#starting with family seems like the way to go | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

daryltwdixon · 3 days ago

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Summary: Cracks begin to show in the life you were building with the Miller brothers, the weight of the third trimester pressing down as Tommy lashes out in a way you didn’t see coming. Seeking comfort and clarity, you leave with Joel—where tension, tenderness, and long-buried feelings finally surface behind closed doors.

|| smut MDNI 18+, arguing, Tommy is an ass, pinv, fingering, pregnancy kink?, dirty talk obvi, breeding kink, possessive joel, some longing and angst, no outbreak, they still cant f'ing communicate ||

notes: I promise I actually like tommy in the show / game lmao. sorry this took me so long! was traveling to see family and literally had no downtime. enjoy!!!

The nursery was only half finished.

The bassinet was still in its box, unopened, up against the wall. Paint cans were stacked in the corner, samples painted haphazardly on the walls that had been dried for weeks. It was like dust had settled over everything—over the plans, the promises, the parts that were supposed to come next.

You sat in the recliner, the one meant for late-night feedings and early-morning lullabies. One hand rested on your belly, your thumb moving in slow, steady circles— something to do, to keep your breath even.

You were supposed to be building the crib today. Joel had followed Tommy home from the job site, both of their boots still dirty with sawdust, just to make it in time. They’d barely stepped inside before it was clear something was wrong.

Tommy stood by the window, arms crossed so tightly across his chest it looked like he might splinter from the pressure. His jaw was locked, shoulders coiled. Joel mirrored him from the doorway—hands tucked under his arms, weight leaned against the frame like he wasn’t sure if he should stay or go.

Whatever was between them wasn’t being said, but you felt it all the same. Thick in the air, pressing down like humidity before a storm. Crawling across your skin, making you itch in places you couldn’t reach.

It had started weeks ago. Subtle, at first. Tommy pulling away in small, quiet ways—forgetting appointments, brushing past you with less warmth, keeping his kisses chaste and short. The bigger your belly got, the more he seemed to disappear.

Maybe now that it was real—your body changing more by the day, the shape of this future becoming something tangible—he was seeing it differently. Maybe he was seeing you differently.

You hadn’t wanted to believe it at first. Maybe it was nerves. Maybe it was stress. But as your due date crept closer, it became harder to ignore. He barely touched the baby clothes, the packages that came for the nursery. Or you.

Something had cracked, and no one wanted to look at the pieces. Now, whatever this was—this silence, this standoff—it felt like the final leak in a dam. Like the whole thing was about to burst open.

You tried to ease the pressure. Something small. Something safe.

“Have either of you thought more about names?” your voice came out lighter than it should. Like a peace offering. “We should probably decide before he gets here.”

Tommy didn’t even look at you. “You mean you and Joel should decide.”

You exhaled. Of course.

“Tommy… you’ve been avoiding every conversation about the baby lately,” you said gently. “For weeks. Can’t you just…talk to us? To me?”

“Maybe that’s because every time we talk,” he snapped, “I’m the one who’s unreasonable. I’m the one who’s supposed to suck it up and smile.”

“You are being unreasonable,” you said, too fast, too sharp. Then, softer—more careful. “You keep shutting Joel out of everything. You won’t let him have a say in any of the decisions or plans. He’s supposed to be part of this.”

Tommy laughed—a short, humorless bark. “He was part of this. We needed him to help. That’s what this was. A favor. You and me—we were gonna raise this baby. He’s not—” he shook his head, letting the end of his sentence hang between the three of you.

You rose from the chair slowly, pressing your palm into the armrest as you shifted your weight, the other hand supporting your swollen belly. Joel moved instinctively, ready to help, but you lifted a hand without looking at him. I’m fine.

Your knees ached. Your back pulled. The baby shifted under your ribs, like he knew something was wrong.

You crossed the room, stopping just a few feet from your husband. “Tommy,” you said, voice calm but full, “we agreed he would be part of this. We agreed to try it this way. We’re supposed to be a team. He’s not just some uncle. He’s the baby’s—”

“Don’t fucking say it.”

His voice cracked halfway through the word, and for a second you saw it. The grief. The way it was wrapped around his anger like barbed wire.

Joel pushed off the doorway. “Then what the hell am I, Tommy?” His voice was calm, but there was steel under it. “What, just a stud you called in when things didn’t go your way? You think I’m gonna stand here and act like none of this matters?”

Tommy scoffed as he looked at his brother. “You think it does matter? What—you catch feelings after a couple fucks and now you think she’s yours?”

Your heart lurched at the venom in his words. Joel stepped even closer, his voice low and even and deadly calm.

“I think I was there when she couldn’t stop throwing up for three days straight. I think I was the one bringing her crackers and Pedialyte at two in the goddamn morning. And where the hell were you? Out with Frank again?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just kept his eyes locked on his brother.

“I was there when she had those dizzy spells. When she got scared something was wrong. When she cried through the whole damn glucose test because you were too busy to answer your phone.”

He stepped forward in front of you. Steady. Final. “So yeah. I think I’ve earned the right to stand here. And I think you better watch your damn mouth when you talk about her like that.”

You stood frozen, heart in your throat, Joel’s words echoing louder than the silence that followed. You hadn’t expected him to speak—not like that. Not so plainly.

But maybe what scared you more was how much it meant to hear someone fight for you.

And then Tommy looked at Joel. Really looked at him. “Tell me the truth. You wanted her the whole time, didn’t you?”

Joel’s voice was tight. “That’s not fair.”

“Answer me.”

Joel looked down, breathed once, then met his brother’s eyes. “It didn’t start like that.”

“But it is like that now, huh?” Tommy’s voice broke. “You think you can just stand in my house, in my life, and pretend this is yours now?”

Joel’s voice cut in, sharp. “That’s enough.”

Tommy shook his head, face red. “Get the hell out of my house.”

“I’m not leavin’ her,” Joel said. “Not when you’re actin’ like this.”

“You don’t get to—”

“She’s pregnant,” Joel bit out, stepping into Tommy's space. “And you’re standing here yelling like she hasn’t been carryin’ all this on alone for weeks.”

“Alone?!” Tommy exploded—but you stepped between them before either could say another word.

“He’s right.” Your voice wavered, but it didn’t break. “That’s enough.”

You pressed a finger into Tommy’s chest, trembling with everything you hadn’t said.

“You’re the one who asked for this, Tommy. You’re the one who said you could handle it. And now you want to punish me–what? For trying to make this work even when you barely look at me anymore? I’m trying, Tommy.” You shook your head, blinking back tears. “Don’t rewrite this like I betrayed you. I already took the blame for my mistakes. We moved forward, we agreed this would be the three of us.”

Tommy stared at you like he didn’t recognize you.

“You want him here?” he asked, voice hollow. “Playin’ daddy, picking names for our baby in our house? Fine. But don’t act like I’m crazy for wanting my wife back.”

He didn’t stop when you called his name. He turned, shoved past Joel—hard enough to make it known—and stormed out.

The door slammed.

And just like that, the nursery was silent again.

Before

Joel never had a party phase.

He never did the college thing. No keg stands, no spring breaks, no waking up in someone else's dorm bed not remembering how he got there. Never packed into a room with three roommates and a GameCube. By the time most guys his age were skipping class and shotgunning beers, he was knee-deep in diapers and formula receipts.

He graduated high school, married his pregnant girlfriend, and tried to do the right thing. And within a year, Sarah was born—and Jess was gone. Real gone. Not a slow unravel. More like a door slamming and a trail of dust behind her.

He told himself she was never meant to be a mom. Hell, they were both still just kids at the time.

But that didn’t make it right. Didn’t make it easier, either. She left the baby. Left him. Just checked out and never looked back.

So when one of Tommy’s friends invited them to some frat party, Joel didn’t see the point. He tried to beg off, mumbled something about Sarah needing him, even as valid as that was. But Tommy had already lined up a sitter and wasn’t about to let him off the hook.

“You need a night, man,” he’d said. “Just one damn night to remember what it’s like to have a pulse.”

So Joel went.

And now, he stood just inside the front door of a house packed with strangers, wondering what the hell he was doing here.

The place smelled like beer, sweat, cheap cologne, and microwave pizza. Every surface was sticky. A girl brushed past him, laughing too loud, perfume trailing behind her like cotton candy and alcohol. Guys with shaggy hair and flip-flops shouted over the blare of some terrible pop track, slapping each other on the backs like they’d just survived war.

Joel felt old. Not in years. In miles.

These kids weren’t that much younger than him, technically. But they weren’t people who'd held a screaming newborn at 3 a.m. They weren’t worried about overdue bills or busted radiators. These were the types who’d call home if they overdrew their account and had money wired to them in an hour.

He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and slipped through the crowd, trying not to bump into anyone. A couple was making out against the fridge in the kitchen as he grabbed a red solo cup of beer. Someone was throwing up in the sink. There were Doritos crushed under his boots.

He needed air.

The back door stuck a little when he pushed it open. He stepped onto the porch, the screen door slapping shut behind him with a squeal. Out here, it was quieter. Cooler. The music still thudded through the house like a pulse, but it was distant now—muted by the walls and the steady hum of crickets in the yard.

A few people lingered at the far end of the porch, passing a joint back and forth, slouched on the railing and talking low. One guy stood off to the side with a cigarette between his fingers.

Joel walked over, nodding once.

“Hey,” he said, voice low. “Can I bum one?”

The guy didn’t say anything, just held out the pack and a lighter.

Joel took both. Lit the cigarette and handed them back with a quiet thanks.

He hadn’t smoked since Jess told him she was pregnant. He quit cold turkey that day—barely even missed it. But tonight? He needed something to bite back the tightness in his chest. Something to ground him. He’d shower the second he got home anyway, throw his clothes straight in the wash before checking on his sleeping toddler.

God, he wished he was already there.

The smoke burned a little as it hit the back of his throat. He exhaled slow, watching it curl up into the porch light.

Time passed. People wandered back inside. The weed-smokers disappeared. The porch emptied out until it was just him.

Joel leaned against the railing and let his shoulders drop. He pulled out his old blocky cellphone, flipped it open with a quiet snap. No missed calls from the babysitter. No voicemails.

He stared at the screen a second longer than he needed to. Just making sure.

He almost wished there was something. A reason to leave. A reason to get the hell outta here and go home. But everything seemed fine. He closed the phone and slipped it back into his pocket, jaw tightening as he took another drag of the cigarette between his fingers.

Just as he was settling into the quiet, the back door creaked open again. He didn’t look to see who it was, just figured it was some more potheads needing to get their fix. But he was surprised when he looked up, that his sudden gravitational pull felt off balance.

You stepped outside, fingers gripping the neck of a beer bottle, bringing it to your lips that shined in the moonlight from whatever gloss you had swiped across them tonight. Your black tank top clung to every inch of your chest and your mid-drift peeked below until your jeans that hung low on your hips, hugged you perfectly.

When you made your way out onto the porch, you looked like you didn’t owe the world shit, that you didn’t give a shit if anyone noticed you. But he noticed you. Everyone probably did.

Joel couldn’t stop staring.

When your eyes met his, it was like the world blinked. Just a beat—long enough to catch, short enough to question. And then you didn’t look away.

You tilted your head, your eyes glancing down at the beer and cigarette in his hand.

“That cheap stuff tastes like shit,” you said, “Like it came outta someone’s shoe. You’re better off with the good stuff.” you dangled your beer bottle up, shaking it just a little to show off you weren’t drinking from the keg.

“Not really one to drink it for the taste,” Joel said. You moved forward with a small smile.

“Mind if I take a hit off that?” you said smoothly, pointing to the cigarette.

He handed it to you wordlessly, and watched, entranced despite himself as your glossy lips wrapped around it, the ember burning at the tip.

“Told my parents I quit,” you said, blowing out the smoke, “Which is true. But nights like this make me a liar,”

Joel liked the way you talked. Dry, confident, like you were letting him in on your world. You weren’t fawning, weren’t giggling. You were sharp. Maybe a little reckless. Probably younger than him by a year or two, but smarter than half the house of partygoers combined.

“Don’t think I’ve seen you around,” you said, handing him back the cigarette.

He shrugged. “That’s probably a good thing.”

You sipped your drink. “So you don’t go here?”

“Nah. Not exactly the academic type. Friend of a friend invited us out.”

You nodded, still watching him. The cigarette passed quietly between the two of you.

“And by ‘us,’ I’m guessin’ you mean...?”

“My brother,” he answered, “He’s around here somewhere. He’s better at this kinda scene than me.”

“I don’t know,” you said. “You seem to be doing just fine.”

Joel looked at you then—really looked—and felt something low in his chest shift, just slightly off-center. Your hair was pulled back in a pony-tail, big eyes that had no business looking at him like you were.

He huffed, barely a smile. “Don’t know about that.”

You shrugged, but didn’t look away. “You’ve got that whole brooding-loner thing going for you. Girls eat that shit up.”

Joel raised an eyebrow. “That so?”

“Mhm.” You took another sip of your beer, slow and deliberate. “I’ve been out here, what—five minutes? I can already tell. Not even trying, and yet you look like you’ve got some kind of tragic backstory.”

He snorted, caught somewhere between amused and flustered. “Not sure that’s a compliment.”

“It is,” you said, leaning in a little, just enough that your voice dropped slightly. “You wear it well.”

Joel swallowed once, felt the heat crawl up the back of his neck. You were watching him like you already knew how he’d taste. Like you were just deciding whether or not it’d be worth the trouble.

He cleared his throat, looked down at his boots for half a second, then back up.

“What about you?” he asked. “You come to these things just to psychoanalyze strangers with your imported beer?”

“No, silly.” You smiled, slow and confident. “I come for the free cigarettes and hot strangers to psychoanalyze.”

Joel huffed a soft breath, smirk faint but real. He flicked ash off the end of the cigarette, not quite looking at you when he said, “Don’t know if I fit the bill on that second one.”

Your eyes didn’t leave him. “On the contrary, mystery man, pretty sure you’re tickin’ all the boxes.”

And Joel—God help him—he forgot his own name for a second.

He leaned a little closer, felt the pull of you like gravity. His fingers twitched with the urge to touch your waist, to tuck a piece of your hair that fell from your ponytail back just so he could feel what it was like between his fingers. He hadn’t felt like this in a long time. Maybe ever.

You were about to say something else, he could sense it, that moment between beats when something clicks open, but then a girl stumbled out the back door, making you turn as she grabbed your arm.

“Hey!” she slurred, glancing between the two of you before locking eyes with you. “I need you—seriously, Stacey’s throwing up and she just called freaking Mark, and she’s, like, sobbing—please come help.”

You looked over, face twisting with reluctant affection. “Shit. Yeah, okay.” you turned back to him, apology written all over your face, handing him back the nearly burnt out cigarette.

“Duty calls,” Joel said with a short nod.

“I’ll find you later?” you offered, a little breathless, and before he could reply, you were gone–swept back into the house, the music blaring for the moment the door was open, then leaving him out in the quiet again.

He stood there like a damn idiot, heart still pounding. He couldn’t even remember what he’d said to you—just a blur of cigarette smoke and smart little smiles.

You didn’t ask his name.

He didn’t ask yours.

But you’d looked at him like you already knew him.

The porch felt quieter now. Emptier, somehow, like you’d taken the oxygen with you when you left.

He took one last drag from the cigarette, flicked it into the yard, and let the silence wrap around him. Music still pulsed faintly from inside, muted now, swallowed by the thick summer air. A few fireflies blinked out by the fence. The sky above was dark and low, stars peeking through the haze of humidity and porch light glow.

He braced his hands on the railing and stared out at nothing for a long minute.

Eventually, he straightened up, ran a hand down his face, and turned back toward the house. He hadn’t seen Tommy in a while, and if he didn’t check in soon, he might completely lose track of his little brother.

Still… he glanced at the door once more before heading inside, like maybe you’d reappear if he looked hard enough.

You didn’t.

So he opened the door and stepped back into the noise. The music hit harder now—bass thrumming straight through his chest, like it was syncing up with his pulse. Everything felt louder, warmer, just a little off-kilter. The crowd moved in flashes—glimpses of faces, glitter, teeth, hands in the air—and Joel moved through it like he wasn’t fully there.

Maybe it was the beer. Maybe it was you.

