#I’ve been watching from the sidelines this whole time

[houseofaegon]

Bob and a reader who bruises easily and when they have sex the reader is usually marked up the next day?

Marked ✩ Bob Reynolds

Pairings: Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolt!Reader

Warnings: +18 SMUT MINORS DNI. explicit sexual scenes, bruising (reader bruises easily), rough sex, possessive!bob, protective older brother!bucky, strong language, secret relationship, minor angst, fluff, found family, chaotic thunderbolts energy, family dynamics, violence (threatened),

Summary: You and Bob had been sneaking around for months, the thrill of secrecy only fueling the fire and desire. But bruises from the night before threaten to unravel everything—especially when Bucky Barnes sees them and goes into full protective big brother mode.

Author's Note: omg you guyssssssss!!! i had so much fun writing this one. i am so obsessed with the whole secret relationship setup, and bucky going full protective older brother mode???? ughhhhhh I'm obsessed. i love my boyfriends<3 yelena my baby I love love love writing her so much she's sooo ughhh I love her!!!! i love myself some found family<3 keep the requests comingggggg!!!! i’ve got so many on my inbox already i’ve been planning out all of the fics so they’ll be posted soon<3

You woke up tangled in sheets, muscles aching, skin kissed with tenderness. Bob's arm was drapped heavy over your waist, the rise and fall of his chest pressing your back into him, grounding you, like he needed the contact to breathe. He always held you like that after—like if he let go, you might vanish.

A dull ache throbbed deep in your thighs, your hips, the slope of your neck. Each mark a reminder of the night before. Of how careful he tried to be. Of how easily he lost himself in you when the door was closed and the rest of the world disappeared.

It had started slow, like it always did.

Quiet knock on your door, late enough for the others to be asleep or buried in their own distractions. Bob would linger in the hall, hoodie thrown over his head, hands in his pockets like some kind of teenage boy sneaking into his girlfriend's room.

The moment the door clicked shut, the tension would snap. You’d throw yourself at him—starving, always starving—and he’d catch you every time.

Last night was no different. You'd been watching him all day, practically squirming on the sidelines of the gym while he trained with Yelena.

That damn white shirt clung to him, soaked through sweat, riding up every time he moved. His biceps flexed with every punch, his golden curls damp and wild. You caught him watching you more than once, eyes dark, mouth parted.

He looked wrecked before you even touched him.

By the time he showed up at your door, you didn’t say a word. You grabbed him by the collar of his hoodie, yanked him into your room, and kissed him like he was oxygen.

His hands trembled when they touched your waist. “I’ll be careful,” he whispered, even as you guided him to the bed, tugging his clothes off, already breathless.

“You don’t have to be,” you said. "I don't want you to be."

He kissed down your neck, hands gripping your thighs like he was anchoring himself. When his mouth found your pulse point, he sucked just hard enough to draw a moan—and the bruise bloomed seconds later.

He pulled back to look at the mark, already forming, then looked up at you with something feral in his eyes. “You’re so fucking soft,” he groaned. “I’m gonna mark every inch of you. Mine. All of you.”

You gripped his hair, kissed him harder. “Then do it.”

His fingers laced with yours, pinning them above your head as he pushed into you slowly, the stretch of him drawing a gasp from your lips. He watched your face like it was the only thing that mattered.

His thrusts were slow, deep, patient at first—until you begged.

“Harder, Bob. Please. Don’t hold back.”

He shuddered. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“I do,” you gasped. “I want all of you.”

His mouth crashed into yours, and the dam broke.

You swore the headboard cracked. The bed groaned beneath you. Your name was a prayer on his tongue, murmured between bruising kisses and gasped apologies he didn’t need to make.

Because you loved the marks. The ache. The secrecy.

The thrill of sneaking out of his room at 3AM, hair a mess, lips swollen. Of pretending nothing happened in the halls the next day. Of brushing fingers under the table during briefings, eyes meeting like a promise.

And in those moments—when no one else knew, when it was just you and him—you felt more his than ever.

You traced a bruise on your collarbone absently as you slipped out of his bed, one of his t-shirts falling to mid-thigh. You bit your lip to hide the satisfied smile. Bruised and adored. Just how you liked it.

The tower was still quiet as you crept back to your room to change, slipping into gym shorts and a hoodie for morning training. You paused once, catching your reflection in your bathroom mirror—faint marks painting your hips, the curve of your neck, the inside of your thigh.

Heat flushed through you at the memory. His hands gripping your waist. His voice—“You’re mine.”

You tugged the hoodie tighter and headed down to start training.

The gym was already humming with low music and the sound of punches hitting pads. Bucky was setting up on the mat, hoodie off, sweat darkening the collar of his black shirt. He gave you a quick nod when you walked in—his version of a good morning.

Bucky Barnes had been like a brother to you since day one. Not in the forced “everyone on a team is family” way—no, this was different. Real.

He was rough around the edges when you first joined the Thunderbolts, all tight-lipped commands and watchful eyes. Cold. Distance. Guarded. But something in you cracked through that hard soldier shell. Maybe it was how stubborn you were. How warm. Unafraid to rile him up, to poke the bear. Maybe it was how you asked too many questions. Or the way you always saved him a seat in the briefing room. Or how you reminded him—without meaning to—what it felt like to care about someone without it turning into war.

You sometimes reminded him of Steve.

He saw him in you. In the way you saw people. In how you never gave up on anyone, not even him. In the way you could smile even after a mission gone sideways and still say, "We're okay. We'll figure this shit out."

You were brave. Kind. Loyal.

You were the thing Steve used to fight for.

And Bucky—he didn’t say it, couldn’t say it—but he clung to that. To you. Because if someone like you could believe in him, then maybe there was still something worth saving inside him.

That’s why he called you “kid,” even though you weren’t.

That’s why he tossed you his hoodie when you were cold, sat beside you when you couldn’t sleep, and taught you how to break a man’s wrist with a flick of your body weight.

He watched over you in the field. Back-to-back in a firefight. A quiet hand on your shoulder after a tough mission. His voice, always steady, always low: “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

He wasn’t your teammate. He wasn’t a friend.

He was your brother. Your family. Not by blood. But by bond. By choice.

And that made what happened next inevitable.

Because when he saw those bruises, the ground shifted underneath his feet. All he could see was someone hurting you. And he'd spent decades trying to protect people like you, people he cared about. He had lost Steve. He wasn't going to lose you.

“You’re late,” he said.

“Barely,” you said, grinning. “Try smiling once in a while.”

He rolled his eyes. “Try not tripping over your own feet.”

“Rude,” you said.

He tossed you a set of gloves. “Let’s go. Standard drills.”

You started slow. Footwork. Blocks. He moved easily, but watched your form like a hawk, correcting gently with a hand at your hip, your wrist, your shoulder.

“Looser on the right,” he murmured. “You’re tightening up too much, kiddo.”

“I’m fine.”

“Mm-hmm.” His tone was skeptical. “Take off the hoodie.”

You froze.

“It’s hot in here,” he added, too casually. “And you’re sweating like hell.”

“Bucky—”

“Off, Y/N.”

Shit.

You sighed, peeled it off, revealing the tank top beneath—and the faint, fresh constellation of bruises that peppered your collarbone and shoulders.

The moment the hoodie dropped to the mat, everything stopped.

Bucky’s whole body tensed.

His eyes locked on the marks. A slow, terrible realization crawling across his face like storm clouds. His voice was suddenly razor sharp.

He stopped breathing.

“What the fuck is that?”

You blinked, already knowing where this was going. “It’s nothing, Bucky.”

“Don’t lie to me.” His voice dropped, deadly quiet. “Who did this?”

“I said it’s nothing—”

His gaze narrowed. “Don’t bullshit me. Y/N, what is that?” He stepped forward, fingers brushing the side of your neck. His touch was soft, but his jaw was tight. “Who the fuck did this to you?”

“I—” You swallowed. “It’s fine, Bucky. It’s—just mosquito bites, that's all.”

“I'm not stupid. I know what bruises look like,” he snapped, his voice rising. “And those? They didn’t come from sparring.”

You stepped back. "Please don't do this."

“Do not follow me unless you’re gonna tell me the truth.”

And then he was storming down the hall, headed for the common room. Straight into the storm.

Because to him? This wasn’t just bruises.

It was his kid—his sister—hurt, marked, and silent about it.

And he’d tear down the whole damn team to protect you.

But of course, you followed him. You fumbled to put the hoodie back on, trying to catch up with Bucky.

You caught up to him just as he stormed into the common room, boots stomping accross the floor. You barely had time to catch your breath before all hell broke loose.

Bob was sprawled on the couch, legs stretched out, hoodie pulled halfway over his head, curls messy on his forehead. Yelena sat beside him eating chips straight from the bag, one boot resting on the coffee table. Walker was slumped on the other, flipping channels again and again.

"Just pick a damn channel already, jeez," Yelena scoffed.

"We have Netflix you know?" Bob chimed in softly.

The second Bucky entered, everyone looked up.

“Do you know who fucking did this to her?” Bucky barked, voice sharp enough to cut metal.

Yelena blinked, slow and unbothered. She raised one perfectly arched brow and held up her bag of chips. “Wow. Good morning to you too, soldier boy. Want a chip?”

Walker frowned. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about this!” Bucky turned, grabbed your armg gently, always gently, and tugged the hoodie sleeve up to show the fading bruise near your wrist. “And that,” he pointed to your neck. “And that.”

“Bucky, please—” you tried, stepping in front of him, but he wasn’t hearing it.

“You better start talking,” he growled, pointing at each of them like they were suspects in a murder trial. “Because if one of you laid a hand on her—”

“Okay, this is very dramatic,” Yelena said, popping another chip in her mouth. “I love it. Are we in a movie right now? Because damn, the drama.”

“I’m being very fucking serious right now, Yelena.”

She shrugged. “Just trying to defuse the tension.”

“And you're not helping!”

“I know,” she said sweetly.

Bucky whirled on Walker next. “Was it you?”

Walker sat up straighter, blinking. “What? No! Jesus—”

“I swear—if you even looked at her wrong—”

“Oh, come on, man!” Walker snapped, tossing the remote on the couch. “I’m not suicidal.”

While Bucky and Walker bickered, Yelena turned to you slowly, her eyes cool but curious. Then—subtle as smoke—her gaze dropped to the bruises peeking from your hoodie, then flicked to Bob.

Bob hadn’t moved. But he was watching. His shoulders tense. His jaw clenched.

Yelena raised one perfectly arched brow. You saw the moment it clicked for her.

Of course she knew.

She wasn’t stupid. She’d seen the way you looked at each other during debriefs. The way you flushed when Bob’s fingers brushed yours in the kitchen. She’d definitely heard the sounds coming from your room last night—because, shocker, spies hear everything.

But she wasn’t going to rat you out to Bucky. No. She gave you the look—the look—tilting her head with the tiniest smirk like, girl, really? him? damn okay.

Then she turned back to her chips like none of this concerned her.

Meanwhile, Bucky was still in full interrogation mode.

“I will find out who did this,” he said, voice rising again. “And when I do—”

“You’re going to do what, Barnes?” Walker snapped back. “Ground us? You're not her dad.”

“I don’t have to be,” Bucky growled. “She’s family. I raised her on this goddamn team while you were still figuring out which way the bathroom was!”

“Oh my god,” Yelena said through a mouthful of chips, “this is better than anything on TV.”

You rubbed your hands down your face and slowly met Bob's eyes, just for a second.

It was enough.

He stood up. Violently. Almost knocking off the entire coffee table.

Yelena sat up straighter, chip bag rustling. "Oh, here we go."

Walker looked from Bob to Bucky, then back. “Wait. Wait wait wait—are we fighting now? In the middle of the living room? Are you guys serious?"

Bucky turned toward Bob, chest puffe like a feral bull. "Say something. I dare you."

“Enough!” Bob’s voice cracked like a whip across the room, thunderous, vibrating in the air like it came from somewhere deeper than his chest.

Yelena froze, chip halfway to her mouth. “Well, there goes the drywall.”

Bucky took one menacing step forward. “What did you say?”

Bob didn’t flinch. His voice was low. "It was me."

Dead. Silence.

Oh, fuck.

You could've heard a pin drop.

Yelena whispered, “Oh my god, I knew it.”

Walker blinked. “Hold the fuck on.” He gasped like he just found out Santa wasn’t real. “Wait—you two?! You’ve been doing it?”

“You?” Bucky spat, stepping forward. “You think that’s fucking funny?”

“No,” Bob said calm. Too calm.

And that snapped Bucky.

He lunged. “I’m going to kill you right now!”

“Bucky!” you shouted, throwing yourself between them just as Bucky’s fist came up.

You caught him mid-swing, grabbing his wrist, bracing your weight against him with everything you had.

“NO! No, no, no—Bucky, stop!” you yelled, pushing back on his chest, eyes wide.

Bob didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. His hands stayed at his sides, jaw set like he was ready to take it.

“You did this to her?” he hissed. “You put your hands on her?”

“I didn’t hurt her,” Bob bit out. “I’ve never laid a hand on her in anger—”

“You left bruises!” Bucky shouted, jabbing a finger toward Bob like he was issuing a death sentence. “You don’t get to decide what hurting her looks like! You don’t get to be the one who touches her and makes her lie to me about it!”

“Bucky, please,” you pleaded, voice breaking.

“I didn’t hurt her,” Bob snapped. “You think I don’t know what I’m capable of? I’ve been terrified of it since day one. Every time I touch her, I’m scared shitless I’ll lose control—but I don’t. Because I’d rather die than ever cross that line.”

Bucky’s jaw locked. “That’s not comforting.”

“She’s not a child, Bucky,” Bob bit out. “She knows what she wants."

"But she's my child, Bob! Mine," Bucky roared, voice cracking with something other than rage, like fear. "I've been protecting her since she joined this team. I've bled for her. I would take a bullet for her if it meant keeping her safe. You think you can just crawl into her bed—what? Expect me to shake your hand? Pat your back? You're fucking delusional."

"She's not yours to own!" Bob roared. "You don't get to decide who touches her, who loves her. She’s not some piece of property. She made a choice. I made my choice."

Bucky’s breathing was ragged, fists clenched so tight his knuckles went white. “She’s my family!" he hissed. "And you didn’t even have the balls to tell me.”

“I wanted to,” Bob snapped. “She told me you’d do this.”

“She was right!” Bucky barked, his eyes glossing over with betrayal. “Because I trusted you. You were supposed to be safe.”

“I am.” Bob’s voice dropped. “I love her. I’m careful with her. You know she bruises easily. Everyone knows it. I try. I always try. But she wanted it. She asked me to. I never forced her. I’d never do that to her.”

You stepped in closer, your hand sliding to Bucky’s chest. “He’s telling the truth.”

Bucky stared at you like he didn’t recognize you for a second. “You let him…”

“I wanted him,” you said simply. “And I still do.”

Walker stood up slowly, blinking like a deer in headlights. “Oh my god,” he muttered, running a hand down his face. “Is this… is this a thing? Like a regular thing? You two just… sneak around and… Jesus Christ, you two fuck?”

Yelena nearly choked on her chips.

She turned to him slowly, eyes wide with disbelief. “Walker. My guy. You live here. How have you not noticed?”

“I thought the noise was the pipes!” he said, flailing.

Yelena tilted her head. “You thought the pipes moaned her name at 2AM?”

“HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW?!”

She blinked. "Walker, if your pipes ever sound like that, you call an exorcist. Not maintenance."

He shook his head, exhaling hard. Then he looked at Bob, fury simmering low. “If you ever cross a line—if you so much as make her flinch or cry—I will end you. You break her heart, I break your face. Deal?”

“Deal,” Bob said without hesitation.

Bucky stared at Bob, his jaw ticking. But then his eyes shifted—back to you. Still tight with anger, but… softer now.

“You okay?”

You smiled—small, soft, but sure. “I promise,” you said. “I’m more than okay.”

You glanced back at Bob. He was still watching you like the room didn’t exist.

“He makes me happy, Buck.”

Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Goddammit.”

He yanked you into a hug, a little too tight, one arm slung around your neck like he was both scolding you and shielding you. You melted into it as he pressed a kiss to your head.

“I swear to God, Y/N,” he muttered, voice low in your ear, “if he hurts you, I’ll kill him myself.”

You chuckled against his chest. “I know you would.”

Bucky sighed and pulled back, plopping down onto the couch like the last ten minutes had aged him a decade. “And for the love of all that is holy—use protection.”

Yelena snorted next to him. “And do not fuck in the communal shower. Please. I beg you.”

Walker looked horrified. “Wait—have they?!”

You and Bob exchanged a look. He blushed. You smirked. Then you crossed the room, and without missing a beat, Bob reached out and pulled you into him. His arm slid over your shoulders like muscle memory, tucking you against his side with an ease that made everyone in the room groan. He looked down at you with that soft, dopey grin, like a damn teenager who just scored the girl of his dreams.

Yelena let out the loudest groan of all. “Oh my god, you’re disgusting. Look at you—so in love. Yuck!” She made a dramatic gagging noise. “This is vile. I feel violated.”

Bob chuckled.

Bucky didn’t even look. He just threw his head back. “Jesus Christ, please stop this. I can’t take it anymore.”

Yelena didn’t miss a beat. “Honestly, Buck? I’m surprised she can still walk after what I heard last night.”

Bob choked violently.

You burst into laughter, burying your face in his hoodie, muffling a wheeze.

Bob cleared his throat, red as a tomato. “Okay, wow.”

Bucky clapped his hands, hard. “OKAY! Great. That’s enough. Breakfast. Anyone?”

Walker, still pale, raised a hand. “I need alcohol.”

Bucky didn’t even hesitate. “You know what? Make it two. Double.”

Yelena leaned back, completely unbothered, tossing a chip in her mouth. “God, I love this team.”

And you? You looked around—at the chaos, the bickering, the laughter—and felt it settle deep in your chest.

You loved them too.

With all your heart.

    ⊹             ⊹            ⊹             ⊹            ⊹          ⊹             ⊹             ⊹

taglist ⊱☆⊰ @the-a-word-2214 @favestxrboy @uraesthete @abbysbenchpr @sammystarswrite @pey2618 @qardasngan @lunaoieoie @orithyia-eriphyle @amatiswayland @madzzz6958 @all-by-myself98 @dark-silhouette @ghost-ghost-13 @wyvernthekriger @gayfiretruck @watermeezer @lvmxla @novausstuff @mommymilkers0526 @natureartisian @feralgoblinbabe @misaki-evans (if you want to be tagged in my future works lmk! <3)

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which you’re both back and better than ever

part one - part two - part four - part five

The court is glowing under desert lights. Cool air blasts through the tunnels. Thousands of seats are filling with fans in shades of purple and orange.

But your world stays small.

Just one player. One jersey. One heartbeat you’ve missed beside you for four long games.

#5 – BUECKERS

She's back.

She emerges from the locker room in full warmup gear, muscular arms and shoulders exposed that may or may not have you feeling some type of way. Her face is calm but unreadable. You can see the shadows of the last week still under her eyes — not just from the concussion, but from the chest cold that hit her two days later like the universe wasn’t quite done testing her yet.

