#i dropped everything to reply to this Immediately

[holyblonded]

negotiations | always sunny in australia

pairings: arsenal wfc x teen!reader

summary: your contract is under negotiation, causing unrest on the team

notes: i feel like i am slacking in the chickie fics 💔

Leah Williamson couldn’t sleep. Her sheets were tangled like the mess in her head, the clock taunting her with every passing minute that nothing was changing.

How could she possibly sleep when her entire world was in shambles?

Some might call her dramatic. Leah would call them wrong.

Your one-year contract with Arsenal was coming to an end, and negotiations were happening behind closed doors— closed, locked, and apparently soundproofed doors that Leah had no access to. Every time your agent was asked about your future, she gave the same vague response,

“I’m doing what’s best for Chickie.”

Which was sweet. Noble. Responsible. And also not nearly enough information for someone who had basically appointed herself your co-parent, moral compass, part-time chauffeur, and emotional support footballer.

So yeah, Leah was stressed. But she wasn’t alone. Across London, your actual legal guardian was also losing it. Leah’s phone buzzed next to her pillow. 2:47 AM. She picked it up faster than she had in her life. “Finally,” she whispered.

“Are you alone?” Sam’s voice came through, dead serious.

“Yes. Are you?”

“I’m in the laundry room with the dog. No one suspects anything.”

Leah sat up. “Is your team ready?”

Sam let out a low chuckle. “Everything is set in place. Vic’s on standby. Kyra’s been bribed.”

Leah smirked, already proud. “Good. My team’s been briefed. Beth’s got the snacks, Lotte’s baking passive-aggressive pies. We’re ready.”

There was a pause. A dramatic silence only two women plotting to emotionally manipulate a child into signing a football contract could share.

“I’ll be dropping off the package at approximately 8 AM,” Sam said finally, solemn. “Make sure everything’s in position.”

“Roger that.” Leah saluted into the phone.

That’s when the bedroom door creaked open.

Leah whipped around and yelped, fumbling the phone and almost knocking over her bedside lamp.

Elle stood in the doorway, arms crossed, one perfectly sculpted brow raised in judgment. “What. Are. You. Doing.”

Leah blinked. “Uh. Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Elle’s voice was suspiciously calm. “Because that nothing sounded like you were coordinating a covert operation with a woman in a laundry room.”

“I don’t—there’s no covert—” Leah was stammering now, panic painted all over her face.

Elle raised a hand. “Leah Cathrine Williamson, if you are plotting behind Chickie’s back—”

“I’m not!” Leah shouted, then immediately winced and lowered her voice. “I’m not. I swear.”

Elle walked in, graceful and terrifying in her silk pajama set. “She’s a kid. And yes, she might joke and act chaotic and get away with everything because she’s adorable, but you have to respect her decisions.”

Leah opened her mouth.

“I’m not done.”

Leah closed her mouth.

“Her contract is her choice. You can’t bribe her or manipulate her or—”

“Sam already gave her a custom pair of cleats with ‘London’s Little Terror’ printed on the side,” Leah mumbled.

Elle stopped mid-rant. “You what?”

“I didn’t do it! Sam did! And Mario offered to do her Spanish homework for a month, and Kyra promised to make TikToks with her every day, and—”

“Leah.”

“What?!”

“She’s fifteen.”

“I know. That’s why we’re doing this!”

Elle opened her mouth to reply, but Leah was already up, throwing on a hoodie. “I’ve gotta go.”

“To where?!”

“To the Emirates. The cakes need frosting. I gotta be there when she walks in.”

“You are deranged.”

Leah, already halfway out the door, just grinned and shouted back, “We all are, babe. She’s ours.”

Elle stood there in the doorway, blinking at the chaos her girlfriend had become.

Somewhere in the darkness, the real MVP of Arsenal, Chickie, slept peacefully, unaware that the next morning was about to be full of suspicious pies, emotional bribery, and thirty very dramatic people pretending they weren’t all completely obsessed with her.

Vic, Kyra, and Beth stood pressed against the wall in the hallway like they were part of a low-budget spy movie. Arms crossed. Expressions intense. Suspiciously casual. Beth had even shoved a protein bar halfway in her mouth like she was definitely not trying to cover for something.

Renee walked by, clipboard in hand, eyes squinting at them as she slowed her steps.

“Alright. What are you three planning?”

Immediately, all three said, “Nothing,” in perfect harmony like it had been rehearsed. Beth even smiled with all her teeth… too many teeth.

Renee narrowed her eyes. Vic stared ahead like she’d never committed a crime in her life. Kyra fiddled with her sleeve like she wasn’t plotting emotional warfare. Beth blinked, possibly trying to look innocent but instead looking like someone hiding a raccoon in her bag.

Renee took one step forward, and they all visibly tensed. “I’m going to ask one more time—” she began, but a voice called from the end of the hallway.

“Coach! We need you in the physio room!”

Renee gave them one last squint and reluctantly turned on her heel. “This isn’t over.”

As soon as she disappeared, the three of them exhaled dramatically like they’d just evaded a SWAT team.

Then there you were. Just walking down the hall, blissfully unaware, humming a Laufey song under your breath.

They all exchanged a look.

“Now,” Beth said.

Vic reached out like a ninja and yanked you by the sleeve into the nearest door, Kyra shutting it behind you with suspicious speed and determination.

You stumbled into the physio room, blinking at the snacks scattered around, chips, cookies, juice boxes, a suspicious number of croissants.

“Um,” you said.

Beth locked the door.

Vic grabbed your shoulders gently but with great purpose. “We won’t let you out until you spill.”

Kyra pointed at you with a banana. “Where are you going next season?”

You blinked at them. “This is dramatic.”

“You’re dramatic,” Beth mumbled through a mouthful of gummy bears.

You giggled, plopping onto the padded physio table like you were being held hostage by puppies instead of professionals. “You guys are actually crazy.”

“Crazy in love with our baby Chickie!” Vic wailed, flopping down beside you and cradling your arm. “Just tell us. We can’t take the suspense.”

“I can’t tell you,” you said, still laughing.

“Okay, fine,” Kyra muttered. “Time for temptation.”

Vic leaned in, deadly serious. “I will do your homework. A full week. Even the maths.”

Beth gasped. “Not the maths.”

You tilted your head. “All of it? Even history?”

Vic flinched. “…Even history.”

You giggled but shook your head. “Can’t. Sorry.”

Kyra crossed her arms. “Then I’m calling Sam.”

You looked her dead in the eye and said, “Do it. She’ll probably join your little rebellion and bring snacks.”

Kyra blinked. “True.”

Beth, meanwhile, said nothing. She simply reached into her bag and pulled out a sparkly, glitter-covered sign that said in bold bubble letters: STAY.

With three glitter hearts and your name spelled out in rhinestones.

You burst out laughing, sliding off the table. “You guys are unwell.”

“We love you,” Beth said. “Let us have this.”

You opened the door, still giggling, and as you walked out, you threw them a grin over your shoulder.

“I guess you’ll find out soon enough… if your muffins are good enough.”

The door shut behind you, and all three girls stared at each other in stunned silence.

“She’s messing with us,” Vic whispered.

“I knew she was a menace,” Kyra said.

Beth sighed, hugging her sparkly sign. “I respect it.”

Leah had been patient. Painfully, torturously patient. She’d watched the others try. Watched Vic bribe, Kyra threaten, and Beth basically create an arts-and-crafts-based emotional hostage situation. But now… it was her turn. And she wasn’t going in with snacks or sparkles. She was going in with emotion.

“Hey Chick,” Leah said casually, hands in her jacket pockets, head poking into the rec room where you were minding your own business, watching a video of a squirrel on a skateboard.

You turned, suspicious. “Hi…”

“Fancy a walk?” she asked, voice light, but with a slightly manic glint in her eyes.

You narrowed yours. “A walk.”

“Just a casual one. Around the facility.” Her smile was too nice.

You sighed. “You’re gonna guilt-trip me, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely.”

You considered that, then stood up. “Alright. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The tour began at the entrance of the training complex. Leah made sure to slow her pace as you passed the front wall, where a massive photo of your mid-goal-celebration was printed on the side of the building.

She stopped dramatically and gestured toward it like she was Vanna White.

“Wow,” she said, her voice dripping with reverence. “Would you look at that. Who’s that? Is that Chickie? Huh. Wild.”

You squinted up at the photo. “That’s from the Brighton match, you told me I celebrated like a gremlin.”

“A powerful gremlin,” she corrected, before continuing on.

She led you through the hallway lined with photos and memorabilia, kits, trophies, all the stuff that said “This is Arsenal and We’re Kinda a Big Deal.” And every few feet, she’d stop and point something out.

“Remember this?” she asked, tapping a picture of you and Leah laughing after your first match. “You were so nervous you nearly put your shin pads on backwards.”

You groaned. “Leah—”

“And this one,” she continued, pointing to a shot of you hugging Beth after a last-minute assist. “Everyone cried. Even me. And I’m so emotionally stable.”

You snorted. “Lies.”

They passed the physio room. She paused at the door.

“Just the other day I saw Vic, Kyra, and Beth dragging you in here like it was a hostage situation,” Leah said. “And what did I do? I let it happen. Because this is your home. A loving home. Where kidnapping is done respectfully.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think this is subtle?”

“Nope,” she said brightly. “But is it working?”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away.

Then Leah upped the stakes. You two walked outside now, onto the training pitch, where everything was calm. The sun was just setting, casting a warm light over the grass. Leah pulled her hands out of her pockets and looked at you, suddenly soft.

“You know,” she began, voice quieter now. “When you showed up, I didn’t know what to expect. You were all wide eyes and nervous energy and this massive heart that you tried to hide under your hoodie.”

You looked down at your feet, kicking at the grass.

“But you got under my skin so fast. In a good way. You made me laugh again, made the team lighter. You talk too fast and steal everyone’s drinks and I caught you naming the training cones once.”

“Stanley and Patricia,” you muttered.

“Exactly,” Leah grinned. “And when you’re not around, it feels weird. Quiet. Too grown-up. Like something’s missing.”

You tried to hide your face in your sleeve. “This isn’t fair.”

Leah stepped closer, gently bumping your shoulder. “My mum asks about you every time we talk. You’ve got everyone wrapped around your finger. The crowd chants your name. You’ve got your face on three walls. You’re not just part of the team, Chickie. You are the team. You’re Arsenal.”

You looked up at her with a soft little frown. “Why are you saying all this?”

Leah smiled, so earnest it made your chest ache. “Because I love you, kid. And I’m scared. I don’t want to lose you. But I know I have to respect whatever you choose. Still, if there’s any part of you that wonders where you belong… just know, it’s here.”

You blinked hard, tears threatening. “So… manipulation. But make it heartfelt.”

Leah shrugged. “Pretty much.”

You sniffled, laughing through it. “You’re such a loser.”

“But am I a convincing loser?”

You threw your arms around her waist and buried your face in her hoodie. “I can’t say. I’m emotionally compromised.”

Leah smiled, hugging you back tightly. “Good. My job here is done.”

She walked you back in, a little skip in her step, muttering under her breath, “Sam owes me five bucks.”

It was a perfectly normal afternoon. Or at least it should have been.

You were hungry, minding your own business, just trying to make your way into the cafeteria for some pasta and possibly a suspiciously dry brownie. You pushed open the door, walked in and the entire room fell silent.

Not quiet. Silent. Like, “a pin could drop and echo” silent.

You froze in the doorway, tray in hand, eyes scanning the sea of teammates who suddenly couldn’t meet your gaze.

Steph stood up first. “I, uh, just remembered I left my… shampoo on the pitch.”

You blinked. “Your shampoo?”

“Yeah. Real slippery stuff. Can’t risk it.” She bolted.

Kyra followed, gripping Vic by the elbow like they were hostages escaping a war zone. “We have… stretching to do.”

“In the broom closet?” you asked flatly.

“Dynamic stretching.”

Beth pretended to get a phone call. “Oh look, it’s… the Prime Minister. Gotta go.”

You watched her sprint out with the phone screen clearly off.

One by one, they all trickled out, Caitlin muttering about an “urgent email,” Laia claiming she had “a soup emergency,” and Katie just yelling “NOPE” and walking away at full speed.

Within seconds, the packed cafeteria was empty. All except one person.

Lotte. Sweet, chaos-immune Lotte Wubben-Moy, who sat at the very center table with a suspiciously large pie sitting in front of her. She looked up at you with those innocent, hopeful eyes, and gestured to the seat across from her.

You sighed.

You made your way over slowly, already regretting every choice that led to this moment. You sat down, slid your tray aside, and looked at the pie.

It had “DON’T LEAVE” spelled out in carefully crimped crust letters. It was a lattice-crust plea for emotional commitment.

You stared at it. “You baked your feelings.”

Lotte smiled like this was normal behavior. “It’s blueberry. Your favorite.”

“I thought my favorite was peach.”

“I found that out after this one was already in the oven,” she replied, without missing a beat.

You kept staring at the pie, then at her, then back at the pie. You reached for the fork and the whipped cream. Lotte leaned in, eyes wide, waiting for the emotional moment and you just dug in.

With no hesitation, no comment. Just a bite. Then another. Like the words weren’t even there.

Lotte looked personally offended.

“You’re just… eating over the message?” she said, horrified.

“Yup,” you mumbled around a mouthful of flaky, guilt-ridden crust. “It’s good pie.”

“The message, Chickie,” she said, poking at the edge of the tin. “Are we ignoring the part where it says not to leave us in baked lettering?!”

You shrugged and took another bite. “Seems dramatic.”

Lotte gaped. “You are suddenly emotionally unavailable in the worst way.”

“Yup,” you said again, voice cheerful.

“Do you even care how much we’ll miss you?”

