mix of amusement and sharp analysis, skin glistening under the filtered sun, long and intricate braids falling over her shoulders like a cascade of precisely woven ropes. She wore the light armor of the blue team, marked by forest dirt, and a crooked smile curved her lips, as if all that was just another piece in a puzzle she had already solved.
You blinked, incredulous, relief mixing with irritation as you processed her closeness, close enough to smell the ancient books and ink that always accompanied her. You rolled your eyes, the exaggerated gesture echoing your frustration.
"Were you there the whole time?" you asked, voice coming out higher than intended, loaded with disbelief.
Annabeth nodded slowly, crossing her arms over her chest with a naturalness only she had, as if invisibility were something banal like tying shoelaces.
"Yes." Simple as that.
You huffed, feeling heat rise up your neck, part anger, part embarrassment at imagining how much she had seen.
"And you didn't think to help me? She could have killed me!" The words came out in an accusing tone, eyes narrowing as you remembered the spear humming too close, Clarisse's blind fury that could have escalated to something worse.
Annabeth raised an eyebrow, smile widening into an air of intellectual superiority that was typically hers.
"Based on my theories and given the result of my plan, she wouldn't do that. Not with you at least. And I knew you could handle it. Only you could tame the incessant fury of an Ares daughter with A LOT of anger." She emphasized the last words with a dramatic tone, as if narrating a Greek epic, gray eyes dancing with a hint of malice.
You narrowed your eyes, suspicion crystallizing like an arrow on target. The air around seemed heavier now, wind whispering through leaves as if mocking your naivety. With a quick motion, you stood from the damp ground, feeling earth stick to your clothes and hair, body still sore from the fight.
"I knew it! You put me on the hunt because you knew I'd run into Clarisse!" you accused, pointing a finger at her, tone mixing indignation and a hint of betrayal.
Annabeth shrugged, the gesture too casual to be innocent, lips curving into an enigmatic smile.
"Maybe?" She tilted her head, braids swaying lightly, as if evaluating your reaction as part of an experiment. "Or maybe it was just a solid tactic. But, hey, it worked, didn't it?"
The clearing seemed smaller now, with the sun descending a bit more, lengthening tree shadows like accusing fingers. You felt a blush rise to your cheeks, but Annabeth did not stop there, she took a step closer, eyes fixed on yours with that sharp perception that made her irritating and brilliant at the same time.
"So, tell me: how did it feel to have Clarisse La Rue, the camp bully, daughter of the powerful God of war, melting in your arms?" she asked, voice theatrical, exaggerating each word as if performing a Shakespearean play, hands gesturing dramatically to emphasize, eyes shining with malicious amusement.
It was clearly to irritate you, to poke the fresh wound. You rolled your eyes again, crossing your arms defensively, but the heat on your face betrayed the embarrassment.
"It wasn't exactly like that," you shot back, voice coming out lower than intended, avoiding her gaze as you remembered Clarisse's hesitant touch, her body fitting against yours. The wind stirred the leaves around, as if the forest was chuckling softly.
Annabeth huffed, leaning closer with eyebrows arched in challenge.
"You were about to kiss," she said, straight to the point, tone casual but loaded with certainty, as if declaring a historical fact.
"What? No!" you shouted, eyes widening in shock, blush intensifying until your ears burned.
Shyness invaded you like a wave, stomach churning at realizing Annabeth had seen everything. You looked away to the ground, feeling the cut on your cheek throb like an uncomfortable reminder.
Annabeth watched you in silence for a second, eyebrows raised, lips pressed to contain a smile. She did not press immediately, giving space for the moment to settle, the air between you charged with friendly tension, the distant sound of camp beginning to filter through the forest: muffled laughter, the clang of armor being stored.
You sighed deeply, the sound echoing like a partial surrender, and walked to where your helmet and sword lay on the ground, the blade still shining under the sun, marked by fresh scratches. You picked them up slowly, turning your back to Annabeth as you wiped earth from the grip and then checked the helmet, thoughts spinning like lost arrows.
"Well..." you murmured, turning back with a lost gaze, fixed on a distant point among the trees, where the sun tinted leaves orange. "Maybe I misread it... Clarisse would never do something like that."
The words came hesitant, loaded with doubt, heart tightening with the possibility that it had all been just an adrenaline delusion.
Annabeth approached slowly, light steps on the damp grass, stopping an arm's length away, reaching to take the helmet you held, as if removing the weight from your hands could remove it from your mind. Her eyes softened a bit, losing the provocative tone for a moment of genuine empathy.
"I know what I saw, and you do too," she said, voice low and firm, as if unraveling a puzzle. "You're just scared because it was all a mess... Years thinking you hated each other. You can afford to be confused."
You looked away, eyes lost in the lengthening shadows of the clearing, thinking about her words. Years of provocations, fights, loaded glances that perhaps had never been just hate. The cut on your cheek throbbed again, and you touched it absentmindedly, feeling dried blood under your fingers. Annabeth noticed, and her expression softened even more.
"Hey," she called, voice cutting the thoughtful silence, "let's get back to camp and let your siblings fix that up, you don't want a scar on that pretty face when you go on a date with La Rue." She pointed to the cut on your face with a casual gesture.
"We don't have a date!" You shot back, but Annabeth was already steps ahead.
"But you will!"
You grumbled silently, sheathing the sword at your waist with a dull click, its weight a familiar comfort amid the internal turmoil. You took a step forward to follow Annabeth, who was already turning toward the trail. But something crunched under your boot, a muffled metallic sound from the soft earth, different from the usual snap of dry branches. You stopped immediately, camper instinct alerting to anything out of place in the forest. You lowered your gaze and crouched slowly, fingers brushing damp grass until finding the object: cold, heavy, familiar.
Clarisse's electric spear.
The long shaft was still warm from use, internal mechanism silent now, but with fresh marks of earth and stuck leaves, as if abandoned in haste in the heat of the moment. Probably, in the confusion of reversing positions and the sudden arrival of her cabin siblings, she had completely forgotten it there.
You lifted it slowly, feeling the balanced weight in your hands, a weapon made for destruction, but that now seemed almost vulnerable. The metal reflected the golden light of the sun, and a shiver ran up your spine as you remembered Clarisse's hands gripping that same shaft minutes before, with brute force and, later, with hesitation.
Annabeth, who was a few steps ahead, turned with an impatient expression on her lips, ready to tell you to hurry, something like "Come on, lunch won't wait," but stopped upon seeing what you held.
Her brown eyes widened for a second, immediately recognizing the iconic spear, before a sly smile spread slowly across her face. She crossed her arms, tilting her head with blatant malice.
"I think you have a very good excuse to meet up with the hothead," she said, voice low and provocative, braids swaying lightly as she raised an eyebrow, as if savoring the victory of her own strategy.
The blush rose instantly to your cheeks, hot and treacherous, spreading to your ears. You gripped the spear between your fingers harder than necessary, its weight now a palpable reminder of everything that had happened, and what almost had.
"Shut up, Annabeth," you murmured, without real conviction, eyes shifting to the ground for an instant before standing, the weapon balanced at your side as if it belonged there.
Annabeth laughed softly, a satisfied sound that echoed through the clearing, but did not press further, at least for now. She turned again to the trail, smile still on her lips, and you began walking toward camp. The spear weighed in your hands, a perfect pretext, or a trap, and in your chest, confusion still danced, now mixed with a timid expectation you did not dare name.
The way back seemed longer, each step echoing promises of future conversations, exchanged glances, and perhaps something that would finally stop being almost.
Meanwhile, Clarisse La Rue marched back to camp alongside her cabin siblings, feet stomping hard on the forest floor opening to the wide valley of Camp Half-Blood. The sun was high in the sky, a relentless golden disk bathing everything in clear, warm light, the kind of day perfect for training or games, but that now only irritated her, as if Apollo himself was mocking her from above.
The air smelled of pine and distant smoke from Hephaestus's forge, and celebration sounds already echoed through the fields: victory shouts, hoarse laughter, and the clang of weapons beaten on shields. Her siblings, a pack of tall Ares children full of fresh bruises, carried the captured blue flag like a war trophy, waving it in the air while exchanging playful punches and affectionate insults.
"That was close, but we crushed those blue nerds again!" bellowed one, a boy named Sherman, face marked by a recent cut on his eyebrow. He raised the flag higher, and the group exploded in laughter, the guttural and triumphant sound filling the air like a battle hymn.
Clarisse forced a nod, lips curving into a smile that looked more like a snarl. She tried to join in, really tried, but it was as if her body was there, but her mind... her mind was stuck in that damned clearing, replaying every second like a cursed prophecy.
