𐙚she/her. ask me about juan soto. mariah the scientist & kali uchis defender. aaron judge glazer. juan soto apologist. yankees fan. baseball addict. requests open.ᐟ
i’ve lately been unmotivated to write, and i think that’s coming from being bored with writing mlb fics. while i love baseball guys, i think i want to expand this blog into a truly multifandom blog. i have plenty of other interests (kpop, star wars, stranger things, avatar: the last airbender, dc and marvel, etc) and i am so down to write for other things. if you’re open to it, please send me asks. i will also still take mlb asks, i’m just going to diversify!!!
Jack Flaherty surprising you for your birthday when he's supposed to be traveling for an away series
you think you’re spending your birthday quietly, maybe a cake with candles that lean a little to the side, a phone call from jack squeezed in between flights and hotel check-ins. he told you he’d be on the road. he sounded tired. convincing. you believed him.
so when there’s a knock at your door, you’re already smiling for someone else.
and then you open it.
jack’s there instead — hoodie, cap pulled low, duffel at his feet, that familiar crooked grin breaking like he’s been holding it back for hours. you barely get his name out before he’s pulling you into his arms, lifting you clean off the ground, laughing into your hair.
“happy birthday,” he murmurs, like it’s the easiest thing in the world to cross states just to say it in person.
he doesn’t just show up — he shows up. the rest of the day unfolds like he planned it on red-eye flights and hotel stationery. reservations you didn’t know existed. your favorite flowers waiting in the car. a gift tucked into your bag before you even realize you’re carrying one. he pays for everything before you can protest, brushes off your thanks with a kiss to your temple.
“let me,” he keeps saying. “i want to.”
dinner turns into dessert turns into another surprise — a second gift, smaller, more personal. something he noticed you loved months ago and pretended not to. you realize he’s been planning this longer than he’s been away.
back home, he lights the candles himself, watches your face while you make a wish like it matters more to him than the game ever could. when you lean into his chest afterward, sugar-sweet and overwhelmed, he wraps you up tighter, chin resting on your head.
“i hate missing your life,” he admits softly. “so i didn’t.”
and later, when you’re curled together, gifts scattered, his phone finally buzzing with missed calls and reminders, he ignores it all. his attention stays on you — the way you smile, the way you relax knowing he’s here.
What do you think romy is like when he has a crush.
romy with a crush is painfully obvious in the most endearing way.
he tries to play it cool, but he can’t help the way his attention keeps drifting back to one person. the way his eyes light up when they walk into a room, the way he suddenly gets quieter, more careful with his words. he listens more than he talks. remembers little things you didn’t even realize you said. brings them up later like they mattered (because they did).
he’s awkward about it, too. fidgety hands, half-smiles, a laugh that comes out a beat too late. he’ll tease you gently, then immediately worry he went too far. he shows up for you without making a big deal of it—walking you to your car, checking in after a long day, offering help before you ever have to ask.
and when he really likes you? he’s loyal in a way that feels grounding. steady. earnest. like his feelings aren’t loud, but they’re deep, and once you have his heart, he’s all in, even if it takes him a while to say it out loud.
the apartment feels warm and buzzy, like something bad is about to happen in the best way. lights are low, music humming softly, giancarlo standing in the living room tugging at a santa sweater that fits him entirely too well. he smooths it down, adjusts the hat, mutters something about this being “normal” and “fine” and “just a party.”
your bedroom door opens.
you step out slowly, like you’re revealing yourself on purpose.
mrs. claus, but absolutely not the wholesome kind. skirt dangerously short, white trim brushing your thighs every time you move, stockings hugging you like they’re working overtime. your hair is soft and bouncy, with a dainty white ribbon tied in it.
you don’t say anything at first. just let him look.
giancarlo freezes. his brain visibly powers down.
“…oh shit,” he mutters.
you grin. “hi santa.”
giancarlo was a little older than you, and antics like this reminded him of that fact.
his eyes drag down your body and back up, like he’s trying to be respectful and failing spectacularly. “we are going to a party. with people. who have eyes.”