You paused, looked at her for a second, really looked, and then reached out and picked up the whole pie tin.

“Thanks for the snack,” you said with a wink, and walked away, pie in hand.

Behind you, Lotte dramatically collapsed onto the table like a tragic Shakespearean hero. “I BAKED MY SOUL INTO THAT CRUST!”

From down the hallway, you yelled back, “AND I’M TAKING IT TO MY ROOM!”

It started out as a simple mission. Well. As simple as anything gets when the team has collectively decided to break every ethical guideline in the “Contract Negotiation Interference Handbook” to figure out whether you were staying at Arsenal or leaving for another club.

Alessia had been quiet at first. Watching. Waiting. Letting the others attempt their wild schemes, Vic’s emotional monologues, Kyra’s threats, Beth’s glitter posters, Lotte’s pie-shaped manipulation. All good efforts. All massive failures.

So Alessia decided to take a different route. A calculated one. A bribery one.

You were sitting on one of the benches outside the training ground, minding your business, trying not to crack under the collective weight of a team who had turned into a desperate cult of affection.

Alessia approached with a calm, neutral expression. A shoebox in her hands.

You blinked. “What’s that?”

“Oh, nothing,” she said casually. “Just something I thought you’d like. No pressure. No questions. Just a gift.”

You looked suspicious. “This isn’t a trap?”

Alessia gave you a beatific smile. “I’m not Kyra.”

Fair point. You opened the box. And then you saw them. Bright. Yellow. Boots. Custom-made. Kangaroos embroidered on the sides. “CHICKIE #1 GUNNER” printed across the heel in bold white lettering. Your eyes widened like dinner plates.

You didn’t speak. Not immediately. You just stared at them. Then sniffled. Then blinked. Then let out a soft, high-pitched squeak as your bottom lip trembled.

“Oh—oh no,” Alessia panicked. “Are you crying?”

You nodded, aggressively. “Th-these are the most b-beautiful boots I’ve ever seen!”

Alessia winced. “Oh my god. I didn’t mean to make you cry. I thought this would make you—oh, Chickie—”

You were already hugging the box to your chest like it was a newborn child. “You know yellow’s my favorite color and kangaroos are my favorite animal and that slogan—you remembered my slogan—”

Alessia awkwardly sat down beside you, patting your back as you fully sobbed into the cardboard. “Okay, alright, breathe. It’s okay. They’re just boots. Special boots. Very cute boots. But boots.”

“I love them so much,” you wailed.

“I know, honey, I know.”

That’s when Leah stormed into view like a general on a battlefield. “Less! I told you to get the info out of her, not her tears!”

“She cried when she saw the boots!” Alessia defended, hands raised.

“They have kangaroos on them!” you sobbed, holding them up like Simba in The Lion King. “And my slogan, Leah!”

“Oh my god,” Leah muttered, rubbing her temples.

Alessia leaned into you again and whispered, “You sure you don’t wanna just hint at your decision? Maybe one boot tap for yes?”

You shook your head violently, tears still streaming. “This is such a sweet gesture. I—I—” You hiccupped. “I want to wear them forever.”

Leah sat down with a thud. “I hate it here.”

Alessia shrugged, gently pulling you into a side hug as you sniffled into her shoulder. “Honestly? I think I won.”

“You got her snot on your hoodie,” Leah said, unhelpfully.

You clutched the boots tighter. “I love you guys so much.”

“Still not telling us anything, though,” Leah said.

You shook your head with a tiny smile, eyes wet, nose stuffy, heart full. “Nope.”

Alessia sighed. “I gave her kangaroo boots and all I got was this emotional breakdown.”

Leah muttered, “Add that to the shirt.”

Kristie knew before you did. Of course she did. That’s the curse and blessing of being loved by someone like Kristie Mewis. She just knows.

She doesn’t ask, not right away. She doesn’t push or poke like the rest of the squad. She watches you stumble around with your hair a mess and your brain even messier. She brings you snacks. Ruffles your hair. Says things like “wherever you go, we’re gonna love you anyway” which is so annoying.

You try not to think about the decision when you’re with her. You talk about everything else. You help her decorate the nursery. You watch her wobble dramatically around the house, hand pressed to her lower back, dramatically asking, “Will you still love me when I’m just a human beach ball?”

You tell her she’ve always been a beach ball, but like… a really hot one.

You both giggle. She throws a pillow at you. But then one night, it gets quiet. Too quiet.

It’s late. The house is dark. Sam’s already passed out on the couch with a cookie halfway in her mouth.

You crawl into bed next to Kristie. You’re still wearing your oversized hoodie, the one with the red Arsenal crest faded from too many washes. You burrow yourself under the covers, half trying to disappear.

She doesn’t say anything. Just waits. And eventually, with your cheek pressed against her shoulder, you whisper, “I have so many options, Kris.”

“I know, baby.”

“Like, real ones. Barça. Lyon. City. A team in the NWSL even called.”

“I know.”

“They all say the same things, like it’s going to be the perfect step, or a new chapter, or a great financial move. But…” Your voice cracks a little. “It all just feels wrong.”

Kristie hums, rubbing your back slowly. “Because it’s not home.”

You nod, hoodie pulled up so she can’t see your teary face.

She keeps stroking your back, soft and patient.

“Sometimes I wonder,” you mumble, “if I’m just scared of change. Or if I’m making the easy choice. But then I see the girls at training, or hear Leah yelling at me from three rooms away, or I remember how Beth brings me strawberry milk when I’m sad, and I think… this isn’t the easy choice. It’s the right one.”

Kristie tilts her head and kisses the top of your hair.

You take a shaky breath. “I said yes.” A pause. “I’m staying.”

There’s no dramatic gasp. No over-the-top celebration. Kristie just holds you tighter and murmurs against your forehead, “Good. You’re home.”

You smile into her shirt.

“I mean,” she adds after a beat, “you still owe me like two months of foot rubs for the emotional toll of this whole saga, but yeah—home’s a good start.”

You groan. “Can’t believe you emotionally supported me just to invoice me.”

Kristie laughs. “Kid, this is the Mewis Package™. Love, emotional stability, and accountability. You signed up the second you crawled into my lap that day after your first press conference and cried about Sam feeding you spoiled Vegemite.”

You roll your eyes. “You still bring that up.”

“You said it tasted like regret and burnt rubber. I’ll never forget that.”

She leans down and kisses your forehead again. “We’re so proud of you, Chickie. No matter what. But I’m really glad you’re staying.”

You grin. “So… can I stay in your bed forever too?”

“Okay, no,” Kristie says, laughing. “One child at a time. The baby hasn’t even arrived yet and I already have one Chickie curled up like a feral hoodie goblin.”

You stick your tongue out and nuzzle closer. “Too late. I live here now.”

Kristie sighs. “I’m gonna have to get a bigger bed.”

And you both fall asleep like that, hoodie goblin and soccer mom, curled up safe, home, and finally, finally at peace.

The locker room was silent. Like the kind of silence that pressed in around your chest and made it hard to breathe. The kind of silence that came after goodbyes, after endings, after heartbreak.

No one said it out loud, but they all felt it. The tension was thicker than a milkshake on a summer day. It hung in the air like fog, heavy and impossible to see through. They were all waiting.

Lotte sat with her elbows on her knees, staring at the floor. Kyra had her head against the wall, arms crossed tight across her chest. Vic was half-hunched in a corner, pulling at the strings on her hoodie like they’d unravel her anxiety. Alessia scrolled aimlessly on her phone, not even looking at the screen. Even Beth wasn’t smiling.

Leah paced. She’d been pacing for ten minutes straight, muttering to herself under her breath like she was delivering a dramatic monologue in a Shakespearean tragedy. Lia had given up on getting her to sit down.

“Do you remember when she first arrived?” Alessia asked suddenly, voice soft.

A murmur of agreement went through the room.

“She walked in with the biggest hoodie I’ve ever seen,” Kyra added. “And said, ‘Is it always this cold in England, or is this a punishment?’”

They all laughed, even if it was a little watery.

“She used to get so nervous before games,” Lotte said, a smile tugging at her lips. “But then she’d go out there and nutmeg someone twice her size.”

“And that one time she tackled Leah during training and then offered her a gummy bear as an apology,” Vic said through a sniffle.

Leah paused her pacing just long enough to scowl. “She launched herself at me like a cannonball.”

“But you ate the gummy bear,” Kyra pointed out.

Everyone chuckled.

“She changed this team,” Beth murmured, voice cracking just slightly. “Made it warmer. Lighter. Louder. Better.”

A hush settled again.

“I don’t know what we’re going to do without her,” Alessia said. “It’s not just about football. It’s—” she swallowed, “—not seeing her every day. Not hearing her giggle when she sneaks biscuits into the physio room. Not having her throw herself across the locker room just to give you a hug after a bad game.”

“I miss her already,” Vic mumbled.

“She’s not even gone yet,” Leah said, almost defensively. But even her voice was trembling. “She’s just… deciding.”

The door creaked open.

Renee walked in with a grin so wide it was practically criminal. She had something tucked under her arm. A laptop. And a gleam in her eye.

“Right,” she said, “everyone pay attention.”

They all straightened, alert. Hope sparked, but no one wanted to say it out loud. Not yet. Not until they were sure.

Renee opened the laptop, turned it toward them, and pressed play.

The screen flickered. And there you were. Wearing your kit, hair pulled back, standing in the middle of the training pitch with a nervous, excited smile.

Your voice was soft but clear.

“Hi. Uh, surprise? I guess. I’ve been thinking a lot, and it hasn’t been easy. But the truth is…” You looked into the camera, eyes bright. “I’m not done here.”

The room exploded. Beth screamed. Kyra started yelling. Vic burst into tears so aggressively she dropped her water bottle. Lotte stood up and immediately sat back down like her knees gave out. Alessia looked like she was going to faint.

And Leah? Leah fell straight to the floor like a Victorian woman being struck by a scandal. Lia didn’t even try to catch her this time. She just sighed and rubbed her temples.

“Oh my GOD,” Leah gasped, clutching her chest dramatically. “I thought I was going to have to start watching Barça matches.”

Beth was crying so hard she couldn’t speak, just waving her arms around like she was conducting an emotional orchestra.

And then the door opened again. And there you were. Smiling. Calm. Hoodie up, but your Arsenal crest proudly peeking out from underneath.

“Told you I was good at keeping secrets,” you said with a cheeky grin.

You didn’t even get the chance to take another step before they swarmed you. Like a pack of overexcited puppies, they tackled you in a group hug that nearly took you down. Arms wrapped around your waist, your shoulders, your legs. Someone kissed your cheek. You were pretty sure it was Beth. Vic buried her face into your side, sobbing. Alessia just held your hand like you were going to disappear again.

“Don’t do that again!” Lotte said between tears.

“You scared us!” Kyra added.

“You’re not allowed to go anywhere without written permission from the group chat,” Vic sniffled.

“Yeah,” Leah added, pulling back just long enough to point a very stern finger at you. “We’re implementing another buddy system.”

You laughed. Overwhelmed, flushed, happy beyond belief.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said, hugging them tighter. “This is home.”

They all squeezed you even harder. And in that cramped, chaotic locker room, full of laughter and happy sobs and glittery signs and people who loved you. It really, truly was home.

[zoe535]

Someone to Love

Part 3

Pazzixmoms

The emergency room smelled like antiseptic and anxiety. Azzi sat with Zaya clutched tightly to her chest, her hoodie pulled around her like armor, eyes darting every time someone coughed or a monitor beeped. Paige was next to her, one hand wrapped around her shoulder, the other fiddling anxiously with the strap of the diaper bag.

“She’s not crying anymore,” Azzi whispered, like that fact itself was terrifying. “That’s... probably good?” Paige said, but even her voice wavered.

Azzi shook her head. “She was screaming. Then she stopped. I don't think that’s normal Paige.” Paige leaned closer. “You did the right thing coming here.”

“I didn’t do anything right,” Azzi said. “I panicked. I freaked out. She was gagging and arching her back as if she was in pain and I—God, I thought something was really wrong.”

“You’re not supposed to have all the answers, Az,” Paige said gently. “That’s why we have doctors.” Azzi didn’t reply. She was too busy counting Zaya’s breaths. Each tiny inhale felt like a miracle.

After what felt like hours (it was 20 minutes), a nurse called them in. Paige carried the diaper bag and the portable car seat while Azzi followed, bouncing Zaya gently in her arms, whispering the same quiet reassurance over and over: “You’re okay. You’re okay. Mommy’s got you.”

They were led to a small pediatric room, where the overhead lights were too bright and the exam table looked too big for someone so tiny. Azzi didn’t want to lay Zaya down.

“Let me hold her for this” she said quickly, her voice raw.

The nurse gave her a kind look and nodded. “That’s totally fine, Mom knows best.”

Azzi blinked at the word.

Mom.

Her.

She swallowed.

The nurse gently took Zaya’s temperature, listened to her breathing, felt her belly. The baby whined, kicked softly, but didn’t cry. “Any fever?” the nurse asked.

“No, I dont think so. Just nonstop screaming, weird gasping, arching her back...” Azzi rattled it all off in a single breath.

“Has she been feeding?” “She tries,” Paige said. “But she’ll latch, suck for like five seconds, then cry. Like it hurts.” The nurse nodded, scribbled notes, and smiled softly. “You’re not alone. Let me grab the doctor.”

Azzi looked at Paige as soon as she left. “Do you think I brought her for nothing?” “No,” Paige said firmly. “She looked like she was in pain. You trusted your instincts. That’s what moms do.” “I feel like I’m messing everything up.” “Baby...You’re not.”

Azzi didn’t answer. She just rocked Zaya back and forth, back and forth, her eyes never leaving her baby’s face.