The cut on the cheek, blood mixed with tears, the words coming from the girl's mouth like poisoned arrows: "I saw you, Clarisse. Always saw you... I needed you to see me... I care about you." How the hell could someone like her, who had spent years provoking you, knocking you down in training, calling you "princess of the sun" with all possible venom, say something like that? And worse: why did it not sound like a lie?
A strong slap hit her back, snapping her from thoughts. It was Mark, another sibling, with a wide, idiotic grin on his face.
"Hey, boss! You must have given that Apollo little girl one hell of a beating, huh? Bet she's crying still!" Clarisse spun on her heels, eyes blazing with instinctive rage.
"Don't touch me, idiot!" she spat, voice hoarse and sharp as her spear tip.
She shoved his arm away harder than necessary, feeling bile rise in her throat. She hated touches, always had, especially in moments like this, when her skin already felt too thin, too sensitive, as if any contact could crack the armor she barely kept in place.
"Hey, relax, Clarisse. It was just a joke. Victory, right?" Mark stepped back, laughing nervously, hands raised in surrender.
The others exchanged glances, but no one pressed. They knew how she was: a ticking bomb with a short fuse, especially after a fight. They continued marching, their excitement like irritating background noise, while Clarisse followed a bit behind, fists clenched at her sides. Were her siblings out of orbit? No, it was her. Completely out of orbit. The sun beat hard on her armor, making sweat run down her back, but the real heat was inside her, a boiling confusion she could not ignore.
It was only when they reached the camp edge, with the Great Pavilion rising ahead and the smell of pre-lunch food floating in the air, that she noticed. Her right hand flew instinctively to her back, where the electric spear should be strapped. Nothing. Empty holster. Shit. She had left it in the clearing, fallen beside you both during... that. Panic rose fast, but she turned it into something useful, rational. A perfect excuse.
"Hey," she shouted to the group, stopping in place. "Go ahead. Forgot my spear in the forest. Gonna get it before some Hermes idiot grabs it."
"Want us to come along? Might be some blue losers left out there." Sherman turned, frowning.
"No," she shot back, tone cold and cutting, no room for discussion. "I'll handle it alone. Go celebrate, you wimps. I'll be right there."
They shrugged and moved on, their laughter echoing as they joined the crowd forming at the pavilion. Clarisse waited until they were far enough, then turned and headed the opposite way: not back to the clearing, but to an isolated corner of camp, where trees closed into a small private grove, far from the bustle.
The sun filtered through leaves in warm rays, but there, in the shade, the air was cooler, almost suffocating in its quietude. She leaned against a thick trunk, arms crossed over her chest as if protecting herself from herself, and slid to the ground, back scraping rough bark.
Her mind was chaos. Voices shouted inside, not monsters or gods, but her own, accusing, confused. How could you let yourself be vulnerable like that? In front of her? You, Clarisse La Rue, daughter of Ares, who takes down titans and monsters without blinking, lying on the ground like an idiot, letting her see everything? The wet eyes, failing voice, hesitant touch... Damn, you almost cried. Almost.
But she was not regretful. That was the worst: no regret, just a confusion burning like poorly digested ambrosia.
Her words looped in her head like a cursed cycle: "I came back for you... Needed you to see me... I care about you." How? Why? Clarisse huffed low, digging nails into bandaged palms, feeling the familiar pain of recent wounds. She had been horrible to you for years, provocations, training beatings, contemptuous looks that cut deeper than blades.
All to keep distance, to not let anyone close enough to see the cracks. And now? Now you said you cared? That you came back because you needed her? It made no sense. No one truly cared about Clarisse. Not like that. She was the brute, the fierce leader, the one who solved problems with fists and spears. She did not deserve that. Did not deserve someone like you, with those eyes that saw beyond rage, that insisted on poking until finding something human inside.
Part of her wanted to run. Stand up, really get the spear, return to the pavilion and drown it all in celebration: laugh with siblings, beat someone in afternoon training, pretend nothing changed. Feelings? Nonsense. Weaknesses, distractions that killed heroes. Ares had taught her that: fight or die. No room for... whatever that was.
A tingling in her chest, heat rising every time she remembered your face close, lips almost touching. Running was rational. Safe. She could ignore it, wait for it to pass, like a wound healing alone.
But another part, that stubborn, irritating voice, poked back. What if you face it? Seek her now, before lunch, while camp still vibrates with victory.
But say what? Admit feeling the same? That those years of rivalry were just a twisted way to keep you close, because erasing you from her mind was impossible? That the emptiness of recent days, when you pulled away, hurt more than any punch? No. That was irrational. Weak. But... what if it wasn't? What if ignoring only worsened it, like an infected wound you pretend does not exist until it takes you down?
Clarisse closed her eyes, head against the trunk, sun dancing in warm patterns over her skin. The lunch horn would sound soon, forcing her to decide. Run or face. Rational or not, the choice burned inside her like a battle she did not know if she wanted to win.
[...]
When you and Annabeth finally emerged from the winding forest trail, Camp Half-Blood revealed itself in all its chaotic post-capture-the-flag glory. The midday sun beat down hard, turning the air into a wave of humid heat that stuck to sweaty skin. The cabins gleamed under the golden light, their wooden and bronze structures shining as if the gods had given them an extra layer of polish just for the day.
The red team still dominated the center of camp, clustered around the main campfire that crackled lazily even in daylight. Ares children, in red armor marked by dirt and scratches, banged shields against each other in improvised victory rhythms, hoarse voices echoing in provocations and exaggerated battle retellings.
You paused for a moment at the edge of the main field, eyes scanning the celebratory group with an urgency Annabeth noticed but did not comment on. You searched for her instinctively: the tight braid with rebellious curly strands escaping, the wide and imposing posture that overshadowed everyone around, the authoritative gleam in brown eyes that always seemed to hunt for something to challenge.
But nothing. No sign of Clarisse La Rue amid the red pack. Her siblings, tall, muscular, with fresh war marks on their arms, laughed and drank nectar from improvised mugs, but her absence was like a hole in the center of the mess, a leadership missing to turn chaos into brutal order.
Your stomach tied in a slight knot, a subtle doubt seeping in like dew on grass, was she avoiding you? After everything in the clearing? Annabeth nudged your arm.
"Infirmary first. Freak out later."
The cut on your cheek throbbed little now, but still a thin red line that drew curious glances from younger campers passing by. With Clarisse's spear balanced uncomfortably on your shoulder, you headed to the infirmary, an airy cabin nestled near the Big House, its open windows letting in the breeze that stirred fine gauze curtains.
The interior smelled of sweet nectar, caramelized ambrosia, and ground healing herbs, lavender, chamomile, and something citrusy that always reminded you of your father. Polished wooden shelves overflowed with glass jars of glistening ointments, rolled bandages, and elixir vials glowing like liquid gold.
Will Solace was on duty, as usual, leaning over a cluttered table full of scrolls and a mythological anatomy book open to a page on drakon wounds. Your closest sibling, with the same easy smile and eyes echoing Apollo's legacy, looked up as you entered, eyebrows arching in amused surprise.
"Wow, princess of the sun in person, bringing war trophies?" He gestured to a clean stretcher covered by an immaculate white sheet, already grabbing a damp cloth and a bowl of warm water.
You sat with a sigh, feeling the day's weight on sore shoulders, as he cleaned the cut with precise, gentle touches, the cool cloth immediately relieving the sting.
"A little sunlight and Dad does the rest," he teased, tilting his head with a mischievous smile, white teeth contrasting his lightly tanned skin from constant training.
You rolled your eyes, the familiar gesture bringing momentary comfort amid bubbling anxiety.
"Stop joking, Will. I'm not a plant that needs photosynthesis."
"I'm serious," he insisted, laughing low as he applied a thick ointment smelling of wild honey and fresh aloe vera, the cream tingling pleasantly on the skin like internal sun rays. "It'll speed healing in hours instead of days and prevent a scar. Apollo supports sun exposure."
He covered the cut with a light, almost translucent bandage that pulsed with a subtle glow, as if capturing the sun's essence.
That was when his gaze dropped, stopping on the spear leaning against the stretcher, the long black shaft, the sharp tip with familiar electric marks, unmistakable to anyone who trained in the combat circle.
"That's… Clarisse's spear?" he asked, voice lowering a tone, genuine curiosity mixing with a hint of disbelief as he straightened, wiping his hands on a cloth.
You sighed deeply, the sound loaded with something you did not want to name, fingers drumming on the stretcher edge.