He made his way through the crowd slowly, eyes skimming over the living room couches, checking the faces of couples tangled together, wondering if Tommy was caught in some sort of lip lock with a random girl by now.

“Joel!”

He blinked and turned toward the sound.

There was his little brother, shoving his way through the crowd, hair messy, cheeks flushed from beer and the thrill of whatever he’d been up to. He looked like he’d just won a bet or found twenty bucks on the sidewalk.

Joel raised an eyebrow. “You good?”

Tommy grabbed his arm, grinning like an idiot. “Better than good.”

Joel gave him a look, dry. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m in love,” Tommy announced.

Joel snorted. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’m serious, man.” Tommy’s eyes were gleaming. “I just met the girl I’m gonna marry.”

Joel shook his head, a smile creeping over his face. Only his little brother.

“Where?” he asked, playing along.

Tommy spun, rising on his toes to look above the crowd. “She went back that way. Wait—hold up—there.” He pointed past the kitchen, toward the hall that led to the bathrooms and the back patio.

Joel’s eyes followed his hand.

And landed on you.

You were standing beside your drunk friend, your brows knitted as you held a water bottle to her lips, gently brushing hair back from her face. Still impossibly beautiful. Still glowing in a way that had nothing to do with the lighting or the beer or the gloss on your lips.

And Tommy was pointing at you.

Joel didn’t move. Couldn’t.

“D’you see her?” Tommy said. “Little tank top, high ponytail—God, man, she’s—fuck. She smiled at me and I swear I felt it in my spine. I’m gonna find her after her friend’s chill. She said she’d come back.”

Joel’s mouth opened. Then closed.

Because what the hell was he supposed to say?

Joel nodded once, slowly. “Yeah. I see her.”

Tommy clapped his back. “She’s everything, man.”

Joel didn’t answer. Just took a long drink of his beer.

And said nothing at all.

Present Day

You were silent as you climbed into Joel’s truck, his hand reaching for yours—rough, steady, warm—lifting you carefully onto the bench seat with your full belly.

Tears still clung to your lashes, blurring the view out the passenger window as you looked up at the house. At the window just above the garage. The one that led into the nursery.

The one where it all fell apart.

Your heart ached—not just from the fight, but from the truth in it. The worst part was… you understood Tommy. You couldn’t help but wonder if he was right. Maybe not about everything, but enough. Enough to leave a sting that wouldn’t fade anytime soon.

But that man inside the house—yelling, jealous, eyes full of something that looked too much like hate—he didn’t feel like the Tommy you knew. The man you married filled the house with music and laughter, who sang off-key in the shower and danced you around the living room with a beer in one hand and your waist in the other. He made late-night grilled cheese and kissed you with his whole heart, like he couldn’t believe you were real. He was your best friend. The one who stayed up with you talking nonsense into the middle of the night. The one who brought you coffee just the way you liked it. The one who made everything feel like the two of you were in it together—always.

He used to listen. Really listen. He was open. Curious. Soft where you needed softness and strong where you didn’t even realize you needed strength.

Where had that man gone?

Where had you gone?

“He just needs some time,” Joel said softly as if hearing your thoughts as he started the truck. It rumbled to life, and all you could do was bluntly nod, your throat too tight.

“Thanks–” you choked out, “For…I don’t know.” You shook your head. What the hell were you thanking him for? Sticking up for you to your own husband? Getting you out of your own house? Sitting beside you like the only steady thing left while everything else went to hell?

Maybe just… being here.

Joel didn’t answer. He just kept driving, one hand on the wheel, the other resting palm-down on the bench between you. Like if you needed it, his hand, his steadiness, his silence…it would be there.

You sat in it—the hum of the engine, the wind coming through the windows, the muffled ache in your chest—while familiar streets gave way to unfamiliar ones. Houses changed. Yards grew wider. You passed the sign for Joel’s neighborhood, only a few miles away, but it felt like crossing a border into a different world.

“Do you remember,” Joel said, breaking the silence, “when we first met?”

You blinked, looked over at him, trying to come back to the present. “Huh?”

He didn’t look at you. Just kept his eyes on the road, but his voice was warm and comforting. That southern drawl like velvet. “You were in school. Tommy and I got dragged to some party by a buddy of ours.”

“Oh… right.” You blinked through the cobwebs of the memory. “Back when I thought I was cool for liking even grosser beer.”

Joel let out a quiet laugh at that. Just a puff of air through his nose, but it softened the edges of the truck’s cab.

“Yeah.” he sighed heavily, hand coming up to his chin as he leaned against his side door.

“What about it?”

He shook his head a little, jaw working, his fingers regripping the wheel. The leather creaked.

“Just funny how it all…” He trailed off. Exhaled. “I don’t know. Nevermind”

You studied him, brow furrowing. “What were you gonna say?”

At the next red light, he finally looked over.

His eyes met yours across the bench seat—deep, quiet, and full of something raw. Something you had been seeing more of since whatever this was had started.

A part of Joel no one else ever saw.

Your heart kicked at the look on his face. Like he was standing on a ledge and just now realizing how far the drop really was.

“It’s just…” Joel’s voice dropped. “I knew you first.”

You blinked, your brow furrowing deeper. “Tommy introduced us that night.”

Joel shook his head, eyes back on the road now, but there was a small smile twitching at his lips. “Nah, if I remember right, you bummed my only cigarette off me on the back porch. Spent ten minutes tryna figure me out like some sort of shrink.”

You let out a small, breathy laugh, the corner of your mouth lifting. You didn’t fully remember it, not clearly—but it felt right.

“Sounds like me, I guess.”

Joel’s fingers drummed once against the wheel, then stilled. “I just… I wonder sometimes.”

“Wonder what?”

The light turned green.

He didn’t answer right away. Just stepped on the gas. The truck lurched forward.

The golden hour light slanted across his face, catching the hard lines of his profile, the scar at his temple, the way his jaw twitched like he was biting down on something he’d been holding back for years.

“I wonder what would’ve happened if I’d had the guts to tell my brother I saw you first.”

You didn’t say anything.

There wasn’t anything to say.

The cab filled with silence. The kind that settled in your chest and turned tides in your stomach. The kind that said more than words ever could.

Outside the window, the trees blurred past in a haze of dying light.

And neither of you reached to turn on the radio.

When the truck pulled into the driveway, the sky was streaked in burnt orange and lavender, the last light stretching long across the hood. Joel was quick to hop out, moving around to your side before the engine had fully ticked quiet. He opened your door and held out his hand without a word.

You took it gingerly, wincing as your body shifted with effort. Six months in, everything took a little more.

He helped you down slow, steady, his hand catching at the crook of your elbow before it slid down to the small of your back as you found your footing. He kept it there as you walked toward the house—not holding you up, not rushing. Just… there.

When you stepped inside, you blinked at the silence.

“No Sarah?”

“She’s studyin’ at her friend’s. They got their exams comin’ up now,” he said, pulling the front door shut behind you. He toed off his boots near the mat, and you followed suit, groaning as you kicked yours off. Your feet were beyond swollen.

“Can we order a pizza or something? I’m dying,” you muttered, pressing a hand into the small of your back and arching until it cracked. The relief was minimal, but it was something.

Joel glanced over. His eyes skimmed your face, down to your belly, then back again. “Why don’t you sit down,” he said, already heading toward the kitchen. “I’ll make somethin’. It’ll be quick.”

You hovered near the table, one hand resting on the slope of your belly. The house was quiet. You hesitated, unsure.

“I don’t mind,” he added. “Just relax a minute.”

You wandered to the table and eased down into a chair, the weight of the day heavier now that you weren’t pretending it wasn’t. The silence of the house pressed in at the edges. You stared at the wood grain in the table. Breathed in the faint scent of garlic still lingering in the air from whatever he was fixing up. It all felt… normal. Which made it worse.

Joel moved around the kitchen, pulling things from the fridge. A box of pasta. A jar of sauce. His movements were easy, practiced.

You didn’t speak until he was chopping something—onions maybe, the soft rhythmic knock of the knife filling the space.

“I don’t know what happened,” you said quietly.

He glanced up.

You weren’t even sure where the words had come from, but they were out now.

“Things were okay. Good, even. Me and Tommy. Me and you. It felt like we were getting into a rhythm. But the last few weeks…”

Joel didn’t say anything. He just kept chopping. Listening.

You pressed your hand over your belly. “Feels like the closer we get, the more he pulls away. Like he’s finally seeing what this is gonna look like and—” Your voice cracked. You swallowed. “—and I don’t think he likes it.”

Joel set the knife down, wiped his hands on a towel. He didn’t push. Just looked at you across the counter.

“You don’t have to figure it all out tonight,” he said. “You can stay here, if you want. I’m not sure when Sarah’s gettin’ home, but… we can watch a movie or somethin’. Just… take your mind off it.”

You nodded slowly, eyes burning. “I’m just really tired, honestly.”

He understood, turning back to his cooking on the stove. You sat there, eyes unfocused, listening to the low simmer of the sauce, the clink of dishes, the soft scrape of silverware being laid out. So domestic and easy.

Before long, dinner was ready. Nothing fancy—just pasta with a little garlic, some toasted bread, and water poured into mismatched glasses.

You sat across from each other at the table, the kitchen bathed in that soft in-between light, not quite night yet.

The food was warm. The silence was easy. Neither of you said much, and that was fine. Joel wasn’t the type to fill quiet just to hear himself talk, and you didn’t have the energy to pretend you were okay. So you ate. Slowly. Each bite keeping you tethered to reality a little more.

He looked up once, just briefly, like he was checking on you without making a thing of it. You caught it but didn’t say anything. Just kept eating, your hand resting against the curve of your stomach.

By the time your plate was mostly cleared, the exhaustion was creeping back in full force—behind your eyes, in your limbs, settling deep.

Joel stood and grabbed your empty dish without a word. Washed it. Dried it. Set it aside.

Then he turned to you, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “Come on. Let’s get you upstairs.”

You didn’t argue. You just stood, slowly, your joints stiff from sitting too long. His hand found your back again, that same steady pressure, guiding you through the quiet house like it was muscle memory.

When you reached the bedroom, you sat on the edge of his bed, the familiar scent of his cologne and detergent wrapping around you like a weighted blanket. Usually, it stirred something electric in your blood—lit a fuse that burned hot and fast. But tonight, it was grounding. Comforting. A balm for something deeper.

Joel gave you the softest smile, the kind he rarely let anyone see, then knelt in front of you and began to pull your socks off—slow, careful. His hands were warm, calloused in all the familiar ways, but his touch was gentler than usual. Reverent, even. He slid your pants down next, then your shirt, peeling each layer away without rush or heat.

This wasn’t the same kind of hunger he’d shown you before—wasn’t the fierce, consuming need that usually lived in the space between these sheets. This was something else. Something quieter. Worship without fire.

He stepped away for a moment, grabbed one of his sleep shirts from the dresser. You raised your arms, and he pulled it over your head with care, letting it fall over your bump and thighs. It smelled like him. Made you feel like you were wrapped in him.

Then he started to undress—slow and casual, unbothered by your gaze—and turned toward the bathroom as he unbuttoned his jeans.

“I’m gonna shower,” he said softly, voice low and rasped from the day as he shucked off the last of his clothing. “You go on and get comfortable.”

You nodded, watching him go.

And God, that view.

Joel’s bare back was broad, solid, built like it belonged to another time—hewn from marble and made to be seen on Greek statues of Achilles or Aries. You couldn’t help but stare at his tight, perky ass that always looked like it was made just for your hands.

He was so thoroughly masculine. So undeniably made from earth and sweat and quiet strength, it made something low in you ache—blood warming, mouth going dry. Even now. Even after the day you’d had.

That pull toward him never let up these days. Not really. It just shifted, simmered, and waited.

After a moment of sitting in patient silence, you eased yourself into the bed, shifting slowly beneath the sheets until the pressure on your hips and back lightened. You reached for the remote and turned Joel’s TV on low—just enough sound to fill the quiet without pulling you in. A dull hum. Something to keep the thoughts from circling too tight.

You pulled your phone out, thumb hovering before you typed the message. A small knot formed in your stomach, tight and uneasy.

I love you. I still want this with you. Can we talk in the morning?

You stared at it for a second longer than you should’ve. Then you hit send.

With a quiet sigh, you turned the phone face-down on the nightstand. You weren’t sure if you expected a reply. You weren’t even sure if you wanted one. But he deserved to know where you were, even if probably already assumed. You didn’t want him thinking you’d just given up or disappeared.

The door to the bathroom opened a few minutes later, a wave of steam curling into the bedroom as Joel stepped out, toweling off his hair. A dark towel hung low on his hips, drops of water trailing down his chest, catching in the lines of muscle carved from years of labor.

He moved toward his dresser, rifling through a drawer for something clean to sleep in.

You shifted onto your side, the tension in your belly easing with the change in position. One arm tucked beneath your bump, the other bent under your head. You watched him move, quiet and unbothered by your gaze.

“Enjoyin’ the view?” he asked, not even looking up, his voice thick with amusement.

You heard the smile in his voice before you saw it, that boyish grin flicking over his shoulder as he turned toward you.

His eyes caught yours from across the room. Your smile mirrored his.

“Definitely,” you said, voice soft but sure.

Joel chuckled under his breath, the sound low and rough as he pulled a clean shirt over his head and stepped into a pair of loose flannel sleep shorts. He didn’t rush—never did—but there was something different in the way he moved now. Something quieter, like the air between you had thickened just a little.

He turned off the bathroom light and crossed the room, climbing into bed behind you without a word. The mattress dipped under his weight, and then his arm was sliding around your waist, pulling you gently against him.

His chest pressed to your back, one of his legs curling around yours. His body was warm from the shower, and the scent of soap clung to his skin—clean and comforting, with that lingering hint of spice that was just him.

You exhaled slowly, letting yourself sink into the feeling. Into him.

Joel’s hand rested low on your belly for a beat, thumb brushing absent circles against the soft cotton of his shirt stretched over it. It felt instinctual, protective. Like his body had already memorized the shape of yours, the places that needed soothing.

“You alright?” he asked quietly, lips close to your ear.

You nodded, not trusting your voice just yet. “Yeah.” you said, swallowing dryly, “Just… nice to not be alone.”

He hummed in agreement, nuzzling the back of your neck gently. “You’re not,” he said. “Not tonight.”

His hand slipped up beneath the hem of his shirt you were wearing, fingers grazing your bare skin—light, curious, like he was just reminding himself of the feel of you. That he was still allowed to touch you like this.

You shifted slightly, giving him room. The smallest invitation.

Then—he stilled.

You felt it too. A soft nudge from inside, low and to the left. The baby moved again, a firm little kick right against Joel’s palm.

His breath caught. He didn’t pull away.

“Was that…?” he asked, voice low and rough, like he couldn’t believe it.

You smiled into the pillow. “Yeah. Think he’s saying hi.”

Joel didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stayed there, hand wide over your belly, chest pressed to your back. You felt him swallow, the rise and fall of his breath slowing as he processed it—really felt it.

“That’s…” he exhaled, the sound brushing the back of your neck. “Wow. He’s strong.”

“Tell me about it,” you murmured with a soft groan, shifting your hips to ease the pressure. Then your hand reached back, finding his cheek, fingers curling gently as you turned your head to look at him. “Those Miller genes must make tough boys.”

Joel gave a quiet huff of a smile, but his eyes stayed on your belly. On his hand, still moving slow under your shirt, like he was memorizing every curve.

“I wouldn’t… this wouldn’t be real without you,” you said quietly, your thumb brushing his jaw. “No matter how messy it gets. You’re part of this. He’s here because of you.”

His gaze flicked to yours then—steady, searching, something unreadable in it. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t pull away either. His fingers spread wider over your belly, grounding himself in the feel of it. Of you. Of him. The little life shifting beneath his hand.

Then he leaned in.

His lips met yours, slow and sure. The brush of his beard tickled your chin, your lips, your shoulder as he breathed you in. Your mouths molded together easily, unhurried, familiar.

The hand on your belly shifted—sliding lower, then wrapping around your hips to pull you closer into him. His body curved around yours, heat pressing into your back, chest to spine, hips tucked tight flush against yours. You could feel him against you as the moment turned heated, solid and wanting beneath his pants.

Still, he kissed you like he had all the time in the world.

Your fingers curled behind his neck, pulling him closer as your tongue brushed his. A soft, low sound slipped from his throat, almost like a whimper.