“exactly,” you say, smoothing your hands down the front of the skirt. “it’s a visual gift.”
he swallows. hard. “that skirt is… not regulation.”
you step closer, poking his chest with one finger. “you should see what happens when i bend over—”
his ears go pink instantly. “do not finish that sentence.”
you gasp. “wow. slutshaming mrs. claus?”
his hands come up automatically, gripping your hips like it’s muscle memory. “i’m begging you to behave.”
you tilt your head, faux-thoughtful. “define behave.”
he exhales through his nose. “no jokes. no whispering things in my ear. no—”
you interrupt sweetly, “no grinding on santa?”
he squeezes his eyes shut. “you’re doing this on purpose.”
“absolutely,” you say proudly. “i like when you get all flustered. your cheeks get pink. it’s very festive.”
you glance down pointedly at his lap, then back up at him. “naughty list’s getting longer tonight.”
he groans, forehead dropping to yours. “i cannot take you anywhere.”
you smile, soft and wicked all at once. “you take me everywhere.”
he laughs despite himself, kissing your temple like he’s surrendering. “this party’s gonna ruin me.”
you beam, hands slipping around his waist. “that’s the holiday spirit.”
and somehow, impossibly, you’re both still dressed.
the party’s already loud by the time you settle in — familiar faces, music thumping just enough to make conversations blur into laughter, the air warm with bodies and cheap holiday candles. people keep stopping you to hug you, to compliment your outfit, to laugh a little too long when they realize exactly how short your skirt is.
giancarlo stays close, one hand always finding your waist like a reflex. grounding. steady. very aware.
someone presses a drink into your hand — something sweet and festive, heavy on the cranberry and fizz. you sip it, then sip it again. it goes down easy. dangerously easy.
“pace yourself,” giancarlo murmurs near your ear.
you glance up at him, eyes already brighter than usual. “i am.”
he arches a brow. “that’s your second.”
“third,” you correct cheerfully. “but who’s counting?”
your friends pull you into a loose circle, dragging you away just far enough that giancarlo’s hand slips from your waist. you talk, laugh, sway a little with the music. every time you laugh, you feel lighter — warmer — like the room is tilting pleasantly.
when giancarlo joins you again, you immediately lean into him, like gravity decided he’s the only solid thing in the room.
“hi,” you say, grinning up at him.
“hi,” he replies, amused. “you’re… glowing.”
you squint at him. “that means i’m drunk.”
“a little,” he says gently.
you hook a finger into the hem of his santa sweater, tugging him closer. “you look really good tonight.”
he clears his throat. “thank you.”
you smile to yourself, then add, far too loudly, “like, really good.”
one of your friends laughs. “someone’s feeling festive.”
you nod solemnly. “holiday spirit. very strong.”
giancarlo’s hand returns to your back, firmer now, steadying you when you sway. you don’t even notice you’re doing it — leaning into him, pressing closer, murmuring things only he can hear.
“you smell nice,” you tell him seriously.
he exhales a quiet laugh. “you’re adorable.”
you hum, pressing your cheek against his shoulder. “you’re lucky i like you.”
his grip tightens just a little, thumb brushing slow circles like he’s reminding himself to behave.
and somewhere between another sip of your drink and another laugh, he realizes this night is about to get a lot more interesting — and a lot harder to keep under control.
you absolutely blow past a little drunk.
it sneaks up on giancarlo slowly — the way you start laughing at everything, the way your body seems to forget personal space entirely. you cling to his arm like it’s your favorite place to exist, fingers slipping under his sweater sleeve just to feel his skin, warm and solid.
“you’re comfy,” you announce, cheek pressed to his shoulder.
he tightens his arm around you instinctively. “you’re tipsy.”
you look up at him, eyes glassy and delighted. “i already admitted that.”
your hand drifts to his chest, tracing the santa logo on his sweater with one finger like it’s see-through. slow. deliberate. every circle makes his jaw clench harder.
“you’re such a good santa,” you grin.
he exhales through his nose. “you’re drunk.”
“mm,” you hum, nodding seriously. “a little.”
you sway — not even dramatically — just enough that he has to catch you, hands firm at your waist. you laugh when he does, fingers curling into his sweater like you planned it.
“you’re doing this on purpose,” he mutters.
you tilt your head, faux-innocent. “maybe.”
he reaches for your drink before you can protest, swapping it gently with a cup of water. “slow down, baby.”
you pout — then immediately soften, leaning closer. “but i like when you take care of me.”
he freezes.
his grip tightens. his brain short-circuits.