The pediatrician came in five minutes later. Young, kind-eyed, and calm in a way that made both of them feel like maybe the floor wouldn’t fall out from under them.

He introduced himself, then gently took over the exam. Zaya didn’t like it—she started crying again the moment he pressed on her belly—but the doctor remained calm.

“I know this is hard to see,” he said. “But the good news is, she’s strong. Her lungs are working just fine.”

“What about the back arching?” Azzi asked quickly. “And the way she curled up, and screamed like—like she was in pain—”

He nodded. “It sounds like colic. Possibly a touch of reflux, too.”

Paige frowned. “What exactly does that mean?”

“Basically, her digestive system is still maturing. Some babies experience intense discomfort from gas, trapped air, or acid moving up from their stomachs. It’s not dangerous, but it feels awful for them. And for you.”

Azzi’s eyes filled. “So... she’s okay?”

“She’s okay,” he confirmed gently. “She’s uncomfortable, not unwell.”

Azzi let out a breath that trembled into a sob. Paige reached for her hand immediately.

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” the doctor added. “Colic is common. This is not a reflection on your parenting.”

“But she’s in pain,” Azzi whispered.

“Yes,” he said. “And that’s heartbreaking. But you’re doing everything right by being here. We’ll give you some tips on soothing techniques—gas drops, upright feeding, baby massage. This will pass. I promise.”

He wrote down instructions and left them with pamphlets. As soon as he stepped out, Azzi leaned against Paige and cried silently. Paige held her tightly, Zaya tucked between them like the smallest, fussiest heartbeat in the world.

They left the hospital just before midnight.

°~°~°~°

Back home, the house was dim and quiet. Azzi changed into an oversized shirt and flopped onto the couch while Paige laid Zaya gently in the bassinet—only for her to start crying again within seconds.

Azzi sat up. “I got it—”

“No,” Paige said quickly, already scooping the baby back up. “You rest. Just... give me a shift, okay?”

Azzi looked torn. “Are you sure?” “Positive. You need a break. Like, a real one. Let me do this.” Azzi hesitated—but her body gave her no choice. She nodded, then laid back down with a soft exhale. “Wake me up if she gets worse,” she mumbled. “I will.”

Paige smiled and headed to the nursery. Zaya fussed in her arms, squirming, making tiny angry noises as Paige sat down in the rocking chair and turned on the low humming sound machine.

“Alright, Zay-Zay,” she whispered. “It’s you and me tonight.”

She tried walking. Rocking. Swaddling. Laying her on her forearm in the classic colic hold. It worked for five minutes, then Zaya started again.

Tiny legs attempted to kick. Her little belly tensed. “It’s okay,” Paige murmured. “You’re okay.”

She warmed a towel and gently pressed it against Zaya’s stomach, just like the doctor had suggested. That seemed to help. The crying softened.

“Good girl,” Paige whispered. She rocked her again, humming softly. Not a lullaby—just something slow, off-key, but constant. Zaya whimpered. Then settled.

By the time Azzi peeked in two hours later, Paige was still rocking—eyes barely open, Zaya asleep against her chest. “You’re still up?” Azzi asked softly. “Barely,” Paige whispered back, smiling. “You’re a superhero.”

“Shh. You’ll make me blush.” Azzi crossed the room and kissed her temple. “Thank you. I mean it.” She said as she gave her a soft kiss on the lips.

“Anytime,” Paige said, eyes closing. “This is what we do.”

°~°~°~°

Morning came gently, quietly almost too quiet. Zaya was still asleep. For now.

Azzi stood by the doorway of the nursery, arms folded over her chest, just watching. Paige slept curled up in the rocking chair, head back, one arm loosely around the baby.

The room was filled with soft light.

Azzi smiled.

This wasn’t what she imagined motherhood would be like. Not even close. But this—this chaos, this exhaustion, this deep, aching love—it was real. And it was theirs.

She walked over, knelt down beside them, and whispered, “Switch with me. Your turn to sleep.” Paige stirred. “Is it tomorrow already?” Azzi chuckled. “Something like that.”

She lifted Zaya gently and carried her into the living room. She laid her down on her chest as she curled up on the couch, watching the soft rise and fall of her breathing.

Zaya made a tiny noise and wriggled, but didn’t wake. Azzi rested her hand on her back, her eyes fluttering shut. Her mind finally quiet.

Azzi finally got a little peace in all the turmoil that has been happening in her life these past few days.

She watched Paige as she went upstairs, wondering how she got so lucky.

[purplereina11]

🏀 Based after Eleven 🏀

Chapter 8

It started as playful online chemistry with someone unexpected-Alexia Putellas. Flirty banter turned into late-night texts before a heated moment on a club balcony shifted everything.

Now it was post game meet-ups, no-strings friends-with-benefits arrangement. They shared passion, comfort, and the grind of pro sports. But as the season went on, lines blurred.

It was supported to stay simple. These things never do however. Not in professional sports. The option to stay isn't always yours.

Mariona’s gaze flicked to Liv, like maybe she expected a lifeline. But Liv just sipped her drink, watching you carefully now, all traces of smugness gone. Maya muttered something under her breath and busied herself with rearranging the olives on her plate—clearly not wanting to get involved.

“Okay,” Mariona said cautiously, setting her glass down. “Maybe that came out wrong.”

“No, it came out loud and clear,” you said, keeping your voice even, detached—because if you didn’t, the heat building behind your ribs might crack you wide open.

She shifted in her seat, tapping her fingers against the side of her glass. “I’m not defending it. I just think… she doesn’t know how to deal with you.”

You scoffed. “What, like I’m some kind of puzzle?”

“More like… a live wire,” Maya mumbled, not looking up.

You glanced at her, but she still wouldn’t meet your eyes. The table had turned heavy now, air thick and humming with things unsaid.

Liv finally leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin resting in her palm. “So what’s your play then?” she asked, tone too casual to be innocent.

You raised an eyebrow. “You mean, now that I know she’s been stringing Vicky along to make me jealous?”

“Mhmm,” Liv nodded, swirling her wine.

"I've just followed and commented on Albas latest bikini post"

Mariona groaned immediately, dragging both hands down her face before burying it in her palms. “No. No no no—you didn’t. Oh, come on,” she muttered, muffled by her hands. “You did not.”

You leaned back against the booth, arms crossed, the tiniest edge of a smirk curling at your lips. “I did. Fire emoji and the one with the face is drooling and all”

Liv’s jaw actually dropped for a second before she burst out laughing. “You’re evil.”

“Thank you,” you said sweetly, taking a sip of your drink.

Mariona finally lifted her head, eyes wide. “Alba? Really? Of all people? You couldn’t have picked someone slightly less… personal?”

Maya looked up sharply, then blinked like she’d just caught up to the conversation. “Wait—Alba Alba? Are you serious right now? That’s her sister”

You nodded, raising your glass. “I’m aware,” you said, voice flat. “She wanted a reaction? She’s about to get one.”

Liv looked downright gleeful now. “Oh, this is gonna be so messy. I’m obsessed.”

“Please don’t encourage this,” Mariona muttered, scrubbing a hand over her face again. “Alexia’s going to see that and lose her entire mind.”

“That’s kind of the point,” you replied, voice cool. “She wants to play games? Let’s play.”

Maya shook her head. “You are poking a very emotionally unstable bear.”

“She poked first,” you said flatly. “She just didn’t expect me to poke back with claws.”

Liv raised her brows and leaned in like she was watching a car crash in slow motion—equal parts horror and fascination. “So what was the comment?”

You smiled, all teeth now. “She posted a bikini photo, her caption sun hits different lately” you dropped your phone to the table, "I commented Guess it does. Damn. Drool emoji Flame emoji"

Mariona smacked her forehead against the table with a thud. “That’s worse than I thought.”

“That’s perfect,” Liv corrected

Maya let out a long, slow exhale and leaned back. “You’re both insane.”

You didn’t disagree.

Because the game had changed now. And somewhere across the city, Alexia was probably staring at her phone, trying very hard not to throw it across the room.

--

The comment had been live for less than a couple of hours. Just enough time for you to scroll past it, toss your phone aside onto your sofa back home, and tell yourself you didn’t care. That it didn’t mean anything. Except… it did.

Because the moment you refreshed your feed and saw Alexia had viewed your story—the one you posted from dinner with Liv, Maya, and Mariona, all smiles and full glasses—it was clear she could of seen the comment too. Of course she had. It was Alba’s post. There was no not seeing it. You leaned back against the cushions, ice back on your ankle, tension thrumming just beneath your skin. You weren’t sure if you were satisfied, or anxious, or just bracing for impact.

It didn’t take long. Your phone buzzed with a text.

Alexia: Really?

Just that. No punctuation. No context. You didn’t reply right away. Let it sit. Let her squirm.

Then another.

Alexia: You’re flirting with my sister now?

You stared at it. And smiled. You tapped out a reply, slow and deliberate:

You: Not flirting. Just appreciating the view. 😏

The bubble popped up instantly, like she was ready to go off— Then it vanished. A minute later, it buzzed again.

Alexia: Don’t play games with me.

You stared at the message, pulse ticking in your jaw. The nerve. You typed without thinking.

You: Funny. I could’ve sworn that’s all you’ve been doing.

There was a long pause. You could feel her reading it, re-reading it, trying to figure out whether to respond or throw her phone.

And then—another text.

Alexia: We need to talk. In person.

You didn’t respond. You just locked your phone, tossed it on the coffee table again, and let the message hang in the air like smoke. She wanted to talk? Fine. But this time, it would be on your terms.

You didn’t answer her text. Not that night. Not the next morning. You didn’t ignore it out of spite—well, not entirely. It was more about holding the upper hand for once. About not jumping the second Alexia snapped her fingers, not folding just because she decided now was the time she wanted to talk. She’d been the one playing games. She’d been the one walking out. Let her sit in the silence for once.

You spent most of the next day with your foot elevated, rehabbing like a professional, and pretending not to check your phone every ten minutes. You weren’t waiting for her to text again.

But by early evening, as the sky turned pink through your window, your phone buzzed with a name you’d been expecting. Not a text this time. A call. Alexia. You let it ring. And ring. And then—picked up. “…Hello?”

Her voice was tight. Controlled. But not cold. “Are you home?”

You looked around your quiet apartment, tension already gathering in your chest. “Why?”

“I’m downstairs.” Of course she was.

You exhaled through your nose, pressed the bridge of it with your fingers. “You can’t keep showing up every time you don’t like something I do.”

“Then stop doing things to get a reaction,” she shot back.

You almost smiled. Almost. “Touché.”

Silence stretched on the line. Like she was pondering what you knew, then “Please just… can I come up?”

You didn’t answer. You buzzed her in. A few minutes later, there was a knock. You opened the door slowly. There she was. Hoodie. No makeup. Fire already burning in her eyes. 

She stepped in like a storm, brushing past you without waiting to be asked. “You seriously commented that on Alba’s post?” she snapped, turning back to face you as the door clicked shut.

You leaned against the frame, arms crossed. “You’re still on that?”

“Yes, I’m still on that. What the hell were you thinking?”

You laughed—sharp, tired, bitter. “Maybe I was thinking about how it felt watching you parade your ex around while pretending I don’t exist.”

Her eyes narrowed. “That’s not what that was.”

“Oh, come on,” you snapped, stepping forward. “You didn’t want her. You just wanted to see how fast I’d react when she showed up at your door.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then what is true, Alexia?” you fired back, voice rising. “That we only work when we’re naked and fucking? That this only makes sense when you’re crawling into my bed, and everything else gets swept under the rug?”

She flinched. “Don’t twist this like I’m the only one playing games.”

“Right, because you showing up every time we fight to remind me how good it is in bed—that’s not a game?”

“I didn’t come here to sleep with you,” she shot back.

“No?” you scoffed. “Then why are we shouting in my living room again? What are we even doing, Alexia?”

She stepped closer. Too close. “I don’t know!” And then—she grabbed your face and kissed you. Hard. Fierce. Like a fuse had been lit inside her. It hit you like a wave—heat, anger, heartbreak, all tangled together. Her hands were desperate, her mouth familiar and wild against yours, like if she kissed you hard enough, she could silence all the things she didn’t want to say.

But you didn’t melt this time. You pushed her back, panting, hands still gripping her wrists. “What the hell are you doing?” you demanded, heart hammering.

Alexia stood there, flushed, lips parted, chest rising and falling. And then she said, bitter and breathless, “Isn’t this what we do now? Fight. Fuck. Repeat.” The words hung between you like a slap.

You stood there, staring at her—your pulse still pounding from the kiss, from the heat of the argument, from everything. The air between you was heavy, volatile, laced with something that felt just as dangerous as it did familiar. You blinked slowly, jaw tight. Then, your voice came low. Calm—but cutting. “So you did come over to fuck.”

Alexia didn’t flinch. She looked at you square in the face, jaw set, defiant. “No.” Then she took a breath and said something that made your stomach twist.

You stepped back, finally. Put space between you and the fire still burning in her eyes. “I’m not gonna keep doing this,” you said. “I’m not gonna keep letting you walk in here like this place—and I—belong to you.”

Alexia’s shoulders tensed as you stepped back. Her jaw clenched like she was holding herself together by a thread. You could see the flicker in her eyes—anger, guilt, something else trying to break through. She glanced away for a second, just enough to give herself time to reset, and then levelled you with a look.

“So this is what we’re doing now?” she asked, her voice sharp, wounded. “Dragging my sister into this? You really think Alba deserves to get caught in your mess just because you’re pissed at me?”

You laughed again—this time quieter, rougher. “My mess? That’s rich coming from you. Don’t act like you’re suddenly the moral compass here.”

Alexia’s expression twisted. “This isn’t about morality. It’s about respect. You don’t use people like that.”

“Oh please,” you snapped. “Like you didn’t pull the same stunt with Vicky.”