He kissed you more and more, each second growing a little needier. His hand slid further beneath the hem of the shirt you wore—his shirt—palm grazing your stomach, your ribs, until his fingers found the soft underside of your breast. He cupped you gently, thumb stroking over the sensitive skin, slow circles that made your breath stutter.

“You tell me to stop, I’ll stop,” he murmured against your mouth, but his hands stayed steady and gentle against your soft skin.

Your breath caught, but not from surprise. It was the way he said it—low, honest, a little desperate under all that restraint.

“I don’t want you to,” you whispered back.

That was all he needed. He groaned softly, deep in his chest, and kissed you again as you arched into him, pressing your chest against his palm, the ache blooming fast and low inside you. His touch grew firmer, more certain, squeezing and caressing, dragging another soft gasp from your lips.

Joel shifted, rolling his hips against you slowly, deliberately. You felt him thick and hard through his shorts, grinding into the curve of your ass with a low exhale.

“You look so pretty like this,” he murmured against your skin, voice thick with heat. His mouth trailed down the side of your face, beard scraping your cheek, your jaw, your neck as he kissed you slowly. “Belly all big and swollen with our baby, like it was always supposed to be this way.”

You moaned softly, your breath catching as your hips rocked back to meet him, chasing the friction. His hand slid from your breast down to your belly, splaying wide as he held you there, possessive and tender all at once. You whimpered, the heat between your legs only growing as he ground into you again, deeper now, his cock rubbing right against your soaked core through your panties and his shorts. The friction was maddening, so close, but not enough.

Joel groaned, voice breaking as he rutted against you. “You feel that? How bad I want you? How much I need you?”

His hand drifted down, slow and greedy, rubbing his calloused fingers over your covered mound. Then he pushed the fabric aside, dipping into your folds—slick and aching—and swore under his breath.

“Christ,” he muttered, thick with awe. “You’re soaked, honey. Already drippin’ for me.” His lips brushed your ear. “Already knocked up with my baby, and you still need more, huh?”

“Yes, Joel—please,” you gasped, your voice breaking. You lifted your knee, spreading your legs wider for him, offering everything.

“I know, darlin’,” he rasped, fingers gathering more of your slick, moving in slow, delicious circles around your clit. “Gonna make you come so many times before I even get my cock in you.”

You cried out softly as two of his thick fingers pushed inside with no hesitation, just the perfect stretch as he filled you. Your head dropped back against his shoulder, mouth falling open as pleasure bloomed bright and hot beneath your skin.

His lips grazed your neck, then your shoulder, the scruff of his beard scraping gently as his tongue licked a slow line over your pulse. He growled into your skin, low and deep, like he wanted to sink his teeth into you.

“That’s it,” he murmured, fingers curling deep as you pulsed around them. “You feel that? That’s me takin’ care of you. My girl.”

“So—so good, Joel,” you moaned, hips rolling to meet each thrust of his fingers. “Please. More.”

He hummed behind you, the sound dark and indulgent. He pulled his fingers out, slick and shining, and brought them up to circle your swollen clit, slow and firm.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “Completely fucked out and I haven’t even touched you properly yet. You love this, don’t you? Show me how much you need this.”

Your only answer was a moan, ragged and high as your body arched for him, chasing every stroke like it was oxygen. Joel kissed your neck again, then your jaw, voice rough and trembling. His fingers didn’t let up the slow, steady circles over your clit, so firm and perfect. His other hand had slid beneath your body, wrapping and anchoring you against him.

The pleasure climbed fast, stealing your breath, your thoughts. Your hips rolled helplessly, grinding into his hand, chasing that friction, that pressure, desperate to crest at the edge.

Your back arched against him, and your head tilted, lips parting on a ragged moan, “Joel—oh god—”

Your orgasm hit sharp and sudden. Your body seized, fluttering around nothing, thighs clenching tight as his fingers kept moving, easing you through it. He didn’t stop. Not when your hips jerked, not when your breath stuttered into sobs. Not even when your legs started to shake.

“C’mon, sweet girl,” he growled against you, “Again. Know you can do it.”

His mouth was everywhere as he said it—your neck, your shoulder, your cheek—kissing you with a reverence that bordered on ruinous.

You barely had a moment to breathe before his fingers dipped back inside you. Two again, deep and slow, curling just right, the heel of his palm offering friction against your aching and sensitive clit. Your body responded instantly to him, your back curling further into him.

You whimpered, hand fisting in the sheets. He curled his fingers again, thick and warm as they pushed against the spot inside you that made your eyes roll back. The second wave crept up slower, thicker, your limbs going soft and heavy even as your core tightened like a coil wound to the point of snapping.

You moaned, louder this time, body trembling in his arms.

“Joel—Joel, I—”

“I know, sweet girl,” he rasped, his mouth brushing your ear, fingers still working you with unrelenting care. “Can feel your pussy grippin’ my fingers. Be a good girl now and give me another.”

Your breath caught on a sob as your body shattered again—this one deeper, longer, stealing the last of your strength. You came with a choked cry, thighs trembling, hips bucking against his hand. Your muscles clung to his fingers like they were the only thing tethering you to the world, your body instinctively holding onto him, knowing he was the one who did this to you.

Joel held you through it. His palm stayed firm and grounding over your belly while the other hand slowed, easing you down from the high. His fingers remained inside, stroking you with reverence as your body twitched and shook with the aftershocks.

Then he brought his fingers up—slick and shining with your arousal—and kissed your cheek, slow and warm.

His voice dropped to a gravelly whisper at your ear, full of control and hunger.

“Open.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a honey-laced command, thick with heat and tension.

You obeyed.

Your lips parted, and his fingers slid into your mouth. The moment his knuckles brushed your lips, you closed around them, tongue flattening beneath as you hollowed your cheeks and sucked him in. The taste of yourself on his skin was heady, electric.

A low rumble of satisfaction vibrated deep in Joel’s chest.

He pulled his fingers free with a slow drag and gripped your jaw with that same hand, still wet, turning your face toward him as he leaned in and kissed you—hungry, consuming. Your hand flew to his hair, twisting in the dark hair at the base of his neck as his tongue pushed into your mouth, both of you moaning into each other like it hurt to be apart for even a second.

His body pressed tighter to yours, and you felt him—thick and heavy, and his hand moved between you, tugging your panties down your thighs, off entirely, leaving you bare for him.

One hand wrapped around the base of his cock, guiding himself to your soaked entrance. He rubbed the swollen head through your folds, slow and teasing, gathering your slick as your breath hitched.

Then he lined himself up, the broad head pushing against your opening. The stretch made you gasp, even after everything he’d already given you. You wondered for a moment if you’d ever get used to the stretch of him splitting you in two.

You reached for him instinctively, needing him closer, deeper. Joel’s hand returned to your belly, spreading wide, anchoring you again as he sank into you.

Slow. Deep. Devastating.

You moaned, the sound trembling out of you, as he filled you inch by inch—no rush, no mercy. He buried himself to the hilt with a guttural groan, your walls fluttering around him in helpless welcome.

Your eyes fluttered shut, body arching back into him, completely surrounded by him. He held still for a beat, just feeling you pulling him in deeper. You whispered his name, and he exhaled shakily against your neck.

He stayed there for a moment, fully buried, like it took everything in him not to come right then as he let you adjust. He was so thick, stretching you as your walls fluttered with every uneven breath you took. And Joel felt it—every twitch, every pulse. His hand splayed across your belly like he needed to hold onto something solid before he lost control entirely.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice torn and low. “You feel that? Feel how deep I am inside you?”

You whimpered, barely able to speak, body already fluttering around him in overstimulated waves. Your hands clutched at the sheets, at his arm, at anything you could find.

He pulled back just an inch and pushed in again, slow and heavy, dragging another desperate moan from your throat.

“Mine,” he growled, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it, but it slipped out as his cock felt you gripping him, quivering around him. His hips rolled into you again, grinding deep, making you cry out.

“You were made for this,” he rasped, kissing your neck, your shoulder, his hand gripping your breast now, fingers toying with your nipple. “For me. Made to be full of me—my cock, my cum, my baby.”

You gasped, arching into his touch, your body trembling from how completely he owned you in this moment. He thrust again—harder now, still slow but deeper, rougher. You could swear you could feel him in your stomach as he rutted into you.

You sobbed his name, overwhelmed, wrecked, clinging to him like he was your gravity.

His mouth dropped to your ear again, voice dark and shaking.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he whispered. “Can’t stop thinkin’ about it—how sweet you look like this. Belly round, tits heavy, pussy so fuckin’ wet for me I could drown in it.”

Another deep thrust. Another broken sound from your lips.

“Fuckin’ mine,” he growled, hips snapping harder now, losing rhythm in his need. “All of it. Every inch of you.”

He wrapped his arm under your belly again, lifting just enough to hold you steady, like you were something precious, fragile—his.

“I don’t care what happens tomorrow,” he said, thrusting slow and deep, burying his cock to the hilt. “Right now, you’re mine. This body’s mine. This pussy—” he grunted, grinding into you until your toes curled “—fuckin’ belongs to me.”

And you could only nod, barely breathing, gasping his name as the heat built again, faster this time, rising wild and uncontrollable between your legs. It was nearly Pavlovian how fast this man could bring your body to the edge within minutes.

Your body was already trembling again, every nerve stretched to its breaking point, and Joel felt it. He sensed it in the way your breath hitched, your thighs tensed, your walls fluttered around him. He thrusted deeper, slower, the weight of him unbearable in the best way. His hand slid between your legs, fingers circling your clit with practiced, devastating precision.

“You’re close again,” he muttered, lips at your ear. “I can feel it. Pussy’s already startin’ to milk me, like you need it. Need to come on my cock, huh, baby?”

You whimpered something incoherent, your nails digging into his arm as your hips rocked into every thrust, chasing that final wave. The pleasure was blinding, your body overstimulated but desperate. His voice. His hands. The way he filled you like nothing else ever could.

Then—barely above a whisper, like it wasn’t meant for you at all, “He could never give you this.”

Joel’s voice cracked around the words. Still deep. Still raw. But it shook.

“What I give you… how I make you feel...”

You sobbed out a moan, and that was it. Your body shattered, pleasure exploding through you so violently your legs kicked and shook, your cries muffled by the sheets. You clenched around him, tight and relentless, pulling him with you.

“Fuck—fuck, baby—” Joel groaned, losing himself, grinding deep into you as your orgasm ripped through you.

He cursed again, low and guttural, his hips jerking as he spilled into you with a strangled moan. The sound of his voice, wrecked and unguarded was enough to send another shiver down your spine.

He didn’t stop moving, not at first. Slow, instinctive rolls of his hips, keeping his cock deep inside you, like he couldn’t stand to pull away just yet.

You lay there, both of you trembling, still joined, his chest heaving against your back, his arms locked around your belly like you might disappear if he let go.

You hummed softly as he slid out of you, the loss of him making your body twitch with oversensitivity. He didn’t go far, his arms just curled tighter around you, pulling you into his chest like he couldn’t get enough of your skin. His face tucked into your neck, breathing you in like oxygen.

You closed your eyes and let him hold you, your hand resting on top of his where it lay over your belly.

“Joel?” you asked gently once your breath came back to you.

He hummed in response, tired and wrecked, lips brushing your skin.

“What did you mean earlier?”

You felt him tense—just barely. A flicker of hesitation. His breath slowed, deepened, like reality was creeping back in and neither of you could stop it.

“When?” he asked, low and cautious.

You swallowed hard, your voice quiet but certain. “You said… you wonder what would’ve happened if you told Tommy…”

I wonder what would’ve happened if I’d had the guts to tell my brother I saw you first.

You could feel the words hanging there between you, unspoken but known.

Joel sucked in a breath and exhaled slowly before shifting, pulling away from your back and settling against the pillows. His arm draped over his eyes as he laid back, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that told you he was thinking. Too much.

You turned carefully, your body sore and boneless but needing to be near him. You laid your head on his chest, your belly pressing against his side, fitting awkwardly but close. He didn’t stop you. Just let you come to him.

His hand dropped from his eyes a moment later, resting on your back, his thumb tracing over your spine.

“I shouldn’t’ve said that,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Not tonight.”

That was it. No elaboration. No apology, either. Just Joel’s version of walking the line—saying something and unsaying it all at once.

You looked up at him, searching his face. “But…what did you mean? Did you…have you always have feelings?”

He didn’t look at you. Just stared at the ceiling, jaw working.

After a moment, his hand slid to your belly, resting there like it always did.

“I don’t know what any of it means." he said finally. “I just know it ain’t simple.”

Your throat ached, but you nodded anyway. Because it wasn’t.

Not with him. Not with Tommy. Not with this.

You laid your head back on his chest, his heartbeat steady in your ear. And neither of you said anything else.

Because maybe silence was safer than the truth.

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magrowette-sadisticccrow · 17 hours ago

Text

Therefore, when somebody is speaking a cipher, he also should easily understand it.

---

When Riddle breaks out of Arkham after a long break, he wants to do something special, use a hobby of his in his villain career, because I can’t imagine that the only riddles he makes while in Arkham are logic puzzles. Bet he makes a whole lot of different types of 'em, like cryptographs, chess and shogi problems or math puzzles.

This time, given a peculiarly unexpected higher supervision, he decides to use the additional time that he’ll need to break out to make his own language. He works on it while finding a good time to create cracks within the upgraded surveillance. Its grammar is based on West-Slavic languages, word formation on West-Germanic, phonology from Middle Chinese, and so on and so forth.

The first “crack” he thinks he’ll be able to take advantage of is the new psychiatry intern, a Miss Nightingale, who so happened to start her internship a week before improved security. He thought she’d be an easy target, but finds out otherwise, as she manages to have him participate in therapy whilst not exposing a single weak point. She reminded him of his cousin Madeline, although both hair and eye color are wrong...

He doesn’t manage to achieve any breakouts in the next month, but he gets to know the new intern, whose full name is Jasmine Nightingale. A month after his attempt with Miss Nightingale, he finds a genuine weak link and uses it to break out, taking Miss Intern with him. Not that she complains, for her, it’s a perfect way to analyze the inner workings of Nygmas brain while he creates his riddles.

He uses his language to send out multiple signals on the radio and plants a bomb in the city hall to distract the Bats. It seemed like a perfect puzzle, one that will grant him quite a lot of time to reacquaint himself with his safehouses and resources.

Seemed

He didn’t predict that somebody would be able to immediately crack his language, that person being Danny.

Danny, who just heard his sister was kidnapped by a villain.

Danny, who in the last few months he lived in gotham, saw what kind of damage a maniac villain could do.

Danny, who doesn’t know anything about the Rouges, aside from them being Batfams villains.

Danny, who is extremely protective of his fraid.

So when he hears some guy saying he kidnapped his sister over the radio by the end of his shift, he doesn’t hesitate.

Tim, who was just waiting for his coffee in his favourite coffee shop, witnessed the barista, who he thought was a simple meta with a language understanding ability, literally disappear in the kitchen. Vanish into thin air. "That probably doesn’t mean anything good” He mutters, already texting the rest of the family about what happened and asking for any information that might allude to the reason as to why the barista disappeared like a ghost.

His earpiece rang “Yeah, O? What’s up? Do you already have some info, which if you do, kudos to you, because hadn't I sent that text only 2 minutes ago?”

Oracle spoke “Yes, yes and yes. Turns out that just when your coffee guy voided, a transmission from Riddler on the radio ended. He was talking in some kind of cipher or language, so I guess your meta-barista automatically understood what he was saying. Guess Riddler took someone or something precious to him, so I predict he’s going after him.” She concluded.

“About him being a meta, he has two abilities”

“...What? Meta-abilities are singular, with one function. How?”

“If I knew I would be bragging to you about figuring it out.”

“Alright... So we have an unidentified individual with an unkown power level on a manhunt for Riddler. “

“And he probably knows exactly where to look. I looked at the transmission recording you sent and it’s long. Wouldn’t be suprised if Nygma included his exact location in it, or the precious things.”

“I’m going to foward this to others. If you’re going to join, be quick and join the rest in the Batcave”

“Okay, thanks” Tim thanked Barbara and ended the call.

Now, is it better to stay and wait for this guy or go after the rouges?

