you're back in the madrid apartment with a tiny human who looks exactly like sae but screams like you. haru—peach for short, because those cheeks are adorable—is a couple weeks old, has sae's teal eyes and your lips.
oh and your talent for being dramatically unhappy about everything.
you're on the couch at 2 pm, shirt half unbuttoned, baby latched on like he's trying to drain you, when sae walks in from training. he's sweaty, hair sticking up and still somehow looks hot while you feel gross.
"he eat yet?" he asks, dropping his bag by the door.
"he's eating right now, genius. been on me for forty minutes. my nipple's hurt."
sae kicks off his shoes, and comes over. he slides a hand under haru's butt, checks the diaper situation, then lifts the baby off you in one smooth motion. peach detaches with a wet pop and immediately starts yelling about the injustice.
“shh. you’re fine,” sae mutters, settling him against his chest. the screaming drops to grumpy hiccups instantly. traitor.
you flop sideways on the couch, too tired to even fix your bra. “i wished you hugged me more when i was in labor. like, wow, i’m pushing out your baby and this is what i get?”
"you screamed at me for breathing too loud," he says, rocking side to side. peach's eyes are already drooping. "and then you cried because i wasn't holding your hand hard enough."
"i was splitting in half, sae. you try being polite."
he glances down at the baby, then at you, and the corner of his mouth twitches. "you did good."
you blink. that's basically an "i love you" in sae speak. you're about to milk it for all it's worth when peach burps and spits up down sae's training shirt.
"perfect," sae deadpans, holding the baby out like he's a bomb. "your son just marked me."
"he's claiming territory. smart kid."
you laugh until your stomach hurts. sae disappears to change both of them. when he comes back peach is in a tiny real madrid onesie (of course) and sae's in a plain black tee that somehow makes the milk stain situation look intentional.
"so," you say, stretching, "mom lands in three days. she's staying three weeks this time. prepare yourself."
sae sits on the armchair, baby asleep against his shoulder now. "you already told me. four times."
"i'm excited, okay? i need someone who'll baby me while i baby the baby. you just hand him over when he cries and go look at match footage."
"i also warm the bottles to exactly 37 degrees and change ninety percent of the diapers at night," he says, voice flat. "but sure, i do nothing."
you stick your tongue out. he ignores it like the mature guy he is.
three days later you're at the madrid airport looking like a zombie, running on no sleep, hair in a knot. peach is in the baby carrier against your chest, drooling on your boobs as usual.
your mom spots you first and basically sprints, arms out, tears already starting. "my baby! and my grandbaby! oh my god look at him he's so tiny—"
sae takes the suitcase from her without a word because he knows what's coming. sure enough, she hugs you so hard haru squeaks, then takes him gently out of the carrier to smother him while cooing.
"mom, oxygen, he needs it—"
"he's perfect, look at these cheeks! my little peach! sae-kun, you made a very handsome boy."
sae gives the tiniest nod. "thank you."
she beams at him like he just scored a world cup winning goal.
back at the apartment she immediately starts unpacking snacks she brought from japan— baby clothes, melatonin gummies for you, aloe vera jelly drinks you pretend to like, and an entire suitcase of froze homemade food.
"i made curry, steak, onigiri filling-everything. you're not surviving on spanish ham anymore."
sae, holding peach so you can hug your mom properly, mutters, "finally."
you elbow him. "you like jamón."
"not three meals a day for six months." your mom bustles into and within an hour the whole apartment smells like home.
peach is passed between the three of you like a hot potato—he fusses with sae, instantly calms with your mom, and only wants boob when he's with you.
typical.
that night you're on the couch, head on sae's thigh, your mom already asleep in the guest room because jet lag hit her like a truck. peach is finally down in the bassinet after a two hour screaming concert. the apartment is quiet except for the soft hum of the baby monitor.
about a week in, you wake up at 3 am to pee and find sae’s side of the bed empty. you shuffle down the hall and stop in the doorway of the nursery.
he’s sitting in the rocking chair, peach asleep on his bare chest, one big hand splayed across the baby’s entire back. the only light is the soft glow from the nightlight shaped like a soccer ball (of course).
sae’s staring down at him, expression softer than you’ve ever seen it.
“thought you said skin to skin was for moms,” you whisper from the doorway.
he doesn’t startle. “he wouldn’t settle. worked.”
you pad over, lean against the chair. “you okay?”
he’s quiet for a long time. then: “hm. he’s really small.”
your heart warms with a low chuckle. you rest your hand on his shoulder. “i know, just like a kitten or something.”
peach makes a tiny snuffling sound and sae instinctively pats his back, soothing. the movement never falters.
you lean down and kiss the top of sae’s messy red hair. “go back to bed in a bit, okay? you have training tomorrow.”
The construction of the Madrid F1 circuit (new on the 2026 calendar) is sparking protests in Spain due to the removal of hundred year old olive trees (among other reasons).