She blinked, caught off guard for just a second. Then her face hardened. “That’s not the same.”

“The hell it’s not,” you said, stepping forward again, voice rising. “You didn’t give a damn about Vicky. You just wanted me to see her, to wonder, to burn. And you knew exactly what you were doing.”

Alexia scoffed, shaking her head like she couldn’t believe you were saying it. “You’re paranoid.”

You grinned, sharp and cold. “What? Didn’t think I’d figure it out?” You tilted your head slightly, letting the smugness cut through your voice. “I’m not stupid, Alexia.”

Her mouth opened, then closed. You could see the words behind her eyes, the ones she wanted to hurl but knew would do real damage. And then—there it was. That flicker of guilt again. That flash of you-caught-me-even-if-I-hate-it.

She crossed her arms tight across her chest, like she could hold it all in. “You’re twisting everything.”

“No,” you said, your tone low now, calm like before the crack of thunder. “I’m just done pretending I don’t see the games.”

Her breath hitched, barely, but enough. Enough to let you know you’d struck something real. “You think this gives you the high ground?” she asked, voice steady but glass-thin. “Using Alba to hit back at me? That doesn’t make you right. It just makes you petty.”

You shrugged, the smirk still playing at the corners of your mouth. “And you showing up uninvited, starting fights, kissing me like you’re still allowed to? That’s what—mature?”

Alexia’s jaw twitched. “I came here to talk.”

“No,” you said, walking past her now, not even looking at her. “You came here to win. Like you always do. You just didn’t expect me to stop playing.”

She didn’t follow you right away. Didn’t speak. Just stood there in the silence, like she was trying to figure out what to do now that the script had changed.

When you turned back to face her, she was staring at the floor, hands fists at her sides. “I’m not your punching bag,” you said simply. “And I’m sure as hell not your backup plan when you get bored.”

Alexia looked up then, eyes rimmed red, but the fire hadn’t left. “You think I’m bored of you?”

“I think you don’t know what the hell you want,” you said. “And I’m done paying the price for your confusion.”

There was a long pause. Just breathing. Just tension. Then Alexia said, almost too quietly, “I don’t want to lose you.”

You looked at her for a long second, heart aching against your better judgment. But your voice was firm when you answered. “You never had me”

Alexia didn’t move, but her voice came sharp, slicing through the space between you like it hurt her just to say it. “So it was just sex for you?” she asked, her tone raw, cracking at the edges. “You never considered me a friend?”

You froze. That question—of all the things she could’ve said, that one knocked the wind out of you for a second. Not because it surprised you, but because you knew how badly she needed the answer to be no.

You sighed, rubbing the back of your neck, eyes drifting to the wall like it would offer you a way out of this moment. But there wasn’t one. Not anymore.

“Alexia…” you started, voice low. You shook your head. “You’re not just some hookup, alright? You never were.”

“Then why do you treat me like one?” she snapped, stepping forward again. “Why does everything have to turn into this tug-of-war where we’re always trying to hurt each other more than the last time?”

“Because you started playing games with feelings,” you shot back. “Because one minute I’m the person you can’t live without here by the fucking minute and the next I’m a ghost until you get bored or lonely or jealous enough to remember I exist. Or horny enough because apparently your girlfriend can’t fuck you right”

“That’s not fair—”

“No, you’re not fair,” you cut her off. “You show up like a hurricane, wreck everything, then act surprised when I stop trying to be your friend.”

Alexia blinked, but stayed rooted. “I wasn’t trying to wreck anything. I just… I didn’t know how to be around you without wanting more.”

That hung there. Real. Vulnerable. Too late. You took a breath, slow and shaky. “And you thought dragging your ex around, sleeping with me, then ghosting, then showing up again to fight and fuck, was better than saying that?”

“I was scared,” she said quietly.

“So was I,” you admitted. “Still am. But I didn’t lie about what this meant to me. I didn’t hide behind my ex, or silence.”

Her lips parted. She looked like she might cry, but you both knew she wouldn’t let herself. That wasn’t her style. She’d storm out first. Slam a door. Set a fire. “I just wanted you to see me,” she said, almost a whisper.

You met her eyes. “I always did. With your ex in tow. It didn’t draw me in Alexia, it pushed me away, I’m no ones second choice.”

The silence that followed wasn’t angry anymore. It wasn’t loud. It was tired. Heavy with the weight of everything said and unsaid over months, maybe years. Alexia looked around the room like it wasn’t hers to be in anymore. Like she was already halfway gone.

Then you said, barely above a breath, “Go home, I’m sure your girlfriend is wondering where you are.” And that, finally, broke something in her. Not visibly. No tears. No dramatic collapse. Just the smallest retreat in her eyes. A quiet surrender.

She walked past you, slow, like each step cost her something. At the door, she paused, her hand on the knob.

“She isn’t my girlfriend,” she said, without looking back. You didn’t answer. You’d heard it all before. She opened the door. And this time, she didn’t look back.

--

It wasn’t the call you’d hoped for.

You sat at the far end of the practice facility, ankle still taped from your last session, phone pressed to your ear, tension riding your spine like armour. Your agent’s voice filtered through the line—calm, clear, but laced with the kind of tone you’d learned to expect when news wasn’t good.

“They’re lowballing you,” she said bluntly. “Again.”

You didn’t respond right away, just stared through the tall windows as your teammates warmed up on the court. Barcelona’s logo shone from the centre, bold and clean, and for the first time, it didn’t feel like it belonged to you. “Tell me the number,” you said finally.

She did.

You clenched your jaw. “That’s less than I’m on now.”

“I know.”

You let out a bitter laugh, leaning forward to press your elbows to your knees. “After everything?”

“They’re banking on your loyalty,” she said. “On the hype around the league title. On the connection you’ve built here. But they’re not backing that belief up financially. They’re assuming you’ll stay because of the badge.”

You stared at the floor, voice low. “And the WNBA offers?”

There was a pause. Then, “Big. Real big.”

You knew what she meant. Endorsements. Cities that would roll out the red carpet. A league where you could own your moment instead of constantly proving you deserved it.

“You’d be a franchise face,” she said. “They’re not treating you like a project. They’re treating you like a star.”

The weight of it sat heavy on your chest. “I need time,” you said, barely above a whisper.

“You don’t have much,” your agent replied. “Deadline’s closing in. You have to start asking yourself what you want this next phase of your career to look like—and who’s going to actually help you get there.”

The call ended, but the pressure didn’t.

You sat there, still as the court buzzed on the other side of the glass. The sound of bouncing balls and shouted plays was distant, like another world.

And you knew it wasn’t just about Barcelona anymore.

It was about whether you were willing to stay somewhere that didn’t value you the way you’d proven you deserved to be. And, whether the person who made this place feel like home... Would still be around if you chose to stay

--

You weren’t expecting to run into anyone—let alone her.

It was early evening, the kind of golden hour where the streets of the city felt a little softer around the edges, like they were pretending not to know the weight of your thoughts. You’d just ducked into a small café near the edge of Parc de la Ciutadella, hoodie up, ankle still a bit stiff, sunglasses on despite the fading sun. You weren’t hiding exactly. Just… trying not to be seen.

And that’s when you saw them.

Alba. And her mother.

You nearly turned on your heel. But Alba had already clocked you.

Her lips curled into a grin, mischievous and amused. “Well look who it is,” she said, stepping out from the café doorway, iced coffee in hand. “If it isn’t Barcelona’s most unbothered heartbreaker.”

Her mother glanced up from rummaging through her purse, then gave you a polite smile—tight, knowing. You managed an awkward wave.

“Hi, Mrs. Putellas,” you said.

Alba's mom nodded, but didn’t linger. “I’ll be inside,” she told Alba quietly, giving her a look that said behave. Then she disappeared through the café doors, leaving you alone with the one person who definitely should’ve hated you right now… but didn’t.

Alba cocked her head, sipping her drink like she wasn’t the sister of the person you’d emotionally lit on fire just a day ago. “So… the bikini comment? Really?”

You sighed, rubbing a hand over your face. “Look, I didn’t—”

“I loved it,” she said with a laugh, cutting you off. “Bold. Reckless. Hot, honestly. You really had her pressed, huh?”

You blinked. “Wait… you’re not mad?”

“Oh, I’m definitely judging you,” she smirked. “But also? I’ve been waiting for someone to knock her off her high horse for years. You just… chose chaos. And me. Which was… weird. But iconic.”

You let out a breath of a laugh, tension easing just a bit.

But then Alba’s smile faded, just enough for the shift in tone to land.

“Look,” she said, taking a step closer, voice dropping. “I’m not here to tell you what to do with Alexia. She’s a grown woman. And stubborn as hell. But she’s not built for this kind of back-and-forth. You��re breaking her.”

You stiffened, lips pressing together.

Alba raised an eyebrow. “She hasn’t slept. Barely speaks. She’s spinning. And she’s not good at not being in control, so… you’ve got her all twisted up. Just—if you’re done, be done. If you’re not… stop dragging it out. Put her out of her misery.”

You looked down at your hands, at the cup between them, cold now. “It’s not that simple.”

Alba crossed her arms, expression unimpressed. “Why not?”

You hesitated, then shook your head. “Because I don’t know what I’m doing. With anything. My contract’s up, they’re lowballing me, I’ve got offers from the W, and I don’t even know what country I’m gonna be in three months from now.”

Alba’s face softened, just a little. “Okay… but what does that have to do with her?”

“I can’t settle her,” you said quietly. “Not when I don’t even know where I’m going next. Not when my life’s about to change.”

She looked at you for a long moment. Then: “So let her go.”

You blinked.

“She’s not good at waiting,” Alba said. “And she definitely isn’t good at wondering. So if you’re not gonna stay, don’t leave the door open. Don’t give her just enough to hope.”

You looked out toward the street, where the lights were just starting to flicker on. “Maybe she should just go back to Vicky,” you muttered. “She’s clearly not done with her if she’s still keeping her around.”

Alba made a face. “Vicky was a move. A dumb one. A calculated, emotionally stunted, classic Alexia move. But trust me… that ship’s already sunk.”

You looked at her again, surprised by the certainty in her tone.

She rolled her eyes. “I know my sister. And whatever you two had? Have? It’s way deeper than anything she ever had with Vicky.”

You didn’t say anything. Couldn’t.

Alba sighed, tilting her head. “I’m not saying you have to be with her. But you do have to stop screwing her up just to make a point. You’re not the only one hurting.”

You swallowed hard, throat tight. “I never wanted to hurt her.”

“Then stop doing it on purpose,” she said simply.

The café door swung open behind her. Her mother poked her head out, lifting a brow. Alba waved her off.

Then she looked back at you, softer now. “You don’t have to fix her,” she said. “Just stop breaking her.”

And with that, she walked away.

Leaving you there, holding the weight of her words in your hands like something fragile and sharp all at once.

--

You didn’t plan on going to her place. You didn’t even know why your feet took you there—why, after that conversation with Alba, after every reason not to show up, you still found yourself in front of her door.

You stood there for a moment, hand hovering just above the buzzer, heart pounding with something tangled—regret, anger, desire, confusion. You were supposed to be thinking clearly. You weren’t supposed to want this again.

But then the door opened.

She must’ve seen you through the peephole, or maybe she’d just known. Like always.

Alexia stood there in sweats, hair up, no makeup, just socks on her feet and that storm still brewing behind her eyes. But it wasn’t angry this time. It was… bare.

And whatever words you thought you had prepared—about closure, about space, about not playing games anymore—they vanished.

Because the second your eyes locked, something cracked open between you like lightning splitting the air.

And then you were kissing.

Hard. Sudden. Like gravity had tilted toward each other and neither of you could fight it this time.

Her hand was in your hair, your arms pulling her closer, mouths crashing like waves after a long drought. She tugged you inside, the door slamming behind you, your backs hitting walls, fingers fisting in clothes, breathless and messy and urgent.

You didn’t speak. Not yet. Words would only get in the way.

It wasn’t about revenge or winning. Not this time.

It was about every unsaid word. Every night you didn’t text back. Every morning she woke up and didn’t find you there. It was months of silence and hurt and want and love, all bleeding into this one chaotic, desperate, perfectly ruined kiss.

She broke away just long enough to breathe, her forehead resting against yours, lips swollen, eyes wide with something that felt like surrender.

Her hands found the hem of your shirt like they’d been there a thousand times—and maybe they had. Maybe muscle memory knew what the mind was too hesitant to admit.

The kiss deepened, slowed, sharpened. Her fingers brushed under the cotton, knuckles grazing your skin with a reverence that only made the heat rise faster. She pulled back just enough to look at you, wordless question in her eyes, like she needed you to stop her if this wasn’t where it should go.

You didn’t.

So she lifted your shirt slowly, fingers brushing up your spine, and tugged it over your head. Her breath caught—just slightly—when she saw the bra beneath it. She didn’t hesitate this time. Not with you. Her fingers found the clasp, unhooked it like a secret she still remembered, and slipped the straps down your arms. It hit the floor soft.

You backed into the table behind you as she stepped forward, pressing her palms flat against your bare ribs like she was grounding herself, like the truth lived under your skin. The wood was cool against your thighs when you leaned, half-sitting on the edge, her body slotting between your legs as if the space had always been made for her.

She kissed your collarbone, slow and aching, like the apology she couldn’t quite say out loud. Then lower. Then lower.

Your hands threaded into her hair, tilting her back up to face you, foreheads brushing again.

No one spoke.

Because this wasn’t just about sex, and it never had been.

It was about everything that burned between you—words unsaid, time wasted, love that never got the chance to settle long enough to be safe.

And now, here, under dim lights and the shadow of something you couldn’t name, it all came spilling out in touch, in breath, in the way she looked at you like she still wanted every version of you, even the one that walked away.