“you can’t say things like that,” he murmurs, voice low.
you smile sleepily, pressing your forehead to his chest. “why not?”
because you’re warm. because you smell like sugar and perfume. because every time you laugh you press closer, every time you sway he gets to hold you. because you keep brushing his chest like you’re testing his self-control.
he guides you gently away from the center of the room, toward a quieter corner, hands steady, careful. “you need air.”
you let him lead you, clinging happily. “you’re very bossy tonight.”
he huffs a quiet laugh despite himself. “you’re very handsy tonight.”
you glance down at where your hand is very much resting on his chest. “…oops.”
you don’t move it.
giancarlo looks down at you, resigned, fond, and completely overwhelmed.
by the time you make it to the quieter corner of the room, you’re fully in your feelings — warm, loose-limbed, smiling like you’ve discovered the world’s best secret and it’s him. you turn toward giancarlo instead of the wall, hands immediately finding his chest again like they belong there.
“wow,” you murmur, palms flat against him. “you’re very… solid.”
he laughs softly, the sound a little strained. “okay. hands.”
you don’t listen.
your fingers slip up, toy with the collar of his sweater, tugging just enough to be distracting. you look up at him through your lashes, all sweetness and trouble.
“you’re really good at holding me,” you say, like it’s a revelation. “have you noticed that?”
he swallows. “yes. i’ve noticed.”
you sway again — this time very much on purpose — and he catches you immediately, arms firm around your waist, grounding you like it’s instinct. you grin, pleased.
“see?” you say. “excellent santa.”
he presses his forehead briefly to yours, voice low. “you’re flirting.”
you nod seriously. “i’m very flirty right now.”
your thumb traces a slow line along his side, just under the hem of his sweater. his breath stutters despite himself.
“hey,” he murmurs gently, catching your wandering hand. “easy.”
you pout, then soften instantly when he squeezes your fingers. “you’re being very responsible.”
“someone has to be,” he says, fond and helpless all at once.
you lean closer anyway, whispering like it’s a secret meant only for him. “but if you weren’t being responsible…”
he closes his eyes for half a second. opens them again, steadier. “we’d be in trouble.”
you hum, pressing your nose into his neck, breathing him in. “i like trouble.”
he laughs quietly, brushing your hair back from your face, grounding you with the softest touch. “i know you do.”
his hands stay firm, steady — one at your waist, one warm at your back — keeping you upright, keeping you close without letting things tip too far. you sigh contentedly, letting him hold you like that, still sneaking little touches where you can, still smiling like you’ve won something.
and giancarlo stands there, doing his absolute best to keep you safe, steady, and mostly decent — while very much wishing this party would end soon.
he decides it quietly, the way he decides most things when it comes to you — firmly, gently, like he’s already bracing himself for whatever chaos you might cause on the way out.
his hand settles at your lower back, solid and warm, guiding you toward the door while you cling to his arm like it’s your favorite place to be (it is). he thanks people, laughs things off, presses a polite smile into place while you’re whispering commentary into his ear like you’re narrating the night just for him.
“you’re stealing santa,” someone jokes.
you grin up at him, eyes bright, a little glassy. “he’s mine.”
he exhales through his nose, fond despite himself, and wraps his coat around you anyway, zipping it up to your chin like you’re precious cargo. you let him. you always do. there’s something about the way he takes care of you that makes you softer, freer — like you don’t have to be anything but exactly what you are.
outside, the cold air hits your cheeks and you shiver dramatically, pressing closer.
“see?” you say, smug. “needed you.”
he steadies you, hands big and sure, voice low. “you always need me.”
and he doesn’t say it like a complaint.
the car ride home is quiet except for your humming and the way you keep reaching for his hand. when you get inside, he kicks off your shoes, sits you on the bed, hands you water. you sip obediently, blinking up at him like he hung the moon.
“you’re really good at this,” you murmur.
“at what?”