She walks toward you slowly, sneakers squeaking on polished hardwood. You smile when you see her.

“I was starting to forget what it felt like seeing you in game shoes.”

Paige stops in front of you. “You missed me.”

“I missed you yelling at me about your wrist tape being too tight.” She lifts her left arm slightly “I need it retaped.”

You try not to grin. “Called it.”

You're kneeling by the bench with your tape kit open, gently unwinding the wrap on her wrist as she stands in front of you. Her hand rests in yours like it’s second nature, like four games away didn’t happen.

“You ready?” you ask, eyes focused on the tape.

She doesn’t answer right away.

“Yeah,” she says finally. “I think so.”

“You don’t have to lie to me.”

She exhales, watching you finish the final wrap.

“I’m… nervous.”

You look up. “Good.”

Paige blinks. “Good?”

“You care. That’s all the nerves are. Your body remembering this matters.”

She breathes through her nose. Quiet. Soft. “I didn’t like watching from the couch.”

“I didn’t like sitting next to you knowing you should’ve been out there.”

She tilts her head. “But you didn’t push me.”

“I’ll never push you to break yourself.”

Her eyes soften.

“I think that’s why I trust you.”

You nod once, then test the tension of the tape.

“Wrist feels good,” you say. “What about your head?”

“Clear.”

“Breath?”

She inhales slowly.

“Strong.”

“Vision?”

She gives you a crooked smile. “You’re still the hottest person in the building, so yeah.”

You roll your eyes. “Perfect. She’s healed.”

It’s thirty minutes before the tip when you’re on the court with Paige. You step back to the sideline as Paige starts her rhythm work — one-dribble pull-up, spin footwork, step-back from the wing. You watch the way she moves. Smooth, but not flashy yet. Conserving energy. Testing the water.

After five reps, she glances back at you. You raise a hand with three fingers. She nods. The third shot she releases drops clean — net only. You nod back. She smiles.

“And there she is — Paige Bueckers back in the lineup tonight after a four-game absence. She’s missed time with concussion protocol and illness, but reports say she’s been full-go in practice the last two days.”

“You know what else? Look who’s back on her sideline. Assistant Y/N L/N. They’re locked in again pregame — I’ve watched that warmup routine evolve since the start of the season.”

“You can tell Bueckers is grounded when she’s got Y/N out there with her. That trust is rare between player and staff, especially in a rookie season.”

“It’s not just technical. That’s… connection.”

Back on the court, you hand Paige a water bottle as the buzzer sounds.

“First shift’s never going to be easy,” you tell her. “Don’t try to win the whole game in one quarter.”

She smirks, taking a sip. “You know me.”

“I do. That’s why I’m reminding you.”

She hands the bottle back and reaches out and quietly bumps her fist against your chest — right over your heart.

“You’ve got me?”

You bump hers in return. “Always.”

And as she walks toward the huddle, shoulders squared and tape firm on her wrist, you feel it again. The game beginning to breathe right now that she’s back.

You watch her breathe before tipoff.

One long inhale. One sharp exhale. Then her eyes lock forward.

She’s not looking at the defender. She’s looking past her. Through her. Like the court is already mapped in her mind.

You’ve seen this version of Paige before.

But never this focused.

Paige catches the ball on the left wing. Jab step. Hesitation. One hard dribble right.

Step-back. Pure.

3–0 Paige.

You raise your pen but don’t write anything. Not yet. You’re still calibrating her.

Next trip down, she floats through a stagger screen and slips between the Mercury help like water splitting over stone. Floater.

5–0 Paige.

You glance at the bench. Arike’s clapping. ZaZa’s yelling “She’s back!”

You don’t smile. You just watch. Because something’s happening.

“Paige Bueckers is cooking. She’s back from concussion protocol, back from illness, and back to being unguardable.”

“Look at her poise. Her shot selection. This isn’t just about getting buckets — she’s surgically taking apart Phoenix’s switches.”

“And yet—look at the score. Wings still trail by eight.”

Phoenix is doubling the wings. Collapsing paint. Playing downhill. They’re scoring in bunches while Dallas trades jumpers and loose rebounding effort.

Paige doesn’t flinch.

Corner three.

14–0 Paige.

She’s moving faster now. Calling for screens, ghosting behind Arike, back-cutting when defenders blink.

A steal. One dribble. Two steps. Reverse lay.

16–0 Paige.

She runs back down the court without a word. You catch her glance at you. You give one subtle signal from the bench — three fingers tapped against your hip. She nods.

Next possession she flares a screen. Lift from the elbow. Hesitation pull-up.

18–0 Paige. 7–7 from the field. Fifteen minutes. Zero misses. And still? Dallas is down by 11.

Timeout. Wings bench.

 The players walk in breathing hard, towel-wiping, frustrated. Paige sits. Wipes her face. Doesn’t speak yet. You squat next to her, clipboard angled, voice low and even.

“You’re perfect,” you say first.

She shakes her head. “We’re losing.”

“You’re still perfect.”

Paige blinks.

“I don’t want you to chase the game,” you continue. “You don’t have to be the fuel. You’re the flame. Let the rest of them catch up.”

She doesn’t reply. Just holds your stare.

“I’m not gonna tell you to score more,” you add.

“Then what?”

“I’m gonna tell you to make them play with you. Not behind you.”

Paige lets out a slow breath. One sharp motion.

“I got it.”

The streak breaks.

It’s a pull-up from the top of the key. Clean look. Great rhythm. It rims out. You don’t flinch. Neither does she. Paige backpedals on defense without looking at the scoreboard. She’s already reading the next coverage.

You mark the shot on your clipboard, quiet. First miss of the night. 7-for-8 now. Still flawless from the line. Still leading all scorers. But it’s the feel of the game that starts to shift.

Phoenix pushes the pace. Thomas lobs a skip pass to Sabally, who drills a transition three. Dallas calls timeout.

Phoenix 36, Dallas 28.

“It’s hard to ask more from Paige Bueckers. She’s got 20 of the Wings’ 28. That’s over 70 percent of the offense.”

“It’s a career-high already — and it’s not even halftime. But the problem is, she’s alone out there. Dallas is out of rhythm. Their defensive communication is breaking down, and Paige can’t plug every hole.”

You stay seated during the timeout. Not because you’re tired — because she isn’t looking at the coaches. She’s looking at you. And you nod. Not instruction. Not strategy. “You’re doing everything you can.”

She closes her eyes. Nods back. Then turns back to the huddle.

It’s her favorite set — a back screen from Nalyssa, quick flare from Arike. The defense overcommits. Paige slips under, curls to the elbow.

Catch. One dribble. Body bump.

Foul.

Bonus.

She jogs to the line. Phoenix is up six. The crowd is rowdy now, sensing blood. You watch her bounce the ball once, twice, roll her shoulders.

She’s breathing a little harder now. Still sharp, but fading slightly.

She sets her feet. Takes a deep breath. Spins the ball in her left hand.  First free throw — clean.

21.

Second shot — softer, high arc.

22.

She exhales. Turns. Jogging back on defense.

“That’s a career high for Bueckers. 22 points in just one half. The rookie is putting on a clinic.”

“And yet — Dallas is still chasing. They need stops. They need someone else to step up.”

The half closes with Phoenix pushing in transition. Westbeld launches a leaning three at the buzzer — it rims out.

Horn sounds.

Phoenix 42, Dallas 36.

Paige walks off the court slowly, jersey clinging to her back, towel thrown over her shoulder. Her teammates pat her back, but she doesn’t really react.

Not until she gets close to you. You don’t say “great job.” You just reach out and squeeze her wrist gently, thumb brushing over the tape. She exhales.

“Still down,” she whispers.

You nod. “But not out.”

The door shuts behind the last assistant, and the Phoenix crowd becomes a muffled thump behind concrete.

Everyone's quiet.

Some players are still breathing heavy, kneepads peeled halfway down, sweat soaking into towels. Others are slouched on the bench, water bottles in hand, eyes unfocused.

And Paige — she’s sitting on the floor against her locker, legs extended, towel over her shoulders, jaw set but eyes… distant.

Like she just ran through a wall for thirty minutes, and it still wasn’t enough.

Coach Koclanes clears his throat.

“Alright,” he starts, standing in front of the whiteboard.

No one moves.

“You’re playing soft on the boards,” he says, uncapping a marker. “They’re leaking weak-side every time and you’re not dropping fast enough. Maddy, you’ve gotta call out the baseline help. DiJonai—two of your switches were late. Arike—stop fading on those screens.”

No response.

He turns to the board and starts drawing lines, talking over himself. “We’re gonna run more 4-out, isolate Paige less. They’re gapping her now. She’s giving us points, but they’re baiting the overreliance. We switch to horns sets out of the timeout.”

Still no one speaks. Still no one moves. You’re standing near the side wall, arms crossed, watching. He finishes drawing. Puts the marker down.

“Got it?”

No one answers.

He steps back, jaw clenched, eyes scanning the room. It’s not mutiny. It’s silence. Worse. No one’s disrespecting him — but no one’s buying in, either.

He turns away from the board. “Okay, well—figure it out.”

He walks off to the corner, picks up his clipboard, flipping pages angrily. And that’s when you speak. You don’t raise your voice. Don’t announce you’re talking. You just start.

“Everyone look up.”

They do.

Paige sits up straighter. Arike turns her head. Nai drops her water bottle to her lap. The room slowly rotates to face you.

“We’re not losing because we’re soft,” you say. “We’re not losing because we’re outmatched. We’re not losing because Paige is doing too much.” You pause. “We’re losing because we’re disconnected.”

They’re really listening now.

“This team was never built around one shooter. Or one voice. But right now, it’s like we’re all watching the same show instead of playing the same game.”

You glance at Paige.

“She gave you 22 in twenty minutes. That’s not her bailing us out — that’s her asking us to come with her.”

You look back to the room.

“So the second half? Don’t let her be the only one playing like it matters.”

A few heads nod. Hines-Allen clenches her jaw. Nai leans forward.

You step closer to the board and erase one of Koclanes’s drawn sets with your palm.

“We simplify. Strong-side cut, baseline diver, weak-side read. Make the defense think for two seconds. That’s all we need.”

You meet every player’s eyes. “But I need everyone thinking.”

From the corner, Koclanes stares at you. Silent. Tight-lipped. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t stop you.

But the look on his face says it all. “They’re listening to you. Not me.”

And that? That stings.

Because he’s the head coach. And you’re not. But tonight? You’re the voice in the room.

You turn back to the team, more calmly now.

“We don’t need a miracle. We need trust. We need each other. That’s it.”

Paige stands first. Wrist still taped. Eyes still sharp.

“I’m ready.”

You nod.

So is everyone else now.

The final buzzer sounds.

Phoenix 93, Dallas 80.

You let the pen drop from behind your ear and slowly close the folder in your lap.

You’re still on the bench, same seat you always take. Second from the end. Close enough to shout plays, far enough to see everything. But you’ve barely spoken since the third quarter. You didn’t need to. You were watching her.

Paige.

Thirty-five points. Four assists. Six rebounds. One steal. First game back. Career high.

And yet.

It was never about the stat line.

She played the right way. Gritty. Composed. Committed. And when her teammates finally started moving with her instead of behind her, it looked like something real. Even if it came too late.

The locker room is quiet when the team files in.

Exhausted. Not gutted. But quiet.

Arike throws her towel at her locker without looking. Nai collapses into the bench like gravity’s heavier after losses. Luisa is already peeling her shoes off, muttering about spacing and switches under her breath.

Paige walks in slower. No strut. No ego.

Just bone-deep fatigue and a calm sort of fire still simmering behind her eyes.

She sits down across from you. Legs wide, hands on her knees. No words. Just the shared breath of someone who left it all on the floor.

Coach Koclanes enters last.

Claps his hands once.

“Alright,” he starts. Loud, performative. “Tough one tonight.”

Silence.

“We were right there,” he says. “Right on the edge. We just have to lock in on the details. Play together. Trust each other. That’s what separates wins from losses. Togetherness.” He paces once. “You show me a team that trusts each other, I’ll show you a team that wins games.”

He looks around. Still silence.

Not blank stares. Not open rebellion. Just… quiet disinterest. His voice slows. Like he’s realizing mid-sentence no one’s buying it.

“Let’s regroup tomorrow. Get your heads right.”

He claps once more. No one claps back. Then he turns and walks toward the staff hallway. No one watches him leave. You step forward.

“Hey,” you say.

It’s not a command. It’s not a speech cue. It’s just your voice. But every single head lifts.

“Look, we didn’t win,” you say. “No one’s sugarcoating it. We let Phoenix own the tempo. We didn’t adjust early enough. We let Bueckers carry too much too fast.”

You look at them, steady.

“But we didn’t quit. And that means something.”

A breath.

“To start the second half still down double digits and see you rally? Shift the energy? Move off-ball, make the second and third passes, talk through switches? That’s growth. That’s film we want to break down. That’s team basketball.”

Some nods now. Arike leans forward. NaLyssa wipes sweat from her temple but doesn’t look away.

“And that fourth quarter?” you add. “You could’ve let the deficit drown you. But you didn’t. You fought. You played. And most importantly — you played for each other.”

Paige shifts slightly. Not to draw attention. Just quietly proud. You turn toward her now.

“And one of you didn’t just show up tonight — she showed out.”

Paige blinks.

“Thirty-five points,” you say. “Career high. First game back from a concussion. From being sick. From sitting in street clothes watching us run in circles without her.”

The team chuckles softly. You smile.

“She didn’t try to be a savior. She just played the damn game. The way it’s supposed to be played. With trust. With poise. With fire.”

You glance around.

“I don’t care what the scoreboard says. That’s the kind of player who lifts this franchise.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then everyone claps. Soft at first. Then louder. Myisha starts it. Arike joins in. Nai’s standing now. Paige looks stunned. The locker room breaks into full applause.

She blushes, ducking her head a little, cheeks flushed redder than they were during the game. You catch her smiling into her towel.

And you? You just lean against the wall and let it wash over her.

He’s still in the hallway. Back turned halfway toward the room. Listening to the cheers that didn’t come for him. His jaw tightens. He steps back in just as the applause dies.

“You know,” he says, voice sharper, “this is all nice. But maybe if we spent more time listening to the people actually in charge, we’d be winning games.”

The room stiffens.

Paige’s smile fades slightly. Maddy glances at the floor. Arike raises an eyebrow but doesn’t speak.

You say nothing. Because you don’t need to.

Koclanes looks around. Waiting. Expecting someone to jump in. Someone to agree. Someone to apologize for being inspired by the wrong voice.

But no one does. He exhales through his nose.

“See you all at tomorrow.”

He walks out again.

This time? Not a single head turns.

Paige walks up to you, towel around her shoulders, hair damp with sweat. She doesn’t speak at first. Just stands beside you. “You know he’s gonna try to push you out eventually.”

You don’t flinch. “Let him try.”

She looks over.

“You’re the reason this team’s still breathing.”

You glance at her hand, resting next to yours on the bench. So close it touches, barely.

“And you’re the reason I never back down,” you say softly.

Her lips part slightly. Eyes bright. Shoulders soft now.

“You think they’ll remember tonight?” she asks.

“They already do.”

The room is bright, white, and humming with reporters. Camera lenses click. Recorders are already running. Every folding chair is filled.

Behind the table, three name placards.

PAIGE BUECKERS | GUARD CHRIS KOCLANES | HEAD COACH Y/N L/N | ASSISTANT COACH

You’re seated far right. Koclanes is in the middle. Paige is left of him, legs crossed at the ankle, Wings polo tucked clean under her warmup jacket, bottle of water unopened on the table.

The press doesn’t waste time.

A reporter in the second row raises her hand, eyes already on Paige.

“Paige, congrats on the career high. First game back, no missed beats — what clicked for you out there?”

Paige shifts the mic closer, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I think… I just trusted my prep,” she says. “My team did a great job creating space. I felt good physically. Once I hit a couple early shots, I got into a rhythm.”

She pauses, glances at you briefly.

“And honestly, I’ve been waiting to play for a while. Four games on the sideline builds up a lot of… urgency. I didn’t want to force it. I just wanted to be solid.”

The reporter smiles. “Well, solid turned into 35.”

Paige smiles a little. “Could’ve traded 10 of those points for a win, though.”

Light laughter from the room.

Next question.

A different voice, more pointed.

“Coach Koclanes — Dallas gave up 93 points. What went wrong defensively?”

Koclanes adjusts his mic.

“Well, you know… it’s about effort. And togetherness. You can’t win in this league without being synced. Defensively, we weren’t connected. Not just schemes — I mean the emotional commitment. The buy-in. If we’re all on the same page, maybe it’s different.”

You stare ahead, still.

The reporter frowns. “So… was it a lack of effort?”

Koclanes shrugs. “Maybe. Or maybe it was us being too in our heads. We focused too much on individual matchups and forgot the team responsibility. When that happens, breakdowns follow.”

Another reporter chimes in, skeptical.

“Do you take any accountability for the defensive game plan tonight?”

He leans forward. “I take accountability for the whole team. That’s what being a head coach means.”

But the way he says it? It means nothing.

Someone turns to you.

“Coach L/N — same question. What do you think went wrong out there?”

You adjust your mic, calm, composed.

“I think we lost the tempo battle,” you say, voice steady. “Phoenix dictated the pace early. We were slow to adjust. They ran smart pick-and-roll variations that pulled us off help and punished our recovery.”

Reporters start writing.

You continue.

“We didn’t communicate well on switches. Rotations were late. Weak-side coverage fell apart on early drives. That’s not about effort — that’s about timing, discipline, and trust. And we’ll address that in film.”

You don’t look at Koclanes when you say it. But you feel his glance shift your way. The room stays quiet.

You finish. “We’ve got the tools. But we’re not using them together yet.”

Another hand raises.

“Coach L/N, can you speak to Paige’s performance tonight? From a developmental standpoint?”

You glance at her. She’s watching you now, subtly. You keep your tone clean. Grounded.

“Paige was efficient. Smart. Patient. She didn’t rush into shots. She read second-level defenders, punished hedges, used angles. But what stood out more was how she adjusted between quarters.”

You pause.

“She scored 35, but she also made reads that didn’t show up on the box score. Got us into rhythm when the offense stalled. Created gravity off-ball. That’s growth. That’s leadership.”

Paige looks down briefly. The tiniest smile at the edge of her mouth.

You finish simply, “She played like a veteran tonight.”

The room quiets again. Then applause. Soft, respectful. A few murmurs of agreement from reporters. The balance in the room is obvious now.

They heard Koclanes.

They listened to you.

As the media coordinator calls it, Paige gets up first. She tucks her chair back quietly, waiting for you at the side wall.

Koclanes lingers behind, still pretending to check his notes.

You and Paige walk out side by side — and the air feels different. Lighter. Steadier. Even in loss, the room belonged to her. And maybe — just maybe — a little bit to you too.

You’re in the team hotel, eighth floor, room key in one hand, backpack slung over one shoulder, and two hours of film notes waiting on your laptop.