---

“When did you start making puzzles such as this, Mr. Nygma? They’re quite complex, I assumed it’d been at least a decade.” Jazz, who was currently tied up in a warehouse, asked. She had been sitting in there for almost 3 hours now and she’s growing bored. At least it gives her a chance to ask her patient more questions, which he actually isn’t opposed to answering.

A voice crackled out of a speaker in the corner of the room she was in. “I’ve always been interested in brain teasers and such, but my first riddle like this... Around 12 years ago”

“May I know what it was?” He’ll answer, seems like a person who's proud of their achievements.

“A simple intimidation trick that granted me some funds for when I was in a bit of a peculiar situation. I took the guys only photos left of his family and burned one every time he answered incorrectly to my questions.” He said simply. It truly was a beginner tactic, but it worked and secured him enough funds to finally put a roof over his head. After he was released the first time, he had no one to turn to, no place to return to and no resources to utilize. Turning towards the darker path of life was the only option and while he regrets not trying to ask any distant family for help, he doesn’t think anyone would’ve come. His parents were... rummy, enough to make him hesitate in contacting anybody, especially after he heard the stories of his other relatives. He may have only been told of the one’s on his mother's side, but it was enough. He wasn’t and still isn’t inclined to try and find those “damned witches from the north”.

“Did you need it to stabilize after getting out of Arkham the first time?” Clever girl, his indifference towards her possible death is diminishing by the minute.

“Bingo! You got that in one. Is it familiar to you? With how fast you concluded as to why I needed funds.”

She smiled towards the camera “Perhaps, although right now my situation is quite well. Needed some help from my brothers, but we managed to settle quite nicely.”

Brothers? “You have siblings?” Edward asked, curious.

Nightingale quickly looked away from the camera. “Yes...” She affirmed, her face becoming a blank mask. Interesting...

“...If I may ask, how many? Do you like them?” Being an only child, it makes one wonder how it feels to have them.

“...Three.”

“Quite nice.” And that was it.

A dull silence settled over the room.

It enabled Jasmine to hear a pressing, familiar hum of power, ecto, fraid.

It seems that Danny began looking for her.

---

It didn’t take a lot to narrow Jazz’s location to a few miles around the docks, but it could’ve been faster.

Well, he knows his sister can take care of herself, but somebody kidnapping her? Still a Big No No in his books. And the faster he gets her out, the better.

Danny pulls out a light green whistle out of his pocket and whistles.

At first, nothing seemed to change, but with every second, he could feel the ecto in the air thicken and coalesce in front of him, in the form of a small tunnel. Out of it jumped out a small, neon green dog.

“Hi Cujo!” Danny petted the ghostie “Do you want to help me find Jazzy? I know you remember her scent. I’ll even give you your favourite chewing sticks if you do it under 5 minutes” He bargained with the dog, who seemed to understand this offer.

The canine immediately started to look around, sniffing various places untill he caught a scent. Cujo quickly followed the scent, running through various buildings in the process with Danny hot on it’s heels.

“Good Doggy, Cujo! As fast as you can! Just make sure nobody sees you!” Danny shouted.

After barely a few minutes, Cujo landed in front of a warehouse on the northside of the Docks. He sniffed and pawed at the large, industial doors.

“So this is it, thank you Cujo” Danny rubbed the ghosties head in appreciation. “Now go home, I'll be there in a few with your snacks.”

At that, Cujo barked and vanished into thin air.

“Let’s start this rodeo”

---

“Uhhh, Riddle?” Asked one of his goons.

“Yes?”

“Somebody broke into the warehouse with Miss Nightingale...”

“WHAT? This fast? Who!?”

“That’s the thing, nobody knows” the guy answered.

The riddle should’ve taken the Bats at least 6 hours to solve, and they’re still busy with the town hall bomb, so who was it? Maybe a new player? Or somebody looking for revenge...

Whilst Nygma mused, he didn’t notice a silent figure slowly stalking towards him. By the time he did, it was too late...

“So you’re the one who abducted my sister.” The thing said, its voice cold and hard like steel.

“FUCK!?- How did you get here!?!” Riddle shouted, taken off guard by this mysterious new person.

The figure themself was cloaked in shadows, the only thing visible being their toxic green eyes that glowed in the low light of Riddles office. He gave off an aura of dread, making the people around it freeze from from fear.

It smiled and the last thing Nygma remembered was the radioactive glow of the new player and its words

“Don’t do it again”

Later, when he was put back into Arkham, he reminded himself that if gods exist, why not daemons.

He hoped to meet it again, perhaps in better circumstances. Afterall, it’s not often that you meet such being.

---

“Thanks for the save, brother” Jazz said while hugging Danny.

After her retrieval, he flew them both to his cafe. It was barren, with him having the closing shift. With no witnesses around, he let himself and Jazz become visible in the kitchen.

“No problem, although... He seemed familiar, didn’t he?” Danny inquired.

“That’s probably because he’s our uncle from mother’s side of family.” Jazzy replied easily.

Family, huh...

“Does he know?”

“I don’t think so. He never gave any indication aside from what I assume was him noticing the resemblance, but not connecting the dots, either due to not enough information or simply not being able to. I’m betting it’s the former.” Jazz explained.

“I don’t think we should inform him, or at least wait a few more months”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea. I planned to drop some hints after a few more sessions, but the breakout might’ve delayed that.”

“Okay. Now that that’s taken care of, do you want me to fly you to your dorms, or will you stay the night?” Danny asked.

Jazz looked at her brother and smiled warmly, noticing the slight tension of his shoulders and uneasy ectoplasm. “I’ll stay, coming back this late today would raise unnecessary questions” She assured him.

They exited the kitchens towards the cafe, only now noticing its lone patron.

Tim raised his eyebrow. He debated interrogating the presumed meta now or letting them go. Asking now would give some necessary answers, but it would raise some alarms. On the other hand, if he let them go, he might not find the barista and a woman who he thinks is his sister later.

In the end, he decides letting them feel secure is the better choice. “Nice vanishing act, do I want to know, or should I forget that anything questionable happened here?” He asked.

Danny narrowed his eyes at the teenager. He knows that’s Tim Drake, presumed by him to be the vigilante Red Robin and adopted son of Bruce Wayne, aka Batman. It’s best he stays as innocent as he can and if something goes wrong, they can always forge new identities. Jazz’s PhD won’t matter if somebody finds out about their situation.

He put on a bright smile and an innocent act “Yeah.. Please don’t tell anybody? I just want some peace with my sister and being put on Bats radar won’t get me that. I promise I haven’t used my abilities in anyway aside from today!” He plead with big eyes and an open expression.

Tim was silent for a few minutes, before shrugging “Sure”

That was that? “Just like that?”

“Yeah, you make the best coffee i ever had and I don’t want to lose that” Tim stated

“Are you sure?” Danny pressed.

The teenager looked to the side “Welllllll, If you could help me decipher some codes now and then, it would be appreciated” He admitted with his head low.

Danny stared at him “I mean, okay, If that’s what it takes.”

“Great!” Tim exclaimed “Now that that’s taken care of, I need to go home.” He exited the cafe “Have a great night!” He shouted over his shoulder as he left.

Both Danny and Jazz stared at the empty space where the teenager used to be.

They looked at each other, at the door and again at each other.

“...Leave it for tommorow?” Jazz suggested. “Yeah, let’s leave it for tomorrow” Danny agreed.

DP × DC The Power of Names Coffee Shop AU

Coffee shops are notorious for misspelling peoples names to the point that it's a running joke and basically a forgone conclusion everywhere. Everywhere except this tiny coffee shop near Crime Alley. The new hire there, Danny, spells everybody's name correctly without having to ask. Whether it's "Carly" or "Karly," he always gets it right the first time. Heck, people give him their names in Chinese and Arabic, and he swaps to the correct alphabet, no problem (because Danny, being king of the dead, can speak all languages dead and living, so might as well be respectful).

It becomes a bit of a running joke in the community to give Danny the craziest names they can find to see if he can get them right. Some of the Bats even hear rumors about him and give it a go for fun. They make a game out of it to see who can find a language or alphabet that Danny can't get. That is until, while massively sleep deprived from a case involving cults and magic and getting nowhere, Tim accidently says one of the words that he'd been hearing in the cultist chants when he orders. Danny gives him an odd look but shrugs and writes something on the cup. It isn't until Tim has already left the shop that he realizes that the symbol written on his cup is one shown in the cultists scrolls he couldn't decipher.

Tim almost dropped his coffee. Danny wasn't just a human who knew a ton of languages, he must have been a meta with the ability to understand EVERY language. And the Bats desperately needed his help to crack this one before the cultist finished summoning whatever demon or disaster they had planned. But how to get the kid's help? From idle chatter while ordering, the Bats learned that Danny wanted nothing to do with the Gotham vigilantes. And Tim had already given his connection to this case away by spewing that word written on his cup...

(I like to imagine the name Tim gave was something like "corn field" and that's why Danny looked at him funny and not because it's one of the languages of the dead)

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thecloudsaremyhome · 2 days ago

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♡Pink pony club!♡

Thinking about a yandere platonic neglectful batfam with a bimbo reader, it goes like this your mother a famous model had a one night stand with Bruce Wayne then came you. Beautifully cute you. Your mother admits she sheltered you but for a good reason! Your just to prescious! And you lack a moral compass. So you can be very very naive but in a good way of course! She still loves you! But a it goes your mother dies and your of course stuck with the batfam who couldn't give a shut about you but of course you dint realize this! You not necessarily vying for their attention it's just you understand. You to understanding and to trusting to everyone around you. But rather than Damian bullying you he avoids you like a red flag. Something about how air headed you could be sets him off and he realizes you aren worth his time. But when hughschikk starts you've started to develop your own asthetic and personality which of course consists of more childish things like my Melody plushies and more bright pastel colors for clothing. But it never bothered you, actually people at school seem to like it, to like you! And it makes you feel giddy inside. For once you feel loved in this lonely manor and you couldn't be any happier! But of course all good things come to an end when your invited to a party when this guy, you don't know his name starts to make you very unclmftable, grabbing youa if your a toy to fondle but luckily Tim and his friends were at so of course time sees this an goes big brother mode and punche the guy. He takes your wrist an leads you out of the house, clearly pissed you both sit in silence until Alfred finally picks you both up. After that night things seem to go back to normal at least in your perspective. You haven't seen or heard of the guy since which is lucky for you. But unknowingly the family is finally starting to see your worth and they'd do anything to protect your prescious innocence even if it means killing people in the process. Fuck the moral code, not when you are more important

Authors note: I hope you all like this little concept of mine If this gets a lot of attention I'll turn it into a series!

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woso-writing · 2 days ago

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Secret Supporter

Renée Slegers x Arsenal!staff member

A/n: I know that some people enjoy reading Renee fics and I am one of those people so I thought I would make one.

You had been with your wife for nearly 10 years now and yet no one other than her family knew about the pair of you. You and Renée met when you were both playing for Linköping and you both instantly hit it off and became great friends before long the friendship developed into more than that and then after being together for 3 years, Renée asked you to marry her. A few years after you got married you both retired from football because you knew you wanted to start a family with Renée but unfortunately, the latter was forced to retire because of a knee injury. But through the unfortunate circumstances it did also mean that you now have two beautiful children called Anneliese and Lucas. After she retired, Renée was adamant that she wanted to go into the managerial side of the sport and you supported her through the whole process when you both got offered a job at Arsenal, Renée the manager and you the head physio, you both knew that you couldn't turn down the offer. So that leads you to where you are today, you have been at the London club for nearly three months now and still no one knows about you two, or the fact that either of you have children, well not yet.

Y/n: *Answers the phone* Hello, how can I help?

AT: Hello, is this Anneliese Slegers' parent?

Y/n: Yes speaking.

AT: Ok, well I am Anneliese's teacher and I am afraid that you will need to come and pick your daughter up as soon as you can.

Y/n: Ok I will see what I can do, it may not be me or her mum as we are both at work but I will try and get in contact with a family member, can I ask why? Is she ok?

AT: Anneliese said she was feeling ill and then she was sick a few times when we were taking her to a quieter room to give her some time, she seems to be feeling a bit better now but because she was sick she will need to stay at home for at least 48 hours.

Y/n: Ok, thank you for calling me, someone will be there to pick her up as soon as possible.

AT: Thank you and sorry to disturb you at work.

You hung up the phone and tried to get into contact with Renée's sister as she was meant to be over from the Netherlands for work but it turns out the trip got cancelled and she is still at home, slightly panicking you leave the physio room and walk up to Renée's office, knocking on the door when you get there.

Renée: Come in, oh hey you, what has Kyra done now?

Y/n: It isn't Kyra.

Renée: Oh ok serious, what's wrong?

Y/n: I have just been on the phone with Annie's teacher.

Renée: Oh god, is she ok?

Y/n: Apparently she said she wasn't feeling well and then she ended up being sick a few times and they need one of us to go and pick her up, which I can do but then I am going to have to bring her back here and I didn't know what to do.

Renée: Ok, well either way we need to go get her, do you have any girls in this afternoon or is it meant to be pretty quiet?

Y/n: No I have Caitlin and Leah coming in, as well as a few of the girls after training.

Renée: Ok so there is no way I can get you out of that then.

Y/n: No, I mean I am happy to bring her back here, she can lay down in there and just sleep if she's still not feeling well.

Renée: And she does look exactly like you so they probably wouldn't pick up on anything.

Y/n: Ok I will go get her now, I'll keep you updated babe.

Renée: Ok, I need to get to training but if anything happens you know where I am.

You walk out of the office and quickly go to your car, leaving and driving to the school as quickly as possible, when you get there, not only do you see Anneliese waiting for you but your eldest, Lucas is also sat there playing with his sister.

Y/n: Hello you two, are you not feeling well either Lucas?

Teacher: Yes sorry we didn't phone because we thought you would already be on the way but Lucas has also been sick so we assume it is something that they have picked up outside of school.

Y/n: Ok, well thank you, come on you two let’s get going.

Anneliese: Where's Mama?

Y/n: She's at work baby, do you want to go see her?

Anneliese: Yes please, can you pick me up please mummy?

Y/n: Of course I can baby, come on Lucas.

You get them back to the car and into their car seats before driving back to the training ground, when you get back you go into the physio room which you expect to be empty but when you get to the door you can hear people inside.

Y/n: Right you two, no one here knows that me and your mama are together so try not to mention her and we will go see her soon ok?

Lucas: Ok mum.

Anneliese: Ok mummy.

You walk in to see that the noise is coming from Kyra who is arguing with Alessia over something.

Y/n: What have you done this time Kyra?

Kyra: Umm that can wait, who's this little one? She is adorable.

Y/n: They're mine, this is Anneliese, and this is Lucas, wait Lucas where have you gone, buddy?

Lucas: I'm here mum *sitting in your spinny chair*

Y/n: Of course you are, right Kyra let me just put this one down and then I will be right with you.

Anneliese: No me stay with you mummy.

Y/n: I'm sorry baby but I need to help Kyra, I promise you can have loads of cuddles later.

Kyra: How about you come and sit next to me whilst your mummy does what she needs to do?

Anneliese: Yes please

Y/n: Thanks Kyra, now what is the problem today?

Kyra: Well a certain someone called Alessia was being too rough and stood on my foot when I was getting ready and I didn't have my boots on yet so yeah.

Y/n: Right ok I can fix that.

You wrap up Kyra's foot and ankle and tell her not to train today just because she lost quite a bit of blood and it is quite bruised but she should be fine for the next training. The younger girl decides to stay in your physio room and plays with Anneliese which cheers your daughter up now that she is feeling better, Lucas just sits there on your phone watching one of his shows because he still isn't feeling his best, luckily no one has noticed how much your son looks like your wife so you haven't had to have to awkward conversation about that.

Beth: Hello my favourite physio, you are needed on the pitch.

Y/n: But training finished like 20 minutes ago why is anyone still out there?

Beth: Well I wanted to practice my free kicks a bit more and Renée said she would help me and I don't know but she kicked it and I think it was her knee.

Y/n: God ok, that woman needs to know when to stop, right Kyra can you stay here please with these two, I'm sorry to put it on you.

Beth: I'll stay here too, don't worry about it.

Y/n: Thanks, guys.

You say buy to the kids before walking out and practically running out to the pitch, meanwhile back in the physio room.