You weren’t sure where this was going. But for now, you let yourself fall into her hands like maybe—for once—it didn’t have to be war.

Her hands were already working at your shorts, dragging her fingertips along your skin like a tease before she gave the softest instruction, “Lift for me.”

You did, and in one smooth motion, she pulled your shorts and underwear down together, dragging them past your thighs like she had all the time in the world. Your pulse thrummed, your breath shallow as she trailed kisses down your stomach. Her presence between your legs, electric. She pulled a chair up like it was a throne, sat down slow and confident, resting her hands on your knees before gently pushing them apart.

Comfortable. Controlled. Completely focused on you. What came next wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t wild. It was methodical.

With your eyes closed and your breath coming in short, ragged gasps in anticipation, you felt Alexia's breath on your thighs before her tongue met your skin. She took her time, kissing and licking, leaving a trail of heat and anticipation as she moved closer to where you most wanted her. Each brush of her lips made your legs quiver, your body begging for more. When she finally reached the juncture between your thighs, you felt the softness of her tongue part your folds, the wetness of her mouth pressing against your clit.

A soft moan escaped your lips as you lay back against her cool dining table, and Alexia's eyes lifted to watch you, filled with a dark hunger that matched your own. She didn't say anything, but you knew she was watching your every reaction, savouring every little sound you made. You felt her hand slide up your inner thigh, her fingers curling gently before sliding inside you. The sensation was overwhelming—the warmth of her mouth, the slickness of her tongue, the pressure of her fingers. It was all too much and not enough at the same time.

You, unable to form coherent words as she began to move her tongue in slow, deliberate circles, her fingers curling and uncurling inside you. The tension grew, coiling tighter and tighter with each stroke.

The tension hung in the air, thick with desire. You could only moan again, your voice lost to the pleasure she was giving you. Your moans was all the answer she needed, and she redoubled her efforts, her tongue moving faster, her fingers pressing deeper, until you were writhing on the table.

Your eyes snapped open, staring at the ceiling as you felt Alexia's other hand join in, her fingers sliding over your breast in perfect rhythm with her mouth. The sensation was intense, the pleasure so sharp it was almost painful. Her eyes remained on your face, a silent conversation passing between her, and you knew she wouldn't stop until you were begging for release.

"Please," you finally whispered, the word barely audible. "Don't stop" You breathe before moaning again, "'m gonna come"

Alexia's smile grew, and she took your clit between her lips, sucking gently as her fingers danced around it, playing you like an instrument. The combination was exquisite, and you felt yourself teetering on the edge of something incredible.

Your orgasm crashed over you like a wave, and you arched your back, crying out as pleasure surged through every inch of your body. Alexia didn't miss a beat, her mouth and hands moving in sync, drawing out the sensation until it was all you could do to stay still.

As the aftershocks of your climax began to subside, Alexia, her cheeks flushed and her eyes gleaming with satisfaction, she kissed the inside of your thigh, her thumb brushing over your clit one last time before she sat back in the chair, her gaze never leaving yours.

You watched as she licked her lips, savouring the taste of you. Her hands remained on you, trailing up your legs to your hips, then up over your stomach to cup your breasts. She massaged them gently, her thumbs flicking over the hardened peaks of your nipples. Your breath hitched at the contact, the sensation still so intense.

Alexia's eyes studied you, watching your chest rise and fall as you tried to regain your breath. She leaned in closer, her hot breath fanning over your skin as she whispered, "You're so beautiful when you come."

The compliment sent a fresh wave of warmth through you, making your cheeks burn even more.

Alexia’s gaze flicked up to meet yours again, she leaned in closer, her breath tickling your skin as she kissed your inner thigh. Her hands didn’t stop moving—they slid down to your thighs, her thumbs brushing against your inner thighs before moving up again.

The tension in the room grew thick, the air charged with unspoken need.

Her eyes remained on her hands as they continued their journey, tracing the lines of your body as if committing them to memory. She watched the way your skin responded to her touch—how it goose bumped when she grazed you with her nails, how your breathing hitched when she applied just the right amount of pressure.

And all the while, still she watched you—your face, your chest, the way your stomach muscles tightened and released with each breath. She took in every little reaction, storing them away for later, like a treasure trove of secrets only she had the map to.

The room was filled with the sound of your breathing, the occasional sigh or gasp escaping your lips. It was all you could focus on—her hands, her eyes, the way she seemed to be worshipping you with every gentle caress.

She gently took your leg off her shoulder, "You want a drink?"

You swallowed as reality struck again, "..Please"

Alexia helped you sit upright, her hands lingering at your waist for just a second longer than necessary before she stepped back, brushing loose strands of hair behind her ears like she needed something to do with her hands.

“I’ve got that citrus sparkling water you like,” she said casually, already walking to the fridge, like you hadn’t just shattered all the walls between you moments ago.

You slid off the table carefully, legs still a little shaky, your pulse still a quiet thrum under your skin. You pulled your shirt back over your head slowly—mechanically—suddenly aware of how exposed you still felt, even clothed.

“Thanks,” you said, voice low.

She handed you the drink without looking at you for too long. You both avoided eye contact, like maybe eye contact would break the illusion that this was normal. That it hadn’t just been something. That there wasn’t still a conversation looming between the two of you, thick and heavy, sitting in the room like another person.

You leaned against the kitchen counter while she busied herself at the sink, rinsing out a glass she didn’t end up using.

“So,” she said after a beat, still not facing you. “You, uh… you’re still taping the ankle?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Trainer said another week of low load before I can really test it.”

“Right. Good.”

You both sipped at your drinks like they were shields. Like carbonation could fill the silence instead of words.

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but nothing came out.

Alexia sighed, setting her glass down on the counter. “It’s weird, isn’t it?” she said. “That we can do… that”—she gestured vaguely toward the table—“but still not know how to talk without tearing each other apart.”

You gave a quiet, humorless laugh. “Yeah. It’s almost like we’re better at pretending nothing happened.”

There was a pause. Then she nodded. “Almost.”

It wasn’t cold between you now. Just... quieter. Muted. Like a song you both knew by heart, but no longer wanted to sing out loud. You weren’t angry. She wasn’t either. But you were both tired. And maybe, a little afraid.

Alexia turned to you again, leaning her hip against the counter. “So. What now?”

You looked at her, really looked, and the answer sat heavy on your tongue, but didn’t make it past your lips.

“I don’t know,” you said instead.

You both stood there, side by side in a kitchen that had known heat and heartbreak, your shoulders just close enough to brush if one of you shifted an inch. But you didn’t. Neither of you did.

You finished your drink, set it on the counter with a soft clink, and reached for your jacket. “I should probably go,” you said.

Alexia didn’t stop you. She didn’t ask you to stay. She just nodded again, like she’d already expected that answer.

You walked to the door, hand on the knob, then paused. Glanced back. Her eyes met yours.

“Thanks,” you said.

“For what?” she asked, voice quiet.

You thought about it for a second. Then: “I don't know, the orgasm I guess”

She didn’t smile. But she didn’t look away, either. “Welcome.”

And with that, you opened the door and stepped into the night. Not sure if you were walking away… or just buying time before you turned around again.

[punksyeet]

- Heart And Sole ❥

Plot: Do you believe in love at first sight? Well, evidently, these two sneaker-heads do.

Warnings: Hefty flirting & fluff!

A/N: here’s a little fic i came up with inspired by jey’s sneaker shopping video with complex! i did indeed lose motivation halfway through so it’s not my best work, but i hope you enjoy anyway! 🥲🖤

———————————————————————————————

“Where to next?” my best friend Trinity asks, throwing a shopping bag over her shoulder as we exit Victoria’s Secret.

I pucker my lips to the side, looking around at the stores included in our local strip mall.

To the left? TJ Maxx.

To the right? Macys.

Across the street? Target.

Diagonal towards the left? Chick-Fil-A.

And finally, I find it. The motherland. Nike.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see her follow my gaze and immediately shake her head.

“I should’ve known,” she teases, placing a hand on her hip.

I roll my eyes and nudge her playfully. “Triiiin! It’s been two months since my last pair of Jordans. That has to be a new record, no?”

She chuckles, shaking her head some more and holding out her hand. “Cmon. Before you pass out on me.”

I give her a wide smile and take it before crossing the street.

Once we reach the sidewalk, her eyes light up.

“I’m gonna look into some colognes for Jerdy’s birthday,” she announces, nodding towards the fragrance store a couple buildings down. “I’ll catch up with you later?”

I nod and we share a quick hug before going our separate ways.

The refreshing scent of fresh leather and shoe cleaner takes over my nostrils, as I walk in and immediately scan the front of the store.

“Welcome in,” a deep and raspy voice greets me, alongsithe sound of sneakers squeaking against the newly polished floors.

I look over and drool damn near pours out of my mouth.

Stood before me is a gorgeous guy.

Caramel toned skin, stunning chocolate brown eyes, a perfectly round nose, pillow-soft-looking full lips, and a well-trimmed salt & pepper beard.

As for his clothes? The man can dress.

A zip-up black wind runner Nike hoodie, matching sweatpants, white air forces with matching high socks, a snug black beanie placed neatly atop his neck-length curls, and some gold jewelry on his wrist and earlobes to top it off.

I’m pulled away from my daydreaming when he clears his throat.

“Ma’am? You good?”

“H-hey!” I reply, my voice a little too high pitched. I clear my throat and fix it before talking again. “Sorry, yes, I’m alright. T-Thank you.”

He gives me a warm smile and slides his hands into his pockets. “Good, good. Can I help you find anythin’ today?”

I begin scanning the store again, shaking my head casually. “I don’t think so. I’m just looking for now.”

He nods again. “Aight, no worries. If you need me, the names Josh.” 

Josh.

I smile sweetly. “Noted, thanks again.”

“Of course, honey.”

I don’t know if I damn near drop dead more in reaction to the nickname or the smile he gives me in return, before heading to the back right corner of the store.

Once I’m out of sight, I immediately pull out my phone and text Trin.

Gigi 💗: BITCH

Gigi 💗: SOS

Gigi 💗: TRINITYYYY

trin 💚: Bitch you better be dead or dying 😐

Gigi 💗: honestly….

trin 💚: WHATT???

Gigi 💗: 😭🤣

Gigi 💗: girl this nike employee is fine as SHITTT

Gigi 💗: i damn near passed out once i laid eyes on him 🫦

trin 💚: GIRLLLLL 👀

trin 💚: You better spill EVERYTHING later 🍿

Gigi 💗: not the popcorn 😭😭

trin 💚: 🤣🤣 Good luck!!

Smiling and shaking my head, I slide my phone back into my jacket pocket and start browsing, checking out the dunk lows section first.

A few pairs catch my eye and, as I’m reaching for one of them, the same voice from earlier makes me jump out of my skin.

“How’s your browsing going, lil mama?”

This man and his nicknames.

“It’s going,” I reply, looking back down at the sneaker and tilting it towards the light.

He chuckles, nodding. “Good, good.”

I smile and sit down, sliding out of my own shoe and unlacing the new one to try on.

He watches me amusingly, arms sat across his broad chest.

Completely aware that those gorgeous brown eyes are watching my every move, my fingers betray me, uncontrollably trembling and making me look clueless in front of him.

“Here baby,” he says, kneeling down in front of me and taking the sneaker. “Lemme help you with that.”

I take a deep breath, watching his long and thick fingers go to work on the laces. “T-thanks, Josh.”

He gives me a warm smile, stretching out the sides of the shoe. “No problem. Dunks can be tricky sometimes.”

He gently lifts my ankle and places the shoe on me, as if we’re Prince Charming and Cinderella.

“How does it feel?” he asks, placing my leg down once the laces are tied, making sure to leave his hand on my knee for just a few seconds too long.

I stand up and begin to walk around, making sure to include walking by the mirror to see how they look. “Really comfy, actually.”

He smiles, sliding his hands into his sweatpants pockets. “Good. They look real pretty on you too, baby.”

“Thank you,” I reply sweetly and softly, my cheeks immediately becoming hot to the touch.

He nods, taking the shoe and placing it back into it’s box with the second one. “Did anything else catch your pretty lil eye?”

God, this man is such a flirt.

Doing my best to ignore the butterflies going buck wild in my stomach, I pucker my lips to the side and scan the shelves once more.

“Nah I don’t think so,” I reply, shaking my head and looking back at him. “Just those will do.”

He nods, placing the box in one arm. “Aight, perfect. They’ll take care of you up front, honey.”

I smile and thank him sweetly before sitting back down to put my shoe back on.

———————————————————————————————

** Josh’s POV **

“Sup, uce?” I greet my co-worker, Mike, at the cashier counter.

He looks up from his phone and nods his head, sliding it back into his pocket when he sees me. “Sup, man?”

I place down a box of sneakers that a real pretty customer just chose onto the counter.

“A customer is gonna come up here and try to buy these,” I explain, reaching into my pocket for my wallet. “But I’m gonna take care of ‘em for her.”

A smirk grows on his face. “Do I sense a little crush, uce?”

I roll my eyes playfully. “Sumn like that. Just hurry up before she gets here.”

He chuckles and rings me up quickly.

I thank him and stand off to the side, trying to look as nonchalant as possible.

A few moments later, the sound of light footsteps causes me to look up from my phone.

“Hey there,” Mike greets her once she reaches the counter. “Just these right?”

She nods in reply. “Yep, just these today.”

“Alright, perfect. You’re all set.”

She tilts her head to the side and lets out what seems like a nervous, but ends up being adorable, laugh. “I-I’m all set? I…I’m sorry, I don’t think so. I haven’t paid yet.”

“Oh no need,” Mike replies, nodding towards me. “I believe a friend took care of you.”