It’s just after midnight. Most of the team’s already upstairs — some watching movie together, some passed out in their rooms. Paige had slipped you a quiet smile in the lobby before disappearing into the elevator with Maddy and Arike, a half-empty smoothie in her hand.

You’re heading toward your room when you hear it.

“Coach L/N.”

You stop.

He’s standing near the vending machines down the hallway, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

You sigh softly. “Chris.”

He walks over.

“You got a second?”

You glance toward your door. “Kind of late for a staff chat.”

“Won’t take long,” he says, tone clipped. “Just figured we should clear the air.”

You raise an eyebrow. “About?”

“About tonight. About what you did in the locker room. And the press conference.”

You tilt your head. “What I did?”

He steps a little closer. Not threatening — just trying to make his voice carry.

“You undermined me.”

You pause.

“Did I?”

“You erased my plays off the board mid-halftime.”

“They weren’t working.”

“I’m the head coach.”

“And I’m the assistant coach whose players weren’t listening to the head coach.”

He doesn’t like that. You see the tension rise in his jaw.

“You think I don’t know what’s happening?” he says. “You think I don’t see the way they look at you instead of me? You’re not the voice in charge. I am.”

You shrug. Calm.

“Then maybe act like it.”

That sets him off.

He steps in. “You think you’re some locker room savior? You think Paige drops 35 because of you? You’re overstepping. You’re coddling her. You’re turning the team against—”

“Hey.”

A voice cuts through the hallway.

You both turn.

It’s Paige.

Standing by the elevator. Arms crossed. Hoodie zipped halfway up. Behind her? DiJonai. NaLyssa. Arike. You glance at them.

Koclanes stiffens. “This is a private—”

“Actually,” Paige says, stepping forward, “it’s not.”

She walks toward you, calm but blazing. “If you’re gonna say this stuff, say it in front of us. Because we were all in that locker room. And we all heard the difference.”

Chris blinks. “Heard what?”

Arike answers, arms folded. “You giving us the same generic talk you’ve been saying since camp. Togetherness, effort, togetherness, togetherness. That ain’t coaching. That’s deflecting.”

Nalyssa nods. “We needed real adjustments. We needed accountability. We needed someone who actually gave us a way forward. L/N gave us that.”

DiJonai’s quieter, but when she speaks, it cuts, “We trust her. Period.”

You don’t speak yet. You don’t need to. Because this isn’t your fight. This is the team’s answer.

Chris’s face cycles through disbelief, frustration, wounded pride. He opens his mouth like he wants to pull rank — but he must see it in Paige’s eyes, in Arike’s stance, in DiJonai’s dead-serious tone.

The room’s made its choice.

He turns to you, voice lower now. “You happy?”

You look at him evenly.

“No,” you say. “I’m not happy we lost. I’m not happy the team’s fractured. But I’m proud of them for finding their voice.”

He scoffs. “You think you can run this team better than me?”

“No,” you reply. “I think the team is showing you who they want to be led by. And it’s your job to listen before you lose them for good.”

He stares at you.

Then turns, mutters something under his breath, and walks away.

Paige steps beside you the second he’s gone.

“You okay?”

You nod. “You didn’t have to step in.”

“I didn’t,” she says. “We did.”

She turns back to the group. “Let’s go upstairs. We’ve got practice tomorrow.”

The girls nod. Arike leads the way. But before Paige follows them, she leans in quietly and says, just for you, “You didn’t undermine him.”

You look at her.

“You just did your job better.”

[paddockletters]

secret's out | lewis hamilton smau

pairing: lewis hamilton x reader summary: lewis accidentally reveals his secret relationship with you in an instagram story, sparking fan frenzy. request: yes/ thank you so muchhhh! author’s note:hey anon, i really loved and enjoyed writing your idea! thanks for you request and hope you like it and and sorry it took me too long❤

lewishamilton

lewis' imessage

y/username

liked by lewishamilton, f1 and 2,467,095 others

yourusername: i guess our secret has been reveled bt none other than my husband...

comments...

georgerussell63: you guys definitely made that podium moment legendary. Wishing you both all the best! 💪🏼❤️

danielriccirado: You guys, first you hid your relationship and then your wedding and you didn't even invite us…. I'm hurt

user1: the fact that george is his teammate and he didn't even know that lewis was married 😭😭

user2: ok, we already knew that lewis was very private but this, THIS is another level

charles_leclerc: took you long enough, Lewis! Wishing you guys all the happiness! 🥳

user3: can we just appreciate the casual hard launch AND a kiss on the podium?? absolute power couple energy 💯

user4: he way Lewis looked at you during the podium 😍 He’s been in love the whole time!!

user5: he fact that Lewis called you his wife on his story and we all lost it 🤣🤣 Congrats on your not-so-secret love anymore!

y/username

liked by lewishamilton, f1 and 3,456,955 others

yourusername: this secret and announcement took us less time this last time

comments:

lewishamilton: Can’t wait to meet our little one. Over the moon with you, love

user6: BABY HAMILTON?! Oh my God, I’m crying. This is the cutest news ever!! 😭🍼

georgerussell63: Congratulations!! Can’t wait to meet the future world champ! 🍼🏆

landonorris: BABY HAMILTON??? Alright, I’m officially shook. Congrats, guys! The paddock just got a whole lot more fun! 😂❤️

user7: Lewis is gonna be a dad??? IM NOT OKAY!!! CONGRATS!! 🥺❤️

danielricciardo: A little racer on the way? YES! Can I be the fun uncle? 😎🍼

user8: A podium celebration baby??? 👀 Looks like we know how y’all celebrated that win! 🤭

user9: he timeline is connecting… podium celebration = baby Hamilton?? You sneaky lovebirds! 😂💛

charles_leclerc: Wow, huge congrats!! The grid’s about to get a little bigger 😄

user10: OMG this baby is about to be more stylish than all of us. Already living their best life before birth! 👶🏽✨

Lewis' podium

The energy in the paddock was electric as Lewis’s car crossed the finish line, securing him a spot on the podium for the first time in what felt like ages. I could barely contain my excitement as I watched from the sidelines, surrounded by a sea of cheering fans. The moment felt surreal, and my heart raced as Lewis climbed out of his car, a triumphant grin plastered across his face.

As he approached me, still wearing his helmet, I couldn't help but notice the way the crowd erupted in applause and shouts. The deafening cheers seemed to fade into the background as he got closer. “Honey, I’ve done it!!” he shouted, his voice slightly muffled but filled with uncontainable joy.

The adrenaline coursing through my veins made me feel invincible. I laughed, my heart swelling with pride as I reached up to remove his helmet. The instant his face came into view, I felt the warmth of his excitement radiate between us. The crowd’s energy shifted, anticipation crackling in the air as they sensed something special was about to happen.

Lewis leaned down, his eyes locked onto mine, and in that electric moment, he kissed me deeply, right there in front of everyone. The world around us disappeared; all I could feel was the warmth of his lips and the deafening roar of the crowd as they cheered for us.

From that day forward, we became the couple everyone adored. Fans began sharing videos and photos of the kiss, turning it into an iconic moment.

As the weeks passed, our relationship was the talk of the town. But it wasn't long before the news of our little family surprise came to light.

It was late, the dimmed lights in our living room casting soft shadows on the walls as I paced back and forth. The small plastic stick in my hand felt heavy, like it held the weight of the world. My heart pounded as I stared at the two pink lines that confirmed it—I was pregnant.

I had imagined this moment so many times, rehearsing how I would tell him, but now that it was real, my mind was a blur of emotions. Excitement, fear, happiness—everything at once.

Lewis had just gotten home from the gym, his usual easy smile lighting up his face as he stepped inside. He dropped his gym bag by the door, not yet noticing the turmoil in my eyes.

"Hey, love. Everything alright?" He asked, walking over to kiss me on the forehead, his hands automatically settling on my waist. But as he looked down at me, his brow furrowed in concern. He knew something was up.

I took a deep breath, feeling the warmth of his hands on me, grounding me. "Lewis, I… I need to tell you something."

His eyes softened instantly, the worry easing away. He pulled me closer, concern still flickering in his gaze but now mixed with curiosity.

"You’re scaring me a bit, babe. What’s going on?"

I bit my lip, the words almost stuck in my throat. My heart raced as I reached for his hand, slipping the positive pregnancy test into his palm. He looked down at it, confusion crossing his face for a brief second before realization hit him like a wave.

His eyes widened, flicking from the test to me and back to the test again. "Wait… are you serious?"

I nodded, tears springing to my eyes as a nervous laugh escaped me. "Yes, Lewis. We’re going to have a baby."

For a moment, it was like time stood still. He stared at me, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. Then, without warning, he scooped me up into his arms, spinning me around as a wide, joyful laugh escaped him.

"Are you kidding me?!" He was grinning from ear to ear, his excitement so contagious I couldn’t help but giggle, too. "We’re having a baby?!"

"Yeah… we’re having a baby." I nodded, my heart swelling as I saw how happy he was.

Lewis set me down gently, but his arms stayed wrapped around me, his forehead resting against mine.

"I can’t believe this," he whispered, his voice full of awe. "You’re going to be the most amazing mom, you know that?"

"And you’re going to be the best dad. Our little one’s going to be so lucky." I smiled, feeling the butterflies in my stomach.

He pulled back slightly, looking into my eyes, his expression soft and full of love.

"This is the best news I could’ve ever imagined. I love you so much."

"I love you too," I whispered back, my voice catching with emotion.

Lewis placed a hand on my stomach, still grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. "Our little secret," he said, his voice hushed, as if speaking too loud would make it any less real.

As the initial shock and excitement settled in, Lewis and I spent the rest of the evening curled up on the couch, talking about everything that lay ahead. The glow in his eyes hadn’t dimmed one bit; if anything, it had grown brighter with every moment.

"I still can’t believe it," he whispered, running his fingers softly over my stomach. "We’re actually having a baby."

I laughed, leaning my head against his shoulder. "It’s real, Lewis. You’re going to be a dad."

"You know, now that I think about it, when do you reckon we… you know, made this little one?" A playful smirk spread across his face.

I rolled my eyes at his cheeky tone. "Really? That’s what you’re thinking about now?"

"Well," he chuckled, nudging me slightly. "It’s not every day you find out you're going to be a dad. I’m just curious." He paused, tilting his head as if considering the options. "I mean, we’ve been busy lately…"

I snorted, shaking my head. "Busy is an understatement. We travel all the time."

Suddenly, realization dawned on him. His eyes widened, and I saw the gears turning in his head. "Wait… what about Monaco? You remember? After that podium…"

I froze for a second, my mind flashing back to that night. The celebration had been wild—Lewis had just gotten his first podium in a while, and we were on cloud nine. The champagne, the excitement, the adrenaline… and later that night, when we finally got back to our home…

I fele my cheeks flush. "Oh my God, Lewis."

He grinned like a Cheshire cat, clearly putting it all together. "That’s when it happened, didn’t it? The night of the podium celebration! No wonder the timing makes sense."

I covered my face with my hands, laughing as the memory came flooding back. "I can’t believe this! You’re right. That’s when it happened."

Lewis burst out laughing, clearly delighted by the connection. "No wonder I felt so invincible that weekend. Turns out, we had a little extra reason to celebrate!"

I playfully swatted his arm, though I couldn’t stop laughing either. "We’ll never live this down, you know. People are going to figure it out, and the teasing is going to be relentless."

He shrugged, still grinning like a fool. "Let them talk. They can tease us all they want. As long as I’ve got you and this little one, I don’t care."

I smiled, leaning into him, feeling the warmth of his words. "You’re such a sap sometimes, you know that?"

He chuckled, kissing the top of my head. "Only for you, love."

As we sat there, wrapped in each other and in the realization of what was to come, I couldn’t help but think about how crazy our journey had been so far. And now, with a baby on the way, it was about to get even crazier. But with Lewis by my side, I knew we could handle anything—even the endless teasing from our friends and fans.

"Just wait until the guys hear about this," he said with a wink, already anticipating the chaos to come.

I rolled my eyes again but smiled. "Oh, I’m sure they’ll never let us forget it."

[mooniscrying]

my only anchor | part 1

pairing: azriel x reader  summary: you have always loved azriel, but he has yet to ever feel the same way. you have longed for his love achingly, watching in the shadows as he falls in love many times. you still hope one day he'll feel the same way, and yet just when you think he may reciprocate, elain takes his breath away.  warnings: angst, insecurity, self-deprecation, unrequited love </3 or is it? word count: 1.1k a/n: hello loveys! It's been YEARS since I’ve written a proper story, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes. This story has been on my mind for a while, and after having broken up recently, a fire has lit up inside me to drown out all the sadness and pain I feel with writing. I hope this story heals you in some ways it does for me, enjoy lovey! <3

my only anchor masterlist | masterlist | TAGLIST

You couldn’t remember a time where you weren’t hopelessly in love with the shadowsinger. All of the small moments as kids where he took notice of you— the shy and quiet little girl moping in the corner, hoping to blend in with the background to avoid the prying eyes of everyone. Any speck of attention was not your forte, it always made you uncomfortable, made your heart race and palms sweat. 

And despite all this, he saw you. From the way your fingers tapped mindlessly against your legs as you watch with keen observant eyes of those around you, to the way you crinkled your noise a tiny bit when you were upset, to the way your eyes shone brighter than the stars when you shared your little stories to him. It was relentless and endearing how he took notice of every single little thing about you. 

He was your anchor, a stable force within you. He had a way of pulling you out of your comfort zone, helping you gain the confidence you needed to be comfortable in your own skin. Encouraging you to engage in social settings, even if it was just to listen, to simply be present, “I’d rather have you next to me, listening along with me to the chatter of all of these people,” he once told you. 

When in truth, you were also his anchor. You were the very light in his life that pulled him from the dark, guiding and comforting him. You saw past his brooding stern demeanor, making him smile and laugh more times than he can count. 

You embraced his shadows, his darkness, welcoming them with open arms, letting it consume and comfort you. Most of all, you had a way of reading him without him needing to say or do anything. You never pushed nor forced, you’d simply lay your head on his shoulders as you clasped his hand into yours, “It’s okay Azzy, I'm still here, I'm not going anywhere.” 

Thick as thieves, you were both inseparable. Gravitating to one another unconsciously, like souls meant to be intertwined. You were so deeply in love with him, and you were certain he felt just the same. 

You couldn’t be more wrong in your entire life. The moment she came into the family was the moment you became completely invisible, cut off from the one person you could rely on.

You’ve watched from the sidelines for centuries as Azriel bounced from one woman to the other, especially as he chased the love and longing he had for Gwyn and Mor. And yet despite how much it hurt you, he still made sure that you were a priority in his life. Never forgotten like you are now.

But could you blame him?

Elaine was gentle, soft spoken, and kind. Much like you, and yet she was everything you only wished you could be. She was graceful, she was bright, and she was endearing. People gravitated to her without her even having to say anything. She was noticed instantly, igniting the primal instinct of those around her to protect her, to include her, and to keep her safe.

And you could do nothing but go back into the darkness of your own shadows, lingering in the corner and watching as Azriel slipped through your fingers. And the worst part of it all? 

He didn’t even notice. 

It was dinner time with the whole family as usual. You sat to the right of Azriel, with Elain to his left. It was a habit for you both to fill each other’s plates with all your favorite foods. It was natural for you both, something that everyone liked to tease you both about, and yet you and Azriel thought nothing of it. Just waved it off with a smile because in truth, it just felt right to you both. 

You began filling his plate with all of the good hearty stuff he liked to indulge in once in a while. You grabbed a few slices of roast beef, 2 baked bread rolls, a generous heaping amount of potatoes, and a few pieces of broccoli and carrots.

It was only after you finished plating his food that you realized your plate was empty. You were so happily engrossed with plating his food that you failed to realize that all the movements Azriel has been making to grab food weren’t to fill your plate, but to fill hers. A pile high of food completely different from your taste buds. 

You felt the beginning of your tears in your eyes, and yet you held them back as much as you could. Everyone around you was happily talking and eating, completely oblivious to the way your heart was being torn apart. You wanted to get up and leave the room, to do nothing but cry for the rest of the night. But you didn’t want to cause a scene, you didn’t want to burden anyone with your own pain— they all deserved a good time with a good meal at the end of the night.

Coming back from your thoughts, you fought the urge to look to your left. You fought with all your heart, to ignore the whispers and giggles from them both. You especially tried to ignore the way Azriel ate happily at his food, never once wondering how his plate was already so full. That night, all you could eat was a slice of strawberry cake, going unnoticed by everyone, by Azriel, of just how little you ate. 

Despite how completely invisible you felt, it couldn’t stop you from caring and loving him from the shadows. It didn’t stop you from filling his plate every dinner time. And it most certainly didn’t stop you from doing what you’ve always done.

You refilled his secret snack cabinet in the kitchen when it was going empty, you replaced his gloves and clothes when you noticed it starting to wear out during training, and you made sure a cup of warm tea was always placed in his night stand— knowing how it helped him sleep easier. 

You were so in tuned with making sure you never stopped loving him in ways you’ve always had that you failed to realize that it was no longer being reciprocated. Your bones were starting to ache, your stomach was feeling emptier than usual, the headaches were becoming a frequent visitor, your skin becoming pale from the lack of sleep, and you were slowly drifting away from not only Azriel, but your family too.

The only solace you realized was at night, where you could cry out your heart with the moon looking down on you. You let out a sob, recalling just how loved you used to be by Azriel. How he kept you strong and how he looked out for you just as much. And yet you were so easy to forget, so easy to be tossed aside, as if you were nothing to him. With one final cry, you’ve accepted the one fact you’ve been avoiding— you lost the only anchor you had in your life.

my only anchor masterlist | masterlist | TAGLIST

[prettygirl-gabi]

One-on-One

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader (Coach’s Daughter)

Fandom: WNBA: Dallas Wings

Summary: they say shooters shoot…

🏷️: @paigeshirleytemple , @cowboybueckers , @unknowgirlypop , @yailtsv , @nicebellee , @sitawita , @thatonesuschix , @vamptizm , @elalfywhore , @starfulani , @authentic-girl03 , @paxaz535 , @azziswrld , @jadasogay , @paigeluvvr , @melpthatsme , @lessi-lover , @courtsidewithlani , @imnotkaizer , @italyyy , @lightsgore , @private-but-not-a-secret , @aubreygriffin ,@issilovesherself , @graceeeeeesblog

If you’d told seventeen-year-old me that someday Paige Bueckers would be standing across from me in a Dallas Wings practice jersey, spinning a ball on her finger, grinning at me like we shared some inside joke—I would’ve laughed.

And probably cried.

And then immediately passed out.

Yet here I am.

And it’s somehow worse than I imagined, because she’s real, she’s even more beautiful than a screen ever showed me, and she’s smiling like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.

It had been a normal first day of practice—rookies meeting vets, drills, intro speeches—and I’d just been here to help my dad, Dallas Wings’ head coach Chris Koclanes, with welcoming the new players.

You know.

Like a normal, functioning adult who wasn’t crushing like a giddy teenager.

And maybe it would’ve stayed innocent if Arike hadn’t cornered me at the Gatorade table.

“You’ve got it bad,” she said in that sing-song voice that meant trouble.

