#LIKE I GET IT N I CAN SEE IT AND IT MAKES SENSE

[cheapshrimpysheep]

Dating in a Dream - Floyd Leech

SUMMARY: What would his dream be like, exactly the same as in the original story, but with the small detail that he is dreaming that you two are dating? Or rather, dated.

CHARACTERS: Floyd Leech x Reader 🦈🦐

TAGS: Fluff; GN Reader; In a Relationship (kinda, actually an ex-relationship); Kiss

WARNING: Spoilers from Book 7 and Floyd’s dream (Eng Server) and a reader with attitude.

WORD COUNT: 3.150 words

COMMENTS: This was written as a companion piece to the original dream story, so the parts that are the same as the game are just summarized.

This Yuu/Reader has a strong personality because I believe is what fits and makes sense in this dream.

I hope you enjoy 🦈

Dating in a Dream: Idia / Epel / Rook / Vil / Kalim / Jamil / (Floyd) / ...

“Aether signal tracking successful.” Ortho announces. “We have arrived at the designated coordinates.”

You, Grim, Silver, Sebek, and Jamil were all holding on to Ortho, so you needed a place to land. But there was no land in sight, just a vast ocean. Jamil froze the seawater into a boat with seats for everyone and Silver formed the oars. You all get on the boat and sit down.

“The sea brings to mind a couple of people.” Jamil says. “And what they have in common is-”

Something slammed into the boat. And again. And again.

“Mraaah! The boat's rockin' and rollin'!” Grim worries. “I'm gonna fall overboard!”

“I'm getting an enormous aether signal reading from under the boat!” Ortho warns. “It's closing in again at high speed!”

“Is it trying to tip the boat over?!” Jamil realizes.

The thing keeps hitting the ice boat violently until it finally capsizes and you all fall into the water. Fortunately, Idia was prepared for that and used technomantic nanomachines to create a kind of giant bubble around each of your bodies.

“Thank goodness!” Silver says. “Now we can fight whatever attacked our boat.”

“Ah! Aether signature reading 10 meters ahead. Estimated length, four meters!” Ortho informs you. “Judging by its size, it must be the creature that knocked over our boat.”

“Four meters? That's pretty big. We'll need to take it down with magic! (Y/N), you get back.” Jamil asks you.

Everyone gets into position, ready to defend themselves from a possible next attack and to attack the creature with magic.... But...

“Nothing's comin'.” Grim says, kind of disappointedly.

“I'm still getting that reading 10 meters ahead...” Ortho reiterates. “But it's not budging at all.”

“If it won't attack, we should attack instead.” Silver says. “Let's close in carefully and...”

Silver is interrupted by an oddly long sigh.

“Boooriiiiin'...” Floyd appears, more apathetic than you've ever seen him or even thought possible. “I was hopin' for some decent excitement... But nah, it's just land peeps...” You see the dreamer's silver bird around his head.

“Floyd?!”

“Mm... You guys know me? People from land kinda blur together for me... Mm... Wait.” He looks at you, without changing his bored expression. “Koebi-chan? Were you takin’ a boat trip or somethin'? Sorry ‘bout that.”

“You recognize (Y/N).” Jamil says, although he found it strange that Floyd apologized to someone without being ironic. “Does that mean you recognize us as well?”

“Mm... Oh, yeah... but whatever. I ain't interested in school or anythin' up on land anymore.”

Silver asks Floyd where Azul and Jade are. The three of them were always together, right? Floyd tells him that the three of them are not a package deal and that the two are probably still on land since Azul's business was going so well.

Jamil asks him if he came back to the sea by himself and Floyd says he was bored as an explanation, that things go great no matter what he does.

“See, I figured there were entertaining people up on land, kinds you wouldn't find under the sea.” Floyd explains. “But they're all so weak. Just a buncha small fry not even worth botherin' with. And they all get suckered by Azul, hook, line, and sinker... He's got so many anemones at this point, he doesn't even need more. We had a second and third Mostro Lounge branch open in no time flat...” he ends with another long sigh.

Besides people getting ‘suckered by Azul’ being concerning, Sebek says that all that sounds like perfect smooth sailing, and asks what exactly is the problem.

Floyd says that all of that was just boring and he got totally checked out. So he left to take a solo trip around the world. He went to the Shaftlands, where he was found by a man who offered him a spot as a model in a fashion show which he accepted because it sounded cool. Then the man offered him an exclusive contract with their brand, which he refused because it would be boring to always wear clothes from the same brand.

After spending all his money in the Shaftlands, he went to the Sunshine Lands to find some part-time gigs. He was immediately hired by a famous restaurant. On the third day of work, he threw together something for a staff meal that the chef totally loved and asked him if they could serve that to customers. Floyd accepted and it was such a huge hit that it had people lining up out the door.

Grim wanted to try it, but Floyd had forgotten the recipe because it was something he simply made depending on what he felt like at the time.

It was turning into a hassle so he quit and went to another country, this time the Scalding Sands. Where he rode a camel through the desert and found the legendary genie's lamp. But he used all three wishes to ask for fresh drinks and food because it was hot and he was hungry.

After that he went to the Sunset Savanna, the Queendom of Roses, and Briar Valley. But once again, everyone was so weak that it was just boring. Sebek protests that it's impossible for someone from the Briar Valley royal family to be weak, but Floyd basically says that he's not stupid enough to just walk into the castle and ask to fight with the royal family.

“So yeah. I got bored of bein' up on land and came back to the sea. Not that it's any less boring here... I saw a disturbance in the water up on the surface so I came to see if somethin' interesting was finally happening... But when I flipped the boat, all I found was my ex and a buncha guys I already know.”

“Y-your EX?!” Everyone asks, including you.

“Huh?” Floyd looks directly at you. “I thought you realized I broke up with you when I dumped you at my parents' house.”

“Wait, you are talking about (Y/N)?” Jamil asks. “You're saying that you dated and then you broke up with them at your parents' house?”

“Yeah. We started datin’ on land and one day they said they would like to visit the Coral Sea and meet my parents. I gave them the potion for them to take on a mer-form and even that got borin’ after a while.”

“What do you mean?” Jamil keeps asking, after all if it were you it would be strange. “What were they like in mer-form?”

“Beautiful.” Floyd says without any emotion in his voice. “Everyone was like ‘Aww, you shrimp tail is sooo adorable!’ And they always have a buncha merfolk fallin’ for them. But Koebi-chan never even looked at them.”

“And isn't that good? For them to be faithful?”

“Well, yeah... but our relationship was so booorin'. We never argued, they were always so nice and kind to me even when I tried to mess with them. That was so annoyin'. They never got mad at me and always did whatever I asked. I realized how borin' they really were after my parents met them, so I told them to take Koebi-chan back home after I left on my solo world trip. I don't even remember why I fell in love with them. Ouch!”

Suddenly Floyd was hit in the chest by a small rock. Everyone turned to you, who was the one who threw it, and you were looking at Floyd furiously.

“You son of a... whatever the stupid fish equivalent is!” You shout at him.

“Fish equivalent?” Floyd looks at you a little surprised. “Was that supposed to be a racial insult, koebi-chan?”

“No, I was just trying to say it in a way that you would understand.” You say smugly.

“Heh? Are you sayin’ I'd be too dumb to understand if you used your own words?” Floyd gave you that mocking smile, and then he looked at you with that scary serious face. “Say what you want if you have the guts.”

“(Y/N), I know this is a complicated situation but-” Jamil tried to calm you down but was interrupted by Grim.

Grim was looking at you like a child seeing one of those rare moments where they see their mother angry and doesn't want to get involved. He convinces everyone to let you handle it.

“If I have the guts?!” You continue. “You were the one who wasn't merman enough to take me back to land and broke up with me properly!”

“Oooohh... now you’re usin’ puns?” He smiles smugly. “After all, you really are more interestin’ single. Heh heh heh!” He laughs for the first time.

“Indeed. Maybe the problem has been you all along.” You smirk.

Floyd gets that frighteningly serious look back when he looks at you.

“Yeah, you heard me.” At this point, you were either serious or you had some sort of plan, or both. “Maybe the problem is you. Maybe no one wants to entertain you. After all... who wants to be around someone so boring that they can't even entertain themselves?”

The others ask you, almost stuttering, if you are sure that irritating him is a good idea, especially seeing the way he was looking at you.

“You have a lotta nerve for such a tiny shrimp.” Floyd says menacingly. “And especially for someone who would drown if I burst their little bubble.” He smirks.

“Do it if you have the guts.” You provoke him.

The others try to warn you to stop, that you could really be in danger, but you don't cower, nor does Floyd. He attacks you, bursting your bubble and taking you away from the others.

“(Y/N)!” Everyone shouts, but none of them can reach you underwater, Floyd is too fast.

When he stops, your cheeks are puffed out to hold your breath, and he's hugging you, not squeezing you.

“What about now? Heh heh heh. You can't talk under water.” He smiles amusedly.

You blow air bubbles in his face, the equivalent of spitting out the water you would have in your mouth if you were on land.

“Aha ha ha, That tickles. You idiot, you're runnin’ out of air.”

But you don't seem worried, even with him holding you down there under the sea. But he was right, you were running out of air. He notices when your expression starts to become less intense.

“Silly little shrimpy.” He says in a surprisingly affectionate tone before swimming quickly toward the surface with you.

When you reach the surface you take a deep breath and Floyd keeps holding you. You call him stupid or idiot one last time and he starts laughing heartily.

“THAT WAS FUN!” He says with that joy that you were already missing. “I'm pretty sure this was our first argument, but for some reason... Me in mer-form facin’ you in your human form underwater is givin’ me a déjà vu.”

“Probably from that time you and Jade tried to stop me and the others from getting to the Atlantica Memorial Museum.” You say.

“Atlantica Memorial Museum? Oh, yeah. ‘Cause of that contract with Azul. You needed to get that school photo. Well, too bad you never got it.”

“Yes, we did! While Leona destroyed Azul's contracts.”

“What? You worked together with Todo-senpai (sea lion)? No way. There's no way we'd lose to a little shrimp like you... Hrgh?!” He remembers the moment in front of the museum when he and Jade had to leave because something was happening with Azul in Octavinelle.

The world begins to distort as he remembers. Because of the headaches, Floyd ends up letting go of you. The others finally catch up to you, Idia takes the opportunity to restore your bubble and you two go back underwater

They saw the world distorting and asked what happened. You tell them that Floyd began to remember when he was defeated by you and the others. They come to the conclusion that in that dream world Floyd was always living a perpetual winning streak. So maybe the formula for waking him up was reminding him of all the times he didn't win.

Silver reminds him of Orientation day, where he saw Floyd on fire flying through the air after hearing an explosion nearby. And the person who did that to him was Riddle. Jamil says that Jade was laughing so loudly it echoed through the whole Mirror Chamber, and Azul was acting like he'd never seen Floyd before in his life. Silver found out what happened from Riddle himself at the Equestrian Club. Floyd suddenly grabbed Riddle's hair and remarked, 'It's red, but it ain't hot.'.

Floyd thought this story was better than his dream and this made the world distort again. So the others continued.

Idia remembered one time Floyd got easily shut down during a joint defensive magic lesson with the juniors. More specifically by Cater, Leona and Malleus after underestimating them. Jamil says that in their practice basketball games, Floyd hardly ever break past him when Jamil is blocking him. And tells about that one time that Floyd snuck into the gym at night because he wanted to practice slam dunks and broke two hoops. The headmage punished him with a week of gym-cleaning duty.

“Dude, what the heck? I sound like an idiot in these stories!” Floyd says. “But hey... That sounds better than bein' able to breeze through anything...”

And finally, you remind him of the conversation you were having earlier and whether he remembered what had happened during midterms.

“Midterms...? Guh... Aaagh!” The world distorts again as he remembers. “Oh yeah... We screwed up big time, and Azul... I shouldn't know any of this, but I do... Where are these memories comin' from?!”

The goopy darkness begins to form around you until it transforms into two figures: Jade and Azul in their mer-forms. These figures created by darkness tried to convince Floyd not to believe you, praising him about being a strong predator and saying that the three of them could have fun together as friends. They were so out of character that they couldn't fool Floyd at all. This angered Floyd so much that he woke up and attacked the fake Jade and Azul himself.

“Floyd, how could you...?” Were the last words of fake Jade.

“I thought... we were... best friends...” Were the last words of fake Azul.

“Tch, you're STILL puttin' words in their mouths.” Floyd says, still beside himself with rage. “I'd better not see your fake faces again, you little minnows.” He started slamming his tail into the sunken ship and smashing it apart.

Someone needed to stop him so you all could talk to him. And Jamil said the best person to do it would be the person he apparently liked enough to dream about dating them. You go over and call out to him, telling him you're glad he's awake.

“Huh? Why're you guys still hoverin' around?” Floyd looks at you furiously. “I'm not in the mood, koebi-chan. I'm REALLY ticked off right now, y'know. Unless you wanna get squeezed and turn into squid ink too.”

“I'm not one of them, Floyd. I'm the real (Y/N).”

“Oh yeah? And how can you prove that?”

You need a moment to think, but then you say something like: “You are a poor unfortunate soul who doesn't even have the courage to break up with an imaginary partner properly.”

Everyone is scared for you.

“Those NPCs are supposed to praise you, and I can only imagine my NPC would say something about true love, but I just insulted you. I'm going against their nature. And if you don't realize that then you're really dumb." You smirk.

The others comment on you having some desire to be killed by Floyd, as he slowly approaches you with an extremely threatening face and posture. He covers you with his shadow and opens his mouth as if he were going to eat you.

“Heh... Heh heh... HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!” Floyd smiles and hugs you tightly. “Yay! That’s my Koebi-chan~!”

He's not hurting you, but you tell him the hug is still too strong. He loosened his hug a little and suddenly he kissed you passionately on the lips. Everyone else is startled, but you return the kiss. Jamil's reflex was to cover Grim's eyes.

It started out as just a kiss, but you returning the kiss made him get in the mood for making out. If you don't stop the kiss, it will be the group clearing their throats behind you doing it.

If you continue to the point where others are clearing their throats as a request for you to stop: You both break the kiss and Floyd looks at them with an extremely smug smile.

“What? I'm not forcin' you to watch... pervs.” Floyd mocks them.

If you are the one who breaks the kiss: Floyd won't move his face too far away from yours and will look at you with a pout.

“Own, why did you stop now?” He asks in an overly seductive, pleading voice. “Is it ‘cause you don't like audience? I can take care of them for you... Koebi-chan~”

You two may have interrupted your kiss, but Floyd didn't want to let go of you for anything. Your only two options were to stay like that, or turn around and have him hug you from behind. Floyd asks what's going on, the others explain that it was a dream and Ortho shows him the explanatory video.

When the video ended, to your surprise, Floyd let go of you. You look at him, confused, and his expression is that... neutral, but serious one.

“What's wrong?” You ask.

“We never dated, did we? When I kissed you, I thought you were the same (Y/N) from my dream.” Yes, he called you by your name. He's silent for a moment to see if you understand what he means, but it seems like he has to continue explaining. “I thought I had your prior consent as your ex, but since we never dated...”

“You are concerned about consent?” Jamil says, doubtfully. “I don't mean to insult you, but I wasn't expecting that from a guy who tries to squeeze everyone who bothers him.”

“Beatin’ up annoyin’ guys is one thing.” Floyd explains, still strangely serious. “And I always do that after a warning. This is different.” His expression becomes threatening. “And none of your business.”

You turn Floyd's attention back to you and tell him that you also like him. You understand and if that is an apology you accept it. And you even reveal how much you actually enjoyed it.

“Hm~ Really~?” Floyd looks at you with a seductive smile and gets closer to you, holding you by the waist once again. “Are you askin’ for more, koebi-chan~?”

“Oh please, not again!” Idia begs. “I can't handle such high levels of PDA!”

If you would like to read more from me, you can find it in my pinned post: INDEX

P.S.: Don't question how the air bubble bursts once but doesn't burst again when he hugs and kisses Yuu. This is a fanfic for fanservice purposes only 😝

[moon-fics]

Pool Day

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Reader

Summary: The team decided to request a pool, not thinking it would be made. Now, they have a pool.

A/n: Ugh! I love a good beach/pool episode! But this time, the relationship is established.

When Valentina asked if there was anything the team wanted in the tower, she meant like a training simulator or a chef. So, when Yelena spoke up, saying she wanted a pool, everyone backed her up. No one expected Valentina to actually go through with it because she didn't like them.

So, when Valentine announced the pool was done, everyone was flabbergasted. They were most astonished by the fact that she built it outside where the sun could be enjoyed. However, she said that was the last unnecessary request she'd be entertaining.

Of course, when the first day of summer rolled around, the pool was not forgotten.

---

You sit at the edge of the pool with your legs under the water. You're thankful you had time to buy a new swimsuit. It wasn't the best one you could find, but it'll do.