The first few days after Jude’s shoulder surgery are the hardest. Not because of the physical pain though that’s real and raw but because of how much it forces him to slow down. He’s never been good at sitting still. As Real Madrid’s midfielder, he’s used to constant movement, a rhythm of training, matches, recovery, repeat. Now, the rhythm is silence, punctuated only by the beeping of the microwave you’ve coaxed him into letting you use, or the sound of you padding around his apartment in Madrid, carrying glasses of water and bowls of soup like some stubborn angel who refuses to let him lift a finger.
He hates it. He hates feeling helpless, hates the sling that keeps his shoulder locked against him, hates the way the smallest tasks turn into mountains. But most of all, he hates the look in your eyes gentle, careful, protective. As if he might break all over again if he tries too hard.
You’re standing in the kitchen now, spooning soup into a bowl. The golden light of the Madrid evening filters through the balcony doors, painting your profile in warmth. Jude watches from the couch, his lips pressed tight. He could carry his own damn bowl if you’d just let him.
When you set it down on the coffee table in front of him, he mutters, “I can do it myself.”
You blink, meeting his eyes. “Baby, your shoulder”
“I’ve got another arm, don’t I?” His tone is sharper than he intends, but pride gnaws at him, burning hotter than the ache in his body.
You let out a sigh, the kind that means you’re tired of repeating yourself. “I just don’t want you to hurt yourself more. Please, let me help.”
But that word help makes his stomach twist. It makes him feel like a burden, and he’s never been one. Not on the pitch, not in life. His jaw tightens. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
The air goes still.
You stare at him, the softness in your eyes flickering into something wounded. “I’m not babysitting you, Jude. I’m taking care of you.”
He should stop. He should swallow his pride and thank you. But frustration speaks louder than sense. “Yeah, well, I don’t need you to. I’m not some kid who can’t handle himself. I need space”
The words land like a slap. You freeze, then step back from the couch. Your lips press together, and when you finally speak, your voice is quiet. “Ok, fine”
You turn before he can answer, retreating down the hall. The bedroom door closes with a soft but final click, and the silence that follows is worse than any painkillers wearing off.
-
At first, Jude tells himself he’s glad. Glad you’re giving him space, glad you’re not hovering. But as minutes stretch into hours, the quiet seeps in, heavy and suffocating. The Madrid night air drifts through the open balcony door, carrying the distant sounds of laughter and clinking glasses from neighbors enjoying late dinners. Normally, he’d love that life continuing outside his window. Tonight it feels like the world is moving on without him.
And without you.
He keeps glancing at the hallway, waiting for you to appear. To check on him. To scold him. To smile at him. Anything. But you don’t. You stay in the bedroom, the door closed like a wall he can’t climb.
By midnight, Jude can’t stand it anymore. He’s replayed every word of the fight in his head until the guilt is unbearable. He doesn’t just miss your help he misses you. The warmth of your presence, the safety of your care. He realizes then what he should’ve said: not that he doesn’t need you, but that he doesn’t deserve how much you give him.
Clutching a notebook he usually saves for match notes, Jude sits at the dining table. His right hand is clumsy, but he manages to scribble anyway, his hand writing a heartfelt apology.
-
Mi amor ,
I don’t know how to start this without sounding stupid, so I’ll just say it straight: I’m sorry. For what I said. For how I said it. For pushing you away when all you were doing was caring for me the way nobody else can.
This injury has made me feel weak in ways I’m not used to. On the pitch, I know who I am. Here, stuck in this sling, I feel useless. And when you look at me like I’m fragile, it scares me. Not because of you but because I don’t want to be someone you have to carry. I want to be strong for you, always. I forgot that strength isn’t just playing through pain it’s letting the person you love stand beside you, even when your pride hurts.
I didn’t mean it when I said I don’t need you. The truth is, I don’t know who I’d be without you. You’re the only reason this apartment feels like home, the only reason Madrid feels less lonely. You are everything, and I can’t stand the thought that I hurt you with words I didn’t mean.
Please forgive me. Please come back to me. I promise I’ll let you fuss over me, boss me around, hold the soup spoon to my lips if you want. I don’t care, as long as it means I get to feel your love close again.
Always yours,
Jude
-
He slides the folded letter under the bedroom door, heart hammering like he’s about to step onto the Bernabéu pitch in front of eighty thousand fans. Then he waits.
The minutes crawl. His shoulder throbs, his chest aches. He rests his forehead against the wall across from the door, eyes closed. He pictures you in there, maybe reading his words, maybe still too hurt to forgive him. The yearning is sharp enough to steal his breath.
Finally, the door creaks open. You step out slowly, the letter in your hand, your eyes shining in the dim light. Jude straightens, searching your face for anger, for rejection.
Instead, you whisper, “You really mean this?”
“Every word,” he says hoarsely. “I was an idiot. I can’t stand being away from you like this.”
Your lips tremble, but you nod, stepping closer. “You hurt me, Jude.”