"Found it in the forest. She must have forgotten in the game rush." You paused, feigning a casualness you did not feel, heart racing. It was not exactly a lie. "Has she… been here today? Like, to get patched up or something?"
Will shook his head slowly, returning to organize vials on shelves with methodical movements, glass clinking echoing in the quiet space.
"Clarisse never comes to us, you know. Ares daughter ego bigger than Olympus. She thinks she can handle it alone. Stitches cuts with dental floss, uses vodka as antiseptic, or just ignores until it scabs thick."
"Yeah, I know," you murmured, voice low and resigned, echoing the bitter truth the whole camp knew.
Clarisse La Rue was a solitary force: She patched herself in the privacy of cabin 5 with stolen supplies, or did not bother, walked with purple bruises and open cuts like honor medals, refusing any sign of weakness. Asking for help was admitting defeat, and she did not lose. Never.
You picked up the spear again, its weight now an uncomfortable reminder, and left the infirmary with a quick wave to Will, who shouted a "Come back tomorrow for check-up!" before diving back into the book.
The day dragged under the relentless sun. You decided lunch would be the perfect moment: packed pavilion, tables full of steaming grilled meat plates, fresh salads, and golden breads, air filled with conversation buzz and cutlery clinks. You imagined the scene a dozen times while walking there later, trying to rehearse how to approach her. You could not just walk up and say: "Hey, forgot this in the forest after we almost kissed. Want it back?"
Definitely not.
But upon arriving, the pavilion pulsed with life: campers laughing in groups, Chiron supervising from afar with his equine torso gleaming, barbecue smell mixing with ripe fruits and hydromel. The red table was noisy, Ares siblings devouring triple portions as victory reward, but the central chair, Clarisse's informal throne, remained empty, like a screaming void amid chaos.
No heavy steps echoing on grass, no hoarse growl cutting laughter, no pair of brown eyes scanning space like a predator. Your stomach tightened more, anxiety coiling like poisonous ivy, fork spinning absentmindedly in untouched salad while your cabin 7 siblings chattered about the game.
The following hours were a fog of distraction: archery training where arrows flew crooked, hitting target edges instead of centers; superficial conversations with friends who noticed your mental absence but attributed it to game fatigue.
All hopes, fragile and stubborn like spider webs, clung to dinner, the sacred ritual where Chiron took attendance. The sun set slowly, tinting the sky flaming orange and deep purple, pavilion fires lit with cheerful crackles, cool night air bringing toasted marshmallow smell and fireside stories.
But when tables filled again, plates of hot stew, soft breads, and melted ambrosia desserts, her chair remained empty. No sign. The stomach tightness turned suffocating knot, appetite evaporating as thoughts spiraled: she is avoiding me. Regretted the hesitant touch, exposed vulnerability, almost-kiss now seeming unforgivable weakness. Everything in the clearing had been just post-fight adrenaline, a lapse she now buried under layers of anger and denial.
Clarisse La Rue did not do that, not with feelings, not with gentleness, not with you.
When night fell fully, stars dotting the sky like frozen arrows, you returned to the cabin with heavy steps. The cabin smelled of laurel incense and post-training lotions, your siblings settling into bunks with yawns and whispers about the day. You dragged to the bunk below Will's, mattress creaking under weight, top bunk seeming more oppressive than ever.
The spear leaned against the wall within reach, its dark silhouette a silent ghost in the dark. You lacked courage to leave it at the Big House or arsenal, as if returning it without confrontation was admitting defeat.
You lay on your back, eyes fixed on the top mattress, soft sibling snores and distant cricket song filling silence. Doubt weight crushed your chest like ill-fitted armor, what if she hated you now for seeing her without masks? What if the almost was all there would be? Tears threatened, but you blinked them away, turning sideways.
Sleep finally began pulling you down, heavy and irregular, when something changed in the air around you. A subtle weight on the mattress, an almost imperceptible bunk shift, as if the world had tilted a degree. Your eyes snapped open, heart racing before you even understood why.
The cabin was immersed in soft night darkness, broken only by silvery moonlight filtering through high windows, painting bluish stripes on polished wooden floor. Distant low snores and rhythmic sibling breaths filled silence, a comforting reminder you were not alone, until you felt the presence beside you.
Before any sound could escape your throat, a warm, firm hand covered your mouth, fingers pressing carefully but decidedly. Your eyes widened in the dark, panic rising like a cold wave, body tensing to react, to scream, to fight.
"Hey, it's me," came the hoarse whisper, low and urgent, so close to your ear you felt warm breath brush skin.
Recognition was instant, like lightning cutting fear fog. The heart, threatening to explode, slowed a bit, but not completely. It was her. Clarisse. Leaning over your bunk in the middle of the night, invading the Apollo cabin like a shadow, while everyone slept deeply around. She removed her hand slowly, cautiously, as if fearing you would scream anyway, fingers lightly brushing your lips before retracting.
You breathed deeply, cool night air filling lungs, and words came in whispered impulse, loaded with relief, irritation, and disbelief.
"And that is supposed to make me calmer how?"
Clarisse rolled her eyes, you saw the movement even in dim light, that familiar gesture always accompanying her provocations, and responded with a low grumble.
"Shut up, princess."
Only then did you fully realize what was happening. Your stomach flipped violently, butterflies mixed with vertigo, when you noticed how close she was: leaning over you, body braced on one arm beside your head, dark curls loose falling like a curtain around her face, some strands brushing your forehead.
Bluish moonlight filtered through nearby window, illuminating half her face in silvery tones, brown eyes softer than ever, jaw less locked, mouth parted as if words were stuck. She smelled of fresh shower, woody soap mixed with something clean, fresh, as if she had scrubbed off the entire day before coming there.
No trace of training sweat or forest dirt, just Clarisse, vulnerable in a way you never imagined.
Heat rose to your cheeks in immediate blush, burning to ears. Clearing memories returned like a flash. Her body under yours, hesitant touch, interrupted almost-kiss. And worse: you realized, with delayed shock, what you were wearing.
Just short summer pajamas, thin shorts and an old tank top, rumpled from restless sleep, hair probably a total mess, sheets tangled around legs. You felt exposed, small under her gaze, and instinctively pulled the blanket a little higher, even if too late.
"What are you doing here?" you whispered, voice coming weaker than intended, eyes fixed on hers seeking some answer that made sense.
Clarisse's expressions changed almost imperceptibly, but you caught them all, because for the first time, you were truly looking. Her gaze shifted sideways, fixing on some dark cabin spot, lips pressing into a thin line. She seemed… nervous. Hands now braced on mattress beside you trembled lightly, shoulders, usually so straight and challenging, slightly hunched forward.
It was the first time you saw her like this. Were you dreaming? Your heart pounded so loud you feared she heard.
What felt like eternity passed, long, dense seconds filled only by distant outdoor cricket and her breathing, a bit faster than normal. Then, finally, she whispered, voice so low you almost asked to repeat.
"Come with me."
Without waiting for response, Clarisse rose slowly, movements silent and fluid like someone used to moving unnoticed, even if normally the loudest in camp. You noticed then she was barefoot, bare feet in white socks reaching just above ankles. She slid off the bunk without a creak, cast one last quick, almost shy glance at you, and left the cabin as silently as she entered, door closing with a soft click behind her.
You lay there for a few seconds, heart still racing, staring at the top bunk as if it could offer logical explanation. Cabin air seemed heavier now, charged with the presence she left behind, subtle soap smell, residual mattress warmth.
Part of you wanted to turn sideways and pretend nothing happened, return to previous restless sleep. But the larger, more stubborn part was already moving. You sat slowly, feet touching cold wooden floor, without even thinking to grab a hoodie. Just in socks too, like her.
Upon opening the huge door and closing it behind with utmost care, cool night breeze hit like a slap. Air was chilly, loaded with damp pine and dewy grass smell, starry sky above cloudless blocking silvery-blue moonlight bathing entire camp. Your hairs stood immediately, skin goosebumping in waves as you hugged yourself, rubbing arms to generate some warmth.
Clarisse was sitting on the porch steps, back slightly hunched, arms braced on knees covered by worn gray sweatpants. Hands were interlaced in front, fingers fidgeting restlessly, as if not knowing where to rest. Beside her, on the lower step, was a pair of black All Stars with worn soles and frayed laces, which she had clearly removed to sneak into the cabin silently.
Her brown eyes were fixed on nothing ahead: on the dirt path leading to the dark pavilion, on the shadows of the other silent cabins, on the distant lake reflecting moonlight like a broken mirror.