She slowly turns to me with a look of confusion, and I meet her gaze with a warm smile.

“Thanks for stopping in,” I tease playfully, sliding my hands into my pockets.

She lets out a breathless chuckle and takes a few steps closer, allowing Mike to head to an aisle to help out a customer.

“You really didn’t have to,” she begins, placing the shopping bag over her shoulder.

I slide my lower lip in between my teeth and reach out to stroke her arm. “I know. But a beautiful lady like you paying don’t seem right.”

She crosses her arms sucking her teeth playfully. “Well, I appreciate it. Thank you.”

“Anytime, baby,” I reply. “You have a good one, aight?”

“You too,” she replies, nodding softly.

And it’s the next thing she does that takes me completely by surprise.

Standing on her tippy toes, she gently cups my face with her free hand and places a gentle kiss on my cheek.

My breath hitches as she flashes me yet another gorgeous smile before heading out of the store.

Oh I’m fucked.

———————————————————————————————

** Gianna’s POV **

“You did WHAT?” Trin practically screams through the other end of the line.

I groan, flopping down on the couch. “Girl, I don’t know what I was thinking! It was in the heat of the moment!”

She groans and pinches the bridge of her nose. “And you didn’t get his instagram? Number? Anything?”

I shake my head, gently biting the freshly manicured nail on my index finger.

She sighs and begins cutting vegetables. “Girl, we gotta get you back there. Like tomorrow.”

I nod in agreement. “We will. I’ll see him again. I just have to.”

A soft smile appears on her face and silence takes over for a bit before she speaks up again. “Anyway, show me the shoes you got.”

As if on cue, I immediately grab the sneaker box from next to me on the couch and open it.

And then, my heart drops.

“Trin,” I call out quietly, staring at a piece of bright yellow paper neatly tucked under one of the sneakers.

She looks up from chopping and a look of concern immediately comes across her face. “Bitch, are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I pick up the paper and hold it in front of the camera, resulting in her absolutely losing it.

Written on the tiny post-it note, is a phone number.

One that, I can only imagine, belongs to him. Josh.

“Bitch if you don’t text him right now!” she demands, pointing her knife at the screen.

I take a deep breath before sliding out of the FaceTime tab and opening the iMessage app to start a new conversation.

I enter his number and watch as the blue line fades in and out, my brain completely shutting down by the second.

“What the fuck do I say?” I ask, subtle panic taking over me.

She thinks for a minute. “Well, hi would be a good start.”

“Right right,” I reply, beginning to type. “Should I add a smiley face or is that corny?”

She giggles and goes back to cutting, as my thumbs get to work.

Gianna (Maybe): heyy it’s gianna from nike earlier :)

Almost immediately, three little dots inside a bubble pop up and a response comes through.

josh 🫦: Hey love

josh 🫦: I was worried you didn’t see the paper

“What’s he saying?!” Trin asks excitedly, popping a piece of bell pepper into her mouth.

I giggle and share my screen, before locking back in and thinking of a response.

Gianna ❤️: my bad i just got home lol

Gianna ❤️: i just wanted to thank you again for what you did today 🫶🏽

josh 🫦: Anytime beautiful ❤️

“You guys are so cute already!” Trin gushes, her voice super high pitched and squeaky.

“Bitch get off my phone,” I tease, rolling my eyes playfully.

She bursts into laughter and blows a kiss then hangs up, the sound of the call ending echoing throughout my living room.

After a few more messages back and forth with Josh, I get an Instagram notification that instantly grabs my attention.

uceyjucey has followed you!

I immediately take a screenshot of his most recent post and send it to Trin.

Gigi 💗: Attachment: 1 image

Gigi 💗: LOOK AT HIMMMM 🫦

trin 💚: Bitch is that my brother in law- 🧍🏽‍♀️

Liked by uceyjucey, trinity_fatu, jonathanfatu, and 8.3k others

giannamacri 💋🥀

View all 761 comments

uceyjucey Mines 😍

trinity_fatu 🥵🥵

tag list: @uceyliyahh @christinabae @bebesobrielo @biancasreign @myamericannightmare @partypoison00 @li-da-savage @luvrsluxe @tribalchief2112 @isabella-2025 @chasssssworld @wrestlingprincess80 @amethyst09 @luvrgirl4roman ♡

join my tag list here! ᥫ᭡

request a one-shot here! ❦

check out my twitter and tiktok! ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

follows, feedback, & reblogs appreciated! -`♡´-

[monro3-rambles]

Rainy day confessions

summary: you and tsukishima are walking home and it starts raining

It was one of those slow, golden afternoons where everything felt soft and still. You were walking beside Tsukishima, his schoolbag slung lazily over one shoulder, earphones tucked into his ears — though he’d offered you one, of course. Your pinky fingers brushed occasionally, and every time they did, he would glance at you from the corner of his eye, lips twitching slightly in amusement.

You’d just started to talk about something small — probably what Hinata did at practice again — when a single drop of rain landed on your cheek. Then another. And another. Within seconds, the sky turned gray, like it had been waiting for the exact moment when you were too far from any shelter to make a run for it.

“Ah—!” you squeaked, pulling your bag over your head.

Tsukishima clicked his tongue. “Typical.”

“Didn’t you check the weather?” you teased, trying to hop between dry patches on the sidewalk.

“I did,” he replied flatly, pulling his jacket zipper up halfway. “It said thirty percent chance. I took my chances.”

You looked at him, the raindrops already starting to stick to his blonde hair and his glasses slightly fogging up. “You’re getting soaked!”

He sighed, stopped walking, and without a word, he shrugged off his jacket — and tugged it over your shoulders.

Your eyes widened. “Tsukki—! You’re gonna freeze!”

“I’m tall,” he said, as if that explained everything. “I’ll live.”

You held the jacket close, the warmth of it — of him — immediately soaking into your skin. “You’re such a tsundere,” you muttered under your breath.

“What was that?” he asked, but you could hear the smile in his voice.

He leaned closer, ducking his head a bit so he could see your face under the jacket hood. You looked up, and for a second, the world felt quiet — even with the rain.

“I don’t hate walking in the rain,” he said suddenly. “Especially with you.”

You blinked. “Was that supposed to be… sweet?”

He rolled his eyes, but his cheeks were a bit pink. “Don’t ruin it.”

You both burst into quiet laughter, the kind that melted into the rhythm of your footsteps and the patter of rain on pavement. And even though you were still getting wet, somehow, it felt like the warmest walk home.

-----------

hoped you guys liked this!!!

[mountainrusing]

After being yelled at (somehow affectionately) by a frazzled Remus Lupin for approximately five hours, the Gryffindor common room was back in order, and Lily and James had returned from their romantic morning rendezvous, where they’d walked the grounds and smelled the ugly roses and fed each other tasteless breakfast as they picnicked on the soggy grass and snogged like vulgar sinners—

The end, then they died, and everyone would call them ‘Romeo and Juliet’ even though they weren’t really in love, more like overly infatuated with each other, and way too dramatised, and generally something that shouldn’t be romanticised. Really not the greatest love story in the world. Where had that notion even arisen from?

Although ‘R and J’ could be ‘Remus and James,’ and that would be the play to watch… Mary would write it… Remus would kill her… But secretly, he’d read it to himself every night, and that would be their life.

She’d watch him watch James, while she’d watch Lily, and one time, she’d asked him, “Does it ever feel like your heart’s too big for your ribcage?”

He’d stared at her, and with finality, he’d answered, “Yes.”

So it would always feel that way, when she looked at Lily while Lily looked at James. It was supposed to be that way.

They’d arrived, and Mary and Remus had stared for a second too long, while James bounded over to Sirius to gush about his top-secret present for Lily, leading him up the stairs to see if it was all in order for their afternoon date in Hogsmeade.

Lily smiled at Mary, joked, “Should I be overly enthusiastic about his gift too?”

Mary rolled her eyes, “We already know it’s better than anything he could give you.”

Suddenly, James came crashing down the stairs again, gaze snagging Remus as he rushed over to him, “You made reservations at Puddifoot’s for us?!” Grabbing Remus’s hands, he bounced them up and down, “You’re the best, I love Puddifoot’s! It’s incredibly underrated and over-hated, actually, the cupid paintings are so cute! Ma says that they look like me when I was a baby. Also, everything being pink is not ugly, people are just scared of how it represents ultimate bravery. Pa says that pink was the original colour for courage. And, I used to have tea parties with my parents all the time, they’re so fun, I had little teacups and everything!”

“Mhm,” Remus was nodding, up and down like a bobble-head, smiling as round as one too.

“Wait,” Peter asked, looking lost. “When you said us, you meant for you and Lily, right? Not for you and Remus…?”

Immediately, James let go of Remus’s hands, turning to face Peter and pushing his glasses up his nose, “Well, of course I meant Lily and I, we’re dating,” he added obviously. About Remus, he gestured without looking, “He booked it for us, though.”

Dropping one foot at a time without lifting it, Sirius plodded slowly and abruptly down the staircase, looking unimpressed, “Remus had the idea to book them. I was the one who paid.”

“Yeah, thanks,” James waved him off. “You have unlimited money and Remus has unlimited kindness, now, in comparison—”

Sirius ran at him, knocking him over as they both burst into laughter, wrestling as if they were extremely territorial predators, whose territories were apparently each other.

Lily huffed fondly, “My boyfriend and his many boyfriends.”

“Aw, babe,” Mary joked. “Don’t worry, you have many girlfriends too.”

“Me, me, me!” Marlene cheered. “And Emmeline, be Lily’s girlfriend!”

“...Consent not a thing anymore?” Emmeline suggested as Marlene roped her into a hug, all four of them.

“‘Course it’s a thing, those cool posters said so,” Marlene replied undoubtedly.

Over the tops of their heads, Lily met Mary’s eyes, smiling, and she mouthed, You’re making the world better.

— extract from

she’s Black, she’s Broken, she’s Beautiful

[callixpene]

L&DS Future Lifetime Series - PART 5: SYLUS & NYX - THE BEGINNING

Note: Please read Parts 1-4 before reading this!Unfortunately this fic cannot be read as a stand alone, as it needs context from the previous Parts.

READ HERE: MASTERLIST for PART 1-5

SYLUS & NYX - PART 5: THE BEGINNING

Sylus X OC

Set in Future Timeline. All Love Interests have no memories of their past lives. All of the MCs(5 Sisters) all have memories of their past lives. Very persistent LIs. Avoidant MCs. Love at first sight. Soulmates.

Genre: Fluff, Some Angst, Slightly Suggestive

It had been a week since Jasmine’s words unsettled something deep in Sylus—the kind of unrest that didn’t fade with time or distraction. Her advice still rang in his ears: Nyx doesn’t want someone to fight for her. She wants someone who will fight with her.

And Sylus had been thinking about it ever since.

He'd never been one for emotional reflection, but Nyx... she made him want to change that. Want to understand her. Want to earn her. Even if it killed his pride in the process.

So, he pulled the only card he knew she couldn't refuse: business.

“There's a clause in Onichynus' contract with Nexus Innovations that we need to smooth out,” he’d written in the message he had a staff member deliver to her. “It’s urgent. Face-to-face only. – Sylus.”

Now, he waited.

The executive suite at Nexus Innovations' Skyview Tower was sleek, cold, and strategically impersonal—the kind of place where serious deals were struck and emotions were checked at the door.

Sylus stood by the tall window, arms crossed behind his back, the city lights below gleaming like scattered diamonds against velvet. He'd sent that message two days ago. Claimed it was about their ongoing partnership, a discreet discussion only Nyx Kingsley could attend.

Truthfully, he just wanted to see her again. But this time, with no crowd, no theatrics—just her and him.

When the door opened, he didn’t turn immediately. He knew it was her.

“I was told this was urgent,” came Nyx’s voice, cool and clipped. “So what’s the emergency, Mr. Sylus?”

He turned then.

Sylus didn’t even try to hide the way his gaze traced her figure. “Well,” he said, voice velvet smooth. “Nexus really does send their finest.”

His Kitten always dressed like she was daring someone to let their guard down.

Nyx cocked a brow, unamused. “If you called me here just to undress me with your eyes, I suggest you save us both the trouble and use your imagination instead.”

He smirked. “I have. Repeatedly.”

She scoffed, arms crossing under her chest—intentionally or not, it only drew his eyes downward. “This better be about business, Mr. Sylus.”

“Oh, it is. My business with you, Kitten.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You really want to play this game again?”

He stepped closer, his voice dipping low. “What can I say? I like playing with fire.”

“And what if fire burns you?”

“I’ve been burned before. None of it compares to the way you scorched me that night.”

Her lips curled into a slight, dangerous smirk. “Poor baby. Still recovering from a few kisses?”

“No.” Sylus’ gaze softened, and just like that, the tension shifted. “I’m still recovering from everything you are. Your body didn’t lie, Kitten. And mine sure as hell didn’t either."

That caught her off guard. The air between them stilled.

"You're ridiculous,” she replied.

“Maybe.” Sylus leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “But I’ve been thinking about you. About... us.”

“There is no us,” she said quickly, too quickly.

He smiled faintly. “You keep saying that. But the way you kissed me at the party? The way you knew exactly how to touch me?” His voice dropped just slightly. “That didn’t feel like nothing.”

Sylus stepped back slightly, giving her space, but his voice remained sincere. “I didn’t call you here to seduce you.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I called you here… because I’m in love with you.”

Her playful facade wavered.

Her words died on her tongue.

He said it so plainly. No grand gesture, no dramatic flair. Just... honesty.

She blinked, scoffing lightly. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am. I was the moment I first saw you.”

She laughed once, dry and unimpressed. “You fell in love the moment you saw me for the first time, supplying you with guns at the Onichynus base? How poetic.”