“taking care of me.”
he doesn’t answer right away. just brushes your hair back, thumb lingering at your temple, something unguarded in his eyes. you’re younger, looser, all spark and motion — and somehow you’ve made his world slower, steadier, warmer.
you curl into him when he lies down beside you, fitting like you always do. your breathing evens out quickly, exhaustion finally winning. your hand stays fisted in his sweater, like you’re afraid he might disappear.
he presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering there.
“sleep,” he murmurs. “i’ve got you.”
and you do.
⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆
ᴋᴇɴ’ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇꜱ—ᵎᵎ ✦
i need to write g more, this was fun
the concept of him with a younger!reader🫦
he’s such a cutie, please send me g asks!
xoxo,
ken
taglist (lmk if you want to join): @lilg16 @jores-world @jarrensweb @divinedelusional @melsgf @wildecat1996
Imagine trying to harass and threaten someone’s wife bc they stand up loud and proud for what’s right. no one gives a fuck if you don’t like the Mets because of Katia Lindor, there’s no need to announce you’re a piece of shit out loud.
hey i love yall but im taking a break from writing jarren duran content. i found out some things i really don’t agree with and i don’t feel comfortable :(
summary: when juan brings you home to the dominican republic for christmas, you discover that loving him isn’t just about sharing a life it’s about finding home in each other.
word count: 3.7k words
a/n: MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!! MY FIRST JUAN FIC!! this was a request, i hope you enjoy!! thank you for reading, i love youuu!!!
⸻
You've learned the shape of Juan's mornings by now the way he stretches before he's fully awake, one arm reaching instinctively for you. How he's quiet for the first twenty minutes, nursing coffee in that oversized mug you bought him as a joke. World's Okayest Boyfriend. He uses it every single day. How he hums under his breath when he's content, usually some song his mother used to play.
You're tucked against his side on the couch, your legs tangled with his. He's scrolling through his phone with one hand, the other tracing absent patterns on your shoulder.
"My mom sent me another video," he says, and there's warmth in his voice that only appears when he talks about home. He tilts the screen toward you a shaky recording of what looks like his childhood street, decorated within an inch of its life. Lights strung between houses, a neighbor's inflatable santa to one side.
"It's not even christmas yet and she's already going crazy," he adds, but he's smiling.
"She decorates like you hit home runs," you tease. "Excessively and with flair."
He laughs that laugh that took you weeks to earn, back when you were still learning each other. "You're not wrong."
You've seen photos, heard stories. His family is a constant presence in his life, even from a distance voice memos from his dad, texts from his cousins in the group chat he's shown you (mostly memes and arguments about who's bringing what to dinner). You know they're important to him and home in a way that goes deeper than nostalgia.
He sets his phone down and shifts, turning to face you more fully.
"So," he starts, and you know that tone. It's the one he uses when he's about to say something that matters. "I've been thinking."
"Scary," you murmur, but your heart picks up pace.
"I'm going home for christmas, to DR." He pauses, his thumb still moving against your shoulder. "And I want you to come with me."
The words hang in the air between you, heavier than they should be. You blink at him, processing.
"Come with you," you repeat slowly. "To the Dominican Republic. For Christmas. To meet your family."
"Yeah." He says it simply, like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Your mind spins. You've been together for months now long enough that his house feels like yours too, long enough that you know how he takes his coffee and which reporters annoy him and the exact way his face changes when he's trying not to smile. But meeting his family, in his country, during the most important holiday of the year? That's not just a step. That's a leap.
"Juan, that's—" You sit up a little, needing to see his face properly. "That's a big deal."
"I know." His hand slides down to catch yours, fingers lacing together. "That's why I'm asking."
"Your whole family will be there."
"Yeah."
"And they'll have...expectations. About who you bring home."
He's quiet for a moment, considering. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, more serious. "They'll have expectations about me being happy. That's it." He squeezes your hand. "And you make me happy. So."
It's such a Juan thing to say cutting through your spiraling thoughts with simple honesty. You look down at your joined hands, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.
"I don't want to intrude on your family time," you say quietly. "Or make things complicated."
"Hey." He waits until you meet his eyes. They're dark and steady and completely sure. "You wouldn't be intruding. I want you there. This is important to me, you being there is important to me."
There's no performance in it, no practiced charm. This is the Juan that exists off the field, away from cameras the one who's careful with his words because he means them.
"What if they don't like me?" you ask, and you hate how small your voice sounds.