I groaned. “Don’t.”

“She’s looking good in Dallas gear, huh?”

“I’m not answering that.”

“Well, either you make a move before practice ends or I will.”

I blinked. “You’re bluffing.”

She smirked. “You know I’m not.”

And that’s why I’m now standing at half-court, holding a basketball, heart pounding loud enough I’m convinced Paige can hear it.

“You sure about this?” Paige asks, tossing her towel onto a bench. There’s an amused twinkle in her eye, like she’s very much enjoying this.

“Scared?” I tease.

She snorts. “Of you? Never.”

I spin the ball once on my palm. “First to eleven. Ones and twos. Loser…” I pause, letting it hang dramatically, “…has to buy dinner.”

“And if you win, you’re buying dinner?”

“Nope. If I win,” I say, walking backward toward the three-point line, “you give me your number.”

She raises an eyebrow, but she’s smiling. “Confident.”

I shrug. “I’ve been waiting years for this moment.”

Her laugh is low, a little breathless. “Alright, coach’s kid. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Paige checks the ball and immediately fakes left, drives right, and lays it in.

“1-0,” she says, grinning, jogging backward.

“You’ve been here five minutes and you’re already trying to embarrass me,” I say, checking it back.

She shrugs, playful. “Gotta set the tone early.”

I fake a stepback, blow past her, and hit a quick floater off the glass.

“1-1,” I say, smug.

“Ooooh, we got a game,” Arike shouts from the sideline, recording it on her phone.

Over the next few minutes, it’s back and forth.

She calls out my lazy defense.

I chirp her about missing an open three.

We’re grinning the entire time, bumping shoulders, getting a little too close for it to just be casual competition.

At 7-6 her, she leans in during a dead ball and whispers, “You know, if you wanted my number this bad, you could’ve just asked.”

I nearly travel.

“You’re cocky,” I say, shaking my head as I check the ball.

“And you’re adorable,” she says easily, clapping her hands for the pass.

I nearly pass out.

We battle until it’s 10-10.

Game point. Winner takes all.

We’re both sweating, a little out of breath. She’s bouncing on her toes, her eyes locked on mine.

“You ready to lose in front of your dad?” she teases.

“You ready to explain to the whole team how you got cooked by a ‘retired’ player?” I shoot back.

Her grin is everything.

I jab step, fake right, crossover left—

and pull up for a jumper just inside the arc.

Swish.

I throw my arms up as the small group watching cheers.

“Let’s goooo!” Arike yells, jumping around like a fool.

I turn to Paige, who’s standing with her hands on her hips, smiling like she just lost on purpose.

“Hand it over, Bueckers,” I say, wiggling my fingers for her phone.

She pulls it from her waistband and tosses it to me.

As I type my number in, she leans in close enough for me to smell her vanilla body spray.

“You’re dangerous,” she murmurs.

“Only if you’re into that.”

Her laugh is soft. Secret. “Guess I’ll find out.”

Later, after the gym clears out, I stop by my dad’s office.

He’s behind his desk, tapping on a laptop.

“You heading out?” he asks.

I nod, trying to sound casual. “Yeah, gonna show Paige around. Deep Ellum, maybe Bishop Arts.”

He raises an eyebrow but says nothing for a second too long.

“What?” I ask suspiciously.

He shrugs. “You had that look on your face. The one from sophomore year, when you thought she liked one of your Instagram posts.”

“Oh my God.”

He laughs. “Just don’t break my rookie’s heart, alright?”

I pause, the humor fading slightly. “What if she breaks mine?”

He looks at me for a long moment. Serious. Dad-mode activated.

“Then I’ll bench her.”

We both laugh, the tension breaking.

“Go,” he says, waving me off. “But be home by midnight or I’m calling Arike to find you both.”

I salute him dramatically and jog out before I can combust from second-hand embarrassment.

We end up at a taco truck in Deep Ellum, sitting on the curb with greasy napkins and lime wedges everywhere. It’s casual and easy—until Paige turns to me, holding her drink.

“So… your dad kinda let something slip yesterday,” she says, tone light.

My stomach drops. “Slip, like what?”

She bites her straw to hide a smile. “At the rookie press conference. After he introduced us to the staff. He was talking about you, to me.”

I narrow my eyes. “Oh God. What did he say?”

“He said—” she pauses for dramatic effect, “—‘She’s been a fan of yours for a long time. Could practically write a dissertation on your highlight reel.’”

I groan and hide my face in my hands.

“Yup,” Paige says, laughing. “So I knew.”

“You knew—this whole time?!”

She nods, sipping casually. “And I still let you think you were being subtle.”

I groan again.

“But,” she says, nudging my knee with hers, “I thought it was cute.”

I peek out between my fingers. “You don’t think I’m, like… a weirdo?”

She shrugs. “Maybe a little. But in a good way. Honestly? I think it’s kinda hot that you risked public humiliation for my number.”

I blink. “You think I’m hot?”

She smirks. “Don’t push your luck, coach’s kid.”

I laugh, bumping my shoulder into hers.

We sit there for a while longer, just…talking. About Dallas. About her adjusting to the WNBA. About me adjusting to not being an athlete anymore.

It feels easy. Natural. Like it was always supposed to happen.

And when she walks me back to my car, she lingers for a second, eyes flickering to my mouth before she says, “Let’s do this again.”

I grin. “Wasn’t planning on stopping.”

She slides her hand into mine briefly—barely a brush of fingers—and it’s the best first almost-date of my life.

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

                 -Thank You For Reading!🩵🩶

                             -prettygirl-gabi🎀✨️

[junojoel]

Slow Like Sunrise

Pre-Outbreak!Joel Miller x fem!Reader

Summary: You and Joel try for a baby.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, unprotected piv, breeding kink, they are making a BABY, mentions of infertility/not being able to get pregnant, mostly fluff though, sickly sweet

i want joel miller's babies SO BAD GUYS also there will be a part two

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The sun is still warm even as it starts to dip below the treeline, casting a honey-coloured glow over the soccer field. The hum of crickets is just beginning, mingling with the sound of kids laughing, cleats pounding turf, and the occasional bark from a dog tied to a tree near the bleachers.

You're sitting on a folded blanket, your sandals kicked off, feet curled beneath you. Joel’s beside you, one arm braced behind him, the other draped casually across your shoulders like it’s second nature now—because it is. His thumb traces slow circles on your arm, absentminded and soft. You glance sideways, catching the way he’s watching Sarah with that quiet pride that always makes your chest ache just a little.

She’s all grit and joy, her ponytail bouncing with each sprint. When she scores, she turns toward the sidelines, looking right at the two of you with the biggest, toothy grin. You both clap and cheer, but Joel’s voice is loudest, that unmistakable “That’s my girl!” carrying across the field.

You lean into his shoulder. “You know she’s a little superstar, right?”

Joel chuckles, low and proud. “Got her old man’s determination and your good looks.”

You laugh, turning your face into his T-shirt, breathing in the faint scent of sweat, laundry detergent, and the spearmint gum he always chews when he’s nervous.

“She’s not mine,” you say softly.

He looks down at you, eyes warm, unwavering. “You’re hers. She knows it. I know it. Don’t need blood for somethin’ to be real.”

Your heart twists, full and aching in the best kind of way.

After the game, you all stop for ice cream—Sarah insists, claiming it’s a post-victory tradition now, and Joel doesn't put up a fight. You get sprinkles; he gets chocolate and pretends not to steal bites of yours. Sarah chatters the whole way home from the backseat, swinging her legs and describing every move she made like she’s narrating a highlight reel. Joel listens with that soft half-smile, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your knee.

By the time you get home, Sarah is crashing fast, sticky with sugar and sunshine. She hugs you goodnight—tight and lingering—and Joel presses a kiss to the top of her head, murmuring something about letting her sleep in tomorrow. The door to her room clicks shut, and the house settles into that comfortable, post-bedtime quiet.

Joel finds you in the kitchen, barefoot, sipping water from a glass. The overhead light casts a soft glow, and when he walks in, his eyes catch yours like gravity.

“You tired?” he asks, voice low, thick with something that’s not quite exhaustion.

You shake your head. “Just warm. Full. You know that feeling?”

He nods, coming closer. “Yeah. Been feelin’ it a lot lately.”

You don’t move when his arms slide around your waist. You just melt into him, hands coming up to rest on his chest, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his T-shirt. You stay like that for a long moment, swaying a little, like there’s music neither of you can hear.

“She loves you,” he says suddenly, quietly.

You lift your head, looking up at him. “I love her.”

His gaze softens, thumb brushing over your cheek. “And I love you.”

It’s not the first time he’s said it—but this time, it lands heavier. It settles into the spaces between you, into the years you’ve both lived before this, the losses and the late nights and the quiet dinners and the laughter that’s become the soundtrack of your shared life.

Joel draws in a breath, almost like he’s steadying himself. “I’ve been thinkin’,” he says, his voice a little rough now, “watchin’ you with her… seein’ you here, in this house, in this life…”

You lean in closer, heart fluttering. “Yeah?”

He kisses you—soft, unrushed, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

“I want more,” he whispers. “I want it all. With you. A life. A family. Not just me and Sarah, but… you. Us. Maybe even a little one. Someday.”

Your breath catches in your throat. His hands slide down to hold yours, fingers intertwining.

“You’d want that?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“With you?” he says, his smile tilting, eyes shining. “I’d want that yesterday.”

You laugh, tears springing to your eyes even though you’re smiling, because it’s everything—him, this house, the kid asleep down the hall, and the dream of another one. A tiny one with Joel’s eyes and your smile, maybe. The kind of dream that used to scare you because it felt too fragile.

But now, wrapped in Joel’s arms, it just feels like the most natural thing in the world.

“I want that too,” you whisper.

His hands cup your face, and he kisses you again, longer this time. The kind of kiss that promises a thousand tomorrows. The kind that feels like home.

And when he pulls you close and walks you toward the couch, tucking you beneath his arm like you’re something precious, you curl up against him and realize that you’re not just building a life together.

You already have one.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s only the beginning.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The house is quiet, the only sound the hum of the ceiling fan and the distant chirp of crickets outside. Joel’s fingers trail lazily up and down your arm as you lie tangled together on the couch, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.

You tilt your head up, catching the way the lamplight softens the lines of his face, the way his eyes—always so watchful—linger on you like you’re something sacred.

“You thinkin’ about it?” he murmurs, thumb brushing your lower lip.

You know what he means. A baby. A little one. Ours.

“Yeah,” you admit, your voice hushed. “A lot.”

His hand slides into your hair, cradling the back of your head as he leans in to kiss you—slow, deep, like he’s savoring the taste of you. When he pulls back, his breath is warm against your mouth.

“Me too.”

His palm skims down your side, settling at the curve of your waist, and you shift, straddling his lap. His hands grip your hips, steadying you, but his touch is reverent, like he’s memorising the shape of you.

You kiss him again, fingers working the buttons of his shirt, pushing the fabric aside to press your palms against his chest. His skin is warm, his heartbeat strong beneath your touch.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, hands sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts. “So damn beautiful.”

You shiver, arching into his touch, his body covering yours. His mouth finds the hollow of your throat, then lower, lips grazing the swell of your breast through your shirt.

“Joel,” you breathe, fingers threading through his hair.

He looks up at you, eyes dark, full of want—but something else, too. Something tender, something achingly hopeful.

“I wanna make love to you,” he says, voice rough. “Not just—not just to try. But because I love you. Because I wanna feel you close.”

Your throat tightens. “I know.”

He kisses you again, unhurried, his hands working your clothes off with a patience that makes your pulse flutter. When you’re bare beneath him, he pauses, just looking, his gaze tracing every inch of you like he’s committing it to memory.

“You’re everything,” he whispers.

And then his hands are on you, his mouth following—slow, worshipful. Every touch is a promise, every kiss a vow. When he finally slides into you, it’s with a groan that’s half pleasure, half prayer, his forehead pressed to yours.

You move together, slow and deep, his hips rolling against yours in a rhythm that’s as familiar as it is intoxicating. His hands cradle your face, your back, your hips—like he can’t bear not to touch every part of you.

“Look at me,” he murmurs, and when you do, his eyes are wet, his voice breaking. “I love you. God, I love you.”

You cling to him, legs wrapped tight around his waist, fingers digging into his shoulders as pleasure builds, sweet and slow. When you come, it’s with his name on your lips, his body shuddering against yours moments later.

He collapses beside you, pulling you into his arms, your bodies still tangled, still connected. His lips press to your temple, your cheek, your mouth—soft, lingering kisses that say more than words ever could.

You drift like that, wrapped in each other, in the quiet and the warmth and the love.

And when Joel’s hand settles low on your stomach, his fingers splaying possessively over your skin, you don’t have to ask what he’s thinking.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

It happens slowly, quietly, like most of the beautiful things in your life with Joel.

No big declarations. No calendar apps or morning alarms. Just a soft, shared decision sealed with a kiss on the couch that night—an unspoken “we’re ready” that settles into your bones like sunlight through curtains.

You don’t tell Sarah right away. It’s not a secret, exactly. It’s just yours for now. A dream you and Joel hold between you like cupped hands around a candle flame.

Some mornings, he’ll wrap his arms around you from behind while you’re brushing your teeth, press his lips to the slope of your shoulder, and murmur something like, “Think this might be the month.”

Some nights, you’ll find yourselves tangled in warm sheets, laughing between kisses, whispering things neither of you ever thought you’d say out loud. “What if it’s a girl and she has your smile?” “What if it’s a boy and he’s got your stubborn streak?”

And sometimes… you don’t talk about it at all. Sometimes you just try, with nothing but the soft rhythm of love between you, skin against skin, hearts pounding in quiet sync.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

It’s not always romantic.

Sometimes it’s disappointing. You curl up on the bathroom floor one morning, silently willing that pink line not to be alone. But it is. And when Joel finds you there, he doesn’t say anything—just sinks to the floor beside you and wraps you in his arms like he can carry the sadness for you.

And in a way, he does.

“You ain’t broken,” he whispers into your hair. “And neither is this dream. We got time, sweetheart. I got you.”

You cry, but only a little. Because he's right. You do have time. You have him.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The sweetness doesn’t fade. If anything, it deepens.

There’s Joel making you breakfast without asking—eggs a little too firm, toast just slightly burned, but he kisses your forehead like he’s serving a gourmet meal.

There’s the way he’ll tuck his hand over your stomach at night without thinking, even though there’s nothing there yet. Like he’s leaving space for someone who’s on their way.

There’s the list you start scribbling in your journal—baby names and paint colors and Joel’s sleepy mutterings of “What about that one, the one like your eyes?” when he sees you flipping through swatches.

There’s Sarah, watching you both curiously, starting to ask little things like, “Are you two keeping secrets?” and “Why are y’all bein’ so mushy lately?”

You just smile.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

One evening, you’re folding laundry together—Joel’s T-shirts, Sarah’s little soccer socks, your favourite sweater with the hole in the sleeve. The sun’s pouring golden light through the living room window, and everything feels warm and good and yours.

“You ever think,” you say, “about what kind of dad you’ll be? Like… with a baby again?”

Joel glances at you, a half-folded towel in his hands. He shrugs, but his smile gives him away. “All the time. Think about the first time they’ll hold my finger with that tiny hand. Think about the way they’ll cry at 3 am and you’ll be fast asleep, and I’ll go get ‘em and just… rock ‘em a while. Sing somethin’ soft.”

You blink back sudden tears, something tight in your throat.

He reaches over, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “Don’t gotta rush it. But I want it. Every part of it. Even the diapers.”

You laugh wetly. “You’re gonna regret saying that.”

“Probably,” he grins. “But I mean it. I want the messy parts. The loud parts. The parts that make us tired and cranky and deliriously happy. I want all of it with you.”

One night, a few weeks later, you’re lying in bed, your fingers tracing the faint freckles on his chest.

“What if it takes a while?” you whisper.

Joel shifts so you're looking eye to eye, his hand finding yours under the sheets.

“Then we take a while,” he says. “And in the meantime, we keep lovin’ each other the way we already are. We already got a family, darlin’. We’re just makin’ room.”

You close your eyes, feeling his lips brush your forehead, your cheek, your jaw.

And as you drift off to sleep in the arms of the man who makes the world feel steady, you believe it—fully and truly.

You're already a family. You're just waiting to meet the next piece of your forever.

[kxsagi]

"𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧"

rin was always the same. quiet, aloof, distant, the type who preferred to keep to himself, observing from the sidelines while everyone else had fun. the guy who’d sneer when someone tried to make small talk, whose only words to you in the past week had been something snarky about the weather or how he didn’t get why people couldn’t just shut up sometimes. 

but tonight was different. 

it wasn’t like you’d never seen him drink before. of course, he did. but rin never let loose. never. he was the guy who sipped his drink, became a little bit more chatty than usual with his friends, and then got up, shrugged, and left, always looking like he was doing the world a favor by gracing it with his presence. 

except tonight. tonight, he was loud. and… strangely affectionate.

“hey.” he leaned heavily on you, blinking at you with glassy eyes. “hey, hey, hey, i have a confession.”

your eyebrow arched. “oh?”

“yeah,” he said, his voice a little too loud, his breath warm against your neck. “i’ve got something to tell you, and it’s a big deal.”

you swallowed, trying not to laugh. rin was acting like he was five again. this was a different version of him, a version you hadn’t seen in a long time.

“you’ve got something to say, huh?” you teased.

rin nodded seriously. “i think…” he poked your shoulder, making you jump. “i think i might love you.”

you stared at him, dumbfounded. this couldn’t be real.

“excuse me?” you asked, fighting to keep your voice steady.

“i mean,” he shrugged, swaying just a little, “i’ve been thinking about it all night, and i think you’re, like, perfect. your hair, your eyes, your smile… and you’re funny in a stupid way, but it works, y’know?”

your chest tightened, but you bit back the smile trying to escape. he never complimented you. ever. when sober, he barely even looked at you. he was the type who acted like he was above everyone, like he had better things to do than get involved in anyone else’s drama.

but now…

“you think i’m perfect?” you couldn’t help it, your voice softened.

“yeah,” he muttered, his head resting against your shoulder, his words slow and dreamy. “like, really perfect. i’ve known it for a while, actually. just… never had the guts to say it.”

you watched him, your heart thudding in your chest. how many times had you tried to figure out if he felt the same way? how many times had you wondered if he’d ever look at you like that? and here he was, drunk out of his mind, spilling his heart out to you in the most ridiculous way possible.

“i think…” rin pushed himself up, grinning like a fool. “i think you’re the best person in this whole world. everyone else is loud and annoying and half-baked, but you’re… you’re…” he paused, eyes dreamy, almost like he was trying to find the right word. “you’re, like, the calm in the storm. or, uh… a really cute, annoying storm, i guess.”

you chuckled softly, not sure whether to be flattered or confused. “you’re something else, you know that?”

he blinked at you, a little too seriously. “i do know that. but it’s not like i’m ever wrong.”

“sure,” you said, a grin tugging at the corner of your lips. “you never are.”