Yelena has found interest in sleeping on one of the floats. She's knocked out as the float hits one of the walls of the pool. Meanwhile, John is in the shallow area drinking a fruity smoothie. For the most part, everyone is relaxing for the first time in a while.

You sense a presence behind you and immediately turn. You're far too late, as two pairs of hands shove you into the chilly water. Your entire body is submerged, and water enters your nose. You pop out of the water, coughing and wiping your nose.

When you finally look up, you see Alexei and Bob standing where you were sitting. Alexei is hands on knees laughing and pointing at you as if he's pulled off a master prank.

"Is the water nice?" Bob asks. He holds out his hand for you to take. Even after shoving you into the pool, he's still kind enough to pull you back out. You should just take his hand and be thankful for the refreshing dunk. You aren't that type of person.

"Oh, wouldn't you like to know?" You grip his forearm and yank as hard as possible. He doesn't take a lot of effort to pull. The splash from his fall wakes up Yelena, who lifts her sunglasses as Bob pops up from the water.

"'Ey, I don't want any rough housing," She points at you and Bob with a raised eyebrow. "Don't wake me again," She warns and puts her sunglasses back on.

The moment Yelena is back to resting, Bob's arms wrap around your waist. His head rests on top of yours, and water drips from his chin to your nose. He creates a sort of shade over your face to block out the sun.

"I could get used to this," You keep your voice down. Bob hums in response. He sways both of you carefully while he enjoys the closeness. "Did you swim a lot in Florida?"

"Oh yeah, like, every day." He nods without hitting your head. He relinquishes his hold on you and spins you around to face him. "It was either the pool or the beach. I preferred the beach because when the wind is strong enough, the waves get super high."

"That sounds fun," You say. "We should have asked for a wave pool, too." You laugh. Maybe you can suggest it to Valentina as a way to train for water-based threats. Though you doubt she'd accept that answer.

"The last time I was in a wave pool, I got kicked in the head three times," Bob chuckles. His hands move to rest on your waist to keep you near him. "I'm pretty sure they should be banned for how dangerous they are." His face becomes serious as he thinks.

"Oh, you can't handle some waves?" You tease. You already have something in mind and begin floating away from him. His brows furrow, and he watches you get a few feet away. You wind up your arm and roughly glide it across the surface to create a small wave.

It drenches Bob once again, but once the splash clears, he's gone. Before you can react, his hands are on your legs. He efficiently drags you under, but cradles your head before it hits the floor.

You open your eyes, but the water makes everything blurry. All you can see is Bob's outline as it gets closer. His hands cup your face, and his lips press against yours as gently as possible. The kiss only lasts a few seconds due to a lack of air, but those seconds are like a treasure. His lips are all you can feel as your senses are blocked by the water.

When you emerge, you gasp for air, but he doesn't. You chalk it up to him having more experience in bodies of water than you.

Once you catch your breath, he calls your name. You look towards him only to be hit in the face by water. He forgets how strong he is and gets Yelena and John wet.

"Oh, come on!" John groans. He holds up his half drank smoothie that now has chlorine water in it.

"Ok, that's it! No more pool for you two!" Yelena shouts.

[bucketsorbueckers]

No Hard Feelings - Chapter 8

Paige X Azzi

Warning: language.

A/N: didn't plan to post this early get this chapter away from me before i edit to the point of disservice. if it doesn't make sense, its not my business. xoxo

Azzi’s POV

A few months ago.  

Hard fracture.

That’s the only way Azzi knew how to describe it.

There had been small fissures forming between them for a while. Cracks in the foundation. Somehow, putting a name on what they were made it feel heavier. More difficult to carry.

It had been a steady eleven months, mostly. Private. Careful. A thing she held close to her chest.

Caroline knew. Nika too. Though she never said it out loud. Just offered knowing looks and quiet exits when things got too soft around the edges.

But beyond that, it was just the two of them. Her and Paige. 

They said it was better this way. Safer. Cleaner. No headlines. No rumors. No room for people to ruin it before it ever got the chance to breathe.

And in the beginning, that quiet felt like protection. Like something theirs in a world that wanted to take everything.

But the world doesn’t stay quiet for long. Not when Paige was in it.

Because there were nights when Paige would light up an arena and the whole world would look at her like she belonged to them. And Azzi would be in the background, clapping quietly, pretending her heart wasn’t in the front row.

There were moments where she’d catch Paige smiling at someone else and think, I’m not sure she even remembers I’m here.

She didn’t blame her for it.  Not really.

Paige wasn’t really hiding her. She offered soft touches. Lingering glances. Quiet, firm reminders that she belonged to Azzi—at least in the ways that counted. But the longer they stayed hidden, the harder it became to believe there was a difference between protecting something and burying it.

And that quiet, gnawing feeling…the one Azzi couldn’t shake, kept whispering the same truth: Paige belonged to the world. And Azzi belonged to no one.

Som she started pulling back. Just a little. Just enough to see if she still had a pulse outside of Paige Bueckers. And maybe, if she was being honest, it wasn’t just about herself. Maybe it was also to see if Paige would notice. If she’d feel the shift. If she’d say something.

Because sometimes, truthfully, Azzi felt less like a person Paige loved and more like a weight strapped to her ankle—quiet, heavy, and always just barely out of step.

Paige did notice. Azzi could see it in the way she reached for her. In the way her eyes searched the room before her body followed. In the way she kept trying to press her hands to the bleeding wound of who they were. Like if she held it hard enough, long enough, maybe it would stop.

But she didn’t say anything. And Azzi didn’t know how to ask for what she needed without sounding like she was asking Paige to be smaller. To shine a little less bright. To come back down to a place Azzi wasn’t sure she belonged anymore.

So the silence grew teeth. Not sudden. Not sharp. Just slow. Choking. The kind you don’t notice until you realize you haven’t taken a full breath in weeks.

Paige was still Paige. All in. Loyal. Constant. But she didn’t ask.

And Azzi didn’t know how to say it. Didn’t know how to explain that being loved by someone like Paige Bueckers meant being seen by everyone but still somehow forgotten by yourself.

The realization struck her on a Thursday night. There was no grand trigger. No dramatic fight. Just the quiet, aching feeling that had made a home of her chest stretching a little too wide like her ribs were forgetting how to hold it in.

She sat with it. Let it settle. Didn’t cry. And then, two nights later, she showed up on Paige’s doorstep.

The conversation wasn’t angry. They didn’t raise their voices. Didn’t say things they’d regret.

Azzi just stood there in Paige’s apartment—small and familiar and somehow already too far gone—and said the thing she hadn’t known how to say until it became the only thing she could.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

Paige looked at her like she’d dropped something. Like any second now, Azzi would laugh. Take it back. Say just kidding, I’m tired, ignore me.

But Azzi didn’t. She couldn’t. Because she wanted to leave while there was still something left of her to carry.

Paige didn’t beg. Didn’t cry. Didn’t chase. She just nodded. And that hurt more than if she’d screamed.

Azzi stood there for a beat, her heart clawing against the inside of her ribs like it might rip its way out. She wanted to apologize. To explain. To say I love you, I just don’t know how to survive it. But the words stuck to the back of her throat like they were trying to save themselves.

So instead, she turned. And let the door close behind her. In that moment, it felt like the right thing.  But God, it still split her clean through.

Paige’s POV

Azzi stirred, and Paige stayed perfectly still. Eyes closed. Breathing slow. Like if she moved, even a little, the moment might vanish.

Azzi fit against her like something Paige had been missing long before she even knew it. And then—soft, gentle—fingers began to walk their way up her arm. Curious. Familiar. Like they remembered this path even after all that time.

Paige couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her lips.

“I know you’re awake, Bueckers,” Azzi whispered, fingers still tracing lazy lines up her arm.

Paige shook her head, voice low and muffled against the pillow. “Five more minutes.”

“No such luck,” Azzi murmured. “We’ve gotta be downstairs for breakfast in ten.”

Her tone was gentle, but Paige could hear the smile in it too.

“Then five more minutes isn’t an indecent request,” Paige mumbled.

Azzi hummed in mock disapproval, already shifting, starting to slip from her arms with the kind of quiet ease that made it feel like she’d never been there at all. And for some reason, it hit Paige like a wave.

Panic, fast and silent. Like her body remembered every morning she’d woken up without this. Like it didn’t trust that Azzi wouldn’t disappear again if she let go now.

Her hand tightened instinctively around Azzi’s wrist.

“Wait,” she said, too quickly.

Azzi froze. And Paige couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t breathe around the sudden fear clawing at her throat.

“I just… one more minute,” she whispered. “Just stay a minute longer.”

Azzi didn’t answer right away.

Then Paige felt it. The soft press of Azzi’s body folding back into hers. No questions. No teasing. Just quiet understanding. Like Azzi could feel how badly Paige needed her without either of them having to say it out loud.

They stayed like that longer than they probably should’ve. Long enough for the sun to climb a little higher, for the real world to start creeping back in around the edges.

“Paige,” Azzi whispered, voice low against her neck. “We need to go to breakfast. Geno will have both our asses.”

Paige groaned, half into the pillow. “Let him.”

But she knew Azzi was right.

Reluctantly, she began to untangle their bodies—slow and careful, like letting go might break something. Her fingers hesitated for a beat too long at Azzi’s waist before pulling back. And then, summoning whatever courage she had left, she turned. Looked at her. Really looked.

And it was stupid, probably, but in that moment, Azzi looked like the beginning of something. Or maybe the middle of something Paige had never stopped wanting.

“Did you sleep okay?” Azzi asked, pulling on her sweatpants, her voice still scratchy with morning.

Paige nodded. “You?”

“Great,” Azzi said, and it came out like a sigh. Light. Content. Like she meant it.

They held each other’s gaze a second too long. Not uncomfortable, just weighted. Words hovering just below the surface, so many unsaid. So many that didn’t know how to come out yet.

Paige swallowed. Looked away first and grabbed her hoodie from the end of the bed, tugging it over her head.

“You ready?” she asked, her voice steadier than she felt.

Azzi nodded. “Yeah. All good.”

They took the elevator in silence. Walked in silence. But as they neared the breakfast room, the quiet broke. Voices spilling into the lobby.

A few heads turned when they walked in.

“Nice of you to join us!” Jana called, far too loud for the hour.

Paige rolled her eyes, peeling off from Azzi to head toward Nika and Aaliyah. Not out of the ordinary. They always split up at team things, even when things were good. Careful to not draw too much attention. 

She absentmindedly filled her plate with eggs and whatever else was closest, before doubling back for the only thing she actually wanted.

Cereal.

“Will you ever grow up?” Azzi’s voice came from just behind her, amused and familiar and so, so easy.

Paige smirked without turning around. “Wouldn’t hold your breath.”

And even though their shoulders didn’t touch, it felt like something had clicked back into place. Quietly. Carefully. Like maybe they weren’t pretending anymore. Not completely.

Paige dropped into the seat beside Nika and Aaliyah, pushing the full plate to the side without a second glance. She focused on the only thing that mattered, her bowl of Froot Loops.

“Well, good morning,” Nika sang, her grin entirely too knowing. “How are you, Paige Bueckers?”

Paige paused mid-chew, eyes narrowing. “I’m fine.”

“I can see that,” Aaliyah muttered, not even looking up from the book in her hand.

Paige turned to her, brow arched. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Aaliyah shrugged. “Just saying. You look like someone who actually slept last night.”

Paige blinked. “Don’t know if I should be offended or flattered.”

“Up to you,” Aaliyah said, flipping a page.

Paige watched Aaliyah for a second longer, then finally dropped her gaze and started eating again.

“Huh.”

The sound came from across the table—low, amused, and laced with something dangerous. Paige gritted her teeth and turned toward Nika, who was watching her like she knew something Paige didn’t. 

“Can I help you?”

Nika licked her lips, clearly trying not to smile. “I wasn’t aware you added a three to your number.”

“What?”

Nika nodded toward Paige’s sleeve. Paige looked down. And there it was, embroidered in soft white thread on the shoulder of her hoodie.

Not just her number. Not just 5.

35. Azzi’s number. Which meant she was wearing Azzi’s sweatshirt. 

Her eyes went wide for only a second before she reeled it back in, smoothing her expression like it hadn’t cracked at all.

“Must’ve gotten them switched up in the room.”

Nika nodded slowly, a smirk slipping through. “Totally. Happens to us all the time, right Liyah?”

Aaliyah didn’t even glance up. “Constantly.”

“Last week she accidentally wore my socks,” Nika added, deadpan. “So intimate.”

Paige shot her a look. “You’re hilarious.”

“I know,” Nika said, grinning now. “And observant.”

Paige swallowed, the cereal suddenly harder to get down. She turned slowly, gaze drifting over her shoulder, like she already knew what she’d find.

Azzi sat at her table, cheeks flushed unmistakably pink. Her eyes darted between Jana and Caroline, who were whispering with the subtlety of a car alarm. Then, like she could feel it, her gaze snapped to Paige.

Their eyes locked. Azzi froze. Then her gaze dropped, first to the 35 stitched on Paige’s sleeve. Then to the 5 on her own.

Her expression flickered, a full-body oh no.

Across the table, Caroline and Jana followed the trail of her stare. Their eyes narrowed in sync before they leaned their heads together, whispering like they knew something the world didn’t. Maybe they did. But Paige didn’t really care. She just kept looking at Azzi.

They locked eyes again, stunned into silence by their own stupidity. Or softness. Or something dangerously close to both.

Paige raised a single eyebrow, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.

Azzi’s mouth parted like she might say something. An excuse. A threat. A please stop looking at me like that. But all that came out was a tiny shake of her head.

Paige just shrugged. Too late now.

And maybe it was petty, but she tugged the sleeve up a little higher, just so the 35 was nice and visible.

The rest of breakfast passed without much fanfare. A few lingering looks. A few too-pointed whispers. But no one said anything outright.

Geno dismissed them with two hours to kill before departure, his only instruction being, “Use it accordingly,” in the tone that meant I don’t care what you do as long as you win.

So they filed out. 

Azzi didn’t take the same elevator, and Paige beat her back to the room.

She collapsed onto the bed without thinking, face first into the pillow Azzi had used. It still smelled like her—faint shampoo, maybe lotion. Something specific and warm and unmistakably Azzi.

Real, Paige told herself. Last night was real. She let herself believe it. Clung to it like proof.

But time passed. The room stayed quiet, and Azzi was still nowhere to be found.

Paige rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling like it might give her answers. Her stomach buzzed with nerves and she tried not to read too much into the silence.

She also tried very hard not to listen to the buzz of a phone coming from across the room. Persistent. Again. And again. They didn’t bring phones to breakfast anymore. Geno had made that habit a short-lived one. So, she knew it was Azzi’s. 

Paige tried to ignore it. She really did. But it was steady. Rhythmic. A little desperate.

Azzi still wasn’t back, and the silence had begun to feel like a warning.

And so, Paige stood, slow. Crossed to the other bed, where Azzi’s phone was lit up like it had something urgent to say.

She picked it up before she could think better of it.

Cam — 9 Messages

No nickname. No emojis. Just his name. Three little letters that felt too big. She didn’t mean to read them. Not really. But the previews were right there.

10:42 p.m. let me know when you're back.

10:57 p.m. you said you’d call.

11:10 p.m. guess you got distracted.

11:26 p.m. how close is too close? just wondering.

11:31 p.m. Cam FaceTime missed call

11:32 p.m. Cam FaceTime missed call

11:34 p.m. seriously azzi.

7:12 a.m. Still nothing?

7:16 a.m. it’s wild how she always manages to be the exception.

7:18 a.m. you act different when she’s around.

7:21 a.m. you think she’s not doing this on purpose?

Paige exhaled through her nose. Not quite a laugh. Not quite not. He hadn’t said her name. But he didn’t have to. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t supposed to be.

There was something in the messages—some mix of insecurity and entitlement—that made her skin crawl a little. Not loud, not dangerous. Just... controlling. Dressed up as concern.

Like Paige was a problem Azzi should’ve outgrown by now. Like Azzi owed him reassurance just for being near her. Paige set the phone back down, screen still glowing, refusing to let it consume her like she wanted to let it. And at that exact moment, the door swung open.

Azzi walked in, a little out of breath, like she’d been pacing or thinking too hard or both. Paige dove back onto her bed like she’d been caught stealing something. Azzi didn’t seem to notice or maybe she did and just didn’t care. She dropped onto her own bed with a sigh, the kind that sounded heavier than it should’ve.

“Hey.”

“Your phone’s been going off like crazy,” Paige said before she could stop herself. The words landed somewhere between casual and sharp.

Azzi blinked. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Paige said, blunt this time.

Azzi tilted her head, brow barely furrowed, then crossed the room. She picked up the phone and studied the screen, chewing her bottom lip like she didn’t realize she was doing it.

Paige watched her, watched the way her thumb hovered before she finally tapped out a response. Something quick, definitive and set the phone back down, face-first.