Beth: Who are these two little cuties then?

Kyra: Y/n's kids, you were both a bit ill so had to leave school didn't you little one?

Beth: Aww bless, she looks exactly like Y/n.

Kyra: I know, and I know it isn't possible but Lucas over there looks like a little Renée.

Beth: He does.

Anneliese: That's because she is our mama, silly Kyra.

Kyra: Wait what?

Lucas: Annie! Mum said not to say anything.

Anneliese: Sorry I forgot *starts to cry because she thinks she is in trouble*

Beth: Hey kiddo come here *Picks Anneliese up* It's ok you aren't in trouble, it can be our secret, me and Kyra won't tell anyone ok?

Anneliese: Ok.

Meanwhile back outside with you when you get to Renée and luckily she is the only one out there now other than Daphne who goes in when you get to your wife

Y/n: What have I told you about being careful, you can't keep up with the girls anymore babe.

Renée: I wasn't even doing anything that hard, I just kicked the ball a few times.

Y/n: You still need to be careful babe, do you think you can walk on it?

Renée: I'm not sure.

Y/n: Right ok, I'll go get some of the girls so that they can help us get you inside, I will be right back ok?

You don't wait for her to answer and just make your way back inside to ask Kyra and Beth for help, not knowing if any of the other girls are still there. Once the girls have helped Renée inside they both say they need to leave and that they'll see you both tomorrow, as soon as they leave the door you feel a gentle tap on your leg.

Anneliese: I go see Mama now?

Y/n: Of course baby, she's just over there, be gentle though please Annie, mama has hurt herself a little bit.

Anneliese: Ok mummy *runs over to Renée* hello mama.

Renée: Hello Annie, are you feeling better now?

Anneliese: Yes, mummy said you hurt yourself, are you ok mama?

Renée: I am going to be just fine baby, it is just my silly knee.

Y/n: Yes your mama was just being silly and forgot that she is not a professional athlete anymore.

Anneliese: Silly mama.

Y/n: Yes Annie she is very silly, anyway I think we should get all of you home *you hand Renée some crutches*

Renée: I don't want to have to use them again.

Y/n: Well, I am afraid you do not have a choice, maybe this will teach you to be more careful in the future.

Renée: Fine you're probably right.

Hope you enjoyed :)

#woso fluff #woso x reader #woso one shot #woso soccer #renée slegers

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purplereina11 · 2 days ago

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Apart of Perfect Shot Series

You and Alexia try to start a family

The honeymoon phase of marriage is supposed to be blissful. And in many ways, it still is. But beneath the laughter, the lazy mornings wrapped in each other, the quiet home you’ve built—there’s a weight neither of you can quite shake.

The kind that lingers in the silence after another negative test. The kind that makes Alexia pull you tighter against her at night, even when neither of you speak about it. The kind that makes every hopeful what if? turn into not yet. It’s been months now—long, hopeful, painful months.

The first round of IVF started on your first wedding anniversary had been a whirlwind of emotions excitement, nerves, the belief that surely, surely, it would happen right away. That you’d see the two lines on the test, that Alexia would pick you up and spin you around, that you’d call Eli and Alba with tears of joy instead of frustration.

But the first round had ended in disappointment.

The second? Worse.

Because this time, you’d convinced yourselves that the first was just bad luck. That this time would be different. That this time would be the one. But it wasn’t. And now—now it’s just hard.

You’re in the bathroom, staring down at the test on the counter. Another single line. Another no. Another month lost. Your throat tightens, your hands gripping the sink as you swallow back the sting of disappointment. You knew it was a possibility. You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t get your hopes up this time. But hope is a dangerous thing. A small knock on the door makes you tense. You already know who it is.

“Mi amor…” Alexia’s voice is soft, hesitant. She’s been waiting outside since you’d taken the test, giving you space but also aching to know. You can’t bring yourself to answer. The door opens slowly, and then she’s there, your wife, the love of your life, the person who always seems to hold you together. Except—she’s struggling too.

You see it in the way her eyes flicker to the test on the counter, in the way her shoulders drop, in the way she exhales too slowly, like she’s forcing herself to stay strong. She meets your gaze, and for a moment, neither of you say a word. You break. A soft, strangled sob slips out before you can stop it, and in an instant, Alexia is there, wrapping you up in her arms, holding you so tight it’s like she’s trying to physically keep you from shattering.

“I—I don’t know what I’m doing wrong,” you whisper against her shoulder, voice trembling. “I don’t—”

“Nothing,” she cuts in, her own voice thick. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”

You clutch onto her, burying yourself in her warmth, her safety. “Then why does it feel like I’m failing?”

Alexia squeezes her eyes shut, pressing a firm kiss to your hair. “Because it hurts, mi amor.”

And that’s the truth.

It hurts.

More than you ever thought it would. You don’t know how long you stay like that, wrapped in each other, breathing through the ache. Eventually, Alexia leans back, her hands coming up to cradle your face. “We keep trying,” she murmurs. “Because this isn’t the end. This isn’t where our story stops.” You nod, sniffling, pressing into the touch. She tilts her forehead against yours. “One day, we’re going to look back on this and know that every step, every tear, every heartbreak led us to them.” You let out a shaky breath. Because you believe her. Because despite everything, despite the no’s, the failed rounds, the disappointment, one thing remains unshaken. Hope. And as long as you have that, as long as you have her, you know you’re going to get through this. Together.

The third round felt different. You tried not to let yourselves believe it too much tried to temper the hope, to not let it bloom too fully in case it got crushed again. But when you saw that second line on the pregnancy test, everything else disappeared. The breath left your lungs. Your hands trembled as you held the test in front of you, staring at it, disbelieving.

A positive.

You laughed, you sobbed, you dropped to your knees on the bathroom floor, clutching the tiny plastic stick like it was the most precious thing in the world. Alexia wasn’t home she was away with Barcelona, an away game in Madrid. You ached to tell her in person, to see her face when she realised what this meant, so you decided to wait, to surprise her when she got home.

For 48 hours, you carried this secret like a treasure, your hands instinctively resting over your belly, whispering to the tiny life growing inside you, promising them that they were already so loved.

Then came the blood.

At first, it was just a little. Barely anything. You told yourself it was normal, that implantation bleeding happens, that some women experience spotting in early pregnancy. But by the next morning, it was more. Too much. And suddenly, that hope you had tried so hard to hold onto was slipping through your fingers like sand. Alexia wasn’t home yet. You didn’t tell her. Not yet. Instead, you called the clinic, booked a scan for when she’d be back. You spent the hours alone in quiet dread, curled up in bed, one hand pressed over your stomach, whispering desperate prayers to someone, anyone, please let this be okay.

Alexia came home exhausted, jet-lagged from travel, but thrilled to finally see you. The moment she stepped through the door, she grinned, pulling you into her arms. "Mi amor, I missed you so much."

You let yourself melt into her warmth, gripping her tightly, so tightly it made her pause, her hands moving to cup your face.

“What is it?” she asked softly, her brows furrowing. “What’s wrong?”

You inhaled sharply, blinking back the tears. “Alexia, I—” Your voice cracked. And instantly, her entire demeanour shifted. Concern, fear, flickered in her eyes as she guided you to the couch, hands never leaving you.

“What happened?”

You swallowed thickly, forcing yourself to look at her. “I… I took a test whilst you were away”

Her breath hitched. Her lips parted, eyes widening, searching your face for confirmation. “You—” Tears welled up in her eyes before she could even form a full thought, her hands trembling as they moved to your stomach.

“I wanted to tell you in person,” you whispered. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

Alexia’s throat bobbed, her smile so tender, so full of love, it broke your heart all over again.

“It was positive, but, Lex… I—I think something’s wrong.”

The words shattered the moment. Her face dropped, hands freezing over your belly. You told her about the bleeding, about the appointment. Her hands gripped yours, her jaw tightening, the familiar fire of her determination burning behind her eyes. “Then we go,” she said, already reaching for her keys.

The clinic was cold. You sat in the exam room, Alexia’s hand gripping yours tightly, her thumb stroking over your skin, grounding you.

“I’m so sorry.” The words cut through you like a blade. The doctor’s voice was gentle, but the words were brutal. Final. “There’s no heartbeat.”

Silence. You felt Alexia tense beside you, felt the way her breath hitched, but you couldn’t look at her. You couldn’t look at anything except the blank screen where there should have been life. The tears came fast. Unstoppable. Your whole body trembled as the weight of it crashed down on you, pressing against your chest, making it impossible to breathe. Alexia was instantly pulling you into her, arms tight, like she could physically hold you together as you crumbled. “Mi amor, mi amor,” she whispered against your temple, her voice breaking.

You sobbed into her shoulder, hands gripping the fabric of her hoodie so tightly your knuckles ached. It wasn’t fair. You’d done everything right. And still—still, it wasn’t enough.

That night, you didn’t leave your bed, you got home skipped dinner and went straight to bed. Alexia stayed with you, her body wrapped around yours, arms keeping you pressed against her chest as you cried yourself raw. And the weight of letting her down, it left unsaid.

She inhaled sharply, like the words physically wounded her. “Baby…”

Her hand cradled the back of your head, her lips pressing desperately against your hair. You squeezed your eyes shut, the ache in your chest unbearable.

Alexia swallowed thickly, her grip on you tightening. “I know,” she whispered. “I know, mi amor.” You felt her shake against you, felt the silent tears dampen your hair as she held you, as she broke with you. And then, through the thick silence, she whispered, “Whatever you need… however we move forward… I’m with you.”

You buried yourself further into her, needing her warmth, her strength. Because in this moment, you weren’t sure how to move forward. You weren’t sure if you could. All you knew was the pain. The loss. And the arms that held you through it.

Grief changes people. For you, it made everything feel heavy. The world moved on, but you felt like you were stuck, stuck in the loss, in the what could have been, in the endless questions you asked yourself every night when Alexia was fast asleep beside you. And for Alexia? It made her watch you.

She didn’t smother you, didn’t overwhelm you with empty reassurances. But you saw it—the way her eyes lingered on you when she thought you weren’t looking, the way she held you just a little tighter at night, the way she flinched when she woke up to find you staring at the ceiling, lost in your own mind.

She was waiting for you to break. And that’s what hurt the most. Because you knew she was hurting too. You knew she wanted this just as much as you did, but she never let herself be selfish about it. She never asked if you wanted to try again. Never brought up doctors or options or hope. Because she had heard you that night without you evening saying a word.

She had listened and instead of pushing, she had chosen to protect you. Even when it broke her. But you couldn’t live like this. Not with the weight of guilt pressing against your ribs, not with the way Alexia dimmed in a way you had never seen before. And so, you made a choice.

One last time. If it worked—if the universe was finally kind—then you both got everything you wanted. And if it didn’t? Then Alexia never had to know. She never had to relive the pain. The decision settled in your chest like a secret you had to keep.

You were going to try again for your wife, for everything she always wanted, the thing it seemed you couldn’t give her.

You booked the appointments quietly, slipping out on days when Alexia was at training or away for matches. Every injection, every test, every agonising waiting period—you went through it all alone. It was terrifying. Without her. But more than that it was hopeful. For the first time in months, you felt like you were fighting for something instead of drowning in loss.

You imagined what it would be like to tell Alexia. Imagined her face when she found out. Imagined how it would feel to finally say, ‘It worked. We did it.’

Then, one morning, standing in the bathroom, hands trembling as you held a test between your fingers

Two lines.

A positive.

Your breath caught, your vision blurred, your whole body shook. It had worked. It worked. You pressed a hand over your mouth, choking back a sob as the realisation slammed into you.

You were optimistic with a realism that you had been here before.

Alexia comes home later than usual. You hear the sound of the front door unlocking, the familiar shuffle of her boots as she kicks them off in the hallway. The deep sigh she lets out, the kind she always does after an exhausting training session.

But you don’t move. You can’t. You sat on the couch, staring at the TV, trying to look natural while your heart hammered in your chest.

She was still in her training gear, her hair slightly damp from her post-session shower, her bag slung lazily over one shoulder. And as always she came to find you and when she did. A soft smile pulled at her lips, tired but full of love, as she crossed the room toward you.

She had dropped her bag somewhere near the door, leaned down, and kissed you once. Then again. Then once more for good measure. “Hola, mi amor,” she murmured against your lips. “Missed you.”

You smiled, your stomach twisting with nerves. “Missed you too.”

Alexia hummed, straightening up as she ran a hand through her hair. “I’m starving,” she groaned, already heading toward the kitchen.

You still feigning nonchalance. “Food in the fridge for you, I ate earlier i was hungry”

She grinned, disappearing into the kitchen. And then you waited. The familiar sounds started, the fridge opening, the scrape of a cup, the soft clatter of cutlery and then silence. Your heart skipped a beat. For a moment, there was nothing. Then, slow, deliberate footsteps. When Alexia stepped back into the living room, she wasn’t holding her food. She was holding the five pregnancy tests you had left for her on the counter, all lined up neatly, undeniable in their results.

Her expression was unreadable—her brows slightly furrowed, her lips parted, her eyes wide with disbelief. She looked from the tests to you, then back to the tests.

“Mi amor…?” Her voice was so soft, so shaky, as if she wasn’t quite sure if she was seeing what she thought she was seeing. Your stomach twisted, your breath catching. You tried to speak—really, you did—but all you could do was nod, your throat tight with emotion. Alexia blinked. Once. Twice.

Then, as if she needed to be sure, she slowly lifted one of the tests closer to her face, rereading the little plus sign, as if the result might somehow change.

Her breath shuddered. Her fingers trembled. She looked back at you. And in the softest, most disbelieving whisper “You’re pregnant?”

You nodded, “I took five to be sure” As Alexia sits down, her fingers still curled around the positive test, you see the shift. The happiness spreads to raw emotion as she swatted away at her tears as you moved to put her arms around her, her hand ran up and down your thigh, “I don’t know how to feel either” You whisper

“I’m happy. I’m so happy but.. I don’t want to get ahead of myself”

You nod, “We’ve been here before”

Alexia looked to you her eyes scanning over your face, “If this wasn’t positive, would I of ever known you’d done another round of IVF?” Your silence told her the answer, “Never do that again, please. I want to be involved not for the baby for you, I meant my vows mi amor I want to be there for the good and the bad, and the thought of you going through another loss alone tears me apart”

You peck her lips, “I’m sorry, I can see your hurting, I can see your breaking Lex and you’re trying to be strong for me, and I just.. I want to make you happy. And I feel the only thing I can give you is a baby and I can’t even get that right”

“Hey” Alexia turned her body fully to you, “No. Baby or not. I love you. You are my wife. I didn’t fall in love with you and marry you for you to give me a baby Y/N. Don’t ever think I think or feel less of you because this isn’t working for us.” You nodded and she cupped your face, “We stay cautiously optimistic ok? You’re pregnant” she let herself smile, “And that’s incredible, but we don’t get ahead of ourselves”

You nodded, pecking her lips, “Don’t call me Y/N again” Alexia chuckled you put your finger over her lips, “It’s Mi Amor or silence”

“Yes Mi Amor” You kissed each other lips moving in perfect synchronicity, “It’s positive”

You both giggled, “I know.” You looked to your stomach, “There’s a little baby in there”

“We’re doing what we literally just said we wouldn’t”

—

The drive to the clinic is quiet. Not because you and Alexia don’t have anything to say, but because neither of you can find the words. You sit in the passenger seat, hands clasped tightly over your stomach, trying to steady your breathing. You can feelAlexia glance at you every few seconds, her fingers twitching on the steering wheel like she wants to reach for you but doesn’t want to take her eyes off the road.

When she finally speaks, her voice is soft. “You okay?” You nod, but your throat is too tight to answer properly. Alexia sighs, her free hand reaching over to squeeze yours. “I know,” she murmurs. “Me too.” Because this moment—the space between knowing and really knowing—is the most terrifying part. You want to believe it. You want to let yourself hope. But you’ve been here before.

The clinic is just as you remember it—too bright, too clinical, too full of possibilities. Alexia never lets go of your hand as you check in, as you’re led down the hallway, as you settle onto the exam table.

The nurse smiles warmly at you both. “You’re here for an early scan?”

You nod, swallowing thickly. “We just… we just want to make sure everything’s okay.”

She nods in understanding, her smile never wavering. “That’s completely normal. You’ve been through a lot to get here.”