“No,” Sylus said, stepping closer. “It wasn’t the dress. It was the fire in your eyes when you realized I was trouble. The way you challenged me with one look. I wanted all of you—your mind, your strength, your fury, your tenderness. I wanted the woman you fight so hard to protect from everyone else.”

Nyx’s jaw clenched. “Well, that woman doesn’t want to be wanted.”

“You keep saying that,” Sylus murmured. “But then you kissed me like you meant every second of it.”

“That was a mistake,” she snapped. “I don’t do emotions.....I don’t do love.”

“You're scared,” he said quietly. “And I get it now. Jasmine told me about the walls you’ve all built. You’ve carried so much on your own, haven’t you?”

Her eyes widened in surprise when he mentioned her sister's name, but she didn’t pry. She only huffed and put her palm in her face in frustration while silently muttering: "Jasmine....what are you doing..."

Sylus stepped even closer, his voice dropping to something almost reverent. “I want to stand beside you. Share the weight. If you’ll let me.”

For a long time, she said nothing.

Then: “You’re out of your mind.”

He smiled gently. “So I’ve been told.”

Nyx glanced down, fingers curling around her wrist like she needed something to hold onto. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“Maybe not,” he admitted. “But I’m still asking.”

Silence again. Then:

“You don’t get to just wear me down, Sylus. I won’t let you.”

“I’m not trying to wear you down,” he said. “I’m just trying to be honest with the only woman who’s ever made me feel like I wasn’t completely alone.”

Her breath hitched. That... that got through.

“I hate that you say things like that,” she murmured. “Like you actually mean them.”

He stepped closer—close enough to touch—but didn’t. “I do.”

Her walls trembled, but they didn’t fall. Not entirely. She looked at him, long and hard, before finally exhaling a shaky breath.

“One date.”

Sylus blinked. “What?”

“I’ll give you one date,” she said, brushing a stray hair from her cheek. “Business dinner. Neutral ground. If you mess it up... that’s it.”

For a moment, he just stared. Then a slow, uncontainable smile spread across his face. “One date,” he repeated, almost reverently. “You got it, Kitten.”

“Call me that again and I’ll cancel it.”

“Understood, Miss Kingsley.” Sylus chuckled internally. He would make sure that after that date, Nyx would permit him to call her that again.

She turned to leave, but paused at the door. “Don’t be late.”

He waited until the door shut behind her before letting out a quiet, breathless laugh.

As the door shut behind her, Sylus stood still, basking in the quiet triumph flooding his chest.

He finally had a sliver of her.

And Gods help him, he was already hopelessly in love.

Thank you for reading💜🩵🩷🧡❤️

Please comment what you think of this series so far 😁🫶

[bloodtwin]

──────────────────────────────

Anonymous sent: Myshka has arrived!! *sits in puck's lap* "Mermer."

──────────────────────────────

Oh, yikes. It's not that Puck doesn't like cats. He loves cats, but they don't normally love him. He doesn't blame them. Cats are smart creatures; they can likely tell he's not one to be trifled with. Perhaps they see their own fickle nature reflected back at them, and it turns them away. Or he scares them. Whatever the reason, Puck tends to admire them from a distance rather than up-close.

So, to have one in his lap like this ⸻ so trusting, so vulnerable & exposed ⸻ he almost PANICS. Tenses, hands awkwardly hovering in the air because he doesn't know where to put them.

Cats are soft & squishy little things. Too squishy. Too adorable. So small in comparison to his hands. They remind him of someone. The truth is, he has something of a dog-like reaction to them, as he is wont to do. He either wants to PLAY with them or he wants to EAT THEM. If he's around a cat for too long, he always gets the urge to squeeze them until they ⸻

. . . Mermer ？

Puck blinks. It takes him a second to decipher the accent, but then the meaning of the word is clear. This cat thinks he's its mother. Oh. Oh, that is so cute. His heart swells, and he can't help but reach out to stroke Myshka's fur, tentative & mindful of his claws. With a gentle laugh, he says, ❝ Silly kitty. I'm not ⸻ ❞

Um. Why Is His Tail Wagging. Probably just because it's cute. Nothing to do with the idea of being perceived as a MATERNAL FIGURE for a FELINE. That would be weird, right ？He's not a cat. He's not even a woman. He can't be a cat's mother. This is ridiculous.

But Puck can't seem to hear his own thoughts as he scoops Myshka up into his arms like one would cradle a baby, holding him close. ❝ Hello, my son. ❞

[fisheito]

@halfetirosie @fallencelsetial Reply that makes me cheerfully repeat it outloud . then Reply that makes me instantly drop my smile

[umilily]

i've been here for less than 2 days and i'm already exhausted by this household.

[rosetintedgunman]

@eighthjuror - Continued from here

-

Phantom's irritation didn't appear to faze the trespasser. In fact, Wilford had crouched down so he could adjust a sparkler. It was letting off pale red sparks. It worked wonderfully with the glitter!

"If I was on th' other side of th' counter, I wouldn't be able ta reach th' stuff," answered Wilford in a matter-of-fact tone. "Besides, there's only so much pullin' pints an' makin' gin and tonics a fella can do. An' anyway -" He lifted the glass so he could compare the drink to the actual owner of the bar, "- it suits ya. Bit more colour makes th' world a lot better."

[byanyan]

once a thread gets bumped off the first page of my drafts, i completely lose track of it and i hate that sm...

[bibleofficial]

i loveee the ‘no response is a response’ bitches 😭😭 like oh u think just bc ur not replying its u conveying ur lack of interest ? well i THINK ur just not RECEIVING my messages, so i’ll send more ❤️

[kaiist]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 ⋯ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐂𝐂𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐈𝐒

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑

The soft melody from his expensive royal-looking piano had drawn you in. Xavier was elsewhere in the living room, probably asleep. You couldn’t resist pressing a few keys, trying to recreate the tune he’d played yesterday. As you leaned over to reach a higher note, your sleeve caught on several keys, and with a sickening crack, they snapped loose.

Your hands flew to your mouth. Three keys hung at awkward angles, completely broken from their moorings. The room suddenly felt too small, your heart pounding as tears welled in your eyes.

You heard his footsteps before you saw him in the doorway. His eyes widened slightly at your tears.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurted. “I was just—I didn’t mean to—” You couldn’t finish the sentence as your voice cracked.

“Why are you crying?” he asked. He walk towards you, then knelt beside you, hands gentle as he took the broken piano keys from your trembling fingers.

“The piano...” you managed. “I broke it... I’ll pay for repairs, I promise...” you stammered, wiping at your eyes.

Xavier glanced at the damaged instrument, then back to you. A small smile formed at the corners of his mouth as he sat beside you.

“It was an accident,” he said simply, brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb, his warm palm cupping your face. His touch lingered there, gentle and reassuring.

“But it’s your piano,” you insisted.

“The keys were already weak,” he replied with a slight shrug. “It’s already old, and I’ve been meaning to replace it.”

When you still looked uncertain, he added, “I don’t want you to be upset. Things break, and it’s okay.”

The way he said it—so matter-of-fact yet somehow gentle—made you feel like the broken piano truly was insignificant to him. In Xavier’s quiet, straightforward way, he’d made it clear that your distress concerned him far more than any damaged items.

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

The hospital had called Zayne in for emergency surgeries three nights in a row. When you woke up early on his rare day off and found him already at his desk in the home office, surrounded by patient reports, you decided breakfast was in order.

You pushed the door open with your hip, balancing a tray with coffee and toast, just as Zayne reached for a folder. Your foot caught on the edge of his rug, and before you could regain balance, hot coffee splashed across his desk—directly onto the stack of patient reports he’d brought home. Dark liquid seeped into what looked like hours of meticulous work.

“I’m so sorry!” Your voice pitched higher with panic, ignoring the stinging pain on your palms. “Zayne, I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean—” Your hands shook as you tried to salvage the papers, only smearing them further.

Zayne stood immediately, his chair rolling back. The stern lines of his face were there, but not directed at you.

“Stop,” he said firmly, holding your hands away, and taking the tray from your shaking hands and setting it aside before you dropped it too. “Leave the papers.”

Tears welled up despite your efforts. “Your reports, all your work... I just—I just ruined your day off... I’m really sorry…”

Zayne set the papers aside and surprised you by taking your warm hands in his, turning them over to examine your skin.

“Did you burn yourself?” he asked, his voice soft.

You shook your head.

“Good.” He guided you to sit in his chair. “These are just copies. I can print them again.”

“But—”

“No ‘but.’” His thumb stroked across your knuckles, a small gesture of affection that contrasted with his authoritative tone. “I keep digital backups of everything, so don’t worry. And don’t feel bad about an accident you couldn’t control.”

He leaned down, pressing a brief kiss to your forehead, then reached for his phone.

“The reports can wait. Let’s order some breakfast, and I’ll get us something to heal your palms.”

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

The afternoon sunlight streamed through Rafayel’s studio windows, casting a golden glow across his workspace. You’d come to surprise him with lunch since he often forgot to eat when absorbed in his art.

As you walked between tables covered with half-finished projects, your bag caught on something. You turned to see a delicate sculpture teetering on its pedestal—a twisted form of glass and clay that Rafayel had spent weeks perfecting. Your heart stopped as it fell, shattering against the floor with a sound that seemed to echo forever.

“Oh…! No, no, no,” you whispered, dropping to your knees. Your fingers trembled as you tried to gather the larger pieces, tears blurring your vision.

“What happened? I heard—” Rafayel’s voice cut off as he entered the studio. You looked up, seeing his expression shift as he took in the scene.

“Rafayel, I’m so sorry,” your voice broke as you continued frantically collecting shards. “I can find someone who can repair it, or—”

“Hey, hey, stop!” He crossed the room quickly, kneeling beside you. “Leave it. You’ll cut yourself.”

When you continued reaching for a particularly sharp piece, he gently captured your hands.

“Your art…” you said, tears now falling freely. “I broke it...”

“It’s just clay and glass,” he said, pulling you away from the broken pieces and into his arms. “I can make another whenever I want.”

“But this one was special—”

“Not as special as you are to me.” Rafayel’s arms tightened around you as he rested his chin on top of your head. “You’re going to hurt yourself on these pieces,” he whispered. He rocked you gently until your breathing steadied, then pulled back to wipe your tears with his thumb.

“Besides,” he added casually, “now I have an excuse to try that new technique I’ve been thinking about. I’ve been wanting to replace that one with something new anyway. Do you wanna see, cutie?”

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

The wind through your hair, the purr of the engine between your legs—there was nothing like late-night rides on Sylus’s custom motorcycle. He’d let you borrow it occasionally, knowing how much you loved the freedom it gave you.

The evening ride had been your idea. “Just around the perimeter,” you’d suggested, and Sylus had agreed because honestly—what wouldn’t he do for you?

You didn’t see the oil slick until the bike suddenly skidded, then tumbled, throwing you clear but scraping across the pavement with a horrible screech of metal on asphalt. Pain shot through your arm as you landed hard.

He swore he’d never been so scared before. He just ditched his motorcycle and was at your side in an instant, his typically composed face taut with an emotion you rarely saw—fear.

“Don’t move,” he ordered, kneeling beside you, hands hovering as if afraid to touch you. “Where does it hurt?”

“The motorcycle—” you managed, tears forming as you looked at the mangled vehicle. Half the custom bodywork was destroyed, the handlebars twisted beyond recognition. “I’m so sorry—I’ll pay—I’ll—”

“Forget the motorcycle,” he snapped, voice sharp but hands gentle as they examined your scraped arm. He was mad at himself for letting the situation even happen.

You’d never seen him this shaken—Sylus, who always had a plan, who always remained calm and controlled.

“I shouldn’t have—” he cut himself off with a sigh before carefully helping you sit up. His fingers brushed your face, wiping away tears and examining you for injuries with tenderness. “I’m just glad the feisty kitten is all okay.” Sylus’s expression shifted to relief, though concern still lined his eyes.

“I’m sorry it got wrecked…” you whispered again.

“I have others,” he said dismissively. “Stop thinking about it.”

When he helped you to your feet, he kept his arm firmly around you, as if afraid you might vanish if he let go. The destroyed motorcycle lay forgotten on the road behind you as he carried you away to his own.

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

The storage room in Caleb’s work room was cluttered with mementos from his piloting days. You were searching for an old photo album when your elbow knocked against something on a high shelf.

You turned just in time to see the model spacecraft—the intricate replica of Caleb’s first fighter that you’d given him last year—tumble and crash onto the floor. Pieces scattered everywhere, the delicate wings and engines breaking apart on impact.

Panic seized your chest as you dropped to your knees. Caleb had spent two days putting it together; you remembered how his face lit up with boyish excitement when you’d presented it to him. Now it lay in ruins.

Frantically, you gathered pieces, trying to fit them back together, but your shaking hands only made things worse. You were so focused on your desperate repair attempt that you didn’t hear the door open.

“Hey, what are you doing in—” Caleb’s voice cut off abruptly.

You looked up to see him staring at the broken model, he looked surprised but his gaze softened when your eyes met, and tears welled in yours as you held broken pieces in your trembling hands.

“I’m sorry…” you whispered, voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to—”

Before you could say more, he was on the floor beside you, pulling you on his lap, into a tight embrace. His arms were firm around you.

“Hey, hey, hey… it’s okay. It’s just a model,” he murmured against your hair, his voice steady and reassuring.

“But you worked so hard on it...”

He pulled back slightly, brushing tears from your face with a gentle thumb. His smile alone radiates comfort as he looks at you.

“Then we’ll build a new one together,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “And I bet we can make this one even better.” He looked down at the pieces scattered around you both. “Maybe add some modifications here and there, what do you think?”

His warm laughter finally broke through your guilt, and he held you close as if the broken model was the furthest thing from his mind.

Based on this request.