“Everything okay?” Paige asked, trying to sound light. She wasn’t sure she pulled it off.

“Oh yeah,” Azzi said, and it was so clearly a lie that it almost made Paige laugh.

They lay in the silence for a while, but it wasn’t the kind that soothed.

It was heavy. It pressed against Paige’s chest like a weight she hadn’t agreed to carry, and the longer it stretched, the more she felt like she might crawl out of her own skin just to get away from it.

“Cam?” she said, too softly to sound casual.

She saw Azzi’s throat bob at the name. A beat passed. Then another.

“Yeah,” Azzi said finally.

Paige nodded, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“He doesn’t like me, does he?”

Azzi rolled over then, slow and quiet, like she already knew there wasn’t a good answer.

“No,” she said finally. “He doesn’t.”

Paige blinked, not really surprised by the answer but Azzi’s honesty. 

Azzi let out a slow breath. “He’s jealous of you.”

Paige huffed a laugh. 

“He thinks I turn into someone else when you're around,” Azzi added. “Someone who might not come back to him.”

That one landed harder.

Paige nodded again, slow this time. “I don’t want you to ever have to be someone else. Not for me. Not for him.”

“I know,” Azzi said.

“But he acts like I do.”

Azzi didn’t argue. Just nodded, barely, and turned her face toward the ceiling like she couldn’t look at Paige anymore.

“I didn’t tell him,” she said after a beat. “About last night.”

The silence that followed felt colder than the room had any right to be.

Paige stared at the ceiling now too. “Because it didn’t mean anything?”

Azzi’s eyes fluttered shut. Like maybe if she closed them, the question would disappear.

“Paige,” she whispered. The name barely audible. “You know that’s not possible.”

Paige turned her head, watching her in the half-light like she might be able to peel her open—layer by layer—until the truth finally spilled out. And then, before she could stop herself:

“Do you think you could love him, Az?”

Not accusing. Not angry. Just a quiet kind of devastation. The kind that doesn’t ask to be answered gently.

Azzi’s breath caught. “That’s not a fair question, P.”

Paige stared at the ceiling for one more second, then turned her head.

“I don’t care,” she said, and she didn’t. Not right now. Not here, with the room pressed full of all the things they’d refused to say for two months. She didn’t want calm. She wanted the wave. Wanted to drown in it. In Azzi. In whatever this was, finally spoken out loud. “I’ve never said I was fair.”

Azzi was chewing on the inside of her cheek again. Paige watched it for a second too long, the familiar twitch of avoidance, and felt something flare in her chest. Anger maybe, or fear disguised as it.

She stood. Crossed the room before she could talk herself out of it. Lowered herself onto the bed and reached out, slow but certain. Her hands found Azzi’s face like they’d done it before. Like they still knew how.

Azzi’s skin was warm. Her eyes unreadable. Paige tilted her chin until their foreheads nearly touched.

“Do you think you could love him?” she asked again quietly.

And then, just a beat later, her voice cracked, the sentence coming out like something pulled from the trenches of her breaking heart. 

“Because if you could… if that’s where this is headed, then just…tell me. And I’ll step back. I’ll get out of the way.”

Azzi didn’t move. Paige smiled. Not kindly.

“I won’t pretend I’ll be fine. I won’t do the whole mature, understanding thing. I’ll be pissed and probably a little unbearable for a while.”

She paused. Her thumbs brushed against Azzi’s cheeks, like she was memorizing the shape of her before she had to let go.

“But if there’s a version of you that’s happy without me...I’ll try not to make that harder.”

The words hung there, trembling between them. Paige didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. She just stayed there, waiting—already preparing for the worst kind of kindness.

Azzi’s POV

Three years ago

Azzi wanted to kill Paige.

She pictured it now—grabbing a pillow, shoving it over her face, maybe just hard enough to shut her up. Paige would probably still talk through it. Still try to win the argument with her last breath.

They were three hours into a game of Monopoly with her family. Her brother had already quit. Her mom was trying to referee from the kitchen. And Paige?

Paige was drunk on power.

She had Boardwalk, Park Place, and a terrifying collection of oranges. She was chewing on the corner of a Chance card and grinning.

“I’m just saying,” she said, leaning across the board like a lawyer mid-cross-examination, “if you invested earlier, this wouldn’t be happening to you.”

“You’re insufferable,” Azzi muttered, watching her dad mortgage yet another property to cover rent.

“I’m winning,” Paige corrected, and tossed the dice with one hand like she was born to do it.

Azzi rolled her eyes.

God, she’s so annoying.

And then Paige laughed—loud and shameless and totally unselfconscious—and looked at her like she’d been waiting the whole game just for Azzi to catch up.

And it hit her.

God, I’m in trouble.

The thought landed fast and quiet. No big reveal. No warning. Just Paige Bueckers, in the middle of her family’s kitchen, being a complete idiot and somehow making every person in the room fall in love with her without even trying.

Including Azzi.

Especially Azzi.

“You’re staring, Fudd. Plotting my downfall?” Paige whispered, leaning in.

Azzi jumped, like she'd been caught thinking something she shouldn't. Which, yeah. She had.

She tried to shake it off, the realization still crawling under her skin. She wanted to say no. Just realizing you’re mine. But instead, she laughed. Shoved her shoulder.

“It’s a wonder you still have friends,” she muttered, eyes fixed firmly on the board.

And Azzi, sitting across the table with her arms crossed and her pulse loud in her ears, realized her whole life had tilted slightly off its axis.

That was it. That was the shift.

No thunder. No music.

Just Paige Bueckers in a hoodie that wasn’t hers, trash-talking her little brother, laughing like the world was hers to break open and Azzi watching her like she was already broken.

She hadn’t meant for it to happen. She hadn’t even seen it coming. One second, Paige was just Paige.

The next:

She was everything.

And Azzi loved her.

She loved her in a way she didn’t have the language for. In a way that made her chest feel too crowded and too hollow, all at once. Like something blooming and breaking inside her at the same time.

In a way that made everyone else feel…quieter. Smaller. Like the volume had been turned down on the rest of the world and Paige was the only thing still in color.

Azzi blinked the memory back into her chest, where it lived. Where it always lived. And when she looked at Paige again, almost nothing had changed.The world was still dimmer. Softer. A little out of focus.

Except for her.

Paige in screaming color. Heart-stopping, breath-stealing, goddamn technicolor. Inches away, close enough to touch, and somehow still not close enough.

And Azzi, despite everything, still wanted to reach for her. She always had.

Azzi exhaled, slow and shaky, and Paige winced—like she was bracing for impact. Like she expected to be shattered. Like she had no idea. No idea that Azzi had never loved anyone else. That she couldn’t.

No matter how hard she tried. No matter who she kissed, or how far she ran, she couldn’t outrun Paige Bueckers. And if she was being honest? She never really wanted to.

Still, she’d spent the last few months trying to keep a safe distance. Not because she didn’t want Paige. But because she did. Too much.

In the kind of way that made her want to wrap herself around her and never let go. In the kind of way that made her believe, just for a second, that maybe love could be enough to protect someone like Paige from everything else.

But love didn’t work like that. No matter how badly she wished it did. 

Azzi had seen it. Watched the world wear people down until all the soft parts were scraped raw. And Paige…she was made almost entirely of soft parts. Of second chances and wide-open faith and that stupid, stubborn light that made people want to be near her, even when they didn’t deserve to be.

Azzi wanted to protect her. Wasn’t that the root of it all? The world was loud, and terrifying, and unforgiving—and that scared Azzi. But the real rot, the thing she never said out loud, was simpler than fear. It was doubt.

The quiet, aching belief that she couldn’t do right by Paige. That she couldn’t give her what she needed. Not fully. Not in the ways that mattered.

Azzi had always wanted to be the person who could take on the world so Paige didn’t have to. But the truth was... she couldn’t. She couldn’t shield her from the pressure. From the attention. From the thousand tiny ways the world tried to hollow her out. 

And over time, loving Paige started to feel like standing at the edge of a storm, arms stretched wide, trying to hold it back with nothing but good intentions. And it drained Azzi wholly until there was nothing left to give that didn’t ache.

She thought leaving was the kindest thing. For Paige. For herself. The most loving choice she could make. Because staying felt like dragging them both through something she couldn’t name without bleeding.

She told herself it was mercy. That walking away would hurt less than slowly coming undone. And since then, she has tried. Tried to move on. To force Paige too as well. 

But now, looking at her, color-bright and too close and still holding out her heart like it wasn’t the most dangerous thing in the world to give…

Azzi felt that familiar weight settle in her chest again. That impossible, unshakable truth: I love Paige Bueckers. Even if it’s the most impossible thing in the world.

And just like that, all the shuttered windows of her heart—ones she’d nailed closed out of fear and exhaustion and the ache of almosts—swung open again. Not easily. Not cleanly. But with the creaking kind of honesty that only comes when you finally stop pretending you’re not still standing at the door, waiting.

She hadn’t meant to want this again. Hadn’t meant to let it back in. But Paige had always been the thing she couldn’t unwant. The one thing she’d never outgrow.

So maybe, finally, it was time to stop trying to outgrow impossible things. Maybe it was time to live with them. To choose them. To choose her.

She sighed, leaning her head into Paige’s palm like it steadied her. Life with Paige would never be simple. It wouldn’t be quiet. Or easy. Or something you could fold neatly into a plan.

Azzi would probably stumble. She’d fall short. Say the wrong thing when it mattered, shut down when she should speak up, lash out when all Paige wanted was softness. But she was starting to understand. Paige didn’t need perfect. Didn’t need a protector. She just needed honest.

She needed someone who would stand beside her when the lights were too bright and the world asked too much. Someone who wouldn’t flinch when the noise got loud or the pressure cracked something open.

And Azzi, God help her, wanted to be that person. Not just when it was beautiful. Not just when it was easy. But when it was messy and loud and real.

Because loving Paige Bueckers meant standing still while the world shifted. Meant holding on through the storm, not waiting for the calm. And Azzi was done running from it.

Azzi was quiet for a long time. Too long. And Paige just waited—like she always did—still and patient and probably bracing for an answer that might undo them both.

“I think I wanted to,” She finally said. “I really, really wanted to.”

Paige didn’t move. Not a blink. Not a breath.

“Because he made sense. And I was so tired of wanting things that didn’t make sense.” She laughed, barely. “But the whole time I was with him, I kept thinking about how it didn’t feel like it did with you.”

Her voice cracked. She didn’t bother to fix it.

“It didn’t make me nervous. It didn’t make me ache. It didn’t make me feel anything, not really.” She blinked, looked away. “I thought maybe that meant it was good. Safe. But it just felt quiet in all the wrong places.”A breath. “And I missed you. In every version of him.”

She forced her eyes back to Paige. 

“So no,” she said. “I don’t think I could ever love him.” She paused. Let it sit there for a second. “I don’t think I could love anyone else.”

Her voice didn’t break. It didn’t have to. Then, after a beat, quieter:

“How could I Paige? I know you.” She looked up. Met Paige’s watery eyes. “Not the version people cheer for. Not the one they write about or put on billboards.”

A breath.

“I know the you who shuts down when things get too loud. The you who tries to make everything okay for everyone else even when you're barely holding it together.” Another breath, tighter this time. “And the thing is… people love the idea of you.” Her voice dropped, barely above a whisper now. “But I know you. And it’s… impossible. It’s impossible not to love you.”

Paige didn’t speak. Not right away. She just looked at her like Azzi had cracked something open in the room, in the air, in her chest. Like the words had knocked the breath out of her but left her standing.

Her hands stayed on Azzi’s cheeks, unmoving, like she was afraid that if she let go, this would all disappear. That Azzi would take it back. That the moment would fold up and vanish the way it had so many times before.

And then, quietly, so soft Azzi almost didn’t catch it:

“I’ve loved you so long it started to feel like grief.” Azzi’s breath caught. Paige blinked like she was still trying to hold herself together. “I tried to bury it. To grow around it. To pretend it wasn’t still there every time you walked into a room.”

She let out a breath, sharp and shaky.

“But it never left. You never left.”

Her thumbs brushed gently across Azzi’s skin—almost like apology, almost like worship.

“I think I’ve been waiting years for you to say that. And I think some part of me would’ve waited forever.” Paige sighed. “I know we said it—that we were together. Girlfriends. But we never really talked about what that meant. Not when it got hard.”

Azzi didn’t move. Just listened.

“We never talked about how to stay when it stopped being easy,” Paige said. “Or what it would mean if one of us started pulling away. Or how to ask for more without sounding like we were asking the other person to be less.”

Her voice cracked, just a little.

“I think I kept waiting for us to just...figure it out. Like we always did. But this wasn’t something we could outrun or joke through. She looked at Azzi then. “And I should’ve said something. Sooner. I just didn’t know how. And when you showed up at my apartment that night, I thought the kindest thing I could do…the thing that would prove I loved you most, was to let you go.”

She looked away, jaw tight, eyes watery.

“I shouldn’t have let you leave. I should’ve fought for you. For us.”

Azzi exhaled slowly. Not in frustration. Just heartbreak. Or relief. She wasn’t sure. 

“It’s on me too, P,” she said gently. “You can’t always be the one doing the holding. I could’ve said something. I could’ve stayed.”

Paige blinked at her, like hearing it was somehow worse.

Azzi smiled, small and sad. “We both broke it. We both thought the other one would stop us.”

“We didn’t break it.” She looked up, eyes steady. “Not fully. I don’t think we could.”

Azzi stared at her. Breath caught. And Paige just nodded once, like that was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Things bend,” she said, “but they don’t break. Not really. They bruise. They splinter. But they hold.” Paige exhaled. “We hold. Because we’ve always been each other’s. Terribly. Damningly. Even when we were too afraid to say it out loud. Even when we pretended we weren’t.”

The words settled between them. Confessions bleeding out slowly. Shortcomings they both named. Faults they both owned. No one flinched. No one looked away.

“I know there’s still more to talk about,” she said. “Things we have to figure out. “But I’m yours. If you’ll have me. Always been yours”

Azzi bit back tears, reached out, and traced Paige’s face the way she always had, like she was memorizing her all over again.

“You were never mine to lose,” she whispered. “You’ve always been the thing I came back to. Even when I didn’t know how.”

She let her thumb rest against Paige’s cheek, breath catching.

“So yeah. I’ll have you.” A pause. “I think I always have.”

Paige leaned forward, carefully, as if touching something holy. 

She rested her forehead against Azzi’s, and for a moment, they just breathed. Like that was enough. Like it had always been enough.

Then, with a smile so small it almost hurt:

“I don’t want easy.” Her voice cracked, just a little. “I want this. I want you.”

And then, finally—finally—she kissed her.

Not like a beginning. Not like an apology. But like the middle of something they’d been writing for years. Something neither of them had words for yet, but both of them had always known.

Paige’s POV

The game came and went without much stress. They did what they were supposed to do. Won. Controlled the pace. Made it look easy. No one made too much of it. That was the expectation.

There wasn’t time to celebrate doing what was expected. There never was.

The press conference was routine. Predictable questions. Predictable answers. Nika sat between them like a human buffer, mic in front of her, legs crossed  It was halfway over when someone asked it. Not a stat question. Not a headline grab.

Just: “There seems to be a real shift in the team’s chemistry this season. What do you think’s changed, culture-wise?”

All eyes shift don Paige and she cleared her throat. 

“I think we’ve just committed to each other more this year. Everyone knows their role, and no one’s trying to be the hero. It’s not about who scores—it’s about who shows up. We hold each other accountable, but we’ve also learned how to have each other’s backs. That kind of trust doesn’t happen overnight.”

She leaned back, stretched her arms a little like it was nothing. Just another answer. Just another press cycle. But Azzi turned her head. Looked right at her.

“That was a really good answer,” she said.

Not to the room. Not to the mic.

To Paige. Direct. Steady. Soft in the way that made Paige’s entire ribcage feel too small. Paige’s eyes flicked sideways. Her cheeks flushed, color blooming fast.

She stretched her arms again, suddenly a little restless, blinking like the lighting had changed.

“What?” she asked, not quite casual.

Azzi shrugged, still looking at her. “I said it was a good answer.”

They both snapped their attention back to the room, as if remembering they weren’t alone in it. But beside her, Nika shifted. Not much. Just a slight stiffening of posture, the kind of movement that meant she was holding back a smile so smug it could power a city.

Nika stared straight ahead, face neutral, but the smug was radiating.

Paige narrowed her eyes. “What?”

Nika tilted her head. “Nothing,” she said, far too quickly. “Just listening. Press conference, remember?”

Paige’s eyes darted to Azzi again but she was pretending to read her stat sheet like it held national secrets.

The next question rolled in, something about defensive matchups, but Paige could feel it. The heat still rising in her cheeks, the ghost of Azzi’s compliment still pressed into her skin.

When the conference finally wrapped and they stepped off the dais, Paige didn’t get more than three steps down the hallway before Nika spoke.