Alexia shifts beside you, her grip tightening on your fingers. “Is it too early to see anything?” she asks, her voice steady but her eyes uncertain.

The nurse shakes her head. “At this stage, we won’t see much, but we will be able to check for a heartbeat.”

A heartbeat. You exhale shakily, your chest tightening.

The nurse prepares the ultrasound, and Alexia presses a kiss to your forehead, whispering, “I’m right here.”

The cool gel on your stomach makes you shiver, but it’s nothing compared to the way your whole body tenses as the probe moves across your skin. The room is silent for a moment.

You hold your breath. Alexia holds you.

And then—

A sound.

Faint at first. A soft, rhythmic whoosh-whoosh-whoosh.

Your chest cracks open. Alexia sucks in a breath, her eyes going wide.

“There it is,” the nurse says gently. “A very strong heartbeat.”

You don’t realise you’re crying until Alexia lifts your hand to her lips, pressing a firm kiss against your knuckles. She’s crying too. The nurse adjusts the screen slightly, pointing to a tiny, barely visible speck. “There’s your baby.”

Your baby.

You let out a soft, shaky laugh, your free hand instinctively moving toward your stomach. “They’re so small.”

Alexia breathes out a choked laugh. “They’re there.”

The nurse nods, smiling at you both. “Everything looks good. Strong heartbeat, early signs are all positive. I know it’s still early, but this is a great start.”

A great start.

You turn to Alexia, fresh tears slipping down your cheeks. “We did it.”

She swallows thickly, her forehead pressing against yours. “You did it.”

For the first time in a long, long time you let yourself believe it.

At first, neither of you spoke about the future much just one day at a time, one quiet milestone at a time. But then things kept going well. Your symptoms came on strong, morning sickness, exhaustion, all the usual things, but you welcomed every wave of nausea, every sleepless night, because it meant the pregnancy was progressing.

And then, around 12 weeks, a tiny bump started to show. Only noticeable in the mornings and evenings, but it was there, signs of growth. It wasn’t obvious to anyone else, but Alexia noticed immediately. From that moment on, she was obsessed. Every morning before she left for training, her hand would drift under your shirt, fingers ghosting over your stomach, a tiny, unconscious smile playing at her lips.

Every night before bed, she’d lie beside you, palm resting just below your navel, warmth seeping through your skin. She touched you like she needed to. Like every moment she wasn’t touching you, she might forget this was really happening.

But it wasn’t just your stomach she was obsessed with. Your body was changing in more ways than one. And Alexia noticed. Of course, she knew your body better than you did.

One evening, as you changed into pyjamas, you caught her staring in the mirror. Her arms were crossed, her lips slightly parted, very clearly focused on something other than your stomach.

You rolled your eyes. “You’re so obvious.”

She smirked, stepping behind you, her hands immediately cupping your breasts from behind, giving them a gentle squeeze. “I’m just… appreciating,” she murmured, lips pressing against your neck.

You groaned, swatting her hands away halfheartedly. “They hurt, Lex.”

She hummed, not even remotely deterred. “They’re just bigger” she mused, her hands lingering, her thumbs brushing over you lightly. “And sensitive.”

You shot her a glare through the mirror. “Exactly. So hands off.”

She pouted but finally let go, sighing dramatically. “I don’t know if I should be honoured or offended by how unfair pregnancy is to me.”

You turned in her arms, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, you think you have it tough?”

She nodded, lips twitching. “Yes. I have to suffer through your boobs getting bigger and not getting to enjoy them.”

You smacked her arm, laughing. “You’re impossible.”

She smirked, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips. “But you love me.”

You sighed against her, already melting. “Unfortunately.”

She grinned, hands sliding back down to where your bump was showing, but it could have been the biggest bowl of paella Alexia gave you. “And I love you.”

You hummed. “And my boobs.”

“That too.”

Alexia’s hands remained firm on your stomach, fingers tracing gentle patterns over the slight curve of your stomach. Her eyes flickered up to meet yours in the mirror, full of mischief, adoration, and something else—something unmistakably hungry. You knew this look. You also knew that once Alexia decided she wanted something, she wouldn’t stop until she got it.

You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. “You are impossible.”

She hummed against your neck, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss there. “I just think,” she murmured, her hands moving just slightly under your shirt, her palms flat against your warm skin, “that we should celebrate.”

You arched an eyebrow, though your resolve was already crumbling. “Celebrate what, exactly?”

She smirked, her lips brushing against your jaw. “That you’re growing our baby,” she whispered, her voice low, reverent. “That I get to love you like this. That you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

A shiver ran down your spine at her words. Damn her. Damn her and her hands and her mouth and the way she could make you melt with nothing more than a whisper. You exhaled shakily. “Alexia—”

“Mmm?” She feigned innocence, but her fingers were already slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, grazing the underside of your breast. “Too much?”

You swallowed hard, your body betraying you as you leaned into her touch. She grinned, sensing your resolve slipping, her thumbs drawing slow, deliberate circles against your skin.

“I just want to touch you,” she murmured against your ear, her voice sending warmth flooding through your body. “Let me?”

And how could you say no when she sounded like that? When she looked at you like you were her entire world? You sighed, closing your eyes for a moment before finally turning in her arms, your hands moving up to cup her face. “I hate you,” you muttered, though there was no weight to it.

Alexia grinned. “You love me.”

You rolled your eyes, but before you could say anything else, she closed the gap between you, her lips capturing yours in a slow, deliberate kiss. It was different—slower, deeper, filled with something heavier than just desire. Love. Worship. Alexia kissed you like she was memorising you, like she needed to show you everything she felt because words would never be enough. And as her hands moved to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, you let her. You let yourself fall. Because no matter how impossible she was yours.

Alexia’s hands moved deliberately, reverently, over your waist, her touch slow and exploratory. There was no rush—just the warmth of her fingertips, the way she cupped your body like she was memorising every new curve, every change, every part of you that had shifted since the pregnancy began.

Her lips trailed down your neck, lingering, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone. “You’re so beautiful,” she murmured against your skin, her voice hushed, full of something almost worshipful.

Your breath hitched as her hands slid higher, her thumbs brushing just beneath your breasts, testing, waiting.

You exhaled shakily, biting your lip. “They’re sensitive,” you whispered, though you weren’t entirely sure if it was a warning or an invitation.

Alexia hummed in understanding, her gaze flicking up to yours as if asking permission. You swallowed hard, nodding once. That was all she needed. Her fingers curled gently around your curves, her thumbs pressing feather-light circles into the tender skin. The sensation sent a warmth rippling through you—too much and not enough all at once.

“Dios mío,” Alexia whispered, her voice thick with awe. “So full. So soft.”

A whimper slipped from your lips when her thumbs brushed over your nipples, the sensitivity making your breath stutter. She smirked at your reaction, her touch turning slightly firmer, her lips following, pressing kisses along the swell of your breast before flicking her tongue out, teasing, exploring. Your fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her closer. “Alexia,” you gasped, your body pressing into her, already feeling consumed by her touch, her warmth, the way she devoured you without hurry, without urgency—just pure, unfiltered adoration.

She chuckled against your skin, her breath warm, teasing. “Mmm, I love hearing you say my name like that.”

You tugged her hair harder, making her groan. Her hands slid down to your hips, gripping, holding you steady as she continued her slow, intoxicating assault. Every flick of her tongue, every press of her lips, every gentle squeeze sent a new wave of pleasure washing over you, pulling you under with her. She wasn’t just touching you. She was worshiping you. Loving every new part of you. Every change. Every sign of the life you were growing together. And in this moment—wrapped in her arms, completely undone by her love, her devotion—you had never felt more cherished.

Alexia took her time, her touch slow, deliberate—like she was learning everything about you all over again. Her lips never left your skin, pressing soft, lingering kisses along your collarbone, down the curve of your breasts, her breath warm against your already sensitive skin.

You had always known her to be patient, controlled, but tonight she was reverent.

She whispered against your skin, her voice husky. “I love how your body is changing,” she murmured, her hands sliding along your sides, tracing every new curve, every inch of softness. “I love you.”

You gasped as her fingers brushed over your already sensitive peaks, her thumbs circling, teasing, sending sharp jolts of pleasure straight through you. Your body reacted immediately—back arching, breath catching, heat pooling low in your stomach. She smirked at the effect she had on you, her hands steady, her eyes dark with something intense, something undeniable.

You whined softly, your grip on her tightening. “Alexia—”

She hummed, dipping her head lower, her lips brushing over the swell of your breast before capturing you fully. The sensation sent a deep shiver through you, the pleasure sharp and overwhelming. She knew you were sensitive, knew exactly what it did to you, and yet—she didn’t stop. She worshiped you, her touch, her mouth, her hands moving in perfect rhythm, coaxing soft, breathy moans from your lips. Every flick of her tongue, every teasing squeeze, every gentle pull sent you spiralling, climbing. And she knew. She could feel it. The way your breath hitched. The way your fingers tangled in her hair, holding her close. The way your body arched into her, desperate for more. She smiled against your skin, her voice full of heat. “You’re close, aren’t you?”

You whimpered, nodding, the pressure coiling impossibly tight inside you. She didn’t stop. Didn’t rush. She just stayed with you, guiding you, coaxing you, until the tension finally broke—pleasure crashing over you in waves so intense it left you shaking in her arms. She held you through it, whispering soft, soothing words against your skin, pressing kisses to your temple, your cheeks, your lips.

“I’ve got you,” she murmured, her hands never leaving you. “Always.”

And as you slowly came down, body still tingling, heart still racing, you let out a soft, breathless laugh. “You’re so smug right now.”

Alexia grinned, pressing another lingering kiss to your lips. “Of course I am,” she teased. “I made you come by playing with your boobs.”

You sighed, melting into her, completely boneless. And in that moment, wrapped in her arms, her warmth, her love You knew. You were hers. Completely.

You thought morning sickness meant… well, mornings. You were wrong.

It’s relentless—unforgiving in the way it rolls through you in waves, taking with it your appetite, your patience, and any desire to even look at food. It hits you the hardest first thing, the moment you open your eyes. But it doesn’t stop there. By mid-afternoon, it circles back, and by evening, you're utterly drained, your body heavy with fatigue, your stomach rebelling against anything you try to keep down.

Even water feels like a gamble some days. And it’s starting to wear on you. Alexia tries to keep things as normal as possible, but you know she’s worried. She hovers without hovering, always within reach—bringing toast in the mornings, holding your hair when things get bad, Googling every possible morning sickness remedy known to mankind.

You’re curled on the couch today, blanket wrapped around you, a half-finished cup of ginger tea sitting cold on the coffee table.

Alexia pads in from the kitchen, holding a small plate with dry crackers and a hopeful expression.

“They said plain is best,” she offers gently, crouching down beside you. “Want to try?” You stare at the crackers like they’ve personally wronged you. She smirks, brushing your hair back from your face. “I’ll take that as a maybe.”

You let out a soft groan, burying your face in the blanket. “I hate this. I hate this part.”

Alexia’s fingers trail lightly along your forehead. “I know, mi amor. I wish I could take it from you.”

“I wish anyone could take it from me.” She sits on the edge of the couch, gently pulling you into her lap until your head rests against her shoulder, her arms wrapping tightly around you.

You sigh heavily, your voice muffled in her shirt. “I’m so tired of throwing up. I can’t even smell toast without wanting to cry.”

Alexia laughs softly, rubbing your back. “You did cry yesterday. Because of a banana.”

“It was rude,” you mutter.

She kisses the top of your head. “You’re growing a human. I think you’re allowed to be dramatic about fruit.”

You smile faintly, eyes fluttering closed as you rest in the safety of her arms. “I just… I didn’t expect to feel this bad.”

Alexia tightens her hold on you, her cheek resting against your temple. “You don’t have to be strong through all of it, you know? You’re allowed to hate it. You’re allowed to complain. You’re allowed to feel everything.”

You nod slowly, swallowing down the lump in your throat. “I just feel useless.”

“You’re the opposite of useless,” she says immediately, without hesitation. “You’re doing something I can’t. You’re carrying our baby. That’s everything.”

You let the words sink in, feeling the sting of tears behind your eyes—but this time not from nausea. “Okay,” you whisper. “But if I ever eat again, it’s going to be something deeply unhealthy.”

Alexia chuckles, nuzzling her nose into your hair. “Done. Ice cream for dinner. As soon as your stomach stops being an asshole.” You laugh softly—tired, aching, but loved. Because even when your body is rebelling against you, even when all you’ve managed to keep down today is a cracker and three sips of tea, Alexia holds you like you’re doing the most incredible thing in the world. And deep down… you know you are.

Dinner with Alba and Eli had sounded like a great idea when Alexia suggested it. Something warm, something normal—just the four of you, catching up, laughing, letting the world feel simple again, if only for a few hours. But as you stand in the kitchen, clinging to the edge of the counter, willing yourself not to vomit from the smell of the garlic sizzling in the pan, you're starting to deeply question your judgment.

Alexia catches your pale, sweaty reflection in the glass oven door and immediately steps in. She slides a hand across your back, firm and grounding, her other hand moving to take the wooden spoon from your fingers. “Go sit down,” she murmurs gently. “I’ve got this.”

You don’t argue. You can’t. You’re already lightheaded by the time you curl up on the couch, clutching a glass of water like it might save your life. Just as you let your head rest back, the doorbell rings.

You and Alexia lock eyes for a moment. She gives you a soft, knowing look—a we’ve got this kind of look—before she wipes her hands and goes to let them in. Alba is the first to storm in, dramatic as ever, holding a bottle of wine in one hand and a baguette in the other. “Hola, família! I brought carbs and chaos!”

Eli follows with a softer smile, always warm, always perceptive. But the second they both spot you on the couch—pale, tired, wrapped in a blanket like you’re clinging to the edge of consciousness—their moods shift.

Alba slows to a stop, narrowing her eyes. “Whoa. Are you okay? You look like… shit.”

You muster the weakest smile you can manage. “Thanks, Alba.”

Eli, more gently, sets her bag down and moves closer. “Mi amor, you’re so pale. Are you sick?”

Alexia walks in quickly, too casually, drying her hands on a towel. “She’s okay. She’s just had a stomach bug all week. It’s been rough, but she’s getting through it.”

You nod, adding, “It’s the worst flu I’ve ever had. Won’t go away.”

Alba makes a face. “You’ve had it for a week? That’s not normal. Have you gone to a doctor?”

Alexia sits beside you, sliding a subtle hand over your knee under the blanket. “She’s been seen. They said it just has to run its course.”

“Well,” she finally says, smiling as she moves to the kitchen, “then you sit and rest, and we’ll take care of everything else.”

Alba follows her, still suspicious. “If I catch this mystery flu, I swear…”

As soon as they’re out of the room, you turn to Alexia and whisper, “Do they know?”

She shakes her head. “Not yet.”

“She was watching me like I was hiding a second head.”

Alexia leans in, brushing her nose against your temple. “You are hiding something. A very tiny someone.”

You smile faintly. “I hate lying to them.”

“I know. But it’s just for now. Until we’re sure everything’s ok.”

You nod slowly, laying your head on her shoulder. “Okay. Just a little longer.” And as Eli and Alba clatter around in the kitchen, making dinner, laughing like nothing is amiss, you sit quietly on the couch—tired, nauseous, nervous— But wrapped in your wife’s arms. And still full of the quietest kind of joy.

#alexia x reader #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas fanfic #woso fanfics #alexia putellas #woso #barca femeni #barcelona femeni #alexia putellas imagine #woso imagine #alexia putellas x y/n #alexia putellas one shot #fcb femeni

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daryl-dixon-daydreams · 2 days ago

Text

"Why're ya still with them?" Daryl's expression was grim, his brow furrowed, and his blue eyes sharp with concern.

"Well—they're—they're my... family," you finally managed weakly. You were hugging your arms around yourself as if against the cold, but Daryl knew that it was instead as armor against the verbal knives your father seemed to constantly be hurling at you, and the demands your brother unfairly placed on your shoulders. And despite your strength, your back was bowed under them...

"Sometimes family by blood ain't even really yer family. That word means somethin' else. And I didn't learn that until far too late too. But—" He could see tears welling in your eyes and it nearly stalled him out. God, how he wanted to reach for you, to help you escape. Escape them, escape all of it, escape with him. "Look—just—forget them. Forget all of them and come with me," he suddenly burst out. He stepped toward you, possibly closer than he'd ever been and his voice was low, with that gravelly edge you loved so much. It gave you goosebumps. And the expression on his face seemed to go right through you.