She did not turn when you approached, but you saw her shoulders tense slightly, she knew you were there. The silence between you was dense, almost palpable, broken only by the whisper of wind in the trees and the occasional hoot of an owl far away. You stopped beside the steps, still hugging your own body against the cold, heart beating so hard it seemed to echo in the quiet night, waiting for her to say something, do something, anything that explained why she had crossed the entire camp in the middle of the night just to pull you from bed.
Clarisse let out a long, almost inaudible sigh, loaded with something that seemed like exhaustion mixed with resignation. Her shoulders rose and fell slowly, as if gathering courage for something small, but that for her was gigantic.
"Can you sit?" she asked, hoarse voice keeping that typical Clarisse tone, half order, half challenge, as if asking anything was a battle she was willing to lose just this once.
You rolled your eyes, an automatic gesture that helped disguise the chill climbing your spine and the blush that stubbornly refused to fade. Without saying anything, you descended the last steps and sat beside her on the cold wooden step, curling up immediately against the night breeze. The thin socks protected nothing from the icy wood, and you crossed your arms around your knees, trying to hold onto the little warmth left.
Your shoulders were inches apart, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body, far enough that the space seemed like an abyss. You did not move closer. Not yet.
The silence stretched between you like a tightrope. The night was so quiet you could hear the distant lake lapping the shore, the occasional rustle of leaves in trees, the minimal crackle of a nearly extinguished campfire in the camp center. You waited. Waited for her to say anything, an insult, a provocation, even a "get out of here" would be better than nothing. But Clarisse just stared ahead, eyes fixed on some invisible point beyond the dark cabins, hands still interlaced, thumbs fidgeting restlessly against each other.
Minutes dragged. The cold began climbing your legs, and patience, never your greatest virtue, began to fray. Finally, you whispered, voice low and a bit trembling.
"Please, say something."
Clarisse turned her head suddenly, eyes blazing for a second with that familiar anger.
"I'm trying, damn it!" she shot back, tone higher than intended, immediately lowering her voice upon realizing the risk of waking someone.
The words came out rough, defensive, as if you had poked an open wound, thrusting a spear into what she hated most to admit: weakness. You raised your eyebrows, looking at her with a clear expression of "girl, seriously?". You did not need to say anything, the look spoke for itself.
Clarisse noticed. Her shoulders slumped a little, and she looked away again, curls falling like a curtain over her face. The gesture was so small, so subtle, head lowering a centimeter, fingers interlacing tighter, that it was almost a silent apology. She breathed deeply, air coming out white in the night cold, and fell quiet again.
You sighed, the soft sound lost in the wind. Your heart still beat fast, but now there was tenderness mixed with anxiety, because you understood. Understood how hard that was for her. So, with the softest voice you could manage, you asked.
"Where were you? All day?" Clarisse did not answer immediately.
You saw her jaw work, as if chewing words before releasing them. She felt the gesture in your voice, the absence of accusation, just genuine concern, and something in her posture relaxed, almost imperceptibly. She appreciated that in silence, eyes softening for an instant before looking ahead again.
"I needed to think," she murmured finally, voice now calm, almost soft, something so rare coming from her it seemed borrowed from someone else. Low enough not to wake anyone, but clear enough for you to hear every syllable.
You turned your face to her, moonlight illuminating her profile, straight nose, full lips, thin scar on her eyebrow you had never noticed up close.
"And… what did you think about?" Silence again. Long.
The wind blew stronger for a moment, stirring her curls against your cheek, and you saw her fingers start playing with the poorly tied bandage on her hands. Then, almost as if words were being pulled out, she asked, voice hesitant.
"Do you… remember the day you arrived here?" You blinked, surprised.
"How could I forget? You pushed me into the lake." A small smile, half nostalgic, half ironic, curved your lips.
Clarisse's face burned immediately, even in dim light, you saw blush rise to her cheeks, eyes widening for a second before looking away again. She murmured something incoherent, seeming truly embarrassed.
"A little before that…" she corrected, voice even lower, almost a secret.
You tilted your head, waiting. The cold forgotten for an instant, curiosity taking over. Clarisse breathed deeply, shoulders rising and falling.
"You were at the top of the hill. With Chiron. Under Thalia's tree." She paused, as if reliving the scene, tone hardening slightly, as if words were enemies she needed to subdue. "I was patrolling the outskirts, because, yeah, someone has to do the shitty dirty work while others pose as heroes. Then I saw you, all… messed up. Wide eyes like a deer in headlights, backpack slipping off your shoulder as if you did not know what to do with your own hands."
You felt your heart leap, air caught in lungs. You did not expect that. Never. Clarisse continued, voice hoarse and halting now, as if each sentence was a punch she gave herself to keep going.
"But the sun was hitting you in a way… damn, you looked like you were on fire. Hair in flames, skin all lit up, even those scared eyes seemed… I don't know, strong. As if you were made for all that. I stopped. Stopped the patrol and just stood watching, frozen like an idiot, feeling something here inside that punched me in the stomach." She brought her hand to her chest for a second, bandaged fingers digging into the thin t-shirt, before lowering it quickly, as if burned.
"That fucked me up. Scared the hell out of me. I did not understand what the hell that was, hot, tight, as if I wanted to hit something or run. So I decided I hated you. That you were just another stuck-up demigod, full of light and cuteness, who could not handle a real fight. It was easier to fight, provoke, to see you get pissed. Because if I hated you… I did not have to deal with all that shit. Did not have to admit it was something else eating me alive."
She stopped, heavy silence returning. Her eyes still fixed ahead, but now wet, gleaming under moonlight. Her breathing was irregular, chest rising and falling as if words had been a hand-to-hand fight.
"But it was not hate," she completed, voice breaking at the end, hard like rusted iron. "It never was that shit. It was… something else. Something I do not know how to name, because I was not made for that. I am made to break things, not to… feel." The last words came almost spat, as if they hurt in her throat, but she did not stop, eyes finally turning to yours for a second, vulnerable, but still with that stubborn fire that was only hers.
You were speechless for a moment, night cold forgotten, heart beating so loud it seemed to echo in camp quietude. You did not move. Did not want to move. Did not want her to stop.
Because, for the first time, Clarisse La Rue was talking. Truly, even if words came out hard, full of curses and resistance, as if fighting her own feelings to let them out.
Clarisse fell quiet for a moment that seemed eternal, night silence deepening around you like a cold blanket. She still stared ahead, brown eyes lost in the dark void of sleeping camp, jaw locked as if in an internal fight.
Then, as if words were choking her, she continued, hoarse and halting voice exploding in a raw stream, unfiltered, as if vomiting something rotten she had swallowed years ago.
"I could not stop being an idiot anymore, because I am an idiot with everyone. Jesus… I hate everyone in this camp! I..." The words came out hard, spat with self-directed anger, tone rising a bit at the end before she lowered it again, a low growl escaping her throat as if hating her own voice for betraying her. "...hate even myself."
She shook her head, curls whipping the air, fists clenching so hard you heard knuckles crack.
"Everyone is weak, everyone runs, everyone annoys me with shit, they cannot even take a proper punch. I yell, I hit, I break, that's what I do, damn it! That's what Ares taught me to be. But you…" She paused, breathing heavily, chest rising and falling under the thin gray cotton t-shirt, sticking lightly to damp post-shower skin.
"You bit back. Always. And then I got worse, because I did not want you to stop. Did not want you to become like the others, those worms who disappear after a beating." Her woody soap smell mixed with cold air, invading your senses, and you saw her jaw muscle pulse, as if biting her tongue not to explode completely.
Her eyes finally flicked to yours for a second, quick, feral, full of confusion she tried to mask with fury, before returning to nothing.
"But I was sure I had fucked everything up that day," she murmured, voice lowering to a guttural growl, referring to the last training, that combat circle where you had suddenly abandoned the fight, turning your back and deciding to ignore her from then on. "That shitty training, where you just… stopped. Vanished. I saw you walking away, and it was like I had taken a kick to the stomach.."
Clarisse huffed, a rough and self-deprecating sound, running her hand over her face as if wanting to erase the memory.
"I was not angry at you… no. It was anger at myself, anger for always doing everything wrong, anger for being afraid of something I did not understand what it was and I do not feel fear! Or at least… I should not." The words stumbled out, hard like stones thrown against a wall, full of curses and denials she used as shields.
She leaned forward, elbows dug into knees, worn All Stars beside her creaking lightly against the step as she shifted her restless foot, bumping them.