“You’re not subtle.”

Paige froze. “Excuse me?”

Nika didn’t even look at her. Just kept walking.

“You know you were making heart-eyes at her for half the press conference, right?”

“I was not,” Paige muttered, cheeks already warming.

Nika glanced sideways, all innocence. “Sure. And I’m not sitting directly between you like the world’s most underpaid chaperone.”

Paige groaned. “You’re making things up.”

“You blushed when she said your answer was good.”

“That’s not—”

“You stretched, Paige.” Paige clamped her mouth shut. Nika just laughed. “God, I can’t wait to get paid.”

Paige blinked. “Paid?”

“I’ve been in the betting pool since day one.”

Paige narrowed her eyes. “A betting pool?”

Nika gave her a look. “Paige. I told you this last year. Well, I told you I wasn’t involved. But truth is, I practically started it.”

Paige groaned, already regretting this conversation. “You’re unbelievable.”

“No,” Nika said, grinning now. “You two are. I’ve been emotionally and financially invested in this mess since sophomore year. I deserve a bonus for emotional damages alone.”

Paige muttered something under her breath. Azzi was already waiting near the locker room door, trying very hard not to laugh. Nika leaned in as she passed, voice just low enough to sting a little:

“Took you long enough.”

Then she winked. And Paige—red-faced and heart full—didn’t even argue.

As they walked into the locker room, Nika threw her arms open and bowed like a queen returning from war.

“Pay up,” she announced, gaze sweeping the room. “Every single one of you.”

The chatter stopped. Every eye in the locker room flicked to Paige and Azzi. Not subtly. Not quickly.

Just…assessed. The space between them. The not-so-casual brush of Azzi’s shoulder against Paige’s. The way Paige didn’t even flinch when it happened, like it had already become a habit.  The room practically buzzed with the sound of realization.

Jana immediately groaned. “No. Absolutely not. I won.”

Nika snorted. “You said before the season, which—spoiler alert—is not what happened.”

“We’re still in preseason,” Jana countered, already standing, arms crossed like a lawyer preparing her closing argument. “So technically, I win.”

“Technically,” Caroline chimed in, “you tampered with the outcome by getting them to room together. That’s rigging the bracket.”

“I was accelerating fate,” Jana said.

“You were cheating,” Nika corrected. “You played God with the rooming chart. You’re disqualified.”

Jana lifted her chin. “Caroline did help me with my psych project!”

Caroline sighed. “I did. But still, rules are rules.”

“There were no rules,” Jana argued. “And if there were rules against…gently pushing them together, I would’ve been disqualified forever ago.”

Nika laughed. Loud, delighted. “Yeah, we know. Between ‘accidentally’ texting Paige from Azzi’s phone and rearranging the movie night seating chart so they’d end up next to each other—”

“That was a coincidence,” Jana cut in.

“You literally made us watch The Notebook,” Caroline said flatly.

“I was creating emotional vulnerability!”

Nika grinned. “You’ve been toeing the line for weeks. But rooming them together? You cleared it. That was a full-on sabotage play.”

Jana rolled her eyes. “I should at least get half.”

“You should get a moral penalty,” Caroline muttered.

In the middle of it all, Azzi paused, towel slung around her neck, brow furrowed.

“Wait,” she said slowly. “What?”

Silence.

She turned to Nika. “Paid for what?”

Nika blinked. “Oh.”

Jana looked at her. “She doesn’t know?”

“Guess not,” Nika said, not even a little apologetic. She smiled. “There’s been a...small betting pool.”

Azzi blinked. “A what.”

“On when you and Paige would finally get your shit together,” Caroline said, like it was obvious.

“Been going since sophomore year,” Nika added cheerfully. “Technically it closed when we all knew you were together last year. But then you broke up—or, like, emotionally imploded without telling anyone—so we reopened the pool. Odds were terrible a month ago but I held the damn line.”

Azzi looked around the room like she’d been dropped into an alternate universe. “You were betting on us?”

“I prefer to think of it as investing in emotional inevitability,” Nika said.

Azzi’s jaw dropped. “We were in turmoil.”

“And we appreciate your suffering,” Jana said, clapping her on the back. “Deeply.”

Azzi turned to Paige, scandalized. “Did you know about this?”

“Don’t look at me. I just found out in the hallway.”

Azzi opened her mouth, then shut it. And then, she laughed.

“You’re all insane.” 

“And you’re in love,” Nika said, already opening her phone. “Which means I’m rich.”

The room went quiet for a second, but then it hit Paige.

“Wait,” she said, eyes narrowing. “You all knew we were together last year?”

The entire locker room groaned in unison.

“Not like you’re subtle, P,” someone muttered.

“You used to wait for her after film,” Aaliyah said. “Like a golden retriever in basketball shorts.”

“You guys shared entire closets,” Caroline added. “You’d wear something one day and then Azzi would show up in it a few days later.”

“That’s just being proactive with fashion,” Paige argued.

Snorts followed. “Yeah, because you’re so known for sharing your NIL-funded closet with the rest of us.”

“I’m generous,” Paige muttered.

“Name one other person on this team who’s worn your coach jacket,” Nika said, raising a brow.

Paige opened her mouth. Closed it. Pointed at Azzi. “Technically, she wore it without asking.”

“Exactly,” Caroline said, triumphantly. “You didn’t even blink.”

“Because she’s Azzi,” Paige said, like that explained everything.

The room, once again, groaned. But this time, it sounded different. There was laughter, yes, but behind it, Paige could see it. The love in their eyes. The knowing. The relief.

She looked around and saw it clearly: They’d never been hiding. Not really. And keeping it a secret had been a waste of time. Because the people who mattered had always known. And worse…they’d been rooting for them.

Paige let out a quiet breath. Then glanced sideways, where Azzi was watching her with something soft behind her smile.

Nika shoved her before clearing her throat, “With that said, Venmo me or bring cash to the next practice. Thanks for playing.”

“Split pot,” Jana grumbled.

“No chance,” Nika replied, already texting. “Love and capitalism, baby.”

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡⌦ .｡.:*♡❁۪۪ ཻུ♡˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡

They didn’t say much on the way back. Not because there was nothing left to say, just because the silence finally felt like something they didn’t need to fill.

Azzi’s pinky brushed against Paige’s once, then stayed there. And Paige held on like it was permission.

It was late when they got to campus, the sky a kind of navy that made the world feel folded in. Paige lingered outside the door of Azzi’s dorm, keys in Azzi’s hand, like maybe it wasn’t real until they were inside.

“I can go back to mine,” Paige offered, not really meaning it.

Azzi turned to her. No hesitation.

“Or you could stay.”

The words landed soft.

Paige nodded, like her heart had already decided. “Yeah. Okay.”

They didn’t do anything important but being together was important enough. 

Azzi tossed her an old worn shirt. Paige’s favorite, secretly. And they grinned at each other as she tugged it on. They sat on the couch, sharing one blanket, and half watched a movie neither of them cared much about. 

Around 1:30 a.m., Azzi’s head dropped against Paige’s shoulder and stayed there.

Paige didn’t move. Didn’t breathe, maybe.

The credits were halfway through when Azzi finally stirred, blinking up at her with sleep in her eyes.

“You could’ve woke me up,” she murmured.

Paige shrugged, eyes still on the screen. “Was kind of enjoying it.”

Azzi laughed and stood, tugging Paige up by the hand without a word.

Later, tangled in sheets that smelled like laundry detergent and something distinctly Azzi, Paige lay there for a while, eyes on the ceiling, heart doing something that felt both too fast and too careful. And then, without looking at her, she asked:

“Do you think we missed it?”

Azzi didn’t move. Just listened.

“The timing,” Paige added, like she couldn’t bear to say it twice.

There was a beat. Then Azzi’s sighed.

“Maybe.” She shifted just enough for their arms to brush under the blanket. “But I think we found the version of us that lasts,” she said. “And I’d take that over the one that didn’t.”

Paige closed her eyes. Let that sit in the dark with them. Then she whispered, barely audible

“Don’t let me ruin it.”

Azzi didn’t laugh. Didn’t say you won’t.

She just reached under the covers, found Paige’s hand, and held it like that was the answer.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡⌦ .｡.:*♡❁۪۪ ཻུ♡˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡

The knock came in the morning.

Not hesitant. Not aggressive. Just…certain. Like whoever it was already knew what they’d find on the other side.

Paige stirred first. Azzi’s shirt hung off her shoulder, boxers hanging from her hips, hair a tangle from sleep. She rubbed a hand over her face, still floating in that warm, soft quiet The kind that made her feel like the world had stopped just long enough for them to exist.

She opened the door without thinking.

Cam.

He laughed. Not loudly. Just once. Low. Bitter.

“Bueckers,” he said, like it tasted wrong in his mouth. “Of course.”

Paige tucked her hair behind her ears. “Good morning to you too.”

He didn’t smile. Just shook his head, eyes flicking down to the shirt she wore. Clearly Azzi’s. Then past her—to the two mugs on the table. One blanket on the couch. The faint sound of movement from the bedroom.

“I think I always knew,” he said, voice low but clean. Like he’d practiced it. “I just kept hoping she’d grow out of you.”

Paige’s jaw twitched, but she didn’t bite.

“I’m not a phase,” she said, finally.

Cam let out a dry laugh. “No. You’re a habit. A bad one she keeps calling back.”

Paige swallowed. “You should go.”

“You know what the worst part is?” Cam went on, like he’d been waiting to say this. “I watched her. Watched her watch you. Squirm when you were around. I could tell you hurt her. One way or another.”

He stepped forward a little. Not close enough to touch. Just enough to make her brace.

“And then she goes back to you.”

Paige's voice was flat. “She made a choice.”

He smiled without smiling. “She made a mess.”

There was a beat—long enough for the air between them to curdle. And this time, she saw it. The hurt. The fury. The part of him that wanted to say something worse, and the part that knew it wouldn’t change a thing.

Cam’s eyes narrowed.

“She used to flinch when your name came up.”

Paige hated that. Hated that he knew it.  Hated that she knew it was true. It hit somewhere specific…somewhere ugly. The part of her that burned too hot, too fast. The part that never liked Azzi’s name in anyone else’s mouth. Especially his. But she didn’t let it show. Didn’t blink.

She just raised an eyebrow. Deadpan.

“And now she wears my shirt to bed,” Paige said. “We all evolve.”

Cam’s jaw twitched.

“She’s going to regret this,” he said.

Paige just nodded. She knew he was pissed. Hurt. People say all kinds of things when their back’s against the wall. But for all her media training and carefully crafted answers, she didn’t really care.

She hated Cam. Unfairly, maybe. But fully. So she shrugged, casual.

“It kind of sounds like you’re just trying to convince yourself, Cam.”

She didn’t give him time to respond. Just shut the door gently in hopes to not wake Azzi. Exhaling, she leaned her head against the door, trying to slow her heart. 

“Baby?” Azzi’s voice floated down the hall, groggy and warm.

Paige smiled and any tension still clinging to her spine unraveling with that one word.

“Coming, Az,” she called back, her voice gentler now.

She turned away from the door. From Cam. From all of it. And walked toward the only thing that felt like peace.

[starsinthesky5]

his iris || joe burrow x reader

description: a concept fic of what it would feel like to be his iris. to be the one thing he'd give up everything for, because the closest to heaven he's ever been isn't the football field...it's you.

a/n: idk what this is (maybe just pure rambling) but i cannot get this song out of my head and i had to put pen to paper. if this makes 0 sense don’t tell me and move on i wrote this in 24 hours

warnings: a pinch of some suggestive references, fluff, and some angst

word count: 2.5k

> > main masterlist

taglist: (ask to be added): @joeyfranchise @joeyb1989 @joeyburrrow @softburrow @burrowbarbie @yelenasbraid @lovelyburrow @majestic87 @grittysbiggestfan @definitelynotdomanique @burrowswomen @lilfreakjez @fourburrow @ladyluvduv

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To be Joe’s iris is to live in the most delicate parts of him—the hushed corners of his heart where no one else is allowed. It’s to exist in that infinite pause between a breath and a kiss, where the rest of the world fades and only you remain. He would give up forever—without hesitation, without condition—if it meant he could touch you one more time. Because he knows. He knows that you feel him, even when he can’t find the words. Even when the silence is heavier than his helmet. Even when the only thing holding him together is the thought of your arms around him again.

He doesn’t want to go back to a life without that. He doesn’t want to go home if you’re not there to open the door. Because home is no longer a place. It’s you. It’s always been you.

He used to believe heaven lived under stadium lights, the place where cheers rumbled like thunder and time slowed with every perfect throw. For years, he thought that was it. The wins, the records, the glory. The confetti falling like snow, the flash of cameras, the weight of a championship ring pressing into his skin—those were supposed to be the moments that defined him. And for a while, he dreamed that they did. But they never filled him the way he thought they would. There was always something missing, something hollow in the quiet after the high. The pressure never let up. The expectations only grew as time passed. He was always chasing, always giving more than he had, until even the victories started to take from him. And heaven? Heaven shouldn’t take.

But then you came along, cool where the world was burning hot, constant where everything else shifted. You didn’t ask for the leader of the franchise. You wanted him. Just him. And when he started to see himself through your eyes, everything changed. You didn’t make him prove himself, make him reach a certain standard. You just stayed. When the game was cruel, even to the point where it was taking a toll on you. And in your presence, in your laugh, your hands, your unwavering love, he found a kind of peace he’d never known. The kind that didn’t demand anything back. The kind that reminded him what it felt like to breathe. That’s when he realized football was never heaven. You were. Because you didn’t take anything from him, you gave everything back.

He tells you with the way he looks at you. Like you’re the closest to heaven he’ll ever be allowed to touch. And you are. Maybe heaven is the curve of your smile when he walks in the room after a brutal game, bruised and breathless but whole again in your arms. Maybe it’s the quiet sound you make when you stretch first thing in the morning, still half-dreaming, while he zips up his practice bag and steals a glance because he can’t quite believe you’re real. Maybe it’s the way your fingertips brush the nape of his neck when he’s watching film, trying to steady his mind before a big game, and your touch reminds him that winning isn’t everything, not when he already has you.

When he’s with you, time folds in on itself. It’s frozen in the sweet taste of your kiss, the sleepy rasp of your laugh, the way you reach for his hand without thinking. All he can taste is that moment. All he can breathe is you, your breath mingling with his, your heartbeat syncing with his own, your presence so wrapped around him that it’s impossible to tell where he ends and you begin. It’s overwhelming. It’s consuming. And he knows, deep down, that it can’t last forever. Nothing ever does. The season always ends, and the lights always go out. But tonight, he’ll hold you tighter. Tonight, he’ll drink in every second like it’s the last drop of something holy. Because missing you—missing you—is the kind of ache he can’t survive again. It lingers in his bones, echoes in his mind, fills every inch of him with longing.

And that’s when it hits him, missing you is something he can’t bear, but missing football? Missing the game? That’s a pain he can learn to live with. He’d give it all up if it meant waking up to you each morning. If it meant your body curled into his, your voice in his ear, your love steady through every high and low.

Because you aren’t a season. You’re the reason.

He doesn’t want the world to see him. Not like this. Not when he’s stripped bare and brimming with too much feeling. Because they wouldn’t understand. They never do. The world wants the polished version. The perfect, untouchable icon. The quarterback. The golden boy. The calm in the pocket. The stone-faced leader who keeps his cool on fourth-and-goal. But you…you know better. You see the boy beneath the armor, the cracks he hides. The softness he’s never shown because he feels as if it's a burden. And he just wants you to know who he really is. The man who trembles when you say his name late at night, when it's just you two, under the stars, wrapped in a kind of comforting silence he only used to dream about. The one who’s terrified, downright haunted by the thought of losing you, even on your best days. The one who would set fire to everything he has if it meant he could keep your love.

Some nights, the grief inside him has no name, no real label. The tears never fall, but they live there anyway, tucked beneath his ribs like ghosts. Sometimes he laughs when he’s hurting, sometimes he lies just to stay standing. Sometimes he’s silent for hours because the words won’t come out right. But you always know. You always see the truth in his eyes, even when his mouth says everything’s fine. When life feels like a movie, too surreal, too distant, he keeps his soul tethered to his body, even when he feels like tuning it all out, with something as simple as your voice. With your touch. With the ache of being loved so deeply, it scares him. And when the pain cuts too close, when it feels like he’s unraveling under everyone's expectations, he lets himself bleed, just to remember he’s still alive. He remembers that he's allowed to feel, because he knows you will gather him up in your arms like he’s something worth saving. Like he’s not broken beyond repair.

He thinks of you during warmups, before the roar of the jungle, before the anthem, before the first snap. You're the stillness in his storm. He tucks a piece of you beneath every layer of padding, every lace of tape—your love stitched into the fabric of his game. Sometimes, under the burn of the stadium lights and the weight of the moment, when the play clock’s winding down and his pulse is louder than the crowd, he shuts his eyes and finds you in his mind—up in the stands, wrapped in his jersey, hand over your heart like he’s your favorite song. And somehow, that image settles him. Quiets the noise. Reminds him why he plays the way he does. But some nights, he doesn’t need the memory, because you’re really there. Slipping in before the anthem, staying long after the final whistle.