"Daryl—" you began to protest.

"No—I know... please, dun say a damn thing. Just let me—dun look at me like that! They dun deserve ya! Just come with me and I'll—we'll go somewhere safe, and I'll keep ya safe!" He knew he was rambling, but once he began he couldn't stop. It poured out like a roar of spring snowmelt behind an ice dam that suddenly broke loose. He wasn't usually a man of more than a few words, but now they were rushing out of him desperately in a way he couldn't control. "We can go wherever we want! Some little cottage in the woods somewhere, chickens and ducks and—and bees or whatever the hell else ya can dream up!" He stopped dead as the tears broke free from your eyes and poured down your cheeks. "W—why are ya cryin'?" he asked, and his voice broke on the last word. "We can have it. I promise. Please, just come with..."

"Daryl, I'm—I'm crying because it's a wonderful dream but—"

"Don't. Dun say 'but'."

You wanted to reach for him and breach the small buffer of space between you. "—but..." you started again slowly, "I don't think you understand what's—what's actually keeping me here." His brow furrowed more deeply and the color of his eyes seemed to darken.

"It don't matter. Whatever it is, I'll fix it. I'll keep ya safe. Just come with me. Please..."

You were teetering on the edge. Would you dare to jump?

#daryl dixon angst #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon twd #the walking dead #twd fanfics #daryl dixon drabbles #daryl imagines #daryl dixon x reader #daryl x y/n #fanfics #writers of tumblr #twd drabbles

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babsf1world · 2 days ago

Text

SO CLOSE TO WHAT.

“No, you ain’t got no Mrs, oh, but you got a sports car.” — Moving to England to live with your aunt’s boyfriend was one thing, the other one is to deal with his son’s annoyingly cocky behavior.

pairing. step cousin! Lando Norris x fem! reader

warnings. AU! (Lando’s younger, and isn’t f1 driver) step cousins romance(I tried to make them as distant as possible), complicated family situation.

babs’ notes. I let the voices win— I completely understand that this isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, and that’s okay!! There’s not going to be smut, and I’ll probably make this series!

music. Sports Car by Tate Mcrae.

Series masterlist. // Main masterlist.

YOUR AUNT WAS A TRULY PERPLEXING WOMAN—enigmatic in ways you could never quite figure out. She wasn’t easy to understand, but you loved her regardless. She had been your anchor since you were little, stepping in where your parents had often failed. While they weren’t exactly the Parents of the Year, your aunt was always there, her fierce loyalty and unwavering care filling the gaps they left behind.

But your aunt had her quirks, and one of them was her apparent inability to be alone. She always had someone by her side—a new boyfriend or partner that became a fixture in her life for however long the romance lasted. Over the years, you’d grown accustomed to the revolving door of men who entered and exited her life.

This time, though, was different. For the past two years, she’d been with a man who didn’t seem to fit the usual mold. His name was Thomas, he lived in London, a wealthy single businessman, according to everything she had told you—a world away from the Los Angeles life you knew. He had a son your age, she’d mentioned in passing, though you’d never thought much about it.

Her frequent trips to England had become routine, each one pulling her further into his world. But this time, her decision rocked your world entirely: she wanted to move. All the way from sunny Los Angeles to the vastly different city of London. You could tell how much she wanted this, how much happiness she seemed to find in the prospect of starting a new chapter with Thomas. And despite the bittersweet ache of leaving your friends, your home, and everything familiar behind, you agreed to go with her. She’d always been by your side, after all, and now it was your turn to be by hers.

Packing up your life was harder than you’d expected. Every photo, every book, every piece of clothing seemed to carry the weight of memories tied to the life you were leaving behind. As the day of the move approached, you couldn’t help but feel the enormity of it all—the uncertainty of what lay ahead, the bittersweet finality of what you were leaving behind.

You leaned against the cool leather seat, your aunt beside you, chatting away excitedly about how different London felt compared to Los Angeles. Her words barely registered as you stared out of the tinted window of the luxurious limousine that had been sent for you—a reminder of the new world you were stepping into.

The city unfolded before your eyes like a movie scene. The streets buzzed with life, the iconic red double-decker buses rolling past, black cabs weaving through traffic with practiced ease. Pedestrians hurried along the sidewalks, some clutching umbrellas despite the sun peeking through the clouds. London didn’t feel like any place you’d ever been—it was both historic and modern, loud and elegant all at once.

The music in your airpods provided a gentle soundtrack to your thoughts, keeping you anchored in the overwhelming rush of sights and sounds. You felt like a lost tourist, out of place amidst the grandeur and hustle of the city. Every corner seemed to hold a piece of London’s story: old buildings with ornate details, high-end shops gleaming with glass displays, and the occasional glimpse of lush green parks tucked between it all.

Your aunt’s voice broke through the haze of your thoughts, pulling you back to the present. “It’ll be okay,” she said softly, her tone warm and reassuring. You glanced at her, noticing the way her eyes sparkled as she took in the sights of London. She always had a way of making things seem less daunting, even when you weren’t sure you believed her.

Reluctantly, you pulled out one of your airpods, letting the faint hum of music fade into the background. “It’s so beautiful here,” she said, her voice filled with genuine awe as she gazed out at the bustling streets.

You followed her gaze, taking in the city around you. Beautiful? Sure. The historic buildings, the cobblestone streets, the iconic red buses—it all looked like something out of a postcard. But to you, it was also overwhelming. Unfamiliar. A world away from the sun-soaked streets of Los Angeles that you knew like the back of your hand.

“Yeah,” you muttered under your breath, your fingers fidgeting with the strap of your bag. “Beautiful. And also fucking unfamiliar.”

Your aunt didn’t seem to catch your words—or maybe she chose not to. Instead, she reached over and gave your hand a gentle squeeze, her silent way of saying she understood. And maybe she did. After all, she was leaving behind her own life too, even if she seemed more excited than scared.

The limousine came to a halt, the soft hum of the engine quieting as you stared out at the sight before you. The villa was something straight out of a daydream—grand and elegant, with French windows that glinted in the sunlight and lush greenery that seemed to wrap the house in a sense of timeless beauty. You couldn’t help but think, Wow, this is not so bad. If nothing else, at least the place itself might soften the blow of moving here.

Thomas was already waiting at the entrance, his smile broad and welcoming as if he couldn’t contain his excitement. The moment the car door opened, your aunt practically bolted into his arms, laughter and affectionate greetings filling the air. They embraced like the stars of some romantic film, completely caught up in each other. At least one of you was happy, you thought, watching them.

You stepped out of the limousine hesitantly, your shoes crunching softly against the gravel drive. The cool breeze carried the faint scent of flowers, and for a moment, you let yourself take it all in—the towering architecture, the perfectly trimmed hedges, the sheer opulence of it all. It was beautiful, yes, but also overwhelming, like stepping into a world you weren’t sure you belonged to.

Adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder, you glanced around, taking in every detail of the place that would now be called home. The air was still, save for the occasional rustle of leaves, and the sheer quiet was a stark contrast to the hum of Los Angeles. You felt a pang of homesickness already, but you pushed it aside. This was a fresh start, you reminded yourself, no matter how unfamiliar it might be.

“Just treat yourself like home, Y/n,” Thomas said warmly, his accent crisp yet inviting. He kept an arm around your aunt as he spoke, the two of them radiating an ease with each other that made you smile faintly. At least she was happy. That was what mattered most, you reminded yourself. They turned towards the grand entrance of the villa, leaving you to follow quietly behind.

The house opened up before you like a gallery, every inch of it steeped in luxury and charm. As you stepped inside, your eyes were immediately drawn to the walls—adorned with framed photographs and posters of McLaren F1 cars, sleek sports cars, and classic vintage models. The space exuded the spirit of a car enthusiast, one who seemed to live and breathe motorsport.

“Typical British man,” you muttered under your breath with a soft chuckle, amused by the predictability of it all. But if you were being honest, you kind of liked it. The bold curves of the cars, the energy captured in the photos, the sleek designs—it all sparked something familiar, something comforting.

You’d loved cars and F1 for as long as you could remember. When your dad was still around—still playing the role of a father, even if fleetingly—he’d introduced you to the world of motorsport. He’d taught you how engines worked, how to tell one car apart from another, how to appreciate the artistry of speed and design. He even let you sit on his lap and “drive” when you were just six years old, your tiny hands gripping the steering wheel while he worked the pedals. Those memories stuck with you, even after the illusion of who your dad was faded.

Running your fingers along the edge of a wooden banister, you let your gaze linger on one of the larger framed photos: a McLaren car hurtling down a track, wheels kicking up dust as it rounded a corner. There was a thrill to it, a sense of movement and purpose that felt magnetic.

Behind you, you heard your aunt’s laughter echo down the hallway as she and her boyfriend disappeared deeper into the house, wrapped up in their own bubble of bliss. You stood there for a moment longer, taking in your surroundings and wondering what it would feel like to call this place home. It was beautiful, sure, but it was also unfamiliar. Strange.

You sat at the grand dining table, surrounded by the understated elegance of your new home. The plate in front of you held what could only be described as the most typical British dish imaginable—crispy fish and chips, with a side of mushy peas that you were still trying to convince yourself to like. The room was quiet, save for the occasional clink of utensils against porcelain. Even your aunt, normally a chatterbox, seemed content in her little bubble of bliss, sitting close to her boyfriend.

The silence was suddenly broken by the unmistakable growl of a roaring engine outside the house. It wasn’t just any car engine—it was powerful, aggressive, commanding attention in a way that made your heart leap slightly. You glanced toward the window, your curiosity piqued.

“It must have been Lando,” Thomas said casually, barely glancing up from his plate.

Lando. That was his name? You rolled the name over in your mind, trying to place it. Your aunt had mentioned the man had a son your age, but this was the first time you’d heard his name spoken out loud. Lando. It sounded sharp, unique, leaving an impression before you’d even seen him.

You leaned back slightly in your chair, trying to keep your movements subtle, not wanting to draw attention to yourself. Your fingers idly brushed the edge of your plate, but your gaze was firmly fixed on the massive window across the room. Outside, the carbon blue McLaren sat parked with an air of quiet power, its sleek design commanding attention even in stillness.

The car door opened smoothly, catching your eye as the man stepped out. He moved with effortless confidence, his posture relaxed yet purposeful. His curly brown hair caught the sunlight, slightly tousled, as though he’d just come from the rush of the open road. Dressed casually in faded blue jeans and a sweater that matched the deep tone of the McLaren, he seemed entirely at ease in the luxurious surroundings. The sunglasses perched on his face obscured his eyes, but the sharp angles of his jaw and the slight smirk tugging at his lips hinted at a self-assuredness that was hard to ignore.

You found yourself watching him longer than you intended, intrigued by the way he carried himself. There was something magnetic about his presence—like he knew exactly how to make an entrance without even trying. He lingered by the car for a moment, brushing his hand along the roof before glancing toward the house. His movements were deliberate, casual, yet somehow striking in their simplicity.

You leaned back slightly, arms crossing as you processed the sight before you. So this was Lando. The son your aunt had mentioned in passing, the one you hadn’t given much thought to before now. He seemed confident—maybe too confident—but you’d seen worse. Much worse.

Still, there was something about him that lingered in your mind as he walked toward the house, his movements unhurried, exuding a kind of effortless ease. You weren’t sure yet what to make of him, but you had a feeling he wasn’t the kind of person you could easily ignore.

“Hey,” his voice rang out, that undercurrent of cockiness still lingering as if he carried the room with just a few syllables. You hesitated, your fingers lightly brushing the edge of the table as your aunt rushed past you, her excitement undeniable.

“Oh my god, Lan, you’ve grown up so much,” she gushed, wrapping her arms around him with a warmth that made you feel like an outsider in the moment. You could hear the sound of his laugh—a short, amused chuckle that matched the easy confidence he seemed to radiate.

Finally, you turned around, unable to resist any longer. Your eyes landed on him, taking in the full picture. His sunglasses now perched on his head, pushed back to reveal striking green eyes that seemed to catch the light in a way that made them all the more intense. His gaze darted to you, and for a moment, you thought you saw something flicker there—curiosity, perhaps? Or maybe it was just the same cockiness he carried in his voice.

Lando was taller than you'd expected, but not so much that it felt imposing. He stood with an ease that was almost frustrating, like he’d never had to try too hard for anything in his life. And yet, there was something about his presence that drew you in, even if you didn’t want to admit it.

So this was the golden boy everyone seemed to talk about—the one who apparently had it all: fame, charm, and a life that you couldn’t even begin to compare to your own. Honestly, you weren’t surprised. He looked good. Too good, almost. Like he had stepped straight out of the kind of world that only existed in glossy magazine spreads and Instagram feeds.

“You must be Y/n,” he said with a smirk, his tone light but carrying a certain edge of confidence. It wasn’t just an introduction—it was like he knew exactly how to set the pace of the room, how to make his presence impossible to ignore. “Dad and Auntie talked about you a lot.”

Auntie. You bristled slightly at the word, but let it pass. Whatever. It wasn’t worth commenting on, especially when he was already sliding into the seat opposite you, his movements casual but deliberate, like he had all the time in the world.

His green eyes locked onto yours, steady and focused in a way that made it hard to look away. There was something about them—sharp and observant, as if he was reading you like a page in a book. It wasn’t intimidating, exactly, but it wasn’t comfortable either. You could feel your guard rising instinctively, unsure of what to make of him.

“So,” he said, leaning back slightly in the chair, his smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Are you settling in, or did they just drag you here against your will?” His tone was teasing, but you caught the flicker of genuine curiosity hidden beneath it, like he actually wanted to know.

“The second one actually,” you said, your smile tinged with sarcasm, a playful edge in your voice. It was obvious you were joking, but the words carried just enough bite to keep things interesting.

Lando’s smirk grew, his green eyes narrowing slightly in mock amusement. “Dragged here kicking and screaming, huh?” he teased, leaning forward slightly in his chair. “Well, I guess I should feel honored to be graced with your presence then.”

You rolled your eyes, but the faint smile playing on your lips betrayed you. “Oh, absolutely,” you shot back, keeping your tone light. “I mean, it’s not every day you get to sit across from a golden boy.”

He chuckled softly at that, shaking his head as if to brush off the comment, but the glint in his eyes remained. “Golden boy, huh? Is that what they’re calling me now?” He leaned back in his chair, casually draping an arm over the backrest. “I’ve been called worse, I suppose.”

“Anyway, I need to go,” Lando announced, his voice cutting through the room with a casual confidence that seemed to come so naturally to him. His tone carried the same cockiness you were starting to realize was simply a part of who he was. “Max and I are going to play some golf,” he added, like the words were a badge of honor. Golf—of all things. The most boring sport you could think of. Or whatever it even was. You couldn't help but picture him swinging clubs in the middle of a pristine course, surrounded by people eager to soak in his charm.

“Golf?” you muttered quietly under your breath, the word leaving a sour taste in your mouth. The thought of it seemed laughable—too refined, too slow, too uneventful for someone who radiated such energy. You resisted the urge to say it aloud, knowing it wasn’t worth the trouble. He didn’t seem like the type who’d be fazed by a comment like that anyway.

“You just arrived,” your aunt interrupted, her voice softer now, tinged with a hint of disappointment. You could see it in the way she leaned toward him, her hand resting gently on his arm. She wanted him to stay longer, wanted to hold onto this moment of togetherness for just a little while more. But Lando didn’t seem particularly moved by her subtle plea.

“Sorry,” he said with a small shrug, the apology falling from his lips with all the sincerity of someone who had already made up their mind. His casual demeanor felt unshakable, like he lived in a world where rules and expectations bent around him, not the other way around.

And then, his gaze flicked to you. “See you around, Y/n,” he said, your name lingering on his lips with a bittersweet tone that sent a faint ripple through your chest. The way he said it—like it meant something more than just a casual farewell—caught you off guard. You couldn’t quite place the feeling it left behind, but it clung to you nonetheless.

Without another word, he turned and left the room, his footsteps fading into the hall as the faint hum of his McLaren’s engine became the only sound left to fill the silence. The absence of his presence seemed almost louder than his arrival, leaving you feeling... unsettled. You sat there, unsure of whether you were relieved or intrigued—or maybe both.