His mouth quirks. "Impossible. My mom already likes you and she's only seen pictures."
"You showed her pictures?"
"Of course I showed her pictures." He says it like you're being ridiculous. "I told you, this is—" He gestures between you, searching for words. "This is real for me. You know that, right?"
You've known it in the way he saves you the last bite of his food, texts you after every game, reaches for you in his sleep. But hearing him say it, seeing the vulnerability in his face, makes it land differently.
"It's real for me too," you whisper.
"Then come home with me." It's not quite a question anymore. "Meet my family. Eat too much food. Let my tías interrogate you. Dance badly at my cousin's party." His smile turns softer. "Be there with me."
The nervousness is there, yes, but so is the possibility. Of seeing where he comes from, meeting the people who made him who he is. Of being let into that part of his life.
Of choosing to jump instead of just stepping.
"Okay," you say, and his whole face lights up. "Okay, I'll go."
He kisses you then, deep and grateful, his hand cupping your face. When he pulls back, he's grinning.
"You're going to love it," he promises. "And they're going to love you."
You're not entirely convinced, but you're willing to find out. For him. With him.
"I'm going to need to practice my spanish," you mutter, and he laughs, pulling you back against his chest.
"We've got time," he says, and you feel the rumble of his voice through his body. "We've got time."
Inside, you've just agreed to something that feels like its own kind of promise.
You're going home with him.
⸻
The airport is chaos families with overstuffed luggage, crying babies, the loop of holiday music competing with gate announcements. But Juan's hand is steady in yours, his thumb tracing absent circles against your palm as you navigate through security.
"You good?" he asks, glancing over at you while you're still shoving your laptop back into your bag.
"Yeah," you say, slightly breathless. "Just—lots of people."
He shifts closer, his presence a wall between you and the crowd pressing toward the gates. It's not showy, just instinctive. Protective in a way that makes your chest feel warm.
At the gate, you settle into the uncomfortable chairs, and Juan immediately pulls your legs across his lap, one hand resting on your knee. He's in sweats and a hoodie, baseball cap pulled low, but someone still recognizes him. A kid, maybe ten, clutching a Mets pennant.
Juan signs it with a smile, asks the kid his name, makes him laugh. You watch the easy charm, the way he makes people feel seen, and think about how different he is when it's just the two of you.
When the kid leaves, Juan leans his head back against the seat and closes his eyes. You study the line of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble, the way his shoulders seem to carry a little more tension than usual.
"Tired?" you ask softly.
"A little." He cracks one eye open, smiles at you. "Didn't sleep much last night."
"Nervous?"
He huffs a quiet laugh. "Maybe."
You squeeze his hand. "You know they're going to love me, right? You said so yourself."
"I know." But there's something in his voice something uncertain, vulnerable. "I just...I want this to go right."
You lean in and kiss his temple. "It will."
He turns his head and catches your mouth with his, soft and lingering, and you feel him relax just a fraction.
⸻
On the plane, you get the window seat. Juan takes the aisle, stretching his long legs out as much as he can. Once you're in the air, he pulls the armrest up and tugs you against his side, your head on his shoulder.
"Tell me about christmas when you were a kid," you say, tracing idle patterns on his chest.
He's quiet for a moment, thinking. "It was loud," he says finally, a smile in his voice. "Everyone at my abuela's house. My cousins running around, music so loud you couldn't hear yourself think. My mom and my tías in the kitchen all day, and we'd try to sneak food and get our hands smacked."
You smile against his hoodie. "Sounds perfect."
"It was." His voice goes softer. "We didn't have a lot, but it never felt like we were missing anything, you know? It was just...full. Full of people, full of love."
You tilt your head up to look at him. His eyes are distant, fond, a little sad in the way nostalgia always is.
"My tío used to dress up as santa," he continues. "Worst costume you've ever seen—beard falling off, pillow stuffed under his shirt. But we'd all pretend we believed it, even when we got older. Made him happy."
"That's sweet."
"Yeah." He glances down at you, and there's something searching in his gaze. "I haven't brought anyone home for christmas before."
Your breath catches. "No?"
He shakes his head. "Never felt right. Never felt..." He trails off, but his hand tightens on your hip. "This feels right."