There when it counts. There when he needs you most.

One time, you met him after a loss. A miserable, gut-wrenching one. The kind that twisted in his chest long after the final whistle, the kind that left bruises no camera could catch. The media swarmed like vultures, headlines already sharpening their teeth, and he could feel it all closing in. The weight of expectations, the sting of failure, the noise.

But you were there.

You made it past the chaos, past the reporters and the static, and found him in the tunnel, tucked in a shadowed corner where no one else thought to look. He was hunched over, clutching his helmet with both hands like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart, jaw tight, eyes stormy with things he couldn’t say out loud. And you didn’t try to fix it. You didn’t offer words of encouragement or silver linings. You just said, quietly, gently, like it was the most natural thing in the world, “Hey, Joe,” and that’s when it hit him. That’s when everything stilled. Because in that moment, you didn’t see a loss. You didn’t see the missed throws or the scoreboard or the importance of a city’s hope crumbling on his shoulders. You saw him. Not the quarterback. Not the disappointment. Just Joe. Just the man you loved, and that quickly calmed the harrowing storm in his mind. Because being seen like that—without conditions, without judgment—was the most healing thing he’d ever known.

That night, after everything, the loss, the noise, the moment in the tunnel, you took him home. No words, just quiet understanding, the kind that lives in the spaces between heartbeats. In the dark, with the city still reeling outside, he clung to you like you were the only thing tethering him to the earth. His mouth found yours with a kind of desperation, like he needed to drink in something real, something warm, something that reminded him he was still human. All he could taste was that moment, the salt of your skin, the breathless ache between kisses, the way your hands steadied him. And all he could breathe was your life, your presence wrapped around him, your love poured into every touch, every whisper against his jaw. He didn’t need saving, just this. Just you. You let him fall apart in the safety of your arms, and then put him back together with nothing but your body and the way you loved him like he hadn’t just lost. Like he was still enough.

He repeats it like a vow in the dark, I don’t want the world to see me. Because they’ll never see this, what you two have built in the quiet. They’ll never understand how you make the shattered pieces of him feel soft again. They’d never understand how you make the broken feel beautiful, because that’s a skill only you could have mastered. How your love isn’t loud, but it’s everywhere. In the way you fold his shirts. In the way you tuck your cold feet under his thighs on the couch. In the way you kiss his shoulder instead of his mouth sometimes, just to let him know that you see him.

He doesn’t need them to. He just needs you.

He wants you to know who he is. Not the former champion, not the star quarterback, not the headline. Just Joe. The man who wears one sock inside out for good luck and spends hours reading a book about superluminal time travel. The one who listens to your voicemail on repeat when you’re away. The one who buries his face in your shoulder after a loss and whispers, don’t leave me. The one who memorizes your coffee order like it’s scripture and leaves sticky notes in your coat pocket just to say he loves you. The one who touches your back in passing just to make sure you’re real. The one who gets nervous before every game, no matter how many he’s played, and collects himself with the thought of your voice in his ear, saying, “You’ve got this,”.

To be Joe’s iris is to be his truth. His sanctuary. His reason. To be the only one who sees the chaos and chooses him anyway. Not despite it, but because of it. To be the one thing he never has to earn. To be the safest place he’s ever known. Absolutely.

To be Joe’s iris is to be the center of everything, the pulse beneath his skin, the calm in his chaos, the one thing his eyes always find in a room full of noise. It’s more than love; it’s gravity. It’s being the focus of every look, every breath, every whispered thought he’s too afraid to say aloud. You are the light he sees through, the clarity in a world that never stops spinning. When he looks at you, it’s not just with affection, it’s with reverence. Like you are the miracle that steadies him, the only truth he’s ever been sure of. And in that gaze, in that soft, unwavering focus, you know. You are cherished. You are chosen. You are his everything.

He doesn’t want the world to know. He just wants you to know who he is.

He just wants you to stay.

And maybe that’s the quiet miracle of it all. That you do stay. Even when he flinches at kindness, because he feels that he doesn't deserve it, hasn't earned it. Even when the weight of the world bends his shoulders and he forgets how to speak without clenching his jaw. You stay when he’s not the man they cheer for, when he’s just a boy with trembling hands and too much silence. You don’t ask him to be strong when he can’t be. You just hold him until the shaking stops. You press your forehead to his and whisper, you’re safe, they won't hurt you here. And he believes you. Because you’ve never given him a reason not to.

You never needed the spotlight to love him. Never needed the jersey or the wins. You loved the quiet in him, the part that gets overwhelmed in crowded rooms, the part that feels everything too deeply but still shows up anyway. The part that swallows his emotions in the heaviest moments, pretending he’s fine because that’s what leaders are supposed to do. And he would give you everything for that kind of love. He has, in his own way, even if the words never quite make it past his lips.

Because your love is the only thing that has ever made sense to him. Even when the plays don’t work. Even when the lights are too bright and the cameras are too close, and the pressure claws at his chest. Even when he loses faith in himself, when the silence of failure echoes louder than the cheers ever did—you never do. You believe in him with a kind of quiet certainty that grounds him. Because you don’t just see the quarterback. You don’t just love the man with the perfect spiral and the postgame interview smile. You love the version of him who overthinks every word he says to you, worried it won’t land right. The one who triple-checks the locks before bed because you once mentioned a bad dream in passing. The one who sits with you on the bathroom floor when you’re crying and says nothing at all—just holds your hand like it’s the most important job he’ll ever have.

And maybe it is.

Because that’s what it means to be his iris. To be the one who sees him, truly sees him, past all the noise and pressure and polish. The one who sees through the armor and into the fragile, tender places he hides even from himself. The one who knows his silences as deeply as his triumphs. Who recognizes the weight he carries on his shoulders, the responsibility he never complains about, but always feels. To love him not because of the world he moves through, but in spite of it. Because of the boy underneath all the expectations, the one who just wants to be good. For you.

That kind of love unbinds him. Softly. Steadily. Without condition.

Because you are the place his soul breathes. The stillness in the chaos. The arms he runs to, not because he’s tired, but because they feel like home. He could win every game, set every record, hold the entire stadium in the palm of his hand, and still—still—it wouldn’t come close to the feeling of coming home to you. To the quiet hum of your voice in the kitchen. To the way you wait for him at the door when it’s late. To the way you don’t ask him to be anything but his full, flawed, beautiful self.

Because the closest he’s ever been to heaven isn’t the football field. It’s you.

You, with your quiet heart and your relentless faith in him. You, who stays. You, who sees him. You, who loves him so wholly, so simply, so thoroughly, that he’d give it all up without hesitation, because he already knows what it feels like to have everything and still be missing the one thing that matters most.

That’s what it means to be his iris.

To be the one thing he’d give up everything for, no matter how much it means to him.

You always mean more.

[lovelettersfrommai]

What Shadows Whisper

Summary: The three times you were there for Bob after a nightmare…and the one time he was there for you. 

Pairing: Robert “Bob” Reynolds x fem! Reader 

A/N: There needs to be more Bob content on this app. I need it BAD. Good grief. Reader is a witch with chaos powers (purple). If you’ve been reading Marvel fan fic for a long time, you probably get that joke. This is the longest fic I’ve written! Which is exciting, at least to me! I also got a request somewhat similar to this (and I actually wrote this BEFORE I got the request. Me and y'all are in sync for real.)

Word Count: 2.5k

Disclaimers: I do not own the rights to anything Marvel related, I am merely a nerd who hyperfixates a lot.

Warnings !: Nightmares, mentions of Bob’s drug usage, sleep paralysis, physical violence, slowwwwwwwww burn. 

When renovations finally finished on the Avengers tower, the building still had a sense of eeriness to it. Maybe it was the fact that you had been here before, years ago, when the original team was still around. You swore if you listened well enough, you could still hear the sounds of your friends, the people you once considered a team. Maybe even a family. 

Little did you know, you were not the only one haunted by the tower’s quiet halls. It had been a long day of moving things in, and despite being physically (and mentally) exhausted, you just couldn’t bring yourself to fall asleep. It was all so familiar, and yet it had none of the comfort nor familiarity that the compound had. 

You quietly walked over to the kitchen from your bedroom, making yourself a cup of herbal tea in hopes of feeling a sense of peace in the quiet night. You go through the motions, grabbing a mug and turning the electric kettle on, resting your chin in the palm of your hand, leaning against the counter top as the water boils. That’s when you heard it; the sound of whimpers, barely noticeable over the rumbling of the boiling water. At first you ignored it, but they progressively grew louder and deeper, like sobs. 

Once in the hallway, you can pin down exactly which room it’s coming from; Bob’s. Tentatively, you open the door. He’s thrashing around in bed, trapped in an unpleasant dream. You cross the room to gently put a hand on his head, the familiar thrums of something reckless and wild, something you are all too familiar with. 

Gently, you squeeze his shoulder, to try and get him out of his head. “Bob?” You whisper, eyes roaming over his face to see if it’s working. For a split second, you see his eyes rolling under his eyelids rapidly. You decide to shake him, your voice getting a little bit louder as you try to wake him from his nightmare. 

“Bob!” Your tone is a tad firmer, but it seems to do the trick as his eyes immediately shoot open, hands coming up to grab your throat. 

You heave and gasp, before using your powers to stop him, the lavender haze surrounding your hands to take him off you. As you regain your breath, you cough a bit, throat aching with the pure force that he put onto you. This seems to break Bob from his trance, as his eyes immediately soften. 

“I-I am so sorry! I didn’t- I was having a-” You shake your head. He shuts up immediately, expecting for you to chew him out the way he’s seen you do to Walker and Alexei a couple of times. He looks down at the floor, ready to be admonished like a child, but instead you speak quietly.

“Want some tea?” Your voice is a little bit gravelly from the pressure that had just been applied there, but you clear your throat and it already sounds better. Bob opens his mouth, then closes it, opting to nod wordlessly. You nod towards the door, and together, the both of you walk to the kitchen just in time for the kettle to finish boiling. You take it off of its power base and grab another mug from the cabinet, pouring you each a cup. 

The both of you sit in silence as you sip the tea. It’s not tense, nor is it particularly warm, but it is a truce, one of stability and comfort to end what was a long day. 

~ 

Bob isn’t really sure how to handle nightmares. In the night, the void infects his brain with horrific imagery, when nobody is around to help him. He tosses and turns, trying to find some rest but is only greeted by his mind playing his worst memories, reminding him of all his present anxieties and all the terrible things he’s done to the people who’ve only ever shown him kindness on some sort of sick and twisted loop. 

When he finally decides to give up on sleeping, he climbs out of bed, his pajamas sticking to his skin just like the guilt he feels for his useless existence. He doesn’t expect anyone to be awake, you all train early in the morning and go to sleep early in the night, but once he walks down the hallway, he’s surprised to see you. 

You’re curled up with a book, sitting cross legged on the couch, a blanket tossed over your lap. Before he can even consider going back to his room to wallow in self pity, you sense his presence immediately, head flicking up to make eye contact from across the room.

“You’re up.” You say simply. It’s a blatant observation.

“I- uh. Yeah. I am…” He blunders. Something about your presence is both comforting and terrifying. Maybe it’s because he’s seen you control other people with the flick of your hand, as if they were puppets on a string. But seeing you here, now, uninhibited by having to fight for your life and save the world, simply reading a book on the couch? It’s jarring. It reminds him that you, like him, are just human. 

“Had a bad dream, so…” You nod in understanding, closing the book and placing it on the coffee table. 

“Do you want to be alone, or..?” Bob shakes his head. 

“No. Stay.” He says before he can even think through his words. If you notice how much he tenses at the thought of being alone, you don’t mention it, simply beckoning him to sit on the couch beside you. He obliges, the space between you both feeling treacherous, fidgeting with his hands.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” You ask gently. You’ve never been one to push, he thinks to himself. 

“It’s nothing you haven’t already heard before.” He looks down at his hands. Your face twists slightly as you stare at him, then you get up, grabbing the tv remote from its place on the stand.

“Then a distraction would probably be better, huh?” You turn on the tv, flipping through the channels until you eventually settle on some random nature documentary about birds in the rainforest. Not very engaging, but it’s steady. Quiet. Soothing. You move a bit closer, tossing the blanket over his lap as well as your own. He feels his spine slowly decompress and he melts into the couch already feeling incredibly more at ease with you beside him.

The documentary is enough to lull his hyperactive mind into a state of rest. As he drifts off, his body starts to slouch, his head coming down to rest on your shoulder. You freeze at first, unsure of what to do or if you should move him, but ultimately you do nothing. You stay. His presence is warm, despite the void that you know is in him. 

The next morning, Yelena is up first. She runs her hands through her blonde locks and then she stops, stumbling upon the sight of you and Bob on the couch. The tv is still on and playing some different documentary. The blanket you both are sharing has begun to slip off your laps. She tilts her head at the sight, her eyes filling with something fond before turning off the tv and leaving you two alone.

~

By the time you hit the two month mark of living in the tower, the two of you have established a routine for handling Bob’s nightmares. You’re an insomniac, he’s learned, so it’s always highly likely that you’re awake when he is awoken in the middle of the night. Depending on how bad the dream is, your guys’ routine changes; tea when he can’t really remember it, watching tv or reading him a book if he needs a distraction. He also gets special permission to go into your room. 

The nightmare wasn’t as bad today, but Bob couldn’t help but feel pissed off. He was tired, and yet every time he tried to sleep the void came back to him. He begrudgingly walks across the hallway to your room, knocking gently before walking in. 

Surprisingly, you are actually trying to sleep. You're tucked under the blankets and your head is facing the opposite wall of the door. He almost leaves when he notices, not wanting to bother you, but you turn your head and offer him a sleepy smile. His heart stutters in his chest and he finds himself walking over, just by looking at you.

“Come.” You lift up your duvet and scoot over a little, offering him solace in the warmth of your own bed. He blinks, hesitant, but eventually gives in, climbing into bed with an awkward grace that is unmistakably his. The two of you lay in silence for a little, your body angled facing him, before Bob speaks up.

“I’m so tired…” Despite your own exhaustion, you recognize the desperation in his tone. 

“…I could help you.” 

“How?”

You bring your hands up in between both of your heads, the purple haze surrounding your hands once again. 

“I can make you go to sleep? If that’s okay?” Bob hesitates. The idea of you being in his mind, willingly, fills his stomach with butterflies. You’ve already seen the void, and you’re still here. He trusts you more than he’d like to admit. With the nod of approval, your hands hover over his head. You close your eyes. 

Bob watches as the familiar lavender color drifts from your fingertips and surrounds his mind. At first, his hands instinctively grab at the sheets. He anticipates pain, but instead is greeted with the feeling of your hands, gentle as always, fingertips grazing his warm skin. His mind is then instantly flooded with something he can’t quite place.

Instead of the usual cold emptiness he feels from the void, your powers invade his brain in a warm light. It’s a stark difference from how he was feeling just a couple of seconds ago. You’ve completely surrounded his mind and body with an all encompassing spark, and for once, he feels at ease. You are so familiar. 

After muttering something he can’t quite catch, you take your hands off his forehead, his head nearly chasing it, just craving your touch. He’s left with a sense of content he’s never felt before. He feels a little bit hazy, reminding him of that feeling he got in the past when he was high on whatever he could get his hands on, only now it’s not accompanied by the paranoia; He just feels sleepy. 

You watch as his eyes droop, his body language completely different from how it had been just a mere couple of seconds earlier. Adjusting the blankets around you both, you move closer so that your head leans against his shoulder. 

“Sleep well, Bobby.” 

As he drifts off, he realizes that the nickname that his father had taunted him with all those years ago sounds just like a lullaby coming from you. 

~

Somehow, the day didn’t end when you went to sleep- Well, tried to. 

Despite your usual insomnia, you found yourself actually winding down tonight. Everything had been going well too; The mission you and the new avengers went on had gone smoothly, you got home early and were able to take the most luxurious shower of your life, Yelena had made you all dinner, and you stayed up having good conversations with the rest of the team with no fighting. By the end of the night, you had felt good enough to go to sleep. It was the making for the perfect end to an all around awesome day. 

Until it wasn’t.

When sleep finally overtook your body, you were met in the depths of your mind. It started off just like a dream would…until the colors became devoid of life, and faces of people began to blur. You could physically feel the terror of people’s minds you had hijacked in the past. Their fears are now yours. You know you’re asleep, and you know that what you’re feeling isn’t real, but you can not bring yourself to wake up. Your body is trapped under what feels like two tons worth of weight on your chest, and you swear you can see something, someone? Just watching you. 

You awaken in an uncomfortable sweat, your body shooting upright pretty much immediately after your sleep paralysis episode. Hastily, you toss the covers off of you, welcoming the bite of the cold air. 