“good,” he mumbled, his eyes fluttering closed. “then i’m not wrong about this. i love you. you make me feel like i’m… i’m not a total jerk all the time.”

your heart ached, but you couldn’t stop the warmth that spread through your chest. this was the side of him you had always wondered about, the one hidden beneath all the arrogance and coldness.

“you are a jerk most of the time,” you teased, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead.

“yeah,” he agreed, grinning like an idiot. “but you still love me. you just don’t know it yet.”

you didn’t correct him. instead, you just let him rest against you, drunk and vulnerable, with his arms wrapped around you like he’d never let go. tomorrow, he’d probably act like none of this ever happened, arrogant, aloof, and distant once again.

but for tonight, he was yours. and for once, you weren’t questioning it. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

a/n: forgive me if it’s out of character, but everyone gets a little out of character when they’re drunk right 🌚

[yukkiji]

where the trophy isn't the prize

bokuto’s victorious run across the court wasn’t toward the trophy or the cheering crowd — it was straight into your arms, where years of sweat, struggles, and silent support finally culminated in a fierce, unspoken promise that no matter what, you’d always be his home.

haikyuu masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi

starring. bokuto kotaro x fem!reader ft. msby black jackals and fukurodani volleyball team

genre: fluff, romance, just wholesome!, timeskip!bokuto, former manager!reader

wc: 3.4k

author's note: this is probably the longest i've ever written yet and i love this fic sm it's just wholesome for me; best boy bokuto huhu

the gym lights cast a harsh glow over the court, but they couldn’t outshine the heat radiating from the crowd. the air was thick with the scent of sweat, excitement, and adrenaline — the unmistakable atmosphere of a high-stakes volleyball match. fans were on their feet, some screaming, others frozen in disbelief, but bokuto’s world had already shrunk down to one thing: you.

sitting courtside with akaashi, you watched every move, every spike, every tense moment with quiet intensity. your fingers tapped nervously against your knee, your lips barely moving in silent encouragement.

bokuto caught your gaze several times during the game, his chest heaving with effort and determination, but your calm presence was the anchor that kept him steady.

back then, in high school, it was just like this — chaos on the court and calm off it.

the gym was always alive — alive with squeaking shoes, sharp whistles, the rhythmic slap of volleyballs, and bokuto’s booming voice cutting through it all like a flare. he had a way of making his presence known in every room he stepped into, larger than life and blindingly intense. but what most people didn’t see — what only you really saw — was how hard he worked to hold all that light inside of him.

as fukurodani’s manager, you stood quietly on the sidelines, clipboard in hand, eyes sharp. you were the one who made sure every training drill ran smoothly, kept track of stats and schedules, filled in the gaps left behind when others overlooked the little things. water bottles, towels, first aid kits — you made sure the team never had to ask for them. you were reliable. efficient. present.

but around bokuto, something shifted. there was a gravity to him — bright, explosive, erratic — and somehow, instead of being burned by it, you found warmth in its orbit.

he’d bounce over to you between drills, sweat clinging to his neck, and grin wide enough to make your stomach twist. “did you see that spike?” he’d ask, breathless.

“i did. and you know it was good, so stop fishing for compliments,” you’d reply, pretending not to smile — but you always did. and he always noticed.

at first, your relationship had been built in those in-between moments — water breaks, gym clean-up duty, walks home when the sky turned lilac and gold. you learned how to read him better than anyone else did. when he missed a shot and his shoulders tensed? you’d casually toss him a towel and murmur, “you’ve got another thirty chances. don’t fold on the first one.”

and when he scored, when he lit up and high-fived the whole team, he always turned to look for you in the corner. his expression softer, quieter. like he just needed your eyes to find his.

late practices were your favorite — when everyone had gone home and the world slowed down. he’d collapse on the floor beside you, sweat-soaked and tired, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling.

“you think i’ve got a shot?” he asked once, after a particularly brutal practice. his voice was quiet, a crack in the usual bravado.

you didn’t hesitate. “of course. you don’t even need to ask that.”

he rolled onto his side to look at you. “i do. because when you say it, i believe it.”

you hadn’t said anything then. just offered him the last bite of your convenience store onigiri and smiled. that was enough.

by your third year, your connection was no secret. the team teased, subtly at first — side-glances when he carried your bag, exaggerated coughs when you handed him a towel with too much tenderness. bokuto would brush it off with a wave of his hand and a grin that reached his ears.

“let ’em talk,” he whispered to you once, when he’d snuck out to walk you home. “i only care what you think.”

you started dating officially after graduation, when the intensity of entrance exams had passed and you both realized you couldn’t keep pretending your hearts weren’t already tied up in each other. it wasn’t flashy or dramatic — no rooftop confessions, no perfect timing. just the two of you on a summer evening, sitting side by side on the train after visiting the old gym one last time before leaving for college.

bokuto had been fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, unusually quiet.

“i don’t want to be apart from you,” he finally blurted.

you looked at him, startled. “who said anything about being apart?”

“you’re going to university in tokyo,” he said, frowning. “and i'm heading into full-time training. i just…” his voice dropped. “i don’t want us to drift.”

you reached out and held his hand right there on the train, surrounded by strangers. “then let’s not.”

you found a tiny one-bedroom apartment just outside the city — a shoebox, really, with off-white walls and a heater that rattled in the winter. the kitchen could barely fit two people, and you had to take turns brushing your teeth. but it was yours. the first home you built together.

there were volleyballs by the front door, your work notes strewn across the kitchen table, and bokuto’s shampoo always invading your shelf in the bathroom. he liked waking up early to train; you liked staying up late to finish your assignments. you bickered about groceries, cuddled under mismatched blankets, and danced in the living room when things felt too heavy.

you became his anchor — the person who knew how to hold him steady when the crowd’s cheers faded and all that was left was a boy who sometimes still doubted himself.

he would come home after rough practices, dropping his duffel by the door and collapsing on the floor face-down.

“they’re faster than me,” he muttered into the carpet one night. “i can’t keep up.”

you knelt beside him, fingers threading gently into his hair. “you’ve said that before, remember?”

“yeah.”

“and what happened then?”

“…i worked harder.”

you smiled. “and you’ll do it again.”

he tilted his head up just enough to look at you. “i’d be lost without you, baby.”

you kissed his forehead. “luckily for you, i plan on sticking around.”

supporting him wasn’t something you did out of obligation. it was your heartbeat. you loved his fire, but you also loved the quiet after — the way he needed reassurance without asking for it, the way he would hold your pinky when he was anxious, the way he listened when you vented about your day even if he was exhausted from training.

he wasn’t just your boyfriend. he was your best friend. and you were his reason to keep climbing higher.

and now, as you sat courtside at the msby black jackals vs. schweiden adlers game years later, watching him chase a victory in front of a roaring crowd, you weren’t surprised when he didn’t look at the trophy when the final point was scored.

he looked at you.

because from the first rally to the last, no matter how high he flew — he was always coming back to you.

his legs moved without him thinking, without waiting for permission or logic to catch up. he ran — no, he surged — like something had ignited inside his chest and there was only one direction for the flames to go.

not towards the trophy.

not towards the cameras or the crowd or his teammates still caught in the swell of celebration behind him.

he ran straight toward you.

the noise around him was deafening — the roar of the stadium, the blare of victory music, the low rumble of the announcer's voice barely audible over the cheers. but it all faded into white static the moment his eyes found yours in the front row. you were standing now, hands clutched near your mouth, eyes wide — shimmering with emotion, disbelief, pride, something deeper.

your heart stuttered in your chest. it felt like everything around you had slowed, like time itself knew not to interrupt. you barely registered akaashi standing next to you, still seated and smirking to himself as he leaned over and muttered under his breath, “he’s really gonna do it.”

but you couldn't move, couldn't think — not when bokuto, sweat-drenched and glowing with the heat of victory, was charging toward you with the same energy he used to throw down match-point spikes. it was the same look he wore when he chased down dreams, but this time, you were the finish line.

when he reached you, it wasn’t graceful. he almost tripped over the barrier separating the court from the stands, nearly knocking you off balance with the sheer momentum of his body. but none of that mattered. his arms caught you like they always did — strong, warm, and full of emotion too big for words.

“baby!” he half-laughed, half-shouted, voice cracking with joy. his chest was heaving from the run, his forehead damp with sweat, eyes shining as if he was still in the game and the final point hadn’t yet fallen.

you were already moving into his arms before he finished saying it.

the embrace was bone-deep. fierce. his arms wrapped tightly around your waist as he lifted you just slightly off the ground, holding you like he’d been waiting years for this exact second. you buried your face in the crook of his neck, clinging to him like you always had — not out of fear, but out of knowing he was home.

he smelled like victory and salt and that familiar, earthy warmth you’d memorized back in your high school gym. your fingers curled into the fabric of his jersey, clutching it like it was the only thing anchoring you to the moment. and in a way, it was.

all around you, the stadium kept roaring. cameras began to shift, turning lenses in your direction, catching the image that would circulate online for weeks: not the final point, not the scoreboard — this. bokuto, eyes closed, forehead pressed to yours, smiling like the world had narrowed down to only one person in the crowd.

the image that would silently echo the line that neither of you needed to say:

“where’s the trophy? he just comes runnin' over to me."

he pulled back just enough to look at you, hands still firm around your waist. his grin was still wild, still unfiltered, but there was something softer in his gaze now. something tender.

you blinked back tears, cupping his face, voice trembling with emotion. “you did it.”

but he shook his head. “we did it.”

your chest tightened, your breath catching in your throat. because you knew what he meant. the years — the early mornings, the late-night ramen after bad losses, the job interviews you rescheduled to travel with him to qualifiers, the way you whispered encouragement into his ear when no one else could see the weight on his shoulders.

he saw it all. he never forgot.

the after-party buzzed with the kind of electric joy only hard-won victories could bring.

laughter echoed off the walls of the event hall, glasses clinked, and the players from msby floated from table to table like gods fresh from the battlefield. bokuto had been in the center of it all — hyped, glowing, still riding the adrenaline of the win. you’d watched him with your chin propped on your hand, a smile tugging at your lips as he retold a play for the fifth time, each version more dramatic than the last.

but you could tell he wasn’t all there.

his eyes kept flicking over to you. quietly. softly. as if you were the only steady point in a room full of motion.

eventually, he slipped away from the crowd and approached you, eyes glinting under the golden lights, his hand reaching down for yours.

“hey,” he murmured, “come with me for a sec?”

you blinked. “where?”

he squeezed your fingers. “just… trust me.”

you always did.

he led you through the hotel corridors and out a discreet side door, his hand warm and solid in yours. the sounds of celebration faded behind you, replaced by the soft hush of the night. outside, the terrace was lit by hanging fairy lights and wrapped in soft shadows. beyond it was a quiet, manicured garden, the scent of early spring flowers drifting on the breeze.

bokuto paused, glancing up at the stars for a breath, then turned to face you fully.

you opened your mouth to speak — to tease, maybe, or ask what this was — but the look on his face stopped you cold.

he was nervous.

not the giddy, bouncing bokuto you knew, but something quieter. deeper. his hands were trembling slightly as he took yours again and drew you in closer.

“i’ve been trying to find the right moment all night,” he admitted, his voice soft, steadier now that you were alone. “but every time i looked at you, it hit me all over again. i don’t need the perfect moment. i just need you.”

your breath caught.

“i’ve been thinking about this since high school,” he went on. “since those nights when we’d close up the gym together and walk home under streetlights, when you’d tell me i was more than just my mood swings, more than just a powerful spike.” his voice cracked a little. “you’ve been with me through everything, baby. before anyone knew my name. before the jersey, before the wins.”

he let out a small laugh, gaze locked with yours. “you saw me — all of me. and you stayed.”

the silence between you was tender, and electric, and brimming with everything that couldn’t be spoken aloud all at once.

“so tonight, i don’t care if we won or lost,” he whispered. “i still would’ve done this. because i knew the only thing i’ve ever been sure of — even more than my cross spike — is that i want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

then, with one more shaky exhale, he dropped to one knee.

you gasped — hands flying to your mouth, the world narrowing down to just him, kneeling in a garden that now felt like something out of a dream. in his hand was a simple velvet box, trembling slightly as he opened it to reveal a ring that sparkled softly under the fairy lights.

“will you marry me?”

the tears came before your voice could.

you nodded rapidly, voice breaking. “yes,” you choked out, the word thick with emotion. “yes, yes — of course.”

he surged up, slipping the ring onto your finger with shaking hands before pulling you into him, wrapping his arms around you like he never wanted to let go.

you barely had time to breathe before —

“wooooo!!”

the terrace doors burst open behind you.

you turned, startled, only for a wave of familiar faces to come rushing out from behind the hedges and doorways where they’d been hiding.

“finally!” hinata crowed, fist-pumping into the air. “we were freezing our asses out here!”

akaashi appeared behind him, arms crossed but a faint smile tugging at his lips. “he wanted us here. said it wouldn’t be right if we weren’t.”

konoha and komi barreled over next, both looking a little misty-eyed despite their teasing smirks.

“you’re stuck with him forever now, huh?” konoha teased, slinging an arm around bokuto’s shoulder. “good luck with that emotional rollercoaster.”

“she’s the only one who’s ever kept him from flatlining mid-game,” komi joked, wiping discreetly at his eyes. “she deserves the mvp title too.”

bokuto laughed through a choked breath, cheeks red, still holding you tightly against his side.

the msby boys spilled out next — atsumu whistling loud and obnoxious, sakusa staying slightly behind but nodding with quiet approval, meian raising a glass he’d somehow snuck out with.

“congrats, lovebirds,” meian said with a grin. “you’re officially team captain of his heart now.”

you covered your face in your hands, overwhelmed and laughing through tears as bokuto gently pulled them down.

“hey,” he whispered, his smile crooked and boyish. “you said yes.”

“i did,” you whispered back, eyes shining.

he leaned in, forehead resting against yours, voice barely audible over the sound of your friends cheering behind you.

“i can’t believe i get to keep you forever.”

you smiled.

“you always had me.”

and in that garden, wrapped in fairy lights and the laughter of people who’d known you both from the beginning, bokuto knew:

this was the real victory.

the morning sunlight came slow and golden through the hotel window.

it filtered through sheer curtains, turning the room a soft, buttery hue — the kind of light that invited you to stay in bed just a little longer. the world outside had quieted, the frenzy of the match and the after-party now distant echoes. what remained was the hush of morning. breath. warm skin. the steady rhythm of someone you love sleeping beside you.

bokuto was on his side, one arm sprawled over your waist, the other tucked beneath his pillow. his hair was flattened in odd directions, still faintly smelling of cologne and sweat and champagne. his mouth was parted slightly, breath soft and even. one bare leg was tangled in the sheets, his hand unconsciously tightening against your hip every few minutes like his body remembered you even in sleep.

the engagement ring still glittered faintly on your finger.

you turned your hand slowly in the light, watching it catch on the delicate band. there was something surreal about seeing it there. not because it felt out of place — but because it felt so right, so natural, it was as though your hand had always been waiting for it.

a quiet sigh pulled your attention.

bokuto was stirring.

his lashes fluttered, and after a few blinks, his golden eyes found yours. for a moment, he just looked at you — as if making sure you were really still there. like maybe he thought he’d dreamed it all. the match. the garden. your yes.

“morning,” he rasped, voice rough and low, eyes still heavy with sleep.

you smiled, brushing his messy hair back from his forehead. “morning.”

his brows furrowed. “did we…? last night…”

“you proposed,” you whispered, smiling softly. “and i said yes.”

he stared for a beat, eyes wide with awe, before he groaned and buried his face against your neck.

“baby,” he mumbled into your skin. “i’m engaged. to you.”

you laughed gently, curling your fingers into his hair.

“yeah. you are.”

he pulled back slightly, blinking at you like he still couldn’t believe it, like the realization was settling deeper into his bones with every second. then, slowly, his hand reached for yours beneath the sheets. he laced your fingers together, bringing them to his lips. his thumb brushed over the ring as he kissed your knuckles, lingering there.

“you’re gonna wake up next to me every day,” he murmured. “forever.”

“every day,” you echoed.

“and we’re gonna get a place with a huge couch. like, huge. so we can lie on top of each other and still have room for snacks.”

you smiled. “is that your dream for our marriage?”

“that and putting your name in my phone as my wife.” his eyes softened again. “but mostly… just being with you. like this. always.”

you didn’t say anything for a long moment. you just stared at him — his sleep-ruffled hair, his crinkled eyes, his earnest smile. he was still the same bokuto who used to chase you around the fukurodani gym with a towel over his head, pretending to be a ghost. still the boy who gave you his milk bread after practice when you forgot yours. still the man who looked at you like you held his whole world in your hands.

and now, he really had given you everything.

you leaned forward and kissed him — slow, sleepy, and full of quiet promise.

when you pulled back, your forehead rested against his.

“i’m really glad you ran to me yesterday.”

he smiled, eyes closing as he breathed you in.

“where else would i go?”

outside, the city slowly stirred awake — but in that quiet room, with his arms around you and your hand in his, there was nothing else the world could offer that could compare.

because the greatest win of his life wasn’t last night’s match.

it was waking up to you — every morning, from now until forever.

[pinkpurplesunrises]

Belly, Sweat & Futbol - the short story - Alexia Putellas x Pregnant!Reader

It was hot. Not like “ooh, summer’s here, let’s get a sangria” hot. No. It was “the sun has a personal vendetta against me and my swollen ankles” kind of hot.

You were seven months pregnant.

Seven months.

As in, practically a planet with legs.

And you were sitting in a plastic stadium seat with minimal shade. Directly under the wrath of the Spanish sun. Watching your wife. The ever-glorious, annoyingly flawless Alexia Putellas. Ziip around the pitch like she wasn’t defying gravity, physics and probably God.

“Estás bien, cariño?” Eli, Alexia’s mom leaned over from her seat beside you. Fanning herself with a Barça program like it had any real power against the Mediterranean inferno.

You gave her a look. A look that said, “I am carrying the grandchild of your daughter and your daughter has decided to play in the fiery depths of hell and you’re asking if I’m okay?”

But instead, you smiled, because you loved Eli. You loved her almost as much as you hated being hot.

“Estoy bien,” you lied. “Just melting internally. Like a cheese.”

Eli cackled, cearly delighted by your dramatics. “Una quesita embarazada.”

You both burst into laughter. Then you immediately regretted it because laughing made the baby do a little somersault that somehow pressed on your bladder, lungs and soul simultaneously.

By the time the final whistle blew, your thighs were stuck to the plastic seat. Your water bottle was a tepid soup of regret. And your ankles were doing their best impression of two rising loaves of sourdough.

Barça won, of course. Because Alexia Putellas. And even though you had literally been sweating from your elbows (who knew that was possible?), your heart still did that fluttery thing when she jogged over to the sideline. Ponytail bouncing. Looking like the goddess of football and hydration.

She spotted you and grinned. That ridiculous grin that had gotten you into this whole baby-growing situation in the first place.

“Hola, mis amores!” she called, waving.

You stood up. Correction: you attempted to stand up. What you actually did was slowly peel yourself out of the seat like a lasagna sheet from a non-stick pan. Groaning like a retired pirate.