"I am Ares's daughter, damn it! Fear is for cowards, for those who skip training and cry in the cabin. But you… you left me with this bad feeling, like a hole here," she hit her chest again, harder this time, muffled sound echoing in night silence. "I punched trees to shut it up, cut campers to vent, stayed alone all day because if I saw you again, shining with that damn bow in hand, I would explode. Or worse: I would say something stupid and fuck everything up for good."
The silence that followed was dense, broken only by distant cricket song and wind stirring nearby tree leaves, as if the forest was holding its breath to listen. Clarisse did not look at you, could not, eyes fixed on the ground now, on white socks, curls falling like a barrier over her flushed face of shame and frustration.
Her whole body trembled lightly, not just from cold, but from releasing all that, feelings she did not know how to name, colliding against a lifetime's training of being tough, relentless, unbreakable. Her hands, rough and marked by old scars, opened and closed repeatedly, as if wanting to grasp the spear not there, as if fighting was easier than admitting.
You sat motionless beside her, heart pounding against ribs, thin pajamas now icy against goosebumped skin. Moonlight painted soft shadows on her face, highlighting tension lines around her mouth, wet gleam in eye corners she blinked furiously to chase away.
It was Clarisse La Rue, the same who commanded training with a growl, who took down opponents without blinking, reduced to this: a hoarse confession, full of "damn" and "idiot," trying to navigate territory she hated, that terrified her more than any monster. And yet, she was there. Invading your cabin. Waking you. Talking. For you.
The silence following Clarisse's confession was so dense it seemed to have its own weight. The entire night seemed to hold its breath: wind stopped blowing, crickets fell silent, even the distant lake seemed to stop rippling. You felt her words settle in your chest like embedded arrows, painful but true, impossible to ignore. Your heart beat irregularly, early morning cold now forgotten, replaced by heat rising in your throat threatening to overflow.
Without saying anything, you stood slowly. The step creaked softly under your socked bare feet, sound echoing like a shot in absolute silence. You did not look at her, could not. Just turned and walked back to the cabin door, steps light, almost inaudible, short pajamas swaying against goosebumped skin. The door opened with a soft click and closed behind you with the same care, leaving Clarisse alone on the porch.
Outside, Clarisse closed her eyes tightly. Her head dropped forward, dark curls covering her face like a heavy curtain. A trembling sigh escaped her lips, not of relief, but absolute defeat. She had fucked everything up. Again. The voices in her head, those always shouting louder than anything else, "weakness is death," "feelings are for the weak," "vulnerability is the fastest path to a blade in the back," now laughed hysterically.
She should have listened. Should have stayed quiet, continued with usual anger, provocations, fights. It was safer. It was what she knew.
Anger rose hot in her throat, bitter as bile. Anger at herself for coming there, for invading the cabin in the middle of the night, for opening her mouth and letting out those stupid, soft words that did not belong to an Ares daughter. Anger for showing this side, this pathetic, trembling side she buried deep every day.
Hands clenched into fists, knuckles throbbing under old, poorly tied bandages stained with dried blood. She thought of standing, leaving, returning to the Ares cabin and pretending none of this happened. Tomorrow she could be the same old Clarisse: tough, relentless, untouchable. No one needed to know.
She was almost rising, leg muscles tensed, when she felt something warm and soft envelop her hands.
Her eyes snapped open. You were there, kneeling on the step below her, facing her, knees on cold wood. Moonlight bathed your face, eyes shining with something she could not name, sleep-messed hair falling over shoulders, short pajamas exposing goosebumped skin. In your lap, you held a roll of new, clean white bandages, taken from the Apollo cabin reserve.
Clarisse blinked, confused, entire body locking. Before she could ask anything, you, with the most delicate care she had ever seen in her life, held her hands in yours. Warm, soft fingers slid under old bandages, beginning to undo them slowly, knot by knot.
"You know," your voice came choked, hoarse with emotion, as some tears you had not even noticed were there slid silently down your cheeks and dripped on the step between you, "You should start visiting the infirmary once in a while."
Clarisse felt a knot rise in her throat, so tight it hurt. Her lips trembled. She tried to speak, but only a hoarse, lost "…What?" came out, as if not recognizing her own voice.
She burned inside. Did not know what to do with that, with the soft touch of your fingers undoing dirty bandages, revealing swollen, cut, purple knuckles from so many punches on trees and training bags. Did not know what to do with the warm, careful feeling of you wrapping new, clean bandages, tightening just right, protecting without suffocating.
It was so different from everything she knew. So different from pain, impact, fight.
"What are you doing?" she asked, voice low, almost scared, eyes fixed on your hands working.
You did not answer immediately. Finished bandaging the second hand with a firm but gentle knot, then held both her hands in yours, palms against palms, fingers interlaced for a second. You leaned slowly and deposited a light, almost reverent kiss on the back of each bandaged hand. Your lips' touch was warm, soft, lingering enough for her to feel every second.
"Taking care of you, idiot," you whispered against her skin, voice choked but full of something that seemed like affection, relief, certainty.
Clarisse froze. Completely froze. As if any movement could break the moment, as if breathing too deep could make everything disappear. A tear, a single stubborn tear, formed on the waterline of her brown eyes, trembling there for long seconds, defying gravity. Clarisse La Rue did not cry. Never.
You saw how she became rigid, and panicked immediately.
"Was that too much? I'm sorry, I just…" you began babbling, voice speeding up, hands squeezing hers hard as if afraid she would leave. "I did not want to pressure you, I just saw your hands and thought that… I just…"
You stopped mid-sentence.
Because the tear had fallen.
A single drop, but saying everything Clarisse never knew how to put into words: gratitude, fear, relief, vulnerability, something too big to fit in her chest. She did not move to wipe it. Did not blink. Just let it exist, there, on her face, like silent proof that something inside her had broken, not badly, but necessarily.
Silence returned, but now it was different. Lighter. Warmer.
Clarisse released your hands slowly, as if the gesture hurt, or as if fearing that letting go would make you disappear. For a second, she just looked at the new white bandages wrapping her own fists, perfect knots you had made, as if not believing it was real.
Then, with a slowness not hers, she who always acted fast, rough, decisive, raised her hands and held your face between them.
The newly bandaged palms were warm, rough at edges where old scars never faded, but the touch was unbelievably gentle, almost reverent. Her thumbs slid over your cheeks, feeling salty wetness of tears still running, wiping them with slow, circular movements, as if wanting to memorize every inch of your skin.
The heat of her hands contrasted with night cold still clinging to your face, and Clarisse felt subtle tremor of your facial muscles under her fingers, red nose from recent crying, wet and stuck lashes, short breath coming in warm puffs against her palms. When her right thumb brushed the bandage on the cut she herself had caused hours before in the clearing, Clarisse hesitated, movement stopped, brown eyes fixing there with guilt burning in her chest like ember.
She caressed the bandage edge with fingertip, almost without pressure, feeling slightly raised texture of swollen skin underneath, as if she could erase the damage just with will, as if she could go back in time and deflect the spear.
"You could never be too much," she murmured, voice hoarse, low, almost broken, words coming as if scratching her throat, but loaded with certainty that made her chest tighten even more.
She felt her own heart pounding against ribs, blood pulsing in ears, heat rising up neck to ears.
She stayed like that for a long moment, just looking at you. Moonlight bathed her face from the side, highlighting red nose from effort not to cry more, still wet lashes, full parted lips as if breathing with difficulty. And you, kneeling there, had never seemed so beautiful to her.
Clarisse felt something inside her chest expand painfully, as if it no longer fit there: the smell of your hair mixed with the night air, the soft warmth of your breath against her face, the softness of the skin she touched with such care that it seemed impossible coming from hands that only knew how to break things.
Suddenly, as if she had taken a shock, she snapped back to reality. Quickly, with the back of her left hand, she wiped her own tear that still stubbornly lingered on her cheek, a rough, almost violent gesture, rubbing hard as if it hurt to admit it existed, completely different from the delicacy with which she had touched you. As if she herself did not deserve the same care.
She cleared her throat loudly, the dry sound echoing in the quiet night, and bent down to slip on the worn All Stars without tying the laces, just shoving her feet in hastily, feeling the worn and cold leather brush her ankles. The movement was abrupt, the shoes creaking against the wooden step, as if she wanted to regain the control she always had.
She extended her hand to you, palm up, fingers still trembling lightly.
"Come on, get up."
You obeyed, legs still shaky from the cold and emotion, accepting her help, the firm, warm touch that sent a shiver up your spine. When you stood, Clarisse immediately looked away, sniffling loudly, pretending a casualness that fooled no one, shoulders rigid, jaw locked, her heart beating so hard she feared you heard.