It wasn’t real. It isn’t real.

You rub your fist into your sternum, it hurts, but you keep pressing harder and harder until you’re sure that the phantom weight is gone. That’s when you hear a soft knock on your door, followed by the quiet creak.

“Y/n?” Bob calls out from your doorway. When he takes in your state, he lets himself in the rest of the way. You won’t mind anyway. He doesn’t bother asking if you’re okay; he can tell just by looking at you. 

“What are you doing here?” You ask, voice weak and shaken from what you just woke up from. He walks closer and takes your hand away from your chest, and gently squeezes your wrist, before letting it fall back to your side. 

“Something felt…wrong.” He doesn’t know how to elaborate without feeling like a creep. He knew that something wasn’t right with you. He just had to come and check up on you. Your jaw tenses and you avoid his gaze. Rather than make tea or distract you, he sits on the edge of your bare bed, hesitating for a moment before opening his arms. A silent offer. 

Your body moves before your mind can protest the action, and you sit beside him, leaning into his embrace. The warmth of his body is immediately welcoming and you can’t help the way your body naturally relaxes, wrapping your own arms around him. He rests his chin on your head before speaking again.

“Can I ask what it was about?” His throat vibrates against your skull, and you dig your fingers into his cozy blue sweater even more. 

“Wasn’t just a nightmare. I could feel them.” You whisper. “The people I’ve hurt. Their fear. Like I was trapped in their minds while I was taking over them…” You shake your head and push into his chest slightly. He doesn't move an inch, just squeezes your body again in encouragement. 

“I couldn’t wake up. I tried.” 

“I’m sorry. It couldn’t have been pleasant.” You shrug in response, eyes heavy with exhaustion. He lets the silence settle before he helps to get your duvet back on your bed. He helps you get settled, making sure you’re comfortable. 

“Don’t go…” You mumble. Bob softens at the words, nodding. He’s not going anywhere. He crawls under the covers with you, making himself comfortable in your bed once again. Unlike usual, he is the one to close the space between you two. As you begin to fall asleep, he looks like he wants to say something- instead, he presses his forehead to yours. 

“Goodnight.” He whispers, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. 

“Goodnight, Bobby.” 

He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t need to. Not tonight. 

~

A/N: Rereading this made me realize how often I used semicolons…apologies everyone.

[mw00nie]

older boyfriend nanami headcanons

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A/N: i have exams soon so i have lots of ideas to write so i'm posting as much as i can rn 😭😭 also these contain some nsfw

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older boyfriend!nanami who always adjusts his pace to match yours. whether you're walking down a busy street or folding laundry side by side. He’s not rushing anywhere when he's with you. Being present with you is the point.

older boyfriend!nanami who folds your laundry exactly the way you like it. even your silly socks. even your oversized tshirts. he’s meticulous and thoughtful, and you didn’t even ask him to do it.

older boyfriend!nanami who keeps track of the smallest details: how you take your tea, what skincare products you’re running low on, that one book you said you wanted but never bought. He doesn’t announce it. You just find things quietly replaced or added to your shelf.

older boyfriend!nanami who doesn’t mind being teased for being a little bit of an old man. You’ll call him grandpa for drinking herbal tea before bed or sighing when he sits down, and he’ll just raise an eyebrow and say, “And yet you still insist on keeping me around.”

older boyfriend!nanami who keeps one of your hair ties around his wrist even though his hair is short. says it’s “just in case,” but you’ve never actually seen him use it. You catch him playing with it absentmindedly during meetings.

older boyfriend!nanami who calls you “darling” when he’s tired and his guard is down. It slips out like second nature; warm, low, reverent.

older boyfriend!nanami who always makes sure you’re walking on the inside of the sidewalk. It’s instinctive, not performative. If you switch sides by accident, he’ll gently guide you back with a hand on your lower back, no need to comment on it.

older boyfriend!nanami who sends you articles and short stories during his lunch break that “reminded me of you” sometimes it’s thoughtful, sometimes it’s hilarious, but every time it’s his way of saying I’m thinking about you.

older boyfriend!nanami who reads to you in bed when you’re too tired to focus. voice low and steady, thumb rubbing slow circles into your thigh as your head rests against his shoulder.

older boyfriend!nanami who doesn’t raise his voice when he’s upset. His anger shows in restraint. longer silences, slower breaths, the way he closes his eyes for a second like he’s trying to steady the weight of what he feels instead of letting it lash out.

older boyfriend!nanami who apologizes when he’s wrong. sincerely, without ego, and who listens when you’re upset. even if he’s tired. even if the day was long. You matter more.

older boyfriend!nanami who listens when you talk about your day. actually listens. Not just nodding along, but making thoughtful comments, remembering coworkers’ names, and offering advice only if you ask. Sometimes he just says, “That sounds exhausting. I’m proud of you for handling it.”

older boyfriend!nanami who takes his time undressing you, piece by piece, like every layer is a gift. You get the sense that he doesn’t see it as just getting you naked. it’s about revealing the parts of you you trust him with.

older boyfriend!nanami  who is very aware of his size, not just in height but everywhere. He’s careful, unless you ask him not to be. And when you do? His restraint crumbles just a little. He’ll fuck you slow but deep, jaw tight, voice strained with want.

older boyfriend!nanami who is unexpectedly vocal in bed. low praise, soft groans, breathy murmurs of “just like that” and “you’re doing so well.” Always with a hand somewhere on your skin like he’s grounding himself through touch.

older boyfriend!nanami who isn’t into degrading or overly rough stuff, but dirty talk? Soft filth murmured into your ear while he’s deep inside you? Absolutely. “You’re taking me so well.” “You don’t even know what you do to me.” “I’d give you anything.”

older boyfriend!nanami who fucks you with his whole body, not just his hips. His arms around you. His lips on your skin. One large hand holding your jaw gently while he kisses you deep and slow like he’s reminding you (and himself) that you’re real, and his.

older boyfriend!nanami  who prefers intimacy over performance. He’s not interested in theatrics. he wants to feel you, slow and deep, with your hands tangled in his, your breath on his neck, your voice in his ear.

older boyfriend!nanami who’s very composed most of the time, but the second you take control, straddle him, or kiss down his chest, that composure cracks. his voice gets breathier. his grip on your hips tightens. you see the restraint unraveling in real time.

older boyfriend!nanami who gets possessive in subtle, understated ways. he doesn’t say “you’re mine” in bed, he shows it in the way he touches you like you're sacred, the way his voice deepens when someone else flirts with you, the way he fucks you slow and deep like he’s leaving something behind.

older boyfriend!nanami  who loves aftercare. loves wiping you down, pulling you into his arms, holding your hand against his chest. He’ll murmur, “You okay?” with his lips at your hairline, and doesn’t fall asleep until you do.

older boyfriend!nanami who takes his time during aftercare. he wipes you down with warm towels, gets you water, runs a bath if you're too sore. he massages your thighs, kisses your forehead, and holds you close with his arms tucked protectively around your waist.

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[kannouo]

Feeling Faint

fandom: obey me pairing: demon brothers x gn!reader warnings: drug mention in satan's part, emetophobia in asmo's part summary: the brothers reacting to an mc with low blood pressure and hypermobility. prompt by anon: hihi! would you write obey me brothers headcannons where the mc has medical issues-but in the sense where they'll be like "oh yeah im gonna pass out rq give me a minute" after standing up, and like hypermobility so they just over extend their joints unknowingly and its more likely to break? just a stupid idea i thought of bcuz clearly if it concerns some humans it would freak out demons A/N: ofc I can do that — to add to the hcs, i went with the idea that the medical issues are caused by low blood pressure and added some other symptoms. i kept the hypermobility and did a bit of research but i didnt go too in-depth in these hcs for fear of getting anything wrong. i dont struggle with either of these things personally and am in no way an expert, if i did anything seriously wrong please let me know!!

LUCIFER

• ...Concerned.

• So, Demons are by no means impervious to illness. But the types of conditions that plague demonkind are much different to what humans experience. A human cold would have no effect on a demon, but a demon cold could outright kill a human — to impact their immune systems, the illness has to be a particularly strong one, you see. Due to this, I imagine none of the brothers have much experience with how truly fragile human bodies can be.

• In preparation for the exchange program, Lucifer had, of course, changed a lot of things around the House of Lamentation to be more human-friendly. He did his research, too. Plants that are harmless to demons but extremely toxic to humans were removed. The literally boiling temperatures that the water in the house could get to was taken care of. He made sure that all food stocked in the fridge and cabinets was safe for human consumption. The entire place was essentially baby-proofed to guarantee as little injury as possible.

• What he didn't predict or account for was that your own body could be working against you.

• The first time you stand up too fast and nearly collapse, he assumes you've fallen ill and asks you repeatedly to give him a rundown of everything you've eaten and everywhere you've been just to make sure he didn't accidentally leave some kind of cursed item out. Is so confused when you explain to him that this isn't a temporary affliction, and it's just something you deal with all the time.

• Not sure if he initially believes you when you tell him it isn't a big deal.

• He obviously does his research and calms himself down. Learns it isn't life-threatening and takes care to note down any treatment options you might need.

• That, and he's surprisingly calm about your hypermobility. If he sees you over-extending your joints without even realising, he points it out quickly and tells you to stop. "I know it feels normal, but it isn't."

• Predictably a stickler about if you're doing strengthening exercises or taking medication if you need any. Every morning, whether you took your medicine or did the necessary exercises is the first thing he asks you, and he cannot be lied to. If you don't set an alarm, he'll be your alarm.

"Good morning, MC." You nearly jump right out of your skin hearing Lucifer's voice as soon as you turned to close your bedroom door. You spin around, but before you can ask how he just appeared without making a sound, he continues, "did you finish your stretches?" You look at him. He looks right back at you. After a beat too long of silence, he sighs and gestures to your bedroom. "Back inside. Do it properly." "Yes, sir."

MAMMON

• Another concerned guy, but... less knowledgeable. The first time you nearly stumbled to the ground out of nowhere he, for just the slightest of moments, thought you'd dropped dead for literally no reason. Scariest fucking millisecond of his life.

• Especially with your hypermobility, Mammon would somewhat struggle to wrap his head around the concept of something that can't just be cured. It can be treated, sure, but you can't get rid of it? Like at all?? I thought you guys had doctors in the human world???

"So you just... deal with this for the rest of your life?" "Mammon, it really isn't that big of a deal." You say, trying in vain to reassure him. He's been staring straight ahead with his elbows on his knees and hands clasped in front of his face for a few minutes now, and you're worried he's having some sort of crisis. "It doesn't even affect me that much in my day-to-day life. It's treatable." "But, like..." He sighs exasperatedly and places his head in his hands. "For the rest of your life, though?"

• Initial confusion aside, he never quite gets over the initial panic he feels whenever you become faint, dizzy or nauseous. No matter how chill you are about it, he makes sure to balance you out with pure blind panic.

• Not that he's any better with your habit of over-extending. Unlike Lucifer, who calmly and politely reminds you to relax your joints, Mammon will freak out at you and ask you how in the fuck that doesn't hurt and even be convinced you've broken something if you're extending far enough.

• On that note, if you do actually break something, he's probably the first one to know because of how he hovers around you 24/7. Expect to never be left alone ever again.

• He tries to remind you to do stretches or take your medicine, but the problem is that he forgets that stuff too. He'll bring it up on the rare occasion that he does remember and then pester you into doing it, raving on and on the whole time about how you're hopeless without him here to tell you what to do.

LEVIATHAN

• Like I said, demons don't really get conditions like this. Their bodies and immune systems don't function the way humans do. And that's lucky for him too because, if they did, this guy would be deficient in things we don't even have names for yet.

• But, he's a demon and therefore immune to these human ailments. LMAO sucks to be you.

• Levi is another one who has a panic response. The difference between him and Mammon is that he can logically understand that your conditions aren't life-changing and that they're easily treatable and that he doesn't have to worry, but the illogical part of his mind takes charge in situations where he experiences you feeling the effects of your medical issues.

• You can absolutely talk to him about your treatment plan and the way your low blood pressure and hypermobility impacts you without him freaking out about it. He listens and understands just fine. But then he actually sees you dealing with fatigue and headaches or with your elbow in a weird position and all logic goes flying out the window.

"Your arm's broken." You turn your head at the sound of Levi's voice. His eyes are wide, his entire body stiff in shock, but the way he said it was so matter-of-fact that for a moment you believed he must be right. You look down at your arm, elbow stretched a little too far forward to be normal. "Your arm's broken!" You fix your arm's position, but before you can inform Levi of the misunderstanding, he's already pacing around his room. "W—what do I do?! How'd you break your arm by sitting?! M—my medical dramas didn't prepare me for this...! Oh no, oh no, oh no, Lucifer's gonna kill me... W—wait, that's it! Karon, call Lucifer—!" "Levi stop, don't—"

• While you weren't hurt that day after all, you're about 70% sure that Levi's frantic phone call to Lucifer claiming that you'd broken a bone nearly gave him whatever the demon version of a heart attack is.

• Would really like to imagine himself as the sweet, romantic type who could catch you when you're about to collapse and carry you off to bed. The problem is, though he probably can catch you before you fall, he'll then realise with horror your close proximity and ends up dropping you to the ground in a fluster anyway. He's not built for the anime romance life.

SATAN

• I was going to reference the "chill guy" meme here but realised that Satan is the complete opposite of a Chill Guy.

• Still though, he is overall the most reasonable about this when he first learns about it.

• Also, unlike Levi, he is literally the protagonist of a romance manga. He will catch you in his arms before you fall, lovingly brush your hair out of your face and ask if you're hurt. He's just built different. And he practices this kind of shit in the mirror.

• He'll probably ask you about the specific kind of symptoms you experience. It's likely he's read some obscure book on human illnesses, so he has nothing but good intentions; he's asking to see if he can recall or look for anything written in those books that can serve as remedies. The only problem is that they aren't written by humans.

"I recall reading that fairy dust can be used to ease pain in human bodies, and even as a source of medication in the past." You give Satan a puzzled look. 'Fairy dust'? Used to ease pain, a source of medication?... There's no way he's referring to what you think he's referring to, right? You stare at him for a moment longer. He stares right back, returning your quizzical expression with his own, as if he didn't just say the most disorienting thing you've ever heard. "Like..." You start, tentatively lowering your voice. "...Drugs?" "What? No. Actual fairy dust. Are you insane?" You feel like that raises way more questions than drugs.

• That's not to say he's unwilling to learn. If you tell him his information is outdated or straight up inaccessible to humanity, he'll listen to your explanation of your treatment process and do more research in his own time.

• He will also frequently remind you to do your stretches and exercises and take any necessary medicine. If you have a routine for your exercises, he'll probably actually join you in them. He sits around reading all day, he probably needs it, his fucking back man.

• Like Lucifer, he will calmly but pointedly tell you to stop over-extending your joints when he catches you doing it.

ASMODEUS

• Also relatively normal about it because, out of all the brothers, he's had the most experience with humanity outside of sorcerers and witches. I don't think he's particularly knowledgeable about this sort of thing, but he is at least aware that it exists, and of the simple fact that the human body can be afflicted by many different things.

• You mention the hypermobility to him and he doesn't really... get it at first. "Oh, I'm flexible too! ♡" he says, then you nearly dislocate your shoulder in front of him and it finally clicks that this isn't cool or sexy. He understands eventually, don't worry.

• Maybe a hot take here but I honestly can't imagine Asmo as squeamish. So if your low blood pressure gives you an upset stomach, he has no problem holding your hair back as you throw up in the bathroom. He gets shitfaced drunk with his club friends every other night. It's probably nothing new to him.

• Asmo is a naturally very comforting presence when he wants to be. He has plenty of remedies for lightheaded-ness and pain relief that he's more than willing to share with you. That, and he's one for words of affirmation, so he turns to praising and reassuring you through the whole process.

"You poor thing. Humans really are fragile." Asmo coos, affectionately threading his fingers through your hair as you slowly sip the peppermint tea he prepared for you. "Hopefully you'll feel better by tonight. I would hate for you to lose out on your beauty sleep." "Sorry," you hoarse out, throat scratchy and raw. You feel disgusting, your stomach still spinning in circles and your body covered in a thin layer of sweat. He frowns at you. "Don't be silly. You didn't choose for this to happen, did you?" He kisses the top of your head and smiles. "Don't worry! Asmo's here to make you feel allll better."

• Joins you in doing your stretches/exercises too, but his motivations are a little different from Satan's.

• Like Mammon, if you do actually injure yourself, Asmo is unlikely to leave you on your own for a long time afterwards. Throughout your recovery, he'll insist on being your personal nurse, and even after that, he'll continue to hover around you as you go about your daily business. This causes him to butt heads with Mammon who does the exact same thing. Whether this is annoying or entertaining is up to you.

BEELZEBUB

• "It's because you aren't eating the right things."