[dollyfetti]

“do you think we’re soulmates?”

“i don’t believe in that shit.” katsuki’s hand tangles in your messy hair sprawled against the pillow he fought you over and ultimately gave to you with a small roll of his eyes.

you huff against his chest, frowning at his words. “you don’t think we were meant to be?”

“hell no.” he grins almost a little mockingly

“why not..?” you mutter, thankful your face is out of his sight because your disappointed expression is really quite laughable.

it’s silent for a long moment, and in the dark room, you assume he fell asleep. you sigh, cautiously readjusting your position to be more comfortable as you shut your eyes, ready to sleep.

that is until his hand drops from your hair onto your arm, rubbing small circles. “i don’t think i’m meant to be with anyone.” he whispers, staring up at his ceiling, still covered in glow in the dark stars from when he was a kid. “i think i just got lucky.”

you keep your eyes closed, half asleep as you respond immediately, “well, i don’t believe in luck. everything happens for a reason, suki.”

“that’s your prerogative, i guess.” he hums, his motions slowing down against your arm, resting there lazily.

“mm,” you wrap your arms around his torso, your cheek smushing against his chest.

another long moment passes, and katsuki’s still staring at the ceiling, lost in thought.

“you asleep?” he murmurs, careful not to wake you if you are.

“no, baby.”

he nods to himself, leaning down to plant a kiss on your head. “okay. i love you. thank you.” he whispers before resting back on his bed and shutting his eyes.

“thank you for what?” you reply, smiling softly at his affection.

he shrugs lightly before sleep takes over him, his arms engulfed around you without another word.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Oh please, please, please something short, funny with 141 where their wife calls them on their way home from work “yea, I think I’m having contractions!” And by the time they rush home, she’s sitting in the bath tub with their new baby. And she’s all casual like ‘Hey! Look at this cool thing I’ve got!’ And it’s their baby.

(My Grandmother had this happen! Each kid under an hour. My grandfather nearly had a heart attack! He’d always hesitate to leave her alone. Suspicious she was ‘purposefully’ going into labor when he wasn’t there to help her. Lol…)

Okay, that is so funny and adorable! Hehe, omg, I love this. Dad!141 is my favorite. I love writing them as fathers or as potential fathers. And this prompt is just an excuse to do that! Thank you so much for sending it in. Enjoy!!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (MDNI): married life, pregnancy, childbirth, domestic fluff, swearing, humor

Word Count: 2.1k

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if series

John Price

Price rubs at his temple, releasing a deep sigh.

It’s late. The base is nearly empty. Another late night filled with paperwork.

His phone buzzes, the cellular device vibrating on the desk. Price reaches for it, checking the screen. It’s you calling him, and his stomach flips.

“Cabbage,” he greets with a smile, answering the phone.

You’re pregnant, due date just a week or two away. Price doesn’t like leaving you home alone, but this is the last push. After tonight, he can come home early.

“John?”

His name is a question. There’s a hint of worry—of nervousness—and Price immediately picks up on it.

“Everything okay, love?” he asks, slowly standing, paperwork suddenly forgotten.

“John. I—I think—”

“What’s wrong?”

“I think I’m having contractions.”

By the time the words leave your mouth, Price is already grabbing his coat. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.” He swallows, pushing down his own anxiety, smothering it so he can be strong for you. “Stay on the phone with me. I’m coming home.”

On the other end of the line, you breathe heavily. Each whimper worries him.

“John,” you gasp, voice strangled as he throws himself into his car and turns it on.

 “I know. I know. I’m coming.”

Price is doing his best to stay calm, to stay alert as he drives off base and heads for home, but all he can focus is on you.

“Keep talking to me, love,” he says, attempting to sound encouraging.

“Okay,” you reply, but then go quiet.

 “Cabbage?”

When you don’t answer him, Price uses your name. Nothing. No sound at all as if the line’s gone dead.

“Shit,” he mutters, holding the phone out to check.

Call Dropped.

“Fucking shit,” he says, louder.

Price continues to dial—continues to call. Every time, he expects you to pick up, but you never do. The worry grows, becoming deafening as the seconds tick by. Traffic laws are broken, but it gets him home faster.

He’s throwing himself out of the car, dashing to the house, not caring if he forgot to put the vehicle in park. In the front entryway, he calls out to you, using your name.

There is no response.

 “Fuck,” he whispers as he dashes up the stairs, heading for the bedroom. He enters, and it’s—

Empty.

“Where are you?” he breathes, turning away to check the rest of the house.

But then Price hears your voice, soft and soothing. Frowning, he checks the bedroom again, only to head toward the bathroom.

You’re sitting on the floor, back pressed against the tub. There’s blood and a fluid Price doesn’t recognize smearing the floor between your legs.

You glance up. Smile. “Hi,” you laugh as Price drops to his knees beside you.

There’s a baby in your arms. Its hands are tight fists, face pinched like it’s annoyed to be here.

“No wonder you didn’t answer the phone,” sighs Price, placing his hand against yours that cradles the infant’s head.

“A bit busy,” you chuckle.

Price laughs with you, taking his phone out his jacket pocket to dial the hospital.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“I’m not leaving.”

“It’s fine, Simon. Really.”

Simon crosses his arms over his chest. “The last time I left you this close to your due date, you gave birth while I wasn’t here.”

You dismiss him with a wave of your hand. “That’s not going to happen again.”

“It might,” he growls.

“It won’t,” you insist.

As you start to walk away, Simon blocks your path. “You’ve been complaining about your lower back all morning.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes. “I always complain about my lower back.” Simon begins to object but you continue on. “And we need milk. And eggs. And bread.”

“Fine,” mutters Simon. “Fine. I’ll go. But you call me immediately if anything happens.”

 “Okay, dad,” you reply, mocking him.

Simon drapes his arm over your shoulders, pulling you in to kiss the top of your head. “Pumpkin,” he replies, and you hear the smile in it.

“The sooner you go the sooner you’ll be back. You can worry and fuss over me all you want then.”

Simon pulls you in for another kiss before heading out the door. The trip to the store isn’t peaceful. In the back of his mind, Simon stews, a little voice telling him that you’re going to call him any second and tell him you’re in labor. That’s what happened with your first, and Simon came home after you’d given birth.

He was devasted. Upset. Not with you—never with you. He was upset with himself for not being there to support you through it. To hold your hand. To encourage and shower you with love.

Simon is standing in line at the meat counter when you call him.

“Don’t be angry,” you say when he answers the phone.

“Are you having contractions?”

“…Yes.”

“Goddamn it.”

Simon abandons the shopping trolley, apologizing to the workers as he rushes out the door and to the car. When he enters the house, he hears your labored cry. Dashing up the stairs, Simon enters the bathroom at the same moment you cry out, clearly pushing. You’re on your hands and knees, sweat beads your brow, hair sticking to your face.

He dives to his knees, arms outstretched and reaching beneath you as the baby’s head emerges.

“I’m here,” Simon says, keeping his voice calm and soothing.

You start crying, head tilting to lean against his shoulder.

Another push, and then the rest of the baby is out and in Simon’s hands. The infant is silent at first, then releases a cry of displeasure.

“Bloody hell,” exhales Simon, “I’m never leaving you alone again.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

I’m having contractions, reads the text.

Johnny’s mouth drops open, gaze growing distant.

You’re having contractions. You’re having contractions, and he is on the other side of the city. With traffic, he’s likely an entire hour away from you.

“Soap?” asks Gaz, waving his hand in front of Johnny’s face.

“I have to go,” says Johnny quickly, shooting up from his chair, almost knocking it over.

Gaz and Ghost both stand abruptly, clearly startled by Johnny’s sudden panic.

“Everything good?” asks Ghost.

Johnny shakes his head. “The missus is having contractions.”

“Oh,” replies Gaz, eyes growing a bit wide. “Damn. Go. You should go.”

“We’ll cover your tab,” adds Ghost.

Johnny groans. “Her due date isn’t for another bloody week.” He grabs his jacket.

“You’re going to be a father, Soap,” chuckles Ghost, punching him in the shoulder.

“Fuck. What if she has it while I’m not there?”

“Don’t these things take forever anyway?” muses Ghost. “Contractions don’t mean anything. Right?” He glances at Gaz.

Gaz shrugs. “I think you should worry if it’s close together.” Gaz holds his hands close to indicate the lack of time.

“Shit,” mutters Johnny, tapping away at his phone.

Are they close together?

It’s a few seconds and then the three little circles pop up, indicating that you’re typing back.

They’re close. A few minutes apart. I’m on the phone with the midwife.

“Oh fuck,” mutters Johnny, elongating the vowel as he tugs on his jacket.

Gaz grimaces. “It’ll be fine,” he tries to reassure as Johnny rushes past him. “Congrats!”

Johnny hardly hears him, he’s too focused on getting to the car. Every second is agony—not knowing what’s happening while he’s driving. When he pulls up to the house almost an hour later, there’s a car Johnny doesn’t recognize in the drive.

As bursts through the door, he hears calming music. Rushing forward into the living room, he finds you on the floor, wrapped up in a blanket, propped up by a nest of pillows. The midwife putters about as you gently rock back and forth, cradling an infant in your arms.

You glance up. “Look,” you laugh, lifting the infant that you’ve just birthed, presenting it like you’ve completed a fun DIY craft project.

Johnny almost faints.

“Oh, babe,” he exhales. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The midwife makes a sound of annoyed agreement and Johnny winces.

“It’s okay,” you murmur. “She came quickly.”

“I should have been here,” he groans, sliding to the floor next to you, draping an arm over your shoulders.

You lean into him. “You’re here now,” you sigh, eyes closing as you snuggle against him.

Johnny looks to the midwife, and she smiles at him—a reassurance. You’re fine, and so is his daughter.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Kyle’s phone vibrates in his pocket. Ignoring it, Kyle keeps his attention on Captain Price, focusing on the briefing for the upcoming mission. The phone goes silent. Seconds later, it starts up again. Frowning, Kyle reaches into his pocket, sliding out the phone just enough to see the screen. Your name and picture appear on the screen, your smile bright and lovely.

“Need to answer that?”

Kyle’s head snaps up at the sound of Captain Price’s voice.

“Sorry, Captain. It’s the missus.”

Price inclines his head, the middle of his brow creasing slightly. “It’s she pregnant?”

“She is,” affirms Kyle.

“Then you should answer it.”

Kyle gives him, Ghost, and Soap a brief nod. “Excuse me,” he mutters, standing and heading for the door.

When the meeting room door slams shut, the phone starts up again.

Kyle answers, his words falling from his mouth quickly, sounding like one solid word instead of several. “What’s going on, love?”

“I’m having contractions.”

You sound panicked.

 “You’re—are you sure?”

“Pretty sure,” you gasp. “Water broke earlier—"

Kyle’s voice rises slightly. “Your water broke and you didn’t call me?”

“I wasn’t feeling anything,” you reply, as if that makes it okay. “But now, it’s constant.” Your sigh is labored. Tired. “They’ve come on so suddenly, Kyle. I’m sorry.”

“No. No, love. Don’t apologize.” You have nothing to be sorry for. He’s just happy you called. “I’m coming home. Right now.”

“But you have that meeting. You can’t—”

“I’m coming home,” he reiterates. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Hang in there, dove. I’ll be there soon.” Kyle disconnects the call and bursts through the meeting room doors. “It’s happening,” he announces.

Soap blinks, confused. “What’s happening?”

Ghost side-eyes him. “He’s about to become a dad.”

“Fucking shit. Really?” Soap turns to Kyle, beaming. “Congrats.”

Price crosses his arms over his chest, a look of pride on his face. “Go, Sergeant.”

Kyle nods, giving a half-wave as he backs out through the toward, heading toward the parking lot. He’s practically running—rushing to turn the car on. Taking off, Kyle hardly cares if he hits anything, and he doesn’t blink when breaking nearly a dozen traffic laws.

He makes it home in half the time he usually does. Every second counts. Every moment important. If the contractions are coming quickly and close together, it means the baby is ready, and he needs to get you to the hospital.

As he enters the front door, he calls out to you. Your answer comes, but it’s distant. Upstairs. Kyle takes the stairs two at a time, walking into the bedroom to find it empty. But the bathroom light is on.

A few steps, and he pushes open the door.

You’re not standing at the sink putting on your makeup or getting ready to leave. You sit inside the shower on the tile floor, the glass door wide open, pantless, and cradling an infant in your arms.

“Shit,” he breathes, moving forward. “Shit.” Kyle crouches just outside the shower door.

You grin sheepishly, lifting the baby like it’s an accident. “She came minutes after I got off the phone with you.”

“Oh, bloody hell, love,” laughs Kyle.

There are tears in your eyes, but you’re smiling. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Don’t be, my love.” Reaching out, he grasps the back of your neck. Leaning in, he presses his lips to your forehead. “She’s beautiful.”

taglist:

@glitterypirateduck @suhmie @z-wantstowrite @kylies-love-letter @keiva1000

@iloveslasher @ravenpoe67 @sadlonelybagel @nishim @arrozyfrijoles23

@voids-universe @itsberrydreemurstuff @sageyxbabey @glassgulls @miaraei

@weasleytwins-41 @eternallyvenus @chaostwinsofdestruction @cherryofdeath @ninman82

@fern-reads @waves-against-a-cliff @beebeechaos @smileykiddie08 @whisperwispxx

@jianyi22 @sethell @atpeacee @konigssweatyhood @dreamingoftomorrow

@katerinaval @morguethemagpie @galactict3a @sarah-the-bird-nerd @mikachu-bitez

@unclearblur @kurochan3 @sans-chara @all-by-myself98 @hisuccubus

@km-ffluv @thriving-n-jiving @carbonnite-copy @sobbangchan @codeseven

@youre-a-wallflower-charlie