"It's cold out here," she said, voice firmer now, almost authoritative, but with a subtle tremor at the end. "Better you go back inside."
The words hit like a cold arrow. You felt a drop of disappointment, small but sharp, settle in your chest, like ice melting slowly. You did not know exactly what you were expecting: for her to stay, to say more, to repeat the hand-on-face gesture, that… something beyond a practical goodbye. But "go back inside" sounded like an end, as if she was hiding again.
You just nodded, murmuring an almost inaudible "okay," took a step back and turned to the door, heart tightening with that feeling of broken expectation.
Clarisse watched it all with narrowed eyes, heart pounding against her ribs like an uncontrolled war drum. She closed her eyes tightly, cursing herself silently in her mind: coward, idiot, fearful Ares daughter. An Ares daughter feared nothing. Not monsters, not war, not beautiful women who looked at her as if she was worth it, women who bandaged her hurt hands and kissed her fists as if they were something precious.
Before you could take the second step, her hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist firmly, not rough, but decided, warm fingers closing like a cuff that did not want to imprison, but hold. The pull was quick, unexpected, making you spin and let out a surprised yelp that died in the air when her lips collided with yours.
It was just a peck, brief but intense. Clarisse's lips were soft, unbelievably soft for someone so rough all the time, warm and slightly trembling against yours that were still cold from the night. She tasted the salty of your tears mixed with the natural sweet of your mouth, the warmth of your breath fusing with hers, entire body shivering when you stood on tiptoes to adjust to her height.
Her arms slid immediately to your waist, wrapping you with instinctive possessiveness, bandaged hands pressing against your back, pulling your body against hers as if afraid you would escape, feeling the heat of your thin pajamas against her t-shirt fabric, the subtle tremor of your muscles, heart beating fast against her chest.
When you pulled apart, just a few centimeters, foreheads remained pressed, both eyes closed, noses brushing casually in an accidental caress that made the air between you seem electric. Panting breaths mixed in the cold air, her soap smell still strong, now mixed with yours.
With the rest of courage she could gather, voice coming hoarse, almost breathless, chest rising and falling fast, Clarisse whispered against your mouth.
"Wanted to do it the right way, take you on a date first. But Jesus… I think I couldn't hold out anymore."
You could not hold it. A low, light laugh escaped your lips, not mocking, but pure joy, relief, finding grace in her awkward and honest way.
"You can still take me on a date," you replied, voice soft, slipping your arms around her neck, fingers tangling in soft curls and caressing her nape with a delicacy that made Clarisse shiver from head to toe, a visible tremor climbing her spine, making her shoulders tense and heat explode in her stomach, something new, unknown, that left her dizzy.
"Alright… okay, cool," she replied half groggy, clearing her throat right after, clearly not knowing what to do with her hands (still gripping your waist hard), with her body (pressed to yours), with the closeness making blood pulse in her ears.
Her eyes blinked fast, lost, as if in completely unknown territory, your body lotion smell invading her senses, your skin heat burning through thin clothes.
She dominated arenas, captured flags, decapitated monsters with sword-sized teeth. But Clarisse La Rue was a complete novice at love, and that was obvious in every inch of her tense body, in short breath, in the way fingers tightened and released your waist as if not knowing the right strength.
You held back another laugh seeing how lost she seemed, vulnerable in a way no one ever saw. But you would teach her. Teach everything about love to the war god's daughter.
"Good," she said finally, voice trying to sound firm but coming halting, "better you go sleep and… we talk about this tomorrow."
You raised your gaze slowly, eyes still wet and shining with residue of tears and that raw emotion pulsing in your chest like an exposed heart. They locked immediately on her lips, plump, slightly swollen from the quick first peck, with a pinkish tone contrasting tanned and warmed skin, so inviting they seemed to beg for more contact. Tempting too much.
You bit your own lower lip slowly, teeth sinking into soft, moist flesh, an instinctive gesture only intensifying growing need in your stomach, like butterflies turning hurricane. Your eyes half-closed in a needy, almost pleading expression, pupils dilated in porch dimness, reflecting faint moonlight filtering through distant trees.
Clarisse felt the impact of that look straight in her chest. Her own eyes widened for a fraction of second, heart pounding against ribs with force echoing in ears, too loud, uncontrolled. The whiny voice coming from you caught her off guard, like a low blow in a fight she thought she dominated.
"Okay…" you whispered, voice low, drawn out, with sweet and imploring tone making Clarisse's nape hairs stand, electric tingling descending arms. "…but give me one last kiss."
The words came like a soft purr, vibrating in cold air between you, and Clarisse swallowed hard, throat dry and tight, feeling heat rise up neck to cheeks. She nodded once, hoarse, lips parting without sound, as if words had fled her. She leaned slowly, hesitant, offering another chaste peck, controlled, safe, the kind not leaving her so vulnerable.
But you would not accept control that easily.
In the middle of the kiss, with lips still pressed to hers in a light peck, you whispered against her mouth, warm and moist breath brushing sensitive skin, making her shudder.
"No… a real kiss."
Before Clarisse could process, before she could pull back or advance, your hands rose quickly to her face. Fingers fit into her cheekbones, warm and firm against smooth and heated skin, and you pulled her to you with urgency leaving no room for doubt. Clarisse let out a surprised sound, a hoarse and muffled grunt deep in her throat, half shock, half surrender, when your lips met again, but this time nothing chaste.
You took initiative, parting her lips with yours slowly, tongue tracing lower contour with provocative slowness, moist and hot, inviting her into rhythm. Clarisse hesitated for a second, awkward, initial movements rigid, as if her body, used to precise and brutal strikes, did not know how to be gentle.
Her lips moved against yours uncertainly at first, opening and closing in mismatched fit, shampoo and woody soap smell invading your senses. She held back her own moan, heat spreading like fire through her belly.
But you guided, persistent: tongue sliding inside her mouth slowly, exploring with slow curiosity, tracing roof of mouth, brushing hers in experienced movements making air heavier, more electric. Clarisse responded gradually, lips opening more, body relaxing against yours, bandaged hands on your waist tightening firmer, fingers digging into thin pajama fabric, feeling your skin heat underneath, subtle muscle tremor.
The kiss gained depth: lips opening and closing in slow, rhythmic pace, fitting perfectly, like puzzle pieces always knowing where to go.
You bit her plump lower lip slowly, teeth sinking into soft and full flesh with light pressure, but enough to draw hoarse and surprised sound from her, muffled moan vibrating against your mouth. Clarisse's entire body reacted: hands tightened more, pulling you against her until bodies pressed, hips pressing hips, heat mixing in wave rising through her chest.
She tilted her head slightly sideways, deepening the kiss, and that was when her tongue, hesitant at first but now more confident, brushed yours in a particularly delicious way: slow and moist movement, pressing tip against yours, exploring with hot pressure sending sparks through your body.
You could not hold it, low and needy moan escaped your lips, muffled against her mouth, vibrating directly on Clarisse's tongue. The sound was soft, hoarse, like pleasure-loaded sigh, and echoed inside her like revelation. Clarisse froze for half second, eyes snapping open, wide and dilated in dimness, chest heaving, and then something inside her broke completely, like a dam bursting.
Life was not just training and spinning a spear.
It was not just metal clang against metal, sweat running down back during hours of practice, metallic blood taste in mouth after hard victory. It was that: the sound you made when she kissed you right, a moan reverberating in her chest like sweeter victory than any captured flag.
It was your mouth taste, moist and hot, way your tongue danced with hers in languid movements, sending shivers down spine making knees weak. It was heat rising in belly, tingling in bandaged hands now sliding down your back, tracing spine curve with possessive pressure, fingers tangling in nape hair to keep you pressed, anchoring to something real and soft.
Clarisse kissed you as if discovering a new world, awkward at first, but now hungry, movements gaining fluidity, entire body throbbing with sensations she never allowed herself to feel: brush of your breasts against her chest through thin clothes, thigh tremor when you pressed closer, your lotion smell mixing with hers, creating something new and intoxicating.
When you finally pulled apart, air running out in lungs, chests rising and falling in unison, foreheads pressed again, sweaty and hot, heavy breaths mixing in night cold like fog. Clarisse was trembling entirely, not from cold: swollen and red lips, glistening with kiss moisture, glassy and lost eyes, almost pleading, pupils so dilated brown seemed swallowed by black.
She opened her mouth, tried to say something, anything to break charged silence, but only hoarse and halting sigh came out, air escaping sensitive lips.