“Don’t rush,” Eli said, chuckling as she helped you.

“Oh I’m not rushing,” you said, finally upright. “I’m just trying not to give birth on the pitch.”

Alexia jogged over, sweaty and radiant and smug as ever.

“Did you see my assist?” she asked, leaning in to kiss you.

You held up a finger. “Don’t kiss me yet. I need you to hear what I’ve been through.”

Alexia blinked, smiling. “Okay…”

You inhaled dramatically. “First of all, I have sweated in places I didn’t know had sweat glands. My bra is now technically a soup. I’ve been sitting on plastic for two hours with a mini-human karate-chopping my bladder, and your mother has fed me seven churros like I’m a prize hog.”

Eli, from behind, waved proudly. “Estaban muy buenos!”

“They were good,” you admitted, then turned back to Alexia. “Then someone behind us spilled soda on my sandal. A wasp tried to flirt with me. And to top it all off, your fans keep coming up and taking selfies with me like I’m the stadium mascot. Which, I guess, fine, I do look like a very exhausted football-shaped balloon.”

Alexia was laughing now. Genuinely laughing. And not in a “oh haha, you’re silly” way, but in a “I want to marry you again right now” way.

“I love you so much,” she said, finally pulling you into a hug, heat and all.

You grunted. “You love me sweaty. That’s real.”

“Of course,” she said, brushing a damp strand of hair from your forehead. “You’re carrying our baby, you came to my match in Satan’s weather, and you still look like the love of my life.”

You squinted at her. “Are you concussed?”

“Hopelessly,” she whispered. Then kissed you full on the mouth. Heat be damned.

From behind, Eli made a little awww noise and snapped a photo. “Para el álbum familiar!”

You pulled away from Alexia and turned to Eli. “If that ends up on Facebook, I’m naming this baby after your least favorite cousin.”

Alexia laughed again and rubbed your belly. “You really came all the way here in this heat just for me?”

You rolled your eyes. “No, I came for the churros and to judge your form. Your left-foot pass was weak.”

Alexia gasped like you’d slapped her. “You wound me.”

“I’ll wound you more when I make you do my back massage tonight. And foot rub. And get me more of those pineapple popsicles.”

Alexia just shook her head, utterly enamored. “God, I love bossy pregnant you.”

You leaned into her shoulder, smirking. “Bossy? I’m a hormonal queen and you’re lucky I still find you hot in this temperature.”

She kissed your temple. “Luckiest woman alive.”

As you waddled slowly toward the exit with Alexia’s arm around you and Eli chatting animatedly about baby names, you smiled to yourself.

Sure, you were a sweaty marshmallow on legs, but you were also deeply loved, slightly famous by association, and about to go home with the captain of your heart (and FC freakin’ Barcelona).

Not bad for a Wednesday.

[makis-eyebrows]

Request: ;))

She Did It

The seven time world champion witnesses the beginning of a first time world champion, his own flesh and blood.

The final race of the F1 Academy season had just ended under the floodlights of Yas Marina Circuit.

Smoke from the fireworks still hung in the air as engines cooled and marshals guided the cars back into parc fermé. The crowd was roaring, but one voice rose above it all — a choked scream of disbelief, muffled by the helmet still on her head.

Y/n Hamilton, just 18 years old, sat in her car with trembling hands gripping the steering wheel. The radio crackled.

“Y/n… you did it. You’re the 2025 F1 Academy Champion.”

She let out a sob — a full-body cry — as her engineer’s voice filled her ears.

“No way... are you serious?!” she cried, voice cracking. “No way... oh my god—oh my god!”

She leaned her helmeted head back on the headrest, fists clenched, heart thudding so hard she thought the whole car might shake. She had dreamed of this day since she was 7, watching her dad on podiums. Her name, her number, her sweat and tears — it had all been for this.

The car was barely parked when the team members ran toward her, yelling, hugging each other, waiting for her to emerge. But before they could reach her, one figure pushed gently past them, eyes glassy, voice tight with pride.

Lewis.

Still in black, sunglasses perched on his head, the seven-time World Champion looked like a man suspended in a moment of pure emotion. He had watched every race. Been there for every crash, every pole, every doubting thought she’d whispered when no one was listening.

Now, his little girl — his Y/n — had done it.

When she finally stepped out of the car, helmet in hand, cheeks streaked with tears, she scanned the crowd wildly — until she saw him.

“DAD!”

Lewis opened his arms, and Y/n sprinted straight into them, burying her face in his chest and sobbing uncontrollably. Her body shook as he held her tight, swaying her slightly the way he did when she was little.

“You did it, baby,” Lewis whispered, his voice cracking. “You really did it.”

“I—I didn’t think I would,” she mumbled into his shirt. “I thought I messed it up…”

He leaned back, cupping her tear-soaked cheeks with both hands, smiling through misty eyes. “You fought like a lioness. I’ve never been more proud. You earned every bit of it.”

They were soon joined by clapping, and behind Lewis, another familiar face approached with a warm smile.

“Now, that’s how you make the Hamilton name proud,” said Anthony Hamilton.

“Grandpa!” Y/n shouted, pulling him into the hug.

Anthony ruffled her hair and kissed her forehead. “I watched your dad do this. And now I get to watch you. It’s the greatest thing.”

There was no dry eye between the three of them. The cameras had long since found them, capturing the moment — Y/n, sandwiched in a tearful embrace between two generations of Hamiltons, her fire suit still marked with sweat and victory champagne.

As the trophy ceremony approached, Lewis handed her a tissue and took her by the shoulders.

“Go take your crown, champ,” he said. “But don’t trip on the steps. That’s still your move.”

Y/n laughed, wiping her tears. “No promises.”

When she stepped onto the podium, hoisting the championship trophy above her head, her name roared across the speakers, and the small crowd chanted:

“Hamilton! Hamilton! Hamilton!”

From the sidelines, Lewis stood with Anthony, one arm slung around his father’s shoulder.

“She’s got your drive,” Anthony said.

“She’s got our fight,” Lewis replied. “And maybe… just maybe… she’ll be better than me one day.”

Anthony grinned. “She already is.”

That night, Y/n posted a picture on Instagram: her holding the trophy, Lewis kissing her on the temple, and Anthony standing beside them with the caption:

"Two Hamiltons. One legacy. We did it."

And she meant every word.

And just like that, I am done :)

I HAVE TO GO BACK TO SCHOOL TOMORROW, END ME!!!

That's Gang Gang out!!!!

[demie90s]

paige x dancer reader, paige shows up for her comps ( like red bull freestyle battle type competitions) and is just being a huge simp and biggest supporter for reader and her hyping up reader goes viral

(Ion know shit bout dance but I watched honey and dance moms)

ᴘᴀɪɢᴇ ʙᴜᴇᴄᴋᴇʀꜱ x ꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

She Got That Dog In Her

MASTERLIST | MORE

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You’re known in the underground dance scene for tearing through freestyle battles like it’s personal. Paige is known for being one of the most composed players in college hoops. But when she shows up to your Red Bull-style comp and loses all chill—screaming, hyping you up, and jumping like a groupie—she ends up going viral right beside you.

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: Fluff, Humor, Real-Time Performance Chaos

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: Crowd energy, public affection, lots of slang/hype

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~0.4k

ᴠɪʙᴇ: ‘You see that? That’s my girl’ energy, sports girlfriend turned hype beast, loud love in low-light rooms

The warehouse smelled like sweat, smoke, and something electric. Bass thumped through the floor in waves, rattling soda cans and old scaffolding. You rolled your shoulders out, jaw tight, headphones in, tuning everything out. Not because you were nervous—this was your thing—but because you knew who was in the crowd tonight.

Paige Bueckers. Hoodie low, curls tied up, pressed up against the barricade like a fangirl who swore she wasn’t gonna make a scene.

Yeah, okay.

You’d told her not to come. Not because you didn’t want her there, but because she doesn’t know how to act when it comes to you. You knew the second the beat dropped, she’d forget all about staying lowkey.

And she did.

The moment your name got called, the crowd screamed—but Paige? Paige was the loudest. “LET’S GO, BABY!” she yelled, voice cutting over the music. “YOU BEEN THAT. SHOW ’EM.”

The girl next to her turned, wide-eyed. “Isn’t that…”

“Mhm,” someone else said. “That’s Bueckers. And that’s her girl.”

You stepped into the cypher with your shoulders loose, body already catching the rhythm. The DJ dropped the beat—heavy, aggressive, drums hitting like punches. You locked in, footwork slick, arms sharp, each move calculated and wild at the same time. The crowd fed off it.

Paige? Paige looked possessed.

Phone out. Hoodie off. Screaming over every hit. “OH MY GOD,” she barked when you did a flip spin off the floor. “NAH, YOU NASTY FOR THAT.”

You cracked a smile mid-combo.

The DJ switched the track, and your opponent tried to match your energy, but it wasn’t close. You were cleaner, faster, more in control. Paige knew it too—she was already waving the imaginary white flag from the sideline, shouting, “Y’ALL BETTER JUST HAND HER THE CROWN NOW. WE AIN’T GOT TIME FOR THIS.”

By the time the final round came, she’d lost all composure. She was standing on the edge of the floor, barking like she was your damn hype man. “YUP—SHE ATE YOU UP. STAY DOWN.”

Her voice cracked from yelling. She didn’t care.

The final move? A spin into a low freeze, held just long enough to burn. You rose with a smirk, the crowd losing it around you.

And Paige?

She jumped the barricade.

Not far. Just enough to reach you the second you walked off the floor, hands on your face, kissing your cheek like you just dropped 40 in the Final Four. “That was the hottest shit I’ve ever seen,” she breathed. “You bodied her. I’m talking buried her.”

You were sweaty, grinning, still breathing hard. “You were supposed to chill.”

“I tried,” she said, beaming. “You’re too good. I blacked out.”

What you didn’t know until later was the video. Someone caught the whole thing—Paige screaming, gripping the barricade like her life depended on it, yelling “THAT’S MY BABY” while you danced like you were on fire.

It went viral before you even got out of the building.

Comments rolled in:

“Paige Bueckers got no chill when it comes to her girl and I LOVE THAT FOR HER.”

“Imagine dancing like that and having Paige lose her mind front row. Goals.”

“They’re a power couple and I’m sick.”

“She don’t even act like that on the court 😭😭😭”

You saw it all later, sitting on the hood of her car, legs over hers, eating drive-thru fries. She held the phone up, laughing.

“Okay…I might’ve gone a little overboard.”

You leaned into her shoulder. “Nah. I like you loud.”

She kissed your temple. “Good. ‘Cause I ain’t ever gonna be quiet about you.”

[moon-ttokki-x]

Hi hi! So I’ve like been seeing edits of this one Chan look

Just image your like yapping about how annoying it is and you say something that really gets him into “watch your tone” type mode and gives you this look!

Like agghh I was wondering if I could make this a request. You make it however you like but this is just so like ahhhh.

Love you babes!

-haeso🐨

omg the LOOK... fr send me edits of this chan bc i cant find them anywhere TT

make me - bang chan

pairing: bang chan x reader

summary: you pull a prank on chan with minsung and seungmin

genre: crack, idol! au, kind of suggestive ngl but nothing risky lol

a/n: yall are gonna have to use your imaginations for this bc i aint writing anything 18+ it's too cringy for me TT dividers by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more

"Y/n, have you heard of that one TikTok prank?"

You look up to where Jisung is splayed over Jeongin's lap, his wide boba eyes blinking up at you from his odd position. Jeongin doesn't look particularly happy with the position and shoves his hyung off, muttering something about a dance practice, then leaves.

Jisung lands on the studio floor with an oof and takes up a new position on Minho's lap, seemingly unfazed. He blinks like nothing happened, the conversation apparently continuing.

You tilt your head at him. "What prank?"

Jisung grins as Minho wraps his arms around his tiny waist. "The one where you purposely piss off your partner by talking smack and then film their reaction."

You shake your head, laughing. "Nope. Seen others like that though."

Minho peeks out from behind Jisung. "You should try it on Chan-hyung. It'd be funny."

You shake your head, rolling your eyes. "He won't fall for that. He's already too used to Felix being chronically online. He'll know if I try to prank him with something I saw on Tiktok."

Jisung whines and shifts off Minho's lap, kneeing him in the process. He flops down next to you, ignoring Minho's groans of pain, and pulls out his phone to show you a video.

"So basically, all you have to do is rile him up and then we'll film him," Jisung grins.

You deadpan. "Then Seungmin will be begging me for blackmail material. He's annoying when he wants something."

"Fine," he groans. "We'll just spectate."

Minho, who has recovered from Jisung's unintended attack, looks up from the floor with a pained grin. "You're gonna do it then?"

You nod and Jisung whoops loudly.

✧

The whole thing turns out quite well, it happens, as there's a whole group dance practice at the end of the day. Most of the boys are sweaty and tired within the first few minutes, with the exception of Minho, with his main dancer core, and Hyunjin, who has had too much caffeine.

You watch from the sidelines, taking note of Chan's current mood and assessing whether it'd be wise to prank him; you don't want to catch him at a bad time, since he's usually stressed. But today, he seems a little more relaxed, dancing smoothly, with his voice soft and quiet, though still authoritative. The members seem more relaxed too because of it.

Jisung makes eye contact with you halfway through the dance, his arms up as he turns to the left. A devilish grin paints his face for a split second and you nod subtly. He slips up on purpose and Minho pretends to scold him, telling everything to take five.

Minho turns away and mouths something to you.

Now's your chance.

You casually walk over to where Chan is, touching his arm as he takes a swig of water from his water bottle. He smiles at you before kissing your cheek, and you almost feel bad for what you'd about to do. But you're curious too, about what his reaction will be like, so you keep on track.

Minho, Jisung, and Seungmin all walk up too. They must have told Seungmin about the prank, because he's clearly interested, though it's carefully hidden behind a straight face. Minho is the same, though Jisung is clearly struggling to keep a poker face.

"Hey, love," Chan smiles at you. "Anything you noticed during practice?"

You shake your head. "It all looks great at the moment, I think. Very energetic."

Chan raises an eyebrow. "Nothing at all? Usually there's at least one thing you say that we could all do better."

You whine a little, smiling. Trying to rile him up, make him huff a little. "Why is it my job and not yours, Channie? You're the leader, not me."

"Because," he says, matter-of-factly, "It's easier for you to notice where we're going wrong, because you're watching. It's harder to notice when you're dancing and moving. You can miss things."

You keep smiling and nod in response. He's not being rude, just telling you how it is. That's Chan for you.

Your mind is whirring, trying to think. He doesn't miss a beat, your Chan. It's difficult to piss him off or even argue with him. Of course, if you were one of the boys, it'd be easier. But Chan talks to you on a 300% softness setting, and apparently it's permanent.

"Well," you say slowly, pretending to think. "Maybe those last few moves, the turning ones? You could have done them better."

Chan tilts his head, seeking feedback. Even though you're not a dancer, he likes seeing it from your perspective. "How so?"

It takes all your effort not to burst out giggling. "Maybe you should copy Minho's dance moves more often. And actually listen to him."

Chan's eyebrow shoots up into his hairline. Minho simply looks at his leader, Seungmin doing the same. Jisung is clearly struggling to contain his laughter, and for a second you worry he might give the prank away. But it's Jisung, so no one bats an eye, least of all Chan.

His voice is a little lower, though still playful. "Are you suggesting I don't listen to him?"

You shrug nonchalantly. "I mean, if you had, you'd be as good as him. But you're not, soo..."

You can see the glint in Chan's eyes. Something swells in your chest, a tidal wave of mischief.

It's working.

"Yeah, hyung," Seungmin adds flatly, his face expressionless. "Listen to Y/n. Maybe if you'd taken her advice to begin with, you'd be main dancer. Must be a shame to be outdone by someone younger."

Jisung loses it then, the studio reverberating with his laughter, and even Minho cracks a tiny grin. Chan, however, is unamused.

Trust Seungmin to piss him off, you scoff internally. Probably why they brought him over here.

Chan says something in Korean then, which you can't understand, and Seungmin immediately leaves, walking away with a smirk. Jisung shuts up too. Must have been a threat.

He turns to you and you almost shrink under his gaze. It's dark and challenging.

"Continue, sweetheart," he drawls, leaning one muscled arm on the long cabinet against the wall.

Minho and Jisung are quiet.

"I-I wasn't saying anything wrong," you stutter suddenly, cheeks pooling with colour.

Chan tilts his head again, slightly raising one eyebrow.

You muster up all your confidence then, feigning nonchalance as best you can. "You'd be a better dancer if you spent more time practicing than shouting at everyone to get their shit together."

You see Minho and Jisung shoot wary glances at each other and you know immediately that you've crossed a line. An unspoken apology and several pleading phrases hang on the tip of your tongue, but your eyes flit to Chan's, waiting for his reaction.

His eyes are narrowed, head tilted, half a smile hanging off his lips. It's terrifying and hot and also scary at the same time. You try your best not to shrink under the intimidating look but it's like his gaze is a laser directed straight at your face.

You can't look away.

Chan steps closer and leans in slightly, his voice dangerously low. You can almost hear the smirk in his tone. "Take that back, sweetheart. Right now."

You fight against every survival instinct you have and keep your mouth pressed shut.

Chan asks one more time, his voice ever lower, and you spit out two words.

"Make me."

Chan's eyes flash with the challenge and he lets out a little, dark laugh. Minho, meanwhile, has a hand up against Jisung's face, most likely in preparation to quickly cover his younger member's eyes if something Chan making you take it back in front of everyone happens.

Chan doesn't even have to look at Minho and Jisung; he waves them off with two fingers, his gaze never leaving yours. You're stuck in position like prey being circled by a predator, waiting for the moment you'll be struck.

"What do you think he's saying to her?" Jisung whispers as he crosses the room with Minho.

He shrugs in response, a shit-eating grin on his face as he sits down, leaning against the floor-to-ceiling mirror. "Dunno. Probably something risqué."

"Minho," Jisung slaps his arm, a hushed laugh escaping his mouth. "You can't say stuff like that."

"What?" he protests. "Technically, it's all your fault because you put Y/n up to it."

"Aw, hyung," Jisung whines. "You agreed too. Should we confess and tell Chan-hyung it was a prank?"

"Nah. I mean, we could, but only if you admit it was your idea."

"That's the highest form of betrayal-"

"CHAN-HYUNG!" Minho suddenly shouts to him from their position on the opposite side of the room. Every head in the room turns towards them, including yours. "IT WAS ALL JISUNG'S IDEA-"

Jisung claps a hand over his friend's mouth, frantically attempting to muffle him. "Minho, shut up! You traitor!"

You take the opportunity to escape, ducking behind Seungmin. He's the only member not afraid of his leader, and both of you watch as Chan apparently forgets about you, instead stalking towards Minho, who is sitting eloquently unfazed against the mirror, and Jisung, who is frantically spewing apologies and pleading phrases, clutching to his friend's arm, eyes wide.

Seungmin lets out a laugh as you watch, poking you hard in the side. He raises his eyebrows suggestively. "Might as well escape before Chan remembers he has to make you take it back."