• I don't necessarily think Beel would be dismissive or wilfully ignorant, but there is literally a part in the OG game where he claims that the reason humans are so physically weak compared to demons is because they don't eat enough, and don't eat the right things. At first, this is absolutely what he'd think is causing your issues.

• The reason you randomly feel light-headed or like you're going to faint must be because of how starved you are. Here, he got you an entire pizza.

• Obviously, he will learn with time. But his fixation on this being hunger-related can actually come in handy for your low blood pressure if eating salty snacks can help make you feel better. He's always got something on hand.

• When it comes to your exercises, he also won't realise initially that it's exercises and stretches specifically designed to help with your condition and not just a general workout similar to what he does. He'll try to give you tips, but it's some Saitama-level training bullshit. He's not super familiar with just how much weaker human bodies are compared to his own.

"MC?" You lift your head at the sound of your name being called, your eyes landing on Beel in a black tank-top. By the way his hoodie is nowhere to be seen, you assume he's dressed for a workout. "I'm going for a run. Do you want to come? It might be good for you." "A run?" The idea of a quiet jog all alone with Beel crosses your mind. You're sure he only intends to help you strengthen yourself, but there's nothing wrong with turning it into a little romantic outing, you think. "How far?" "An easy 700 miles should be fine for a warm-up—" "Never-mind."

• Until you tell him to stop, he has a habit of not telling you when your hypermobility is making your joints stretch in unnatural positions, but instead just silently fixing it himself. He'll take your arm and re-position it to rest normally.

• Also, no need to worry about injuries with this guy around. It won't happen. He reacts faster than you can even process. You suddenly feel dizzy one day and nearly fall right down the stairs, only for him to grab you by the back of your shirt and very unceremoniously hold you in the air like that.

• You appreciate it, but you'd appreciate it even more if he could pick you up with any amount of dignity.

BELPHEGOR

• Similar to his twin, he has his own initial assumptions as to what's causing this.

• "You should just sleep more." And to be fair, sometimes sleeping it off does help with the more nauseating symptoms, but it really isn't useful advice for when you need to start on your stretches in the morning. Sleeping won't magically make your bones stronger.

• He's the least likely to be around enough to prevent any injuries if you get any, but he is pretty good for the recovery period. He's just about as much of a stickler for you getting the proper amount of rest as Lucifer is about you doing your exercises. Plus, given his powers of sloth, he can send you to sleep with a single touch and give you pleasant dreams to help you through any pain or nausea you may be experiencing.

• Not gonna lie, I feel like Belphie is a little freaked out whenever he sees you over-extending your joints. He won't voice it or anything, but he does find it creepy. Asmo's hyper-flexibility is already unnerving to him, so seeing you bend your joints in ways that cannot be normal is something he can't look at for too long.

• Don't crack your knuckles in front of him, he will think you just broke both of your hands and is horrified.

• He won't join you in your stretches but he will watch you do them and critique from the side-lines like an asshole. I love him I swear.

"Your back's not straight enough." You look over your shoulder at the sound of Belphie's voice. He's looking at you, exercise reference sheet in hand, the rest of his body still firmly tucked into bed. You swear you feel your eye twitch. "How about you fucking do it?" Admittedly, the balancing exercises had already taken a bit out of you, so your patience was thinner than normal. He didn't seem offended, given that his response was to yawn dramatically and turn over. "Too tired."

• Lowkey, and this is a little mean so only if you're up for it... use your condition as a ploy to get out of things. Pretend to faint in the middle of gym class and he'll so kindly volunteer to take you to the nurse's office himself. Act like your joints are in a lot of pain on a day where you have to take a test and ask Belphie to stay home with you because he's the best for your recovery.

• It's not like Lucifer can accuse you of pretending, you literally have diagnoses, asshole.

[enhaeil]

UN-THINKABLE ! ☆ 박종성

"moment of honesty..someone's gotta take the lead tonight, who's it gonna be? i'm gonna sit right here and tell you all that comes to me...if you have something to say, you should say it right now.."

un-thinkable - alicia keys

c/w: situationship to lovers!jay, suggestive, angstish.. fluff.

✩ ₊˚

the night's gone soft as you sit on jay's leather couch, material suddenly feeling hot against your skin.

he's leaning back, hands clasped, gaze locked on you. no sense of urgency on his end, just quietness. waiting.

you'd been dancing around this for weeks. it felt like longer.

the glances that linger too long, the late-night hookups, the conversations that felt too intimate. the way he can find you even in the most crowded rooms, looking at you like he knows something you haven't even admitted to yourself yet.

it's almost too quiet, if it wasn't for the hum of the TV.

"i... don't know what you want me to say." you finally mumble.

"you don't have to say anything you don't want to," he starts. "but i'm not gonna keep pretending i don't want you."

he's not angry, yet his words carry weight. your chest tightens again, eyes wandering everywhere but in front of you.

"you think i don't see how scared you are?" he says softer. "that every time we get close, you pull away?"

he leans foward, elbows resting on his knees.

"i'm not scared, y/n. i've already made my mind up about you."

this sentence hits the air like a confession. almost makes you physically flinch. you attempt to laugh it off, not letting the weight of his words affect you.

"i'm not what you want, jay." you say, eyes focused on your freshly done manicure. "trust me."

he blinks, slowly. but you don't miss the way he shifts in his seat.

"how do you know what i want?"

you fall quiet again. he's right. but did he have to say it like that?

he lets out something between a laugh and a scoff. "i know exactly what I want. and it's you."

you finally meet his eyes, after what felt like days of no eye contact. he doesn't seem upset, or even annoyed with you. he looks at you like you're carrying the world in your hands and heaven between your thighs. and you kind of like it.

"jay ..." you start to say, yet nothing else comes out.

"if you're gonna break my heart, do it now. but if you're ready, come here and show me." he leans back comfortably as if he were okay with whatever option you chose.

after a few moments of silence, your feet move on their own, hesitantly making your way towards the couch jay sat on. he welcomes you with open arms, your body finding warmth in his lap.

it isn't rushed, it isn't frantic. he holds you for as long as you need to be held, a silent vow towards you.

minutes pass, just like that. neediness does eventually fill the air, tension becoming thicker. your kisses linger on his neck, enough to make him exhale through his nose.

you pull back, eyes landing on the light marks you made on him as if he were a canvas.

"can i touch you?"

your breath catches. not because you're surprised at the question, but because of how he asks. like he's not asking for your body, but for you.

"jay..." you whisper. "you don't have to ask. we've done this before."

"i do. and i will every time, until i know you mean it." his hands still rest on your waist, waiting for your permission.

your lips part, as if you had more to say, but your words get stuck in your throat. that's when you finally nod.

"yeah," you whisper. "please touch me, jay."

he exhales, hands finally moving across the body he's learned so well, one hand sliding up your back, and the other landing on the side of your neck.

he kisses you, deeply. not rushed, but purpose with every movement.

that night jay touched you like it was his first time, as if you'd disappear if he did too much at once.

the kind of touch that reminds you that he sees you. he wants you. and he's never been afraid of you.

a/n: ok i wont write any non requests UNTIL I FINISH SOME REQUESTS. I GOT TOO MANY. i just had to get this out my system i fawkin LOVE THIS SONG. also i need to write abt another member for once. i see some sunghoon asks

[mattslvrxo]

hi everyone— over the past few days, i’ve been pretending to be friends with our “favorite” liar, @dollysturnioo (now known as @sturniolosdoll ). as many of you are aware, @nickssidewitch already made a post addressing this situation and raised several valid points about the dishonesty from these “NDA” accounts. but, the only person i got close to was dolly. our interactions began after a small, insignificant exchange in her comment section, which led to her dming me directly.

if you don’t know dolly, she’s been claiming that she’s secretly dating chris sturniolo and that she’s under a non-disclosure agreement (nda) that prevents her from talking about it publicly. but almost immediately after messaging me, someone she didn’t even know, she started revealing private details that she supposedly isn’t allowed to share. if you’ve actually signed a real nda, that kind of behavior is not just irresponsible—it could be a legal violation.

on top of that, she’s also made claims about matt sturniolo having a secret girlfriend, as if she has insider knowledge on their private lives. but again, these are serious accusations with no actual proof—just vague statements meant to make her seem more connected than she really is.

CONVERSATION IN HER COMMENTS:

as shown, our conversation was more humorous in tone. i played into the role of an overdramatic, emotional girl whos obsessed with matt as a joke (but i totally am obsessed lolll)

THE DMS:

this is where i formed the idea: become her “friend” and get information. i asked her to be moots, which eventually opened the door to a potential friendship.

DOLLY TALKING TO ME ABOUT DATING CHRIS:

which was odd to me because in the public comments (screenshot provided), she explicitly says she won’t answer any questions regarding whether she’s dating one of the triplets. yet, less than 10 minutes into our conversation, she tells me she’s dating chris. this is especially strange because she claimed she signed an nda—a legally binding agreement preventing her from disclosing that kind of information for six months. it makes absolutely no sense for her to reveal that to someone she barely knows, especially within a day of speaking online

NDA TALK:

here, she confirms to me directly that she signed an nda. regardless of whether that’s true, anyone genuinely bound by an nda—especially someone over 21—would understand how serious it is not to share that kind of confidential detail with a stranger online.

(referring to the triplets by saying clones)

INSTAGRAM INFO:

as we continued talking, she gave me a brief description of what she looked like..

while the description wasn’t very detailed, she did mention having blue hair—which isn’t super common—making it relatively easier to narrow her down. i spent about 30 minutes combing through chris’s following, mentions, etc. i sped the video up 100x since i couldn’t upload the full length, and i’ll include the clip below:

i blurred parts that could show my profile pic or my mutuals’ handles, but as you can see at the top, i’m going through chris’s following. not once did i find a plus-size girl with blue hair. it’s possible she doesn’t have instagram, but from what i saw, no one fitting that description is followed by chris.

MATT AND CHRIS BEING APART OF THE LGBTQ COMMUNITY AND NICK NOT BEING “COMPLETELY GAY” :

during a conversation about kinks and preferences, she said this:

this immediately struck me as off—there’s never been any indication that matt is a part of the lgbtq+ community. we all know him as straight. that comment alone made me question everything:

as you can see she also claimed that nick has slept with women, yet in this clip from one of their reaction videos: https://mega.nz/file/Xixy0Sxa#nl8deY6Aswttl7w1fr7IM_Wo4ZE--exOn322O4CQnSQ

(I put it as a MEGA link because I cannot add more than one video from my camera roll in this blog post ) he literally says he wouldn’t date a woman and even mentions not wanting to touch a woman at all. she did say that he would not date a woman, but she did mention him having like sexual contact with a woman. 

side note: just because she have the boys' “permission” to tell their sexualities to ppl doesn't mean that she SHOULD

MATT AND CHRIS BOTH BEING INTERESTED IN DOLLY:

she also claimed that she hooked up with matt at some point:

also, in this screenshot which, the person who provided me this will stay anonymous: https://mega.nz/file/TiIgkJhR#pbcPz0zX3scb8nkHiJrln9pqLU230AOak75ysMbLD5g

the account that claims to be matt says that theyre basically all in a poly relationship that includes: dolly, loopie, matt, and chris.

however, in their reading fanfiction pt. 2 video: https://mega.nz/file/OnwnkJxY#Lw5mQy9mBdJJRevtPEsp2HygeYHGYjeMOenIyUxE0ek

chris says he would never be interested in a girl who’s had any kind of involvement with matt.

so if she did hook up with matt, and now claims she’s with chris—and on top of that still says she adores matt (which she told me directly)—none of it makes sense.

ENDING NOTE:

lying about being under an nda isn’t just suspicious—it’s legally risky and potentially dangerous. ndas, or non-disclosure agreements, are binding legal contracts. if you actually sign one, breaking it can lead to serious consequences like lawsuits, fines, and long-term damage to your reputation. and if you’re lying about having signed one just to make your story seem more believable, that’s not only manipulative—it disrespects the real legal boundaries that people in the public eye actually have to deal with.

pretending to be in a relationship with someone and claiming to have signed an nda as “proof” is a major red flag. it shows a complete lack of understanding of how serious and private that kind of agreement really is. ndas are in place to protect reputations, careers, and private information—not to be used as props in lies to get attention online.

whoever is behind this account needs to understand that this isn’t just harmless gossip anymore. it’s misleading, it’s manipulative, and it’s disrespectful to both the creators involved and the fans who genuinely support them. at this point, the inconsistencies are overwhelming. multiple people have come forward with undeniable proof that this person is not who they claim to be, and it’s becoming clear that the story they’ve built is based on lies.

if the person behind this account has any respect for the people they’re talking about—or even just a sense of accountability—they should step forward and admit the truth. because continuing to lie when the evidence is stacked against you won’t protect you forever. it only makes the fallout worse when it finally comes.

——————————————————————————

taglist: @birlemsbae @elianamattlvr @sagesturns @adoreyousturniolos @sturnizolo @chrissturnslovergirlx @slvt4chrissturniolo @sturniolo-szn2 @matts-girlfriend @chrispleasure @sturns-mermaid @loverrgirl3 @chrisspussygang @kait123456789876543 @sturnsiolos0 @chrissv4mp @auttysturnz @chrizfavlilslut @chrissonnyangel @mattsweethart @mattsmatcha @mattscumdump @sturnitup @sturnshood @coolasice01 @munchingmini @sturniologlaze @sturnswiftie @sturn-baby05

[vicolette]

Model Run !

– A/N : gen how do I come up with this

– Warnings : English isn’t my first language, mentions of y/n, reader has NO shame lol, suggestive jokes, flirting, not proofread

"Uh, excuse me?"

The trio went quiet at the sound of an unfamiliar voice, making Hector turn his head around to face a girl around his age, holding a hoodie up in one hand and her phone in the other.

"Yeah?" He raised an eyebrow as he wondered what she could possibly want from him, seeing how she was looking down for a second before her gaze went up and back towards him, when she suddenly examined how he looked like.

"How tall are you?"

Silence. A pin could be heard being dropped, if there were even any pins in the store, as Hector furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. Lamine, who stood beside him, snickered before he said a small apology, whereas Pau accidentally let out an exhale resembling laughter.

"Uhm… like, 1.85 meter… why?" In response, you nodded your head and looked back down at your phone screen and firstly now did he realize that you were messaging someone, only getting more confused.

"And your size?" Hector pretty much choked on nothing at the question, to which Lamine nudged him hard with a big grin, making him rub his elbow before wondering what you had meant.

Just then, Pau rolled his eyes at the two teenagers and got behind Hector, checking the size of the shirt that he was wearing. "XL, why?"

"Oh, great!" You sounded rather enthusiastic about the new information as you held up the plain white hoodie up, making Hector notice that you had tons of other stuff being held by your arm. "Could you please try this out? My brother wants something like this, but I don’t know if it will suit him."

Oh, Hector parted his lips in realization, having thought that you must have been crazy for randomly walking up to him and ask such stupid questions – or you were an odd fan, now it makes sense...

"You guys cool with that?" He turned around to face both of his friends, seeing how Pau mindlessly nodded his head, whereas Lamine rolled his eyes and frowned, before he got an idea.

"Only if you give us a model run!" He stated proudly, making Hector facepalm before he faced you again. It seemed like you truly wanted him to try them on, so it couldn't be that bad, right?

It was that bad. Worse, than Hector had ever thought.

His expression showed one of displeasure while Lamine was laughing with tears in his eyes, wanting to take pictures, yet you thankfully stopped him.

"Can I make some adjustments?" A mere nod was all that you got as a reply, yet it was enough to confirm his permission. So, as you approached him and carefully rolled his sleeves up, you couldn't see the way his cheeks were heating up in embarrassment.

One step back, and Hector had already missed your warmth – the way just the close proximity between the two of you had hugged him like an embrace – it was ridicilous. And his friends were seeing this and living the moment.

"Wow, how handsome, right?" Pau teasingly called out, not being to stop himself. However, when you nodded in response and smiled at Hector, Pau could only cough a bit as to hide his laughter.

"Can you try the last one out, too? Pretty please?" He awkwardly nodded his head and looked at the other clothes that you had handed him over, entering the small dressing room once again, all while hearing Lamine compliment him a little too loud. He knew their plan.

They were so obviously trying to embarrass him.

Hector wanted to bang his head against the wall – or mirror, since he was facing it – but instead, he decided to let out a heavy exhale and take the jacket off alongside with the shirt. As he took a moment calm his racing heart down by not moving, his face was getting hotter by the second.

This was humiliating.

While trying on a navy blue pullover with a white blouse underneath, Hector overthought about every single choice he had mede in life that brought him here. He should've cancelled, should've said 'no', should've never become friends with such devils.

Whatever. As long as a (pretty) girl was watching, everything else was fine.

Nonetheless, once Hector stepped out once again, he could feel both your enthusiasm and the shame returning to him by meeting Lamine's gaze.