You smiled slowly, thumbs tracing her cheekbones with deliberate slowness, feeling feverish skin heat, light tremor under fingers.
"Good night, Clarisse," you whispered, voice hoarse and low, loaded with kiss residue.
You leaned again, pressing a few slow and soft pecks on her lips, one, two, three, each longer than previous: lips meeting with moist softness, brushing slowly, residual kiss taste still there.
Hands descended her arms as you pulled away gradually, fingers tracing firm and tense biceps, feeling muscles contract under touch, down forearms, to wrists, where her pulse beat fast against your skin. Finally, you released completely, fingers slipping through hers in last brush, leaving residual tingling in air.
Clarisse stood there, arms falling inert at sides, chest still heaving, eyes fixed on you as you entered the door, silhouette disappearing in cabin welcoming dimness. She brought hand to lips slowly, touching where you had bitten and kissed, feeling throbbing sensitivity, and let out low, incredulous laugh, almost hysterical, sound echoing in quiet night.
"Fuck…" she murmured to herself, pressing forehead to cold and rough porch column wood, icy contrast against hot skin anchoring her back to reality. Heart still racing, entire body throbbing with new and insistent heat, something definitely not anger or training fatigue.
For the first time in her life, Clarisse La Rue did not want to fight.
And tomorrow, when the sun rose, illuminating camp with its golden light, she would come get you.
For alexia and amor, would you do a Christmas/smut fic where they attend a family or team Christmas party and Alexia tries to take advantage of all the mistletoe hanging and always pulls amor in for kisses. She means for it to start off all innocent and cute but doesn’t realize how turned on she actually gets. Amor is oblivious at first but sees how worked up Alexia is getting and plans out their after hours.
Mistletoe
Alexia Putellas x Reader
Description: you and Alexia go to the Barça Christmas party and Alexia has a plan.
Beautiful Girl Masterlist
Content Warning: final little bit gets a little smutty but there’s no actual sex or anything.
You should have known that Alexia was up to something long before the holiday season actually started. It was just before the international break when she mysteriously disappeared off somewhere. It wasn’t abnormal for her to go places without you, which is what made it all the weirder that she was acting so strange about it. She had returned all flustered and scurried off into the spare room, re-emerging twenty minutes or so later and insisting that you were ‘not to go into that room, under any circumstances’. You had quirked an eyebrow and laughed, opening your arms for her to flop down into and agreeing with a quiet kiss to the top of her head.
It wasn’t until she had agreed to help Mapí set up the Barça Christmas party that you knew something was really going on. Ale usually hated setting up for them, often having to be reminded by you that it was somewhat expected considering she was basically synonymous with Barça Femení at this point.
Instead of grumping and grouching, wrapping her arms around your waist and refusing to let you move when you reminded her for the 10th time that it really was time to get ready, she disappeared into the spare room, sauntering off with a suspiciously full bag and barely an “adios” and a quick peck on the cheek.
You narrowed your eyes at the space where Alexia once stood.
The party was in full swing by the time you arrived, the fancy hall decorated to the nines with Blaugrana tinsel and balloons.
“Mi amor,” Ale called, her face bright as she almost ran over to you.
“Hello, baby.” You laughed, caught off guard as she tugged you into her. You reached up, about to kiss her when she squeaked. You froze, furrowing your brows.
“Nada, nada. No te preocupes.” Nothing, nothing. Don’t worry. She smiled, letting her gaze flit across your face. “Let’s go by the tree, sí?” Before you had a chance to reply, she was dragging you through the crowd.
“Ale, baby, slow down.” You giggled, almost stumbling at her speed.
“Let’s have a picture?” Ale turned positioning you exactly where she wanted you.
“Ok.” You blinked, still slightly dazed at her general demeanour.
You turned willingly enough though, smiling at Ale as she tucked you into her side. Habitually, you rested your hand on her stomach, feeling the warmth and strength of her abs.
The camera flashed, almost blinding you.
You were about to dismiss the photographer politely when she showed you the photo. Honestly, you couldn’t have cared less about the picture in that moment. You had spotted a Photo Booth by the door that you know Alexia, and probably Kika, Mapí and Marta, would be forcing you into at some point in the evening.
“Look,” Alexia gasped. “Muérdago.” Mistletoe. She pointed to the sprig of leaves and white berries that were dangling from the ceiling, miraculously right over where you were posing. “What is the tradition, mi amor, with muérdago?”
“Kissing?”
“If you insist.” Ale giggled. “We cannot break the tradition. It would be bad luck.”
You could tell by the tone of Alexia’s voice that she knew exactly what she was doing. Her hand came to cup your jaw. “Puedo besarte, mi amor?” Can I kiss you, mi amor?
“Of course, beautiful girl. Always.” You whispered.
Delicately, as if you were made of glass, Alexia pressed her lips to yours, her fingers tightening slightly against your jaw as her hand settled on her hip.
“Mi niña bonita,” she murmured as she pulled back. “It’s a good tradition, no?”
“Until you’re caught under the mistletoe with Pere or Pedri or Gavi.” You wiggled your eyebrows, cackling loudly at her horrified expression. “Or worse, Mapí.” You couldn’t help but tease her.
“Do not.” Alexia huffed, pulling you into her for a hug.
“Speaking of Leòn, where is her and her better half? I’ve missed Ingrid.”
You knew Alexia was up to something when she refused to stray from your side, even for a minute. When you went to hug Ingrid, Alexia kept her grasp tight, leading to you awkwardly one-arm hugging your best friend.
“How’s France, traitor?” You said with pursed lips.
Ingrid just smiled, rolling her eyes. You had spoke to her on the phone a minimum of 3 times a week since she left, you knew exactly how France was.
“I see Ale is up to something.” Ingrid ignored your jab, lowering her voice and nodding to Ale’s hand tightly in yours.
Alexia and Mapí were enwrapped in their conversation, both of them talking in mix of Spanish and Catalan that was far too fast for you to keep up with. They were frequently looking up, Mapí covering her mouth with her hand, like they were discussing tactics over a free kick.
“What do you think they’re planning?” Ingrid asked, fully aware that both of them were not listening to a word either of you would say, although Alexia still kept a tight grip on your hand.
“Something to do with mistletoe.”
You had caught onto Alexia’s little scheme the moment she over-exaggerated her lack of knowledge of mistletoe.
“Ah,” Ingrid chuckled. “Wanna have some fun?”
“Anything in particular?”
“They want to fuck around with some mistletoe? Why don’t we let them find out?”
“I like how your brain works, Engen.” You wiggled your eyebrows. “You should come back to Barça.”
Ingrid laughed, rolling her eyes. “I missed you too.”
It took you all of 5 minutes to spot about 10 different locations that had mistletoe hanging over it.
“Ale,” you cooed, hugging on her hand.
“Sí?” Her head snapped to you.
“Let’s go dance,” you asked, taking a step closer to her. You could see her take a steadying breath. “C’mon, beautiful, I want to feel your arms around me.” She swallowed, her eyes widening slightly as she registered your words.
The music was some standard Christmas songs, the beat more upbeat but you didn’t care as you slipped your hands around Alexia’s waist, pulling her close to you.
“Have you had a good year, baby?” You asked.
“Football or non-football?” She asked.
“I know we’re at our work Christmas party, but let’s say non-football.”
“It’s been the best year, mi amor.” You felt her hand play with the hairs at the base of your neck. “Don’t know how you manage to make every year better than the last.”
“I don’t do anything, beautiful girl.”
“Cállate, sí lo haces.” Shut up, yes you do. Alexia hated how you often put yourself down. “You love me.” She said simply. “And you let me love you. That in itself means more than you will ever know.”
You could feel the heat in your cheeks. “T'estimo, noia meva bonica.” I love you, my beautiful girl.
“We are under mistletoe.” Alexia whispered.
“Got to keep up the tradition, no?” You said smoothly, although your heart thumped erratically.
You watched as her cheeks bloomed a pretty pink colour, visible even under the dim lights.
You kissed her slow and deep. Letting your lips linger in a way that far too long for a work event. She tasted like home. Happiness and safety all wrapped into one. Her lips were soft and perfectly balanced as they slotted against yours. She hummed throatily, a low sound that made a shiver trickle down your spine.
Alexia was dazed slightly as you pulled back, not expecting you to have kissed her so intensely.
“Love you, baby.” Alexia felt you whisper against her lips.
It was a couple of hours and many, many, mistletoe-induced kisses later that Alexia was finally able to drag you into the photo booth. It was surprisingly spacious, but that didn’t stop you from hauling her onto your lap, your arm wrapping around her waist.