"CHANNIE!" You shout. "IT WAS SEUNGMIN'S IDEA-"

"Shut it!"

a/n: i know exactly what was going through yalls minds 📸

[bluesidez]

GymRat!Miguel Part 7

content warning: mentions of blood, some violence, FINALLY 18+ so MDNI, dry humping 😁, like a smidge of fluff, some Spanish (as always, correct me if I'm wrong)

word count: 2.3k (we're back with some sense)

Prev | Next ✩°｡ ⋆⸜ 🎧✮ Masterlist

Gabriel jumped as the grand doors slammed closed.

The room was quiet minus Kron groaning on the floor.

“I’m going to kill him!” he shouts, hand trying to cover his bloodied nose.

“If you try, you’ll be disowned,” Tyler frowned down at him. Gabriel had never seen him without a smile on his face. It was scary yet familiar. It was times like this that Gabriel was reminded that he and Miguel were different.

“Dad, are you fucking serious? He just assaulted me!” Kron cried in disbelief as Nancy tried her best to clean his face.

“It was nothing you didn’t deserve. Surely, you’re grateful that I pulled him away.”

“Tyler. Our son is hurt! And bleeding out on my expensive carpet,” Nancy bit back, snapping at a butler to bring her a health kit.

“My other son is also hurt,” Tyler replies with his voice even, looking at Nancy and Kron as if they’ve lost it.

Gabriel could see George tense up at Tyler’s acknowledgement of Miguel as his.

“All this time and effort spent on putting this whole thing together and for what? What did I gain?” Tyler said lowly as he took his glasses off.

“I’ve spent two decades raising you and the older you’ve gotten, the more you have disappointed me. Twenty years spending dollar after dollar on your schooling and wellbeing. Ten years of watching you grow. Ten more years of watching you drift and become someone I’m not sure I can even call mine. What happened to my boy? What have you done with him?”

Gabriel was outwardly wary of what would happen next. Internally though? He was bullet-pointing every dig.

His name wasn’t Gossip Gabriel for nothing.

He watched as Kron shook on the floor. A simple hangnail could probably make him breakdown.

“Almost two decades I’ve watched from the sidelines as my son grew up without me. I watched as another man took my place. I watched as my careless actions were formed into a son that I could not connect to, talk to, or even hold. So please, forgive me if the few times, no, the one time I have the opportunity to build that connection, I am furious that it is ruined by my eldest son and his entitlement.”

“Entitlement!? What entitlement? Every time I say something it’s wrong, but Miguel is all of a sudden this perfect son that you wish you had. I wasn’t the one that ran that girl away.”

“Watch it, boy,” Conchata hisses.

“No, you watch it!” Nancy snapped back.

“Silence!” Tyler’s voice boomed throughout the house. “What all of you fail to realize is that the special guests have been iced out of my home! Kron, I may not have been there for you at every moment, but I have never taught you to disrespect women like you’ve done tonight. You owe several apologies.”

“You cheated on mom to have a bastard baby.”

Gabriel only blinks as Tyler moves to hit Kron in the mouth. Just as fast as Miguel.

“And what your mother fails to tell you is that she cheated first. I am not perfect, but neither was she.”

“Escandaloso,” Gabriel leans over to whisper to Dana.

“It would be best for us to talk after you’ve gone to the hospital. Make haste, lest you make me angry, son,” Tyler says with venom-coated words.

Nancy, with help from one of the butlers, scrambled to get Kron up and out of the door.

Tyler took a deep breath and put his glasses back on. He turned to Conchata as started to unbutton his cufflinks.

“Conchata,” he said. “Level with me, what did you really not like about Miguel’s girlfriend tonight? I know you too well and her weight is not the problem. She’s beautiful, intelligent, talented, and we can both see that Miguel loves her.”

It was Conchata’s turn to look shocked. She looked around to everyone staring at her, waiting for a proper answer.

She stuttered trying to get her sentences out, “Why am I being held to the fire right now?”

“Ma, I’m not sure if you remember, but you quite literally criticized her body and expression,” Gabriel said. He was never afraid to step up to her when it came to Miguel, he just had to gauge how far he could go.

“I didn’t intend to do that,” Conchata starts.

“Honey, you stopped her from eating her food,” George chides. “It doesn’t get any worse than that.”

Conchata was silent as she sat back down, staring at the centerpiece, “I just-”

“No puedo creer que fueras tan grosera con ella, Conchata. Miguelito is right. You should be ashamed,” Gabriel’s abuela said. (I can’t believe you were so rude to her, Conchata.)

She got up and came to Conchata’s side, “You have fussed at him all his life. Nothing he did was ever good enough for you. You can not choose now to try and control him.”

“Tyler, can you have someone take me back home? Oh! And pack me one of those yummy cherries too,” she said as she gave him a hug and a pat on the cheek. She then proceeded to give everyone a goodbye but her daughter.

“I truly apologize for this hectic night,” Tyler announced to the room. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go see how I can make this up to Miguel. You all can use my home however you need.”

Gabriel cleared his throat now that he was left in a room with his parents and Dana, “Well. Did you guys like the meal?”

“I thought the filet mignon was fabulous,” Dana replied.

They leaned together and giggled.

Gabriel had a lot to spill to Miguel.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You wake up unbelievably warm, the bed sheets piled on top of you. You lift your head from the thick pillow, and waited as the AC hit your face.

Sun was coming in through the cracks of the drapes. It was all quiet except for the light snore coming from Miguel’s side of the bed.

You turn to him and he’s out from under the covers, bare muscly back to the world. You swallow around nothing as you watch the ripples of his muscles move with his breath.

Who knew you were going to wake up to this delicious sight?

You move quietly, shuffling to the bathroom to pee and freshen up. You felt miles better than you did last night. You felt even better as the memories come back to you. Your boyfriend really took a stand for you.

When you walk out the bathroom, you don’t expect Miguel to be sitting up on the edge of the bed, bed head and sleepy eyes.

“Are you up? I didn’t mean to wake you,” you say, voice light and soft.

“I moved over and you weren’t there,” Miguel yawned. “Couldn’t go back to sleep ‘till I found out where you went.”

You shuffle to his side of the bad, “Just went to the bathroom.”

He opened his legs and pulled you in. He laid his head on your chest, kissing the skin through the fabric as placed his hands on your ass.

“G’morning,” he said, voice scratchy.

“Morning to you too,” you said while scratching his head.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, peering up at you.

You give him a small smile, “I’m feeling better.”

“Yeah?”

You nod your head, bringing your hands to the nape of his neck. You twirl your finger is his hair absentmindedly.

He puckers his lips, waiting expectantly. You giggle and lean down pecking his lips.

GymRat!Miguel who hurries and brushes his teeth, wanting to continue this mood. You were rocking one of his shirts and some panties. He still wanted to see if the offer from last night was still up.

GymRat!Miguel who crowds your space on the bed, hovering over you as he kisses your lips. He’s feeling particularly ravenous and all he wants is you. Your grip on his shoulders becomes tighter as he slots his tongue in your mouth.

GymRat!Miguel who is definitely a virgin. Sure, he spent his free time researching how to make you feel good. He even shyly asked Peter for advice. It still doesn’t negate the fact that he has put none of these things to use.

He pauses as things start to get even more heated, sharing this news with you. You’re a little shocked but you promise him it’s fine to take it slow. You have never done penetrative sex with anyone either. Feeling more relaxed, he dives right back in.

GymRat!Miguel who has you grinding above him. Your clothed sex slides against his, two layers of cotton separating you both. You’re whining against mouth as he moves your hips. He’s humming at every noise you make.

As much as he wants to go further, he has a need to fulfill your desire first.

Plus, he was dumb enough not to bring a condom.

He opens his mouth to take a nipple in through your sweater. It’s thick, but he sucks hard enough to get the job done. He watches as you tilt your head back and moan loader, hips stuttering.

Miguel watches you in awe. He’s never seen you like this before. So needy for him. It was a contrast to how you usually let him take, take, take.

He moves quick to lay you on top of him, finally getting his dream of you over him.

“Miguel?” you ask, wary of your weight.

“Nuh uh, baby keep going. Don’t stop,” Miguel says, swerving your hip along his.

You fall down from a sharp buck of Miguel’s hips, moaning from the friction and holding your hands against the headboard.

Miguel was in heaven watching you roll your hips faster and faster.

GymRat!Miguel who flips you over as soon as you come. He is grinding better against as you lay on your back. Your tits ate bouncing under his sweater with every jerk. He wanted to take it off, but you were still a bit self-conscious.

For now, it was fine because you looked so good in his clothes, nipples hard and ready just for him to devour. In the future, he hoped to have you see how beautiful you are in his eyes.

You’re sensitive, thighs tightening around his waist. He softly moves one of them, gaining better access for his bulge to slide against your clothed clit.

“Miguel!” you cry, voice high.

“Give me another one, come on,” he says, mouth moving to your ear. “You’re doing so good. Just need one more.”

He feels you nod your head, arms wrapping around his neck.

You yell his name as you come again, thighs shaking.

GymRat!Miguel who comes through his underwear on top of you. He pulls your sweater up a tad to watch some liquid pool on your stomach.

“Fuck,” he heaves, smearing it with his thumb. You were fluttering against him softly.

You were laid out under him coming down from your high. Your breaths were slowing down and you were looking at him, blissed out.

This was better than his dream.

He rubbed up and down your bare thighs, watching as they twitched when he grazed your inner thighs. He walked his fingers down to your panties, running his knuckles over your mound. The fabric was wet, evidence of what you two just did.

He starts to pull the fabric tight, watching as your folds imprint through the cotton.

What a pretty sight. Your body so open with his cum on your smooth skin.

Mine. All mine.

He’s about to press against your clit again until you say something.

“Huh?” Miguel asks, in a daze.

“I asked if you could go get a wet towel,” you say.

“Shit. I’m so sorry, baby,” he says, frantic movements as he hobbled out of the bed. He was acting like an idiot, gawking at you instead of talking.

GymRat!Miguel who realizes that he put you both in a sticky situation as he wipes your stomach off.

“It’s fine. ‘Was hot,” you whisper, completely flushed.

“Yeah? You liked it?” Miguel asked, giddy.

You nod your head, “You made me feel really good, so yes, I did like it.”

“Is that so?” Miguel mumbles, leaning close to your face. “Might have to do more next time.”

“More? Like what?”

“Like finally getting you to sit on my face,” he says in your ear. He finally got you to put your weight on him, all he needed was that final push.

“Oh my god,” you drone, covering your face dramatically.

“What? Baby, it’ll be so fun! I promise!”

GymRat!Miguel who finally checks his phone while you both wait on room service.

Abuela 💕:

“Miguelito!”

“Call me when you can!”

“dile a mi muñeca que mi casa es su casa!” (tell my doll that my home is her home)

“And I don’t want any new grandbabies so soon so control yourself”

Pa:

“Miguel I hope you can forgive your mother”

“She needs some time”

“I’ll be sure to talk to her”

“It was also lovely to meet your girlfriend”

“I’m proud of you mijo”

Gabri 🤏🏽🤡:

“Bro”

“You missed SO MUCH!”

“BDHDHDHDJEBE”

“I wish I could have streamed it”

“Tyler SWUNG KRON’S BODY TO THE SIDE….”

“Ok no but fr”

“It’s def confirmed that you’re Tyler’s favorite 🤷🏽‍♂️”

“Kron got socked in the mouth by Tyler”

“That’s def where you get your punches from ngl”

“OMG”

“Did you know that Nancy cheated on Tyler first?”

“Crazy. Ik. You don’t have to say anything”

“Anyway”

“Tell my girl I said gn 😁 her breakfast in bed will be waiting on her”

Dana:

“Your dad’s kinda hot”

“Tyler not George”

“But you know who’s hotter?”

“Your gf”

“Give her my number. Plz and ty”

Dad….Tyler:

“Son I sincerely apologize for this terrible evening.”

“Kron will be reprimanded. No need to worry about that. You only taught him a valuable lesson in reality.”

“If I can, may I make it up to you?”

“I added a few more days to the hotel.”

“And my doors are, of course, always open to you.”

“Please reach out to me soon.”

Ma:

“Miguel please come home”

“I need to talk to you”

divider by: @plutism + @benkeibear 🩵

a/n: AHHH! If you're reading this, then this (hopefully) means that I have finished and turned in my Senior Thesis 🥺. As a gift, please tell me you how you feel. You guys have been so kind to me on here, so I hope you enjoy today's chapter. There are more great things coming soon!

taglist: @ghost-lantern @miguelhugger2099 @slushycoookie @emelie-s-h @lake-lili

@obsessed-with-miguels-ass @scaleniusrm @superiorspiderass @lexluvswriting

@flordelalunas @froggygal @vmpz8sauceee @famouscattale @nixinluv02

@jada-of-arcadia @spideykid22 @what-the-jams @julia4today @tojishugetiddies

@samjinxx @sleeklyalisha @the-pan-liquid @prongs-lover @kikaaauu

@urlocallocachica @wanderlustingcastaway @peachey-pie @ch3rry-bl1ss @girl-of-multi-fandoms

@love-kha1 @manlikemilesmyguy @sillysillygoofygoose @monticellohoe @kodzuminx

@lauraolar14 @bruhhvv @m4dyy @farrowroyale @cl3stevu

@ohara-whore @muneca-lemon-steppa @alexa4040 @amelialysm @snails-doodles22

[hamilton-here]

Hey, I don’t know if your requests are open, but I was wondering if you could write a story about Lewis and tennis player Reader. Like she is nr. 1 in the world, and they celebrate her win of another tournament? (if you want it can include smut, but it doesn’t have to). Thanks❤️

𝑀𝒶𝓉𝒸𝒽 𝒫𝑜𝒾𝓃𝓉

Authors Note: Hi lovelies! I absolutely loved writing this one-shot. I hope the person that requested it enjoys! Lots of love xx

Summary: After winning the Australian Open, the world’s top tennis player is surprised by her secret boyfriend Lewis Hamilton in the crowd, leading to a night of passion, public pride, and the start of their shared spotlight.

Warnings: sexual content, mild swearing

Taglist: @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The stadium buzzed like electricity under your skin.

Rod Laver Arena was a cathedral of sport tonight, packed to capacity with tens of thousands of fans and millions more watching around the world.

A hot summer wind whispered through the open roof. The air was heavy with tension, expectation and the kind of energy that could crack lightning across the Melbourne sky.

You rolled your shoulders back and steadied your breath, standing behind the baseline with the weight of a country or more on your back.

Sweat traced a slow path between your shoulder blades beneath your violet and black Nike kit, damp strands of hair sticking to your temples beneath your hat visor.

You raised your arm patting your damp face with your wrist band, breathing heavily.

6-5 in the third set tiebreak.

Match point.

The final point of the Australian Open women’s final.

You could hear your heart pounding in your ears. Somewhere in the crowd, people were chanting your name. Others followed. Then the whole arena surged into a chant. You closed your eyes and let the sound lift you.

Focus. Breathe. Trust your body.

Across the net, Aryna Sabalenka stared you down like the warrior she was. Her chest rose and fell with exertion, her neon pink dress soaked through with effort. You had battled her for nearly three hours under the Australian sun, each set a war of wills, but you were here now. One point away.

The chair umpire called, “Time.”

You bounced the ball three times.

Tossed it into the air.

And served.

The ball cut through the air with slicing pace and landed near the sideline, forcing Aryna wide. Her return was fast but shallow.

Your instincts took over. One step in. Racket low. Forehand. Deep into the opposite corner.

She chased it.

Desperate.

Her feet scrambled across the court.

She reached. Swung.

But the ball clipped the net cord and died.

Gasps. Then silence.

And then - chaos.

The crowd erupted in a wall of sound.

You dropped your racquet and fell to your knees. Your hands flew to your face as tears pooled in your eyes.

You had done it.

You were the Australian Open champion.

Your team rushed onto the court - your coach, your physio, your hitting partner.

You embraced each of them as flashes exploded from every direction. You barely heard the interviewer’s first question as you blinked up at the stands, overwhelmed.

You scanned the VIP box instinctively. But he wasn’t supposed to be here. He was overseas getting prepared for the race season coming up and with himself starting at Ferrari.

You shook the thought from your head and waved at the crowd, lifting your arms, heart pounding with adrenaline and disbelief.

“I’m just, I don’t even have the words,” you choked out in the interview, wiping tears from your cheeks. “This one means the world. I’ve worked my entire life for this moment. Winning the Australian Open has always been my dream. Even though I am number one in the world already, this has been a massive achievement."

And you had. From a tiny court in your hometown, all the way to world No. 1.

The trophy ceremony began and you stood beneath the bright lights of Rod Laver Arena, clutching the silver Daphne Akhurst Memorial Cup like it was a lifeline. You thanked your team, your family, your fans.

And then came the camera lens.

The moment every player dreams of.

A black marker was passed to you. You knelt before the lens and grinned.

You signed your name with a flourish and, below it, wrote -

"For every girl who was told she couldn’t."

And then, in smaller letters, only visible to the few who’d pause to read it -

"For him."

You smiled.

Because even if Lewis wasn’t here, he would see it.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The celebration was still roaring behind you as you disappeared into the tunnel beneath Rod Laver Arena. Your legs felt like jelly not just from the match, but from the weight of it all. The cameras, the spotlight, the ceremony. It was over. And you’d won.

You clutched the trophy tightly to your chest like it might float away if you didn’t hold on.

A member of the WTA staff guided you through the winding halls of the stadium, offering congratulations and asking if you needed water or food. You nodded absently, still high on adrenaline.

Your team peeled off toward the press room, but your agent lingered behind, eyes twinkling.

“There’s…someone waiting in your private suite,” she said, tone casual.

You turned, puzzled. “Media?”

She shook her head with a sly grin. “Just go see.”

You padded down the hall, your tennis shoes squeaking faintly against the polished floor.

You opened the door.

And stopped.

Lewis was there.

Leaning against the windowsill of your private lounge, hands in the pockets of his charcoal Ferrari hoodie, cap pulled low over his face. But that smile - that unmistakable, heart melting smile lit up the room before he even moved.

Your mouth fell open. “You’re - what - Lewis?”

He stood up straight and took a step forward, his voice low and warm.

“Didn’t think I’d let you win your first Aussie Open without me here, did you?”

You were already in motion.

You ran into him, arms flying around his neck, trophy clattering to the carpet as he caught you. You buried your face in his hoodie and suddenly all the tears you’d held in during the trophy ceremony came crashing down.

“You lied to me,” you whispered, voice breaking. “You said you had meetings. You said you couldn’t -”

“I had to,” he murmured against your hair. “You wouldn’t have focused if you knew I was watching.”

You pulled back to look at him, tears streaking your cheeks. “You watched the whole thing?”

He brushed your hair away from your face. “From the third row. You were unbelievable. I’ve never seen anyone move like that. Every time you hit the ball, the whole arena held its breath.”

You laughed through your tears and lightly hit his chest. “You asshole.”

“I know,” he grinned, then kissed you deeply. “But I’m your asshole.”

You melted into him. His cologne - the earthy, clean smell that always lingered in your pillows when he left hit you full force. He kissed you again, slower this time, cupping your face with reverent hands.