You don't know what to say to that, so you just press closer, let him feel that you're here, that you chose this.
He's quieter after that, staring out at the clouds, his fingers playing with the ends of your hair. You can feel the tension in him Juan, who's always so steady, suddenly uncertain. It makes you love him even more.
⸻
The heat hits you the second you step off the plane.
"Welcome to december in the DR," he says, grinning.
You peel off your jacket, stuffing it into your bag. "This is insane. It's christmas."
"Better than freezing your ass off in New York, no?"
You can't argue with that.
As you make your way through the airport, something shifts in him. His stride gets looser, his shoulders drop. He's smiling at everyone the woman at customs, the guy collecting luggage tags, the family with three kids running circles around their parents.
And he's speaking spanish.
Not the careful, code switching spanish he uses sometimes in New York, but rapid fire, easy, his accent thick and musical. You catch maybe half of it, but you love listening to him anyway. He sounds more himself, somehow.
Juan takes a deep breath, tipping his face up to the sun, and when he looks at you, his smile is unguarded.
"Feels good to be home," he says, and you hear the truth of it.
He laces his fingers through yours and leads you toward the waiting car, and you realize this is where he comes from.
And he wants you to see it, to know it, to be part of it.
Your heart does something complicated in your chest.
⸻
Before Juan even gets the car door fully open, the front door bursts wide and people pour out, so many people.
"Mijo!" His mom, has to be rushes down the steps with her arms already open. She's small, barely up to Juan's chest, but she pulls him down into a hug like he's still a kid, hands cupping his face, rapid spanish pouring out of her.
Juan's laughing, answering and then she turns to you.
"And you," she says, switching to accented but confident english, "come here, mi amor."
Before you can even process it, you're wrapped in her arms and she hugs you like she's known you for years.
"Welcome, welcome," she says, pulling back to look at you properly, hands still on your shoulders. Her eyes are dark and sharp and kind. "Juan told me about you. He didn't tell me you were this beautiful."
"Mamá," Juan groans, but he's grinning.
"What? I'm just saying." She pats your cheek and then turns, shouting toward the house. "They're here!"
More people spill out. Aunts, uncles, cousins you lose track immediately. Everyone's talking over each other, hugging Juan, hugging you, asking questions you barely catch. Someone takes your bag, someone else presses a cold bottle of something into your hand. A little girl, maybe six, stares at you with huge eyes until Juan scoops her up and spins her around, making her shriek with laughter.
It's loud and chaotic. It's so full of love you can barely breathe.
Juan's hand finds yours in the chaos, squeezes once. When you glance at him, he's watching you, a little nervous, a little hopeful.
You squeeze back. I'm okay. This is good.
His shoulders relax.
⸻
Inside, the house smells incredible, the kitchen is already full of women cooking.
Juan's mom pulls you in immediately, showing you what she's making, asking if you cook, if you like this or that. You try to help and she waves you off, but warmly, like she's pleased you offered.
Juan, meanwhile, has been absorbed into the family like he never left.
You watch him carry a cooler out to the porch without being asked. Watch him get into an argument with his cousin about baseball that's joking and serious at the same time. Watch him lean down so his abuela can kiss his cheek and fuss over how thin he's gotten.
He's different here. He laughs louder, moves easier. Lets himself be teased relentlessly about his hair, his contract, the time he broke his arm falling out of a tree when he was twelve.
"You didn't tell me about the tree," you say when he passes by.
"There's a lot I didn't tell you," he says, grinning. "You're gonna hear all of it now."
"Good," you say, and mean it.
His mom catches the way he looks at you when he says it and you see her notice. See the small, knowing smile that curves her mouth before she turns back to the stove.
⸻
The sun starts to set and you're full of food you can't pronounce, tipsy on something fruity and strong, warm from the heat and the laughter and the energy of this family.
You slip outside for a breath, onto the back patio where it's quieter. The sky is streaked orange and pink, and you can hear music drifting from somewhere down the street.
Juan finds you a few minutes later.
"Hey," he says softly, sliding up beside you. "You okay?"
"Yeah." You lean into him. "Just...a lot. In a good way."
"They're a lot," he agrees, smiling. "I should've warned you better."