Thomas’ smile was warm, brimming with an almost paternal pride as he spoke. “He’s my boy, I’m sure you’ll get along,” he said confidently, his words carrying an air of certainty that you found difficult to match.

You nodded politely, offering a faint smile in return. It was nice that Thomas was so sure of this, so convinced that you and Lando would mesh seamlessly. But in truth, you weren’t. You couldn’t quite picture yourself clicking with someone like Lando—the golden boy who radiated charm and arrogance in equal measure, who seemed to move through life with a confidence you weren’t sure you could match.

The memory of his smirk, the cocky lilt in his voice, and the way he had glanced at you with those sharp green eyes—all of it lingered in your mind, unshakable even as you tried to dismiss it. You were still processing what you’d seen in him and what you hadn’t, trying to decide whether he was someone you wanted in your orbit or someone you’d prefer to keep at arm’s length.

Thomas didn’t seem to notice your hesitation, his expression full of pride and affection. And despite your doubts, you couldn’t help but respect the bond he clearly shared with Lando, the way he spoke about him with such unwavering certainty.

You forced your smile to stay in place, the words catching slightly in your throat as you replied, “I guess we’ll see.” It was the safest response you could think of, one that wouldn’t betray the uncertainty swirling in your mind.

Thomas chuckled lightly, oblivious to your internal conflict. “Oh, trust me. Once you get to know him, you’ll see what I mean.”

You weren’t sure if that was a promise or a warning, but you couldn’t deny the faint flicker of curiosity that had already begun to take root. Whatever happened next, you had a feeling that Lando Norris wasn’t someone you’d be able to ignore—whether you liked it or not.

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captain-huggy-bear · 2 days ago

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Big requests/full fic/big idea requests are closed at the moment but drabble and prompt requests are still open. Writing Masterlist

You're shoving rolls of socks and various coloured and patterned ties into his roadie bag when he finds you. Ties that he's never seen before, socks that he knows weren't anywhere near his roadie bag. There's a sort of intent, focused look on your face like this has a level of importance that he couldn't possibly understand.

"Baby, what are you doing?" You look up briefly, only enough to see him leaning against the door frame, sweatpants slung low on his hips, hood of his hoodie thrown up over his head. No fucking socks. Like that man has an aversion to them...which is fine, you tell yourself, it's fine in the house, it's fine on a beach, it's not fine in his goddamn shoes when he's wearing a suit.

"Your packing."

"I'm already packed..." He's certain he got everything done, his suit is hanging up ready to go in its dry cleaning bag, his toiletries the only things left to collect in the morning.

"Clay, 1 tie and no socks is not packing." You roll your eyes at him and it's in that moment that he fully grasps that you're annoyed about it, that somehow his singular tie has irritated you. You, who put up with the long weeks away, the late nights, the schedule that interferes with family events and plans.

"Why do I need more than 1 tie?"

"Because variety is the spice of life and if I see one more picture of you in the same grey suit with the same blue tie I am going to burn that tie." You have such a tight grip on the blue tie in question that Clay briefly wonders if you'll burn it anyway, a level of animosity for a piece of clothing he's never seen before.

"Okay, okay, fine...multiple ties, baby, but the socks?" He's closing the gap between you, pocking at the pile of socks you've put in his bag, more than enough, maybe even too many for the 5 game roadie he's going on.

"You need to wear socks with a suit, I swear to God, Clayton" You snatch back a pair of socks he's pulled from the bag, shoving them back into place like he might be undoing all your hard work.

"Why?" He feels a little stupid asking, like a little boy, but he doesn't get it. Plenty of the guys don't wear socks when they wear a suit, they're wearing sneakers most of the time, it's not really a necessity. Just more things to take on a trip when he wanted to take the bare minimum.

"Clay, it's just...you just have to." You don't know how to explain that socks were just something you wore with a suit, that his ankles needed to be covered. Mostly because you felt like you were starting to sound like a Victorian gentleman obsessed with someone's ankles.

"But..." He stops at the way you breathe out a big sigh. He can tell you're trying to not be irrationally irritated or angry, that you're trying to explain and make him understand why it bothers you without being rude about it.

"Clay, do you want to marry me one day?"

"Of course I do, baby." He's reaching for you like the question itself draws him to you, to hold you, to be reassured that you're still there with him. Clay's hands falling to your hips as he rounds the bed, fingers pressing into you to make sure you're not going anywhere.

"Then you need to wear socks with your suits because if I turn up at that aisle and you're not? I'm rescheduling." Your tone is lighter now, more joking and it eases some of the tension in his shoulders as he starts to form a smile. Socks seeming like a small price to pay for you.

"Not running to Tasmania or something?"

"No, rescheduling until you put on some socks." You're joking, but you also mean it. You can't explain why it matters so much that he wears socks with his suits, just that it does...a little detail that feels like it's vital even though in reality it's really not.

"Okay...socks with the suit, got it."

"I'm doing this because I love you."

He sighs heavily even as he's grinning down at you and the way you wrap your arms around his neck, "I love you too, baby."

#clayton keller x reader #huggy bear writes #clayton keller/reader #nhl imagine #nhl x reader

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karikarasuno · 3 days ago

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part five | part six | part seven

you indeed did not fuck the next time you and law were together. but it does feel like death is sitting patiently and wickedly at your doorstep. the room you wake up in is dark. thank god. because any sliver of light makes your head throb and your stomach churn.

mistakes were made last night, for sure. you blame luffy for the shots. the little shit doesn't even drink, but at some point you were downing tequila in an absurdly foolish attempt to keep up with zoro and sanji. it was dumb. but luffy liked to instigate the two of them and somehow everyone was always roped into the mess. consequences be damned.

you remember inviting law out with you. he had just gotten off from work, but you caught him unlocking his front door as you stepped out to walk chopper. excitement shot through your veins at the sight of him. you could probably overdose on that man if it was possible.

"you work tomorrow?" you call out from your lawn. he looks over at you and smiles. you feel it all the way in your toes.

"no," he says, propping his arm against his now open door.

"on call?" you make sure to ask, remembering vividly the mishap from before.

"nope," he answers, his smile stretching into something devilish and you nearly faint. god, how you want this man.

"good, we're going out tonight," you say, not offering because he would be joining you even if you had to drag him out the house yourself.

"where to? if i may ask."

"drinks with my friends." you keep it vague on purpose because your crew could get a bit rowdy sometimes and you don't want to scare him off.

"seems a bit forward, don't you think?" you know he's joking. poking fun at whatever relationship this is that you two share.

"i almost met your family pants less, i think going out with my friends is okay," you laugh, tugging chopper back to your side when he tries to chase a duck.

"what time should i come over to get you?" it's thoughtful. reminiscent of a date. he would be the type to pick you up. maybe even open the car door for you. and the question while innocent in nature sends a thrill of something arousing down your spine. the bar for men really is in hell if this is what turns you on.

"i'll be ready by 7." he was ringing your doorbell by 6:58pm.

"someone's eager." after that the night shuffles through your head in disorganized memories. like a film reel, but some squares are black and others are just so fucking blurry.

you remember introducing law to your friends. everyone was friendly. nami and sanji grilled him in this weird good cop, bad cop schtick they randomly decided to do. but it was more bad cop, annoying cop if you were being honest.

you remember flirting with him in a booth a couple drinks in. the bar was dark so you two were pretty secluded, thankfully. you don't think you could handle your friends witnessing how willing you were to throw yourself at him.

but after that, there's nothing. you don't remember getting home and when you try hard enough a sharp pain shoots through your temple and you groan miserably into the pillow.

"someone's finally awake," law's voice pierces through the pleasant silence and dread washes over you like a bucket full of ice cold water. what the hell is he doing here? you lift the blanket over your head to hide how horribly you know you look. attempting to save yourself from further embarrassment.

"what're you doing in my room?" your words are jumbled together and you're surprised he even understands you.

"this is my room, silly," he responds with a chuckle you can barely hear over the instant surge of alert mortification that floods your nervous system.

"no it's not," you argue, hoping and praying this is just some prank he's pulling since you were the one who started this whole breaking and entering scheme.

"look around, sweetheart," he says, suddenly much closer than he was before. you peek out over the top of the comforter. four-poster bed, heather gray black out curtains, and law. he's standing above you with a prescription bottle in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. black ribbed tank top hugging his torso and a pair of sweats hanging low on his waist.

you decide that you now hate him. why the fuck does he always look so good? it's just unfair at this point.

"why am i in your room?" your voice is rough from sleep and your throat is sore from how dry it is. even blinking hurts.

"i tried to take you home last night, but you refused to give me your house keys," he explains and you cannot believe you got that drunk. you're never drinking tequila again. "you said it would be more fun if we had a slumber party."

"oh lord," you complain, rubbing your temples with your thumb and pointer finger.

"take this," law says, and you hear the pills in the bottle rattle around as he pours a few in his hand. you hold out your open palm, refusing to look at him out of sheer defiance. really you're trying to save face.

you sit up when he hands you the open water bottle and even that action is a struggle. you're going to kill your friends the next time you see them. not that this is totally their fault. still you needed to spread the blame in the hopes that you can yell at them if law decides he never wants to speak with you again.

you chug down half of the water in a few large gulps. you're so dehydrated it's physically painful. a few drops of water drip onto your shirt and you absentmindedly swipe at them until it hits you that the shirt you have on isn't yours.

"law?" you question, you gaze finally sliding over to him. he hums in acknowledgement. "who's shirt is this?"

"mine," he gives you a small, sympathetic smile.

"why am i wearing it?"

"funny story actually," his smile grows less sympathetic and more... tickled. you hate him. you really really do. "i had to wrestle it onto you when you decided it was a good idea to strip down to your underwear."

"i did not." mortification is an understatement. humiliation is nowhere near severe enough to describe the feeling that's now burning through you.

"mhm, you said sleepovers are more fun naked," he laughs lightly. you're glad someone finds this situation humorous. because you’re about to dig a hole in your backyard and bury yourself in it.

"don't make that face," law pinches your nose between the knuckles of his fore and middle finger. it's annoying how cute he is because your face immediately un-scrunches from the gesture. "i thought it was adorable."

"me in the nicest lingerie i own is adorable to you?" you argue, irritated that you wasted your matching set on a night that law didn't even get to take it off you.

"no, the lingerie was very sexy," he leans in towards you, his thumb pressing into your brow bone to relieve some of the pressure that was there from your raging headache. your stomach flips at his words, even more agitated at how awful you feel when you should be climbing him. "you're just an energetic drunk and its entertaining. you're also really handsy."

you lean into his massaging fingers that are now kneading at your temples. you don't even want to answer him out of pure misery.

"i wish i could remember how handsy i got," you grumble, mopey and disappointed. you hear a light chuckle from him as his fingers travel to the soft spot behind your ears. law's hands are so perfect you're forgetting how bad you feel.

"nothing too scandalous. perfectly pg-13." he starts massaging your neck and a sigh of reprieve falls from your lips. bless him and his long fingers and his strong hands. actually you don't hate him anymore. you hate yourself for ruining the perfect opportunity to roll around for hours in these very sheets with him. fuck it all to hell, starting today you're gonna be sober.

"oh!" you just now remember your dog. on top of being a lousy drunk, you're also a horrible mother. "i gotta walk chopper!"

you wiggle away from his magical fingers reluctantly, yanking the comforter back to jump out of bed. you don't make it far though. law's hand finds you bare thigh to keep you in place.

"he's in the lanai. i got him when i woke up this morning when i realized you weren't waking up any time soon." he covers you back up with the blanket, tucking you in. "i stole your keys from your purse."

"and you fed him?" on top of law being a magician, he's also a saint. you think about proposing then and there.

"and," he pushes you so that you're laying down again, "i fed him."

"i think i'm gonna marry you," you say out loud, and completely on accident. but without his hands on you the headache has returned full force and the pain doesn't give you the time to regret it.

"go back to sleep," he scoffs throwing the blanket over your head. "you'll feel better when you wake up."

****

you wake up who knows how long later to the sound of nami's voice. but that can't be right because you're at law's house. still in his bed. and still in his shirt-- that thought makes you giddy. it is nami, though, you’d recognize her voice anywhere.

“thanks for taking care of her. we definitely over did it last night,” she says, her voice carrying a slight note of apology. which is unlike her.

“it’s really no problem. once she was in bed she knocked out.” you can’t believe nami is even here. your headache is thankfully gone only to be replaced with anxiety in your chest. “and thanks for the dinner. how much was it? i’ve got some cash.”

“no no! you don’t have to do that!” nami declines and you can almost imagine her hands waving in front of her in that way she does when she gets nervous. law really does have that effect. “that’s her favorite hangover food. just the right amount of grease.”

“you’re gonna clog her arteries,” law says and you hear the crinkling of a bag and you assume he’s looking through it. he’s such a dork.

“oh with you around i’d worry less about her arteries and more about-” she catches herself. you’re ready to smack her but she’s right. your arteries are perfectly fine.

law just laughs though. and you feel guilty for eavesdropping when you should announce that you’re awake. but you’re nosy and actually very comfy nestled in all of law’s bedding. so you’re hesitant to get up.

“you know,” nami starts, pausing for a brief moment. “well…”

“what is it?” law asks. you’re nervous. your pulse is picking up the pace and you can feel it thump in your throat.

“she really likes you,” she says quickly. next time you see her you’re definitely going to slap her. not that you hid it very well. but as a best friend there’s certain rules to abide by. telling the man you’re sort of sleeping with that you have feelings for him is definitely breaking one of those rules. “at first i thought it was some rebound after kid and i was rooting for her because you’re tall and successful and hot so of course i approved.”

something’s wrong with her. she must have lost her mind.

“but you should hear the way she talks about you. it’s kinda gross if i’m being honest.”

“i’m not sure how i should take that,” law’s voice is a funky mixture of confusion and amusement.

“i’m just saying if this is some fling to you save her the heartbreak. the break up was hard and seeing her like that made me contemplate murder, but she’s much more forgiving than i am.”

the silence that follows has you clamming up. you’re terrified because you don’t want him to end things. you don’t care about the repercussions. you just love spending time with him. kissing him. teasing him. law just makes it all so easy. and you refuse to give it up.

“that’s not something you have to worry about. as much as i appreciate the threat,” he pauses when nami releases a breathy laugh, “i have no intentions of hurting her. i... really like her too."

your heart soars. it flies right out of your chest. assuming his feelings were reciprocated is one thing. but knowing it-- that's an entirely different sensation. it's tingly, bubbly, fuzzy. you almost kick your feet and squeal.

you have to contain yourself when you hear nami leave the house. you have to contain yourself further when you hear law's steps approach the bedroom. you don't want to give away the fact that you've been awake the last few minutes. and that you overheard a conversation that you probably shouldn't have. you don't regret it though. especially not when law's hand finds your shoulder and gently shakes you.

"hey, you," he whispers, leaning over so that you can feel his breath fan over your cheek. "nami was nice enough to bring over some food for you, so why don't you wake up and eat something?"

you turn around, blearily looking up at him. he's smiling softly above you. his face is relaxed, his eyes are fond. and unfortunately while your heart flies, you feel yourself beginning to fall for him. it's overwhelming.

you reach out to him, your fingers fisting in his tank top and you pull him towards you harshly. he isn't expecting it. so he falls on top of you with an umph of surprise.

"you need to eat," he says as he tries to escape your grip, but it's fruitless. you won't let go. you wrap yourself around him until he lying beside you. and he's laughing at your clinginess. you feel his laugh rumble against your body and you nuzzle your face into his neck. refusing to release him even when he tries to force space between you.

"come on," he urges with a hand on your waist, rubbing gentle circles into your side. "you've been lazying in my bed all day. i'm sure you're hungry."

"just five more minutes," you plead. "stay with me like this for five more minutes, please."

his whole body finally relaxes next to you. both of his arms, strong and thick and secure, cradle you to him. he kisses the top of your head. the world fades into nothingness because in that moment law becomes everything to you.

"ok," he agrees, "but i'm only giving you five."

#ok this is sappy and i just want you to know that they will have sex in the next part #I PROMISE #don't give up on me #law x reader #trafalgar d law x reader #trafalgar law #shortnsweet🍒

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