“You’re everything, you know that?” he whispered. “Everything.”

You laughed softly, your forehead resting against his. “You coming back to Melbourne just to see me win is already the best gift I’ve ever gotten.”

He pulled back just enough to lock eyes with you. “I didn’t just come to watch you win.”

His hands slid to your waist. “I came to remind you what happens when you do.”

The door to your suite clicked shut and locked behind you.

Lewis didn’t say a word as he backed you toward the plush couch by the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the Melbourne skyline. The city lights twinkled outside, a mirror of the stars in your eyes as he traced his fingers along your jawline.

“You’re still shaking,” he whispered, thumb brushing your cheek.

“Adrenaline,” you said, breath hitching as his hands slid down your waist. “And maybe because you just showed up like a damn movie ending.”

He smiled. “Couldn’t miss my girl’s greatest win.”

His girl.

The words settled into your chest like a promise. You tugged his hoodie upward, fingertips brushing the hem of his shirt.

“Take it off,” you breathed.

He did slowly, deliberately revealing the tattoos you knew by heart - the compass on his chest, the script over his collarbone, the lion on his pec. Every line, every shadow, made you ache for him more.

You pulled your visor off, then the damp tank top, leaving you in your sports bra and skirt. Lewis’s eyes flicked down your body with heat and reverence, as if you were the trophy tonight.

“You looked like a goddess out there,” he murmured, stepping closer, hand skating over your exposed stomach. “I nearly lost it when you signed that lens. It reminded me of when I first did it in F1."

Your voice softened. “I signed it for you.”

He paused. His thumb rested above your navel.

“I saw it,” he whispered, suddenly serious. “I saw every word.”

And then his lips were on yours again this time firmer, more desperate now. The kiss deepened quickly, mouths open, breaths mingling as his hands tangled in your hair. He backed you against the couch and gently pushed you down, climbing over you like he’d waited all season to have this moment.

His body hovered above yours, eyes dark with desire.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he said, voice low.

You shook your head. “Don’t stop.”

Your skirt slipped down your hips, tossed somewhere near your trophy.

He kissed every inch of your inner thigh before his mouth reached the core of you, tongue warm and slow and purposeful. You gasped, your hand flying to his braids as he worked you open with lips and fingers, coaxing pleasure with the same focus you brought to center court.

When you came, you cried out his name, shaking, legs locked around his shoulders. He looked up at you, smug and tender.

“Still shaking?” he asked.

You were breathless. “For a whole different reason.”

He stood, unzipping his pants and you watched with hungry eyes as he slid them off along with his boxers. His body was beautiful, lean, carved, all heat and control. He kneeled between your legs, running his hands along your thighs again, patient, reverent.

“You’re sure?” he asked again, voice husky.

You reached for him, pulled him down until his forehead touched yours.

“Make me forget the world,” you whispered.

And he did.

He entered you slowly, both of you groaning at the perfect, familiar stretch.

You clung to him, your hands on his back, nails dragging over skin as he moved. He kissed your collarbone, your jaw, your lips between every thrust, whispering how proud he was, how beautiful you were, how no one in the world compared.

The rhythm built, his hips moving against yours in smooth, rolling waves. Each movement echoed with tension and devotion, like he needed to be closer, deeper, inside your very bones.

“I love you,” he murmured into your mouth as you began to fall apart again.

"I love you too." You moaned back throwing your head back.

You came with a sharp gasp, trembling beneath him. He followed soon after, groaning as he buried himself to the hilt and spilled into you, holding your face like he never wanted to let go.

When it was over, he collapsed beside you on the couch, both of you sticky and glowing with sweat, your skin still buzzing from the high.

Wrapped in one of the soft robes, you stood by the window a little while later, watching Melbourne glitter beneath you. Lewis came up behind you, arms slipping around your waist.

“Tomorrow, they’ll talk about your forehand,” he murmured. “Your stats. Your legacy.”

You smiled. “And tonight?”

He kissed your neck. “Tonight, you’re just mine.”

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The morning after your victory arrived like a dream you never wanted to end.

Melbourne was still glowing from the night before. Headlines flooded your phone -

"World No. 1 Reigns in Melbourne"

"The Queen of Tennis Conquers Australia"

"Crossover Power Couple? Fans Think Lewis Hamilton Was in the Crowd!"

You sat at the edge of your hotel bed, wearing nothing but Lewis’s white t-shirt and your gold WTA bracelet. The trophy was beside you, glinting in the early light. Lewis was still asleep, one arm draped over his eyes, the other stretched toward the spot where you’d been curled into him all night.

Your phone vibrated again.

A message from your agent -

“Press conference in an hour. Wear something killer. You’re the moment.”

You smiled.

In the bathroom, you applied your makeup carefully, chose a sleek white pantsuit that hugged your body and made you look as powerful as you felt. When you stepped back into the bedroom, Lewis had one eye cracked open and a crooked smile on his lips.

“You trying to kill me this early?” he said, voice still scratchy from sleep.

“You coming with me?” you asked, walking over and sliding onto the bed beside him.

He reached for your hand. “If you want me there.”

“I want them to see.”

His brow lifted slightly. “All of them?”

You kissed his shoulder. “You were there for every part of this win. It’s time they know.”

The press conference was already crowded by the time you stepped inside. Cameras flashed, journalists whispered and jostled. But the moment Lewis entered behind you, hand on your back, a hush rippled through the room like a wave.

You smiled graciously, taking your seat at the table with your nameplate and the trophy in front of you.

Lewis stood to the side, watching, his presence magnetic. He wore a tailored black suit with no tie, his braids pulled back, sunglasses tucked into his collar. Every part of him screamed quiet support and pride.

A reporter raised her hand.

“First off, congratulations! You made history last night. But I have to ask there’s been a lot of speculation online. Can you confirm that Lewis Hamilton was in the stands during your final?”

You didn’t hesitate.

“I can confirm he was,” you said, smile widening. “He flew in to surprise me. And yes, we’re together.”

The room exploded in flashes and soft gasps.

Lewis simply nodded once, cool and steady, as if he’d been by your side all along. In truth, he had ways just been in the background. Until now.

The moment you stepped off the podium, he was waiting for you.

“That was brave,” he said, fingers brushing yours.

“That was honest,” you corrected. “I don’t want to hide anymore.”

He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your temple. “Then let’s show them how a real team celebrates.”

Later that night, you curled up with Lewis on the hotel bed, doom scrolling through social media as he laughed beside you.

@WTAfanatic: “LEWIS HAMILTON AND [Y/N]?! I THOUGHT I WAS READY BUT I WASN’T.”

@GOATandGOAT: “Their baby’s gonna have a 200 mph serve and a carbon fiber stroller.”

@F1updates: “Hamilton’s biggest win this year might not be on the track.”

“I can’t believe how loud the internet is being,” you muttered, cheeks burning with joy.

Lewis took your phone and tossed it gently onto the other pillow.

“Let them scream,” he whispered, pulling you into his arms. “We’ve got our own world.”

The chaos quieted by evening.

Your eyes caught the last of the golden sunset spilling through the windows. You stood on the balcony in one of Lewis’s oversized tees, sipping champagne from the bottle as the breeze tugged at your hair. Below, Melbourne buzzed softly with nightlife and celebration but up here, it was just peace.

Behind you, Lewis stepped out, freshly showered, his chain glinting in the dying light. He wrapped his arms around you from behind and kissed the top of your head.

“Proud of you doesn’t even cover it,” he murmured into your neck.

“I feel like I’m still floating,” you whispered, leaning back into him. “Like it didn’t happen.”

He turned you gently to face him. “You’re not dreaming. You earned every second of it. And I was lucky enough to watch you do it.”

You reached for his hand, running your thumb over the knuckles. “I used to think winning was everything. Like if I had the title, the ranking, the trophy it from every tournament would finally feel like enough.”

“And now?”

You looked up at him, eyes soft.

“Now I think the best part is who I got to share it with.”

His smile was warm. He leaned in and kissed you, slow and unhurried. Not a kiss of celebration, or of lust but of something deeper. Of foundation. Of future.

As the sky turned lavender and the first stars appeared, you both stood there in silence, the city beneath your feet and the whole world stretched ahead of you.

And for once, you didn’t feel like you were chasing anything.

You’d already won.

[daryltwdixon]

Watching from the Sidelines

Daryl x Reader angst

more pining! more angst! A continuation of the story I’ve been putting together based on songs I love. Part 1 & 2. This one is more of a drabble.

inspired by Phoebe Bridger’s Sidelines

Daryl still sits on the edge of the porch, his fingers absently twisting the strap of his crossbow. The early morning light stretches long shadows across the ground, but it does nothing to chase away the knot that has taken root in his chest. He’s been up since before dawn, unable to sleep—not with his mind running in circles, not with the thought of you still next to him. You linger, vivid and inescapable, like the sun gone from his vision but leaving behind the afterimage of the conversation you’d tried to have this morning.

He hasn’t lied outright. Not really. He was drunk last night, drunk enough to let himself slip, to kiss you, to say things he’d never let himself think about in the daylight. And now? He can’t stop replaying it. The press of your lips against his, the way your breath hitched, how your touch lit a fire in him before he pulled away like a goddamn coward.

His jaw tightens, the strap creaking under his grip. He told you he didn’t remember anything—brushed you off like it was nothing—but he remembers everything. Every second.

And he feels like a fool. For saying those things to you, for kissing you without warning or permission, for letting himself slip when he knows better.

The thing is, Daryl Dixon wasn't afraid of anything. Not walkers. Not the world going to shit. Not even the idea of dying out there, alone, just another nameless body in the dirt. He’s always figured he’s living on borrowed time anyway, so what’s the point in holding onto something? Nothing to prove, nothing to lose.

But then there’s you.

You, who look at him like he’s more than just another body. You, who have this way of making the world feel a little less cruel, a little less empty. You, who kissed him back, even for just a moment, like he’s someone worth wanting.

And now? Now he isn’t so sure anymore.

Because for the first time in his life, Daryl has something to lose. And it scares the hell out of him.

It isn’t just the kiss—it’s everything. It’s the way your laugh pulls at something deep in his chest. The way your voice softens when you say his name. The way you look at him, even now, like you haven’t given up on him, even when he’s wanted to give up on himself.

He isn’t built for this, for feelings like these. Hell, he doesn’t even know what to do with them, let alone what to say to you. All he knows is that he can’t screw this up—not when you’re the first person who’s made him feel like there’s something in this world worth holding onto.

He lets out a heavy breath, running a hand over his face. The sun is higher now, warming the porch beneath him, but it does nothing to ease the chill in his chest.

He doesn’t deserve you. He’s told himself that a hundred times. Knows it’s for the best to keep you at arm’s length. But the truth is, he doesn’t care. He wants you anyway. Wants you so bad it makes his chest ache, makes every thought feel like a battle between holding onto you and letting you go before he ruins everything.

Daryl glances over his shoulder, his eyes catching your movement through the window. You’re still padding quietly around the downstairs, your steps slow, shoulders drawn inward. You stop by the counter, leaning on it like something heavy has settled over you, your head bowed as if the weight of the world has finally found you.

He turns away quickly, swallowing hard, the knot in his chest twisting tighter. He isn’t sure how to feel about any of this—about you, about what you make him feel, about the way you’ve turned his whole damn world on its head.

Shit.

He thought pretending not to remember was the easier way out—for both of you. But now, seeing you like this, seeing how let down you are by his refusal to acknowledge last night…he realizes just how wrong he’s been.

All he knows is that he doesn’t want to go back to watching the world from the sidelines. Not anymore. Not now that he’s met you.

Daryl stands abruptly, the crossbow forgotten as he pushes away from the porch. His boots hit the steps with purpose, his heart hammering as he crosses the short distance to the door.

He has to make this right. For you. For whatever was left between you after he nearly ruined it all.

Daryl stands in the doorway, his hand gripping the frame for a second before stepping inside. You’re still in the kitchen, your back to him as you fiddle with something on the counter. From the way your shoulders hunch, he can tell you aren’t just busying yourself—you’re trying to hold yourself together.

The thought twists something sharp in his chest. He hasn’t even given you the chance to talk about it, about what happened, and then he went and made it worse with his excuses.

He isn’t good at small talk, and he’s definitely not good at starting these kinds of hard conversations. So Daryl takes a step closer, his boots heavy against the floor. He hesitates for a moment, his hands flexing at his sides, before speaking to your turned back.

“I lied,” he says, the words rough and uneven.

That gets your attention. You jump slightly, startled by his presence, and then you slowly turn to face him, your brows furrowed in confusion as your brain tries to catch up to him. “Daryl—hey. What—what are you talking about?”

His jaw tightens, his gaze dropping to the floor before he forces himself to meet your eyes. “I remember."

Your breath hitches, your eyes widening as the words sink in.

“I remember,” he says again, his voice quieter now. “all of it. Every word, every—” He stops, swallowing hard before trying again. “I didn’t forget. Just didn’t know how to say it. Didn’t know if I should.”

You stare at him, your hands gripping the edge of the counter behind you like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. “Why would you lie about that?”

“’Cause I’m a damn coward,” he admits, the frustration in his voice clear. “I thought… if I pretended it didn’t happen, maybe it’d make things easier. For you. For me. But seein’ you like this? Knowin’ I hurt you by not sayin’ nothin’—that ain’t easier. That’s just me bein’ stupid.”

Your heart thuds painfully in your chest, his words hitting you harder than you’d expected. “Daryl…”

He takes another step closer, his hands twitching like he doesn’t know whether to reach for you or not. “I meant what I said last night,” he murmurs. “Every word. I know I shouldn’t feel like this, know it’d probably be better if I kept my mouth shut, but I can’t stop thinkin’ about you. Can’t stop thinkin’ about what it’d be like to… to have somethin’ with you.”

Your lips part, but no words come out. His eyes search yours, raw and vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen before, and it makes your chest tighten all over again.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “For lyin’, for messin’ this up. But I had to make it right. Had to tell ya the truth, even if…” He trails off, his voice catching, but he doesn’t look away. “Even if it means losin’ ya.”

For a long moment, the only sound in the room is your unsteady breathing. Then, without another thought, you close the distance between you, your hands reaching for him as you pull him into a kiss.

This time, there’s no hesitation. No uncertainty. It’s full of everything you’ve both been holding back—real and impossibly tender.

When you finally break apart, his hands stay on your arms and yours remain tangled in his shirt.

“It would take a lot more for you to get rid of me, Dare,” you whisper, your voice trembling but steady. “You never have to worry about that.”

Daryl lets out a shaky breath, his fingers tightening their grip ever so slightly as they slide to your waist, grounding himself in the feel of you. His forehead presses against yours, and for a moment, his eyes close like he’s still bracing for something to shatter.

“Scares the shit outta me—all this,” he mutters, his voice low and rough, the words tumbling out like they’ve been trapped too long. “But... but I want it. I want you. Always have.”

“I want you too, Daryl,” you say softly, your hands lifting to cup his face, his stubble rough against your palms. “You don’t have to be scared. Not with me.”

His eyes open then, meeting yours, and there’s something so tender in them it makes your chest ache. Vulnerability, relief, and something warmer, deeper—a flicker of hope that hasn’t been there before.

His thumb brushes against your hip, and his voice drops even lower, almost like he doesn’t mean for you to hear it. “Don’t know if I know how to do this… but I’ll try. For you, I’ll try.”

Your lips curve into a small, trembling smile as you lean in, pressing your forehead to his again. “That’s all I need, Dare. Just you.”

And for the first time, he doesn’t feel the need to pull away. To retreat. He just stays there, holding you close, letting himself believe that maybe, just maybe, this is something he can hold onto. Something he deserves.

[obvithe-bestsoph]

No. 02 | "I can’t be ‘just friends’ anymore!" PC2

masterlist requests

prompt list (if you request a prompt, please request a player for it as well!) warnings: a little bit angsty.

You don’t mean to cry. Not here. Not in front of him.

But it’s like your body didn’t get the memo.

Pau is standing a few feet away from you, his arms crossed, jaw tight. The room feels smaller than it is, like the walls are pushing you both closer and closer together, and somehow still keeping you miles apart.

“I didn’t mean for it to come out like that,” he says, not looking at you. “It just… slipped.”

You hug your arms around yourself. “So you didn’t mean it?”

He hesitates. Just enough to twist the knife.

“Great,” you mutter, your voice cracking. “Awesome. Love that.”

He finally meets your eyes, and for a second, you see that soft version of him. The one who texts you song lyrics in the middle of the night. The one who buys you keychains from every away game. The one who looked at you a little too long that night you wore his hoodie home from the stadium.

But then the wall goes back up.

“You’re mad because I told you I didn’t want to hear about the guy you're seeing?” he says, voice low. “What was I supposed to say? ‘Good for you’? ‘Hope he makes you happy’?”

“Pau, you’re my best friend.”

He laughs bitterly. “Exactly. Your *friend*. That’s the whole problem.”

You freeze.

He notices. His hands fall to his sides.

“I can’t be ‘just friends’ anymore!” he blurts out, voice rising. “I’ve been trying to convince myself that it’s fine, that I can just be there for you and not want more, but I can’t. Every time you smile at someone else, every time you talk about someone else, it kills me. And I’m tired of pretending it doesn’t.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

You stare at him, every emotion tangled up inside you like a knot you can’t undo. You want to say something, anything, but the words won’t come.

He rubs his face, looking like he’s one second away from walking out. “I know I probably just ruined everything. But I needed you to know. I needed you to understand why I’ve been so weird lately.”

You finally whisper, “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Because I thought I could handle it. I thought I could be the guy who watches from the sidelines and doesn’t ask for more.”

You take a step toward him. Then another.

“You’re stupid,” you say softly.

His head jerks up. “What?”

“You’re stupid, Pau Cubarsí.” Your voice wobbles, but you’re smiling through the mess. “I’ve been in love with you since forever. I just… I didn’t think you felt the same.”

His eyes search yours like he can’t quite believe what you just said.

“I only ever talked about that other guy because I thought it would help me move on,” you confess. “From *you*. But it never worked. It never even came close.”

He steps forward so fast you barely have time to blink. His hands cradle your face like you’re fragile, like this moment is fragile.

“Are you being serious?” he breathes.

You nod. “I’m so serious it’s embarrassing.”

His lips twitch into a half-smile. “God, I’ve been so dumb.”

“Yeah. Like, criminally dumb.”

The laugh that escapes him is more relief than humor. He leans in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, but you don’t. Not now. Not when you’ve waited this long.

When he kisses you, it’s not perfect. You’re both still a little tense, still buzzing from everything that was just said, but it’s real. It’s full of every unsent text and every late-night overthinking spiral and every “what if” you’ve ever buried.

You pull back, forehead resting against his. “So what now?”

He grins, more confident this time. “Now, we stop being idiots.”

“That’s a tall order.”

“We’ll manage.”

You nod, and he tucks you against his chest like he’s scared you’ll disappear.

And even though there’s still stuff to figure out, conversations to have, feelings to unpack, you don’t feel scared anymore.

Because finally, finally, the truth is out. And he’s still here.

Right where he’s always been.