"No, I love it. I love them." You turn to face him. "It's just—I don't know. I've never been around a family like this. It's kind of overwhelming."
His expression softens. He reaches up, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "They already love you, you know."
"Juan—"
"I'm serious. My mom told me. Said you have a good heart." His thumb brushes your cheek. "She's not wrong."
Your throat tightens.
"I love you," he says, quiet and sure. "I know I've said it before, but—here, with them, with you—it feels different. Bigger. Like I'm showing you all of me, and I just...I love you."
You kiss him because you don't have words big enough.
When you pull back, his forehead rests against yours, and you can hear his family laughing inside, and the world feels impossibly full.
"I love you too," you whisper.
He smiles. "Good. Because you're stuck with us now."
"Yeah," you say, and find that you don't mind that at all. "I really am."
⸻
The house transforms lights strung across the porch, tables dragged outside and covered in bright cloths, speakers set up in the yard. Juan's cousins arrive in waves, arms full of food, kids running wild, everyone talking over each other but it doesn't matter. You're swept up in it anyway.
Juan's aunt puts you to work mashing plantains. Juan stays close, always within reach. A hand on your lower back as he passes. A kiss dropped on your shoulder when he thinks no one's looking. His eyes finding yours across the yard, checking in, smiling that private smile that's just for you.
The party is in full swing.
"Having you here. But it does. It feels—" He stops, searching for the word. "It feels like everything just... fits. Like you're supposed to be here. With me. With them."
"Juan," you whisper.
"You feel like my future," he says, and the words land heavy and sure between you. "I know that's a lot. I know we haven't—we don't have to figure everything out right now. But I need you to know that. That when I think about what comes next, you're in it. Always."
You reach for his hand, lacing your fingers through his. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
He kisses you then, slow and sweet, his hand coming up to cup your face. You can taste the night on his lips rum and sugar. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, and you sit there together, wrapped up in each other, the party continuing without you.
"Merry Christmas," he murmurs.
You smile. "Merry Christmas, Juan."
And sitting there, under the stars, in the warm Dominican night, with his family's laughter echoing behind you and his hand in yours, you think this might be the best christmas of your life.
⸻
You wake to sunlight streaming through thin curtains, you feel Juan's arm draped across your waist, his breath steady against the back of your neck.
You're here, with him. In his home.
You shift slightly, and his arm tightens, pulling you closer. "Don't even think about it," he mumbles, voice rough with sleep.
"Think about what?"
"Getting up." He presses a kiss to your shoulder, lazy and warm. "Stay."
You smile, threading your fingers through his. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Good."
He shifts behind you, propping himself up on one elbow. You turn to face him, and he's beautiful like this unguarded, hair a mess, eyes still half closed.
"Hi," you whisper.
"Hi." He leans in and kisses you, slow. His hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, and you sink into him. Just the two of you, tangled up in sheets that smell like sun and detergent, the rest of the world still asleep.
When he pulls back, he's smiling. "Feliz Navidad."
"Feliz Navidad," you echo, and his smile widens.
"Your accent's getting better."
"Liar."
"Okay, yeah." He laughs, pressing another kiss to your forehead. "But I love it anyway."
You stay like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, trading lazy kisses and softer words. Eventually, though, he sits up, reaching for something on the nightstand.
"I, uh—" He looks almost nervous, which is rare for him. "I got you something."
Your heart does a little flip. "Juan, you didn't have to—"
"I wanted to." He hands you a small box, wrapped simply, and sits back, watching you with an intensity that makes your hands shake slightly as you open it.
Inside is a bracelet delicate, gold, with a small charm in the shape of the island. The Dominican Republic. Engraved on the back of the charm, in tiny script. Home is where you are.
"It's—" He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly self conscious. "I wanted you to have something that... I don't know. Something that means something. You being here, meeting my family, it's—" He stops, searching for words. "You're part of this now. Part of my home. And I wanted you to be able to carry that with you. Even when we're back in New York, or wherever. You're—" His voice drops, goes softer. "You're my home too."
Your throat tightens, eyes stinging. "Juan..."
"Too much?" he asks, a little worried.