“I know.” His voice cracks. He doesn’t care. “And I’ll spend forever making it up to you if that’s what it takes. Just… don’t shut me out. Please.”
Something in his desperation breaks the wall between you. You reach for him, careful of his shoulder, and he immediately buries his face in your neck, clinging with his good arm like a boy who’s finally found home after being lost.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles again and again, words muffled against your skin. “I’ll let you take care of me. I’ll let you do anything, just don’t leave me like that. I hated it. I hated not having you close.”
You stroke his hair, your own tears slipping free. “I’m not going anywhere, Jude. I just needed you to understand I’m not here because I think you’re weak. I’m here because I love you.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes wide, lips parted. Then, in the softest, poutiest voice you’ve ever heard from him, he whispers, “Don’t ever stay away from me that long again. I’ll actually die.”
You laugh through your tears, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Serious,” he insists, pouting harder, his arm tightening around you. “From now on, you’re not allowed to leave my side. Ever. Even if I’m being annoying. Especially then.”
He tugs you back to the couch with him, refusing to let go. His head finds your shoulder, his body curling into yours like he’s trying to fuse himself to you. Every time you shift, he makes a small protesting sound until you laugh and settle back into place.
The Madrid night hums outside the faint sound of traffic, the warmth of summer air but inside, the world narrows to the feel of Jude pressed against you, clingy and soft, whispering promises into your ear about never taking you for granted again.
And when his breathing finally slows, his face nuzzled against your neck, you realize he doesn’t need to be strong for you all the time. He just needs to let you love him, exactly like this.
Friends? With him? Hell no [Oscar Piastri x reader]
This is part one, I hope you like it!
Summary: you and oscar are academic rivals but your shared friend group decides that you should take the project for an international conference held in Madrid together. Thing is, you and oscar don't really get along..
Tags: high school au, school trip, group projects, one sided rivalry but the other side isn't completely positive either, oscar is a total and utter nerd, frequent use of y/n and l/n, proofread was just a flip through, casual swearing, mentions of cigarettes and subtle hint of drugs (just at the start tho), no face claim but there is a pfp on the gc with the others, also yn is British sorry in advance, multiple parts, first fanfic ever so..., feedback for future projects is always welcome!
If there was one thing I loved about my beaten up high school in uptown London, it was the back of the yard. More specifically, a bench against the wall which faced the basketball courts, shaded by a large oak. It had more sentimental value than actual decency; there were cigarettes crumpled and trampled on, a lingering smell of something certainly not legal.
Nevertheless, I loved it, because I got to have my own peace for once. The school was loud and full of nosy classmates constantly fishing for gossip. There, I could hide away, sometimes with my friends, Alexandra, Charles, Lando...
If there was one thing I hated about my beaten up high school in uptown London, it was Lando's friend, Oscar Piastri. It was an immature thing, to loathe him that much, and I recognised it, I just couldn't help it, okay?
He was prissy. Stuck-up, even. He always acted like he was the best – well, he was, but just for a little! To be completely honest, he was incredibly smart. And that was what infuriated me. Way too arrogant in class just because he was good in calculus, then too quiet during anything else, y'know, social-like. But, if Lando liked him, I guessed I could manage the inarguable tension between us. The bad tension. Not the sexual tension. Ew. No. Why would that ever happen. No. Get that thought out of my head.
But when our school decided to participate in an international conference taking place in Madrid, I just knew Lando would rush me, Alex and Charles all together for the project. Oh, and Oscar. Of course Oscar.
"what is it that we even do, again?" Asked Lando, clearly bored already. He hadn't really though of the work part of it all, had he?
"Present a part of our culture," explained Alex, "well, not our culture- the British one"
"Excuse me, I am perfectly British ya immigrants" I replied
"Me too!" Lando added
"So, perfectly British people, what is it we write? About your absolutely delicious food?" Charles asked us sarcastically. Gosh, I didn't know we were pointing fingers.
"Well..."
"Eh..."
"Anyways, the theme of the entire conference is wars." Alex interrupted "How they formed, how they changed things in our country-"
"The bucket war?" Charles suggested
"That's Italian" I said. "And a fucking stupid war."
"As I was saying," continued Alex, growing more and more irritated, "it all ties up to the damages of war and how deteriorating it would be, as a modern society, to start, I dunno, ww3. Our school decided to take on the Napoleonic wars"
" Isn't that french stuff?" I asked
"Well, not really." murmured Oscar. Right. He was here too. And spoke the moment I knew I said something dumb. "The Napoleonic wars were literally France against England and its allies. Also, it would kinda be like rubbing it on the french's faces. Since, y'know, you like that kind of stuff."
His eyes landed directly at me that moment, and for some reason, my breath hitched. Had he just thrown shade at me? I wasn't flustered – his eyes were just dark and kinda gorgeous, like deep, bottomless pits of mystery... I was just admiring a nice pair of eyes! Nothing else! In less than a second, his eyes looked away. Mine didn't. They should've, but they... Couldn't?