Not for the first time tonight, you were able to fully appreciate Alexia’s outfit. A long silvery-black dress with a slit up one side, leaving her strong thigh bare for you to feel the smooth skin and rippling muscle.
“Did I tell you how good you look tonight?” You asked, pushing your hand higher up her thigh.
“Once or twice,” she smiled down at you, blinking slowly, eyes full of love.
“Well let me tell you a third time then.” You winked, slowly drawing soft lines up and down the bare skin of her leg. “You look so pretty, my gorgeous girl.”
“Gracias, mi amor.” She tilted your chin back, kissing you gently.
“Should we take our pictures then?” You asked after a moment.
“Can the first one be a nice one?” She asked, leaning forward to tap on the little screen.
“Any photo with you in it is nice,” you flirted smoothly, chuckling as you heard a huff escape her lips.
“You know what I mean.” She rolled her eyes.
“I do,” you conceded. “And of course, baby.” You readjusted yourself, resting your chin on her shoulder. The camera flashed once.
Without really thinking about it, you pushed your hand higher, fixing Alexia’s legs open so your fingers could lightly graze against the lace of her underwear.
You heard her stutter as the camera flashed again.
You began drawing a few slow, lazy circles over her clit, smiling as she turned her head to capture your lips in a messy kiss.
The camera flashed again.
“Llévame a casa, mi amor.” Alexia muttered. “Por favor.”
You smiled against her lips, never stopping the agonisingly slow circles.
“But what about all the mistletoe, baby? It would be a shame to waste your plans, no?” You teased.
“Fuck mistletoe.” She mumbled, curling her hips and bucking into your hand. “Fuck me instead.”
You have a few first impressions of your girlfriend, Patri. All of them combine to make your favorite person. But the glimpse you see of her with the burning eyes during a friend game night or with competitive fire racing through her veins after winning a match has you aching for her to unleash that side with you too. You ask her for one little change in your usual bedroom activities, a hand around your neck.
It's a need at this point, not a want.
Wordcount: 1.4k
Warnings: 18+. Suggestive themes ahead
Your first impression of your girlfriend was that she's goofy, joking around the pitch with that big ear-splitting grin of hers always on display. She is loud and extroverted and the life of the party, dragging others into her fun.
Your second impression of Patri was that she's powerful. Because of her physique, sure. But also because when she talks, everyone stops to listen, and you mean everyone—the Barça B girls, the players she rose up the ranks with, and even Alexia, Irene, Marta, the more experienced and seasoned ones on the team. Patri opens her mouth and everyone swivels in her direction to listen. It's visible on the pitch too in their body language. Alexia is the speaking head, sure, but Patri turns the neck of the team.
Your third impression is that she's gentle. In her way of handling people and relationships and in the way she grabs your hand on the slow stroll back to hers after that first dinner date, all soft smiles and hip bumping into yours. That is how she usually treats you, soft and gentle like you're the most delicate thing in her world.
Patri is observant, sometimes annoyingly so. But it usually is all for your benefit. Like the first time you two slept together when she was achingly slow and soft in her exploration. You liked it. It was nice and safe and you came twice.
Your fourth impression is that she is also not gentle. Not when other areas of her life demand fire. You want commanding Patri, the one who stalks across the field intercepting balls, demanding attention, conducting the midfield. You desire the Patri who competitively challenges the results during your game nights because the "interpretation of the rules can mean multiple things" even though she's talking about Monopoly which has been a staple since childhood and everybody knows the rules are the rules. Your girl treats everything like something to be conquered.
Except you.
But you want to be conquered too. By her firm hands and those muscular thighs and her hot mouth.
Instead she's soft and gentle and slow.
Until one conversation in the middle of things getting heated turns everything on its head.
"I want…" you moan into Patri's neck.
"You want?" she chuckles, hands achingly slow as they caress your sides. Gentle. Soft. Kind.
"Your hands on—" she pulls a delicate moan out of you as her weight settles on top of you fully, skin on skin.
"Where?" the footballer breathes into your shoulder, tongue sweeping across your skin before her eyes flick back up to yours, soft and warm.
You want fire.
"On my neck," you pant, hands grasping her hips in an effort to pull her further into you.
"¿Qué?" she asks, body pausing with tight tension as she pushes up off you slightly, gaze searching for yours.
You whine.
Her wide eyes scan your body and you can feel the flush of embarrassment spreading over your cheeks and down your neck. You were hoping for a more enthusiastic response, not this shocked and silent one.
"I, uh," you start, anxiety spiking slightly, "I want…"
"You want my fingers around your neck?" she prods, voice slow as if she's trying to decipher exactly why you would ever ask for that when she's offering you care and kindness and soft and slow lovemaking.
"I want you to stop being so gentle—well, you can still be gentle," you amend, "but firm too."
"Firm?"
"Yes," you whisper. "I want the Patri others get. In football and game nights."
"What? How?" she clears her throat, "how does that translate to the bedroom? You want me to slide tackle you onto the mattress?" she jokes to diffuse some of the tension as you both delicately navigate this conversation of preferences while achingly naked in bed.
"No," you respond with a chuckle that bleeds out some of your anxiety and her cautiousness, her hands returning to trail up you ribs softly. "I do not want to be slide tackled into bed." You can feel her smirk on your sternum at her joke pulling a laugh out of you. "But I do like the fire in your eyes when you're in those modes."
"And you want it directed at you?"
"Yes," you confirm, body arching up into her, your nipples brushing hers and pulling a gasp out of both of you at the sensation.
Her hand tentatively slides up your arm, leaving your skin tingling in its wake.
Fingers delicately brush the soft skin between your clavicles, and a moan starts bubbling up from the depths of your throat, just waiting to be released.
You breathe sharply through your nose as her fingers uncertainly splay out over the column of your neck, your head arching back reflexively to give her more access.
Patri chuckles under her breath. "Your survival instincts are shit," she whispers into your lips before capturing them in a demanding kiss. Her fingers flex around your soft skin, tightening slightly, and that moan you've been containing bubbles out, loud and broken.
Your eyes flutter close in the heat that races down your spine as her grip increases, a wanton moan falling out of your mouth. It's involuntary the way your body relaxes instantly into submission. Your mind goes blissfully blank and your eyes unfocus. The only thing tethering you to the present is the wave of arousal settling low in your gut.
"Is that what you want, bebé?"
"Yesss," you gasp as she puts slightly more pressure on your windpipe, hands sliding down your neck before quickly ascending back up to sit right under your jaw.
For someone who looked so damn apprehensive minutes ago, she's rather eager to follow your ask, a hand at home around your throat as her other hand skims down your body, fingers teasing in a way that has you whimpering for some reprieve.
"Patri," you groan.
"Yes?" she teases. "What do you need to do?"
"Please," you whisper, body pushing up against hers in desperation.
"There's my good girl," she croons at you.
You moan loudly and her fingers contract in response.
You're a puddle. An absolute-fucking puddle underneath her. Washed away in a gush of desire, no physical body left here.
Her fingers work you up, the ones on your neck and the ones dipped down below, both hands occupied on opposite ends of the spectrum but moving in tandem. She's so damn talented. And you're so easy when it comes to her.
You float into your orgasm, head hazy and vision blurred, Patri's fingers pressing your head up and back, presenting more of your neck to her. A gasp gets pulled from your throat as your thighs tremble and your muscles contract in a rhythm that deliciously releases all the tension held in your body.
"Okay, amor?" Patri questions quietly once your shaking has subsided. "That wasn't too much."
"Fuckkk no," you moan, a grin pulling at your lips. "That was fantastic," you confirm, leaning over to peck her lips. "More of that, yeah?"
"My girl doesn't like gentle," Patri states with a smirk.
"I do," you reply. "Gentle but firm."
"You just came the hardest you maybe ever have simply because my hand was squeezed around your neck. That's more than gentle but firm," Patri counters.
"I liked it," you state with a shrug.
"Noted, amor. We can incorporate more of that," she replies, lips kissing up your neck to your ear. "Maybe we can try it while you take the strap, dominate you from both ends."
You shudder at her words and the caress of her breath across the shell of your ear. A small moan escapes as your eyes flutter closed at the visual.
Your latest impression of your girlfriend is that Patri is really fucking good at listening and executing. And now that you have physical proof of how that fire behind her eyes can be used for your benefit, you're not sure how you're going to make it through friend game nights or pitch side celebrations without itching for her hands on you, gentle but firm.