"No." You shake your head, blinking hard. "No, it's perfect. You're perfect." You lean in and kiss him, trying to pour everything you feel into it all the love, the gratitude, the overwhelming sense of rightness that's been building since you landed. You reach for your bag, hands still a little unsteady. "Okay, now I'm nervous because that was—wow. But I got you something too."
You hand him a flat, wrapped package, and he takes it carefully, glancing at you before tearing the paper.
Inside is a photo album. Small, leather-bound, simple. But when he opens it, you watch his expression shift, surprise.
The first page is a photo of him mid swing, but it's not a professional shot. It's from the stands, slightly blurry, caught in motion. The next page, him laughing in the dugout. Then one of him signing autographs, crouched down to a kid's level. Page after page of moments not the highlight reels, not the headlines. Just him. The person, not the player.
Tucked in the back is a handwritten letter. You watch as he pulls it out, unfolding it carefully.
Juan,
I know you see yourself as the stats, the expectations, the pressure. But that's not what I see. I see someone who makes his teammates laugh. Who signs every autograph. Who calls his mom every day. Who gets nervous before meeting someone's family, even though you're one of the most confident people I know.
You're more than what you do on the field. You're more than the headlines. And I need you to know that I love all of it the player, yes, but more than that, the person. The man who brought me home for christmas. The one who dances with his cousins and helps his mom in the kitchen and holds my hand like it's the most natural thing in the world.
You're enough, Juan. Just as you are.
I love you.
When he looks up, his eyes are bright, jaw tight. He doesn't say anything for a moment, just stares at you like he's trying to memorize your face.
"You—" His voice cracks slightly. He clears his throat, tries again. "You really see me, don't you?"
"Yeah," you whisper. "I do."
He sets the album down carefully, like it's something precious, and pulls you into his arms. You feel his chest rise and fall, feel the way he's holding onto you like you're an anchor.
"I love you," he says into your hair. "I love you so much."
"I love you too."
You stay like that, holding each other as the morning sun climbs higher, as the house begins to stir with the sounds of family waking. And you think about the weight of the gifts you've exchanged not the objects themselves, but what they represent.
Since the holidays are coming, how about the first time Jarren spends a holiday with you and your family?
I loved the dad Jarren one 🥰
thank you anon🤍 i hope you like this too
you’re in the kitchen, trying to balance a tray of cookies and a cup of hot cocoa, when jarren appears at the doorway, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat, cheeks rosy from the cold. the first thing he does is grin that goofy, slightly nervous grin that makes your heart flutter every time.
“hey,” he says, voice low, like he’s trying not to shout over the chaos of your family gathering.
“hey! come in, come in!” you say, stepping aside so he can enter. the warmth of your house hits him immediately, mingling with the scent of pine and cinnamon.
he takes off his coat and shakes out his hair, looking around like he’s trying to take it all in—the twinkling lights, the garland on the staircase, your mom fussing over the fireplace. every little detail makes him smile, but his eyes keep finding you, and that’s the only part of the room that truly makes him stop in his tracks.
“your family’s amazing,” he says quietly as you guide him to the couch. he’s trying to play it cool, but the way his fingers brush yours when you hand him a cup of cocoa betrays him. he’s slightly flustered, lovesick, and entirely enchanted by the way your eyes light up when you laugh at one of your dad’s bad jokes.
throughout the night, he does his best to blend in—helping with dishes, laughing at the right moments, offering to pass plates—but he keeps sneaking glances at you. when your little cousin climbs onto your lap, he leans close, murmuring, “i could get used to this chaos… if it always means being with you.”
later, when the music softens and everyone drifts to other corners of the house, he slides onto the couch beside you. his shoulder brushes yours, his hand finds yours without words, and he sighs against your hair, warm and content.
“thanks for letting me come tonight,” he whispers, voice full of sincerity, almost vulnerable. “i… i’ve wanted to meet your family for so long.”
you turn to look at him, heart swelling, and kiss his cheek softly. he closes his eyes at the contact, leaning into you, and you can feel the way his entire body relaxes, like he’s finally home.
“we’re glad you’re here,” you whisper back, and it’s simple, but it’s everything.
he chuckles softly, a little embarrassed, a little lovesick. “yeah… me too.”
and for the rest of the night, he stays close, hand in yours, heart quietly racing, utterly and completely enchanted by you and the warmth of your family.