"Go, Hector! Give us a model run!" Surprisingly, or maybe unsurprisingly, the said person was actually quite good at walking like a model, having a semi neutral expression on as he approached you three. "Woohoo!"

"Can you guys be-"

"My standards are too high now." A chuckle left from your mouth as you shook your head, the sentence making Hector facepalm before he sadly blushed and raised an eyebrow in confusion.

"If my brother doesn't look good in them, then it's your fault."

"Oh." Lamine snapped his head to face Pau at Hector's answer, who let out a shaky breath and looked down to the floor, struggling to keep his laughter as silent as he possibly could. "I'm sure he'll look... uh, fine."

"Not as fine as you." You not-so-innocently tilted your head to the side, knowing damn well that you were shamelessly flirting with a professional athlete, but how could you resist? You weren’t blind – the way he was acting was proof enough that he was shy.

Now, as you watched how Hector struggled to come up with an answer, you looked at him up and down to see if it would fit your brother, then taking your phone out.

"Gimme your number. I'll send you photos of whether or not they'll suit him."

You both – or rather four – knew that you wouldn’t send him a single photo of your idiotic older brother wearing some random clothes.

Hector took his phone out, when the realization firstly then hits, quietly groaning under his breath at how flustered he was getting under your spell. But who was he, if not Hector – the oh so flirty, handsome guy?

"Make sure to send me them as soon as possible."

"Will do."

– A/N : 1.85 m = 6,06 ft 11,465 in (my Keyboard did this idk if it’s true), also idk what his clothes size is. Thisissocorny

[moon-fics]

Tan Lines

Pairing: Bob Floyd x Reader

Summary: After a long day at the beach playing football, the squad decides to take a break.

Warning: Just a tad bit suggestive

A/N: I might make this into a part two...

Sweat drips down your back and chest as you sit on the cold, sandy ground. The sun is barely peaking out from the ocean as it sets. Your muscles are sore, but it only gives you a sense of satisfaction. The smell of salt and the stinging in your eyes is a welcoming feeling.

You glance to your left to see Bob, Hangman, Rooster, and Phoenix. They're all staring off into the water. You can tell they have a lot on their minds, but there's a deafening silence that you don't want to break first.

"So, do you guys think we'll get the mission done?" Phoenix speaks up. This elicits a groan from Rooster, who would rather discuss anything else. You still haven't figured out his deal with Maverick.

"Of course, we'll get it done. That's why we're being trained," Hangman scoffs. "It's the getting back part you guys should worry about," He chuckles.

"'You guys'?" Bob repeats while leaning over to look at Hangman. He's glaring through his glasses, and you notice Rooster doing the same. Hangman is impossible to have a nice conversation with. He'll boost his ego the entire time. "Last time I checked, we're just as good as you."

"Did you never check?" Hangman retorts. This is enough to get Phoenix and Rooster standing. They take a few steps into the ocean to avoid the conversation. You're betting it's cold and refreshing.

You decide to join them and let your feet step into the wet sand. The water washes past your ankles, and you are right. It feels like heaven after sweating for hours.

You turn around to see Bob still sitting away from the shore. "Are you coming?" You ask. He stumbles over words you can't hear before standing. He cleans his glasses on his shirt, which only smudges them more.

He follows after everyone but stops next to you. Phoenix and Rooster have already entered the ocean. Hangman has decided to head back to the bar without a word. Maybe his confidence needs a drink to bring down.

"I bet we're all going to be burnt to shit tomorrow," You strike a conversation. You can feel your skin becoming irritated with the amount of sun you've gotten. "At least we'll have some good tan lines," You shrug.

"Oh, I already have those," Bob chuckles. You remember Phoenix saying he was from Leemore base. You've only seen him in uniform or wearing a t-shirt. So, you honestly can't tell if he does. "We would do drills in the heat. Now, they're just kinda there," He explains.

"I don't see any." He glances at you and realizes his tan lines aren't viable.

"Oh, uh, yeah," He mumbles. He reaches for the hem of his shorts and pulls down less than an inch. He's as white as a ghost under his shorts compared to above them. You're stuck staring at the different skin tones, only to realize you can see his stomach. Your mouth falls open at how toned he is.

You can see veins and abs as clear as day. The lack of sunlight doesn't do it justice. It's embarrassing how much saliva fills your mouth. You pry your eyes away and focus back on his face.

"I see it now," You confirm with a laugh. He shyly smiles and goes to fix his shorts. "I'll show you mine tomorrow as a trade,"

"I doubt it'll be anything like mine," He jokes. You want to tease him back, but you're stuck thinking about his body. You shouldn't be having flashes of his stomach, but here you are. It's all you can think of as you stand next to him. You never really thought of Bob that way, but now you are. Sure, he was handsome and sweet. You just never imagined he was so ripped.

Everyone in Top Gun has muscles because if you don't, what are you doing here? But, you could probably eat food off of Bob's abs.

"Everything ok? You're staring at Phoenix pretty hard," Bob waves a hand in front of your face. You're snapped out of your own mind and reminded that Bob is right next to you.

"Oh, yeah, I was just making sure she doesn't drown." You lie. It's a bad lie but it's enough for Bob.

"Then, I'll watch Rooster." He crosses his arms and makes a serious face. His eyes are trained on Rooster like a hawk. "Can't risk letting a chicken drown," He tries and fails at his own joke.

You find yourself laughing anyway. You don't understand why you're heart rate is elevated, because you've never felt this way around anyone in the squad. It hits you hard that you've possibly developed a crush on him. Somehow, your idiotic heart has decided now is a great time to cling to someone. Days before a mission that has so many factors that could go wrong.

"About what Phoenix said. Do you think the mission will go ok?" You look over at him. If you want comfort, Bob is the best place to go. He's more sensitive than everyone else. He's always there.

"Yeah, I have my trust in everyone here," He shrugs. He just shrugs as if that isn't an important answer. Yes, you trust anyone you go on a mission with. You have to to get shit done. Yet, he's saying it as if it's a default for him. "I trust you the most,"

"Me? Why?" You blurt out. You are not building a good case for yourself.

"I can predict your fly patterns the most. I don't pilot, but I can tell Phoenix what you'll do next." You can hear your brain grinding its gears and your heart pumping blood in your ears. You know he only meant that as a compliment, nothing more or less.

"I suppose that's a good thing," You respond. "If I had to choose who I'd fly with on this mission, it would be you and Phoenix."

"Oh, I'm glad Phoenix wasn't discarded," He laughs. "It would be horrible if I were in the back seat with no pilot."

"Oh, then I wouldn't trust you for the life of me," You snort.

You want to say more, but something in your chest says to let it simmer. You keep your mouth shut and your eyes on Phoenix and Rooster. They're both enjoying the water as the dark of night covers the sky. In a few minutes, the stars will come out and the moon will shine.

You're excited to walk back to base with just the moonlight. It'll give you more time with him.

[last-words-ofashootingstar]

helourrrrrr, hehehee can i please have yunho with dialogue 121, and kinks 211 ans 216?

➯a/n: gaaasp omg you absolutely can😩 216 is so diverse, so many options for how to do it so i hope this way is okay aaaah yuyu with a pee kink you've infected my brain !!!!

Thirsty

❥Jeong Yunho x fem reader

121: "one more for me, i know you can do it"

✈︎queued for: tue 20th

(>ᴗ•)genre: smut

ಠ_ಠwarning/content: nasty dom yunho, use of toys, 211 overstimulation, licking sweat, hickeys, 216 piss kink (in the form of hhhh drinking it-), pet names (sweetie, love, good girl), yunho in grey sweatpants is a warning of its own tbh, some aftercare whoop whoop

♡masterlist !♡

18+.MINORS GO AWAY.

✦ .

"Don't tap out on me yet, sweetie~" Yunho chuckles from above you, slowly rubbing a hand up your side.

It's hard not to. You've already came three times, and you're still in a very compromising position.

With Yunho's knees holding your legs to the bed, his hand holding a vibrator to your swollen and sensitive clit, and his eyes never leaving you — you're this close to tapping out when you look down and catch a glimpse of his undeniable bulge in his sweatpants. He looks like he's about to rip the seams, and it's making you dizzy to see how clearly he's enjoying making you tremble and sweat. He's leaking so much pre-cum that there's a wet spot on the grey fabric.

"Fuck, fuck—" You wail, back arching off the mattress. "I can't! I can't," your words come out in heavy pants.

Your body is on fire, it feels like. There's absolutely no way you can cum again without passing out. Your entire cunt is buzzing, leaking so much that you're sure the towel underneath you is all for nothing and you've soaked the bed.

All he does is smirk down at you — until he starts moving the vibrator in slow, agonizing circles. He bites back a laugh at the way you sob, his own breathing as heavy as yours as he watches you grab the blanket with a death grip to try and ground yourself.

He gets off on making you squirm; and squirm you do. Your body unsure of where to go, what to do with the overwhelming pleasure. Stuck somewhere between trying to get away and trying to get closer.

"One more for me," he hums as he leans over you, licking up the drop of sweat making its way down your neck. "I know you can do it." He starts sucking on your already marked up neck; making you whine and fidget even harder. "Come on, be my good girl and give me what I want~"

What he wants is to wreck you beyond belief, and he's getting closer with every second.

"I-" You squeeze your eyes shut, slapping the bed as the burning knot in your gut grows hotter with his lips on your throat; his tongue lapping up the droplets on your heated skin. "I'm gonna pee- ah!"

In a second flat, he's moved down to face your weeping cunt — his tongue immediately buried inside of you.

That must be what he was waiting for, because now he's not being gentle with the circles on your puffy clit. He's pressing the intense vibrations into you harshly and making quick movements.

Yunho has his fair share of kinks, and drinking your piss is on that list — as well as you drinking his.

You can't even yell you're so overwhelmed with sensations, you can only fist the blanket and tremble as a mind and body numbing pleasure washes over you and drowns you.

And he almost drowns in you, gulping up every drop of your release and your pee like you're the last source of hydration on the planet; tossing the toy aside to lap at you in your entirety. He almost cums in his pants whenever you slump down with a pathetic whimper of his name.

It's almost a sense of accomplishment when he sits up after giving you a final, slow lick and sees the state you're in. Completely ruined and on a whole new level of fucked out on his bed.

"What a good girl for me~"

His words make you twitch, feeling around blindly for him with your eyes still closed. He straddles you quickly, wrapping his arms around you with a somewhat cocky smile. "Are you alive in there, sweetie?"

"Mmh," you moan in response, still breathing like you've ran a marathon as he rubs your shoulder to bring you back to Earth. "I w-" Your words die out in your throat as you stutter, and he chuckles at your pout.

"Take it easy, love," he says with a kiss to your heated cheek, "just breathe with me."

It takes you a few minutes to come to your senses, and you blink a few times as you open your eyes to look at him.

He's still staring at you, though this time a bit softer as he strokes your cheekbone with his thumb. "You okay?"

"Mhm," you moan more coherently than before, leaning into his touch as you trace your hands down his sides; landing at the waistband of his sweatpants and tugging at it.

"Thirsty, sweetie?" He smirks as he quickly moves to rid himself of his pants.

He could propose to you then and there as you open your mouth and stick your tongue out, your eyes still blurry and filled with stars.

"You're so perfect."

✦ .

[freelancelobotomy]

GRAVITY PART 3 NOWWWWW

︻デ═一 CAVITY [S.R]

ೃ⁀➷ SUMMARY: Your ex-boyfriend’s murder plot is foiled by Spencer Reid. Now you’re trying to cover your tracks while figuring out if you can still trust the man who saved you (And wants you).

⋆·˚ ༘ *CW:  Angst, guns, murder, kissing, death, slightly gorey details about death. ༊*·˚A/N: PART 3!!! Can be a standalone but if ur a little confused read part one and part two. If this gets 100 notes ill do part four lol also working on a part two for the other fic that I wrote like a week ago also gonna make a masterlist finally okay bye bye

Everyone thinks they know how they want to go. Peacefully, in their sleep, like the other 99% of the population. You’ve always accepted that death might come sooner—car crash, stroke, some genetic landmine waiting to go off especially because of your job—but none of that scared you.

If that’s how you went, then so be it.

But you refuse to die at the hands of your psychotic, moronic ex-boyfriend.

You slowly rise to your feet, hands raised behind your head, a defeated sigh escaping your lips.

“Alex—”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Alexander, don’t do this.” You whisper it, your voice trembling now.

“Shut the fuck up and keep walking,” he hisses into your ear, the heat of his breath making your stomach churn.

You walk. Slowly. Toward the door. Your mind races. Do you let him take you to a second location? No. He said—promised—he’d kill you once he got out. So what is it? Die later? Or die trying to get away from him?

A faint click behind you. He’s cocked the gun. But its oddly quiet.

“Keep. Walking,” he growls, voice flat, cold, and final.

Your legs move. You hate that they do. Your body is in full self-preservation mode, choosing survival over pride, over logic, over resistance. He marches you behind the motel. The gravel crunches underfoot. A dingy white van looms ahead like a hearse in disguise.

Your carriage to the end.

Alexander groans behind you, something desperate in the sound.

“Shut up for a second! I can do this!” he snaps—at himself.

You catch his reflection in the van’s driver-side window. He’s hitting himself. Driving the heel of his palm into his own eye socket. Over and over.

What the hell is he doing? Is he hallucinating? Did he have a schizophrenic break from prison? Psychotic episode?

“I got her for you, isn’t that what you wante—”

You don’t let him finish. This might be your last chance. You swing your leg back hard, lodging your heel into his groin Hard.

He yelps, folding slightly. You spin to grab the gun—but he grabs your forearm, twisting it savagely. You scream, then retaliate with your free hand. One punch to the face. Two. A third—

He doesn’t drop.

He rams the gun into your chest and slams your body forward into the van’s door. The impact knocks the air from your lungs. Your cheek is pressed to the window. You brace for the shot.

And then you see it. In the reflection.

The tip of Alexander’s gun.

It’s orange.

And behind him is Spencer.

Real gun raised. Finger on the trigger.

BANG. A headshot.

His body drops to the ground and stiffens almost instantaneously. Not a sound from him, just silence and the thick heady scent of blood. Your feet are a pinkish-red. It’s probably his brain matter. Whatever it is... its warm. Bile rises to your throat.

You don’t scream. You don’t move. You’re frozen— Eyes locked on Alexander’s corpse.

“Y/N!” Spencer’s voice cuts through the ringing in your ears. He’s running to you, panic in his eyes. “Are you okay?”

You sniff, a sob caught somewhere between your chest and throat. Your vision’s swimming. Nothing makes sense.

“What the actual fuck…”

“Hey. It’s okay. He can’t hurt you again. He’s gone.”

“Spencer…” you whisper. Your voice cracks. You glance at the body—then down.

Your foot nudges something beneath him.

The gun.

The fake one. Orange tip glinting under the motel floodlight.

Spencer follows your gaze. His eyes go wide. He kneels. Looks at the toy. Then back up at you.

Shit.

“Wait here,” he breathes, already turning.

He jogs off toward the motel. You don’t know what to think. Your pulse is still crashing in your ears.

Is he leaving? Is he going to frame you for this?

You want to believe he wouldn’t. You want to trust him. But why would you? He left you once. Years ago. Vanished without a word.

What’s stopping him from doing it again?

But then he returns.

Two guns in hand. One wrapped in a crinkled plastic bag from the motel’s ice bucket.

It’s your gun. From your drawer.

“He came into your room,” Spencer says, breath short. “Took your gun. Lured you out here to kidnap you. And I stopped him. Okay?”

You nod. Fast. Your whole body’s shaking now.

He grabs Alexander’s stiff hand, pries it open, and presses your gun into it. Wrapping his fingers around the grip. His index around the trigger. Forcing contact.

“Fingerprints,” he mutters. “That’s all they’ll need.”

Then Spencer tosses the toy gun into a metal trash can behind the van. It clangs, plastic echoing against metal. A hollow, ridiculous sound.

He plants your real gun in Alexander’s dead hand.

Police sirens wail in the distance—still faint, but getting closer.

You and Spencer walk to the motel lobby.

Your hands find each other’s without words. You sit in the plastic chairs by the vending machines. Sticky floor underfoot. Too much light.

You wait.

Together.

It took the police fifteen more minutes to arrive.

Spencer flashed his FBI credentials and delivered a clipped, practiced version of the story. He didn’t embellish, didn’t dramatize—just enough to sell the facts.

You were there. The gun was yours. The threat was real.

They take you both to the station for questioning.

You’re not stupid. You ask for your lawyer. Spencer does too.

The questions are basic. Run-of-the-mill. The detectives don’t press too hard, probably because Spencer is still technically one of them. Or maybe they see how shaken you are—how your hands won’t stop trembling. How your voice won’t come out when they ask if you need water. You did take them up on their offer to let you wash the gore off your feet though.

So you say nothing. You listen to your lawyer. You keep your eyes on the table.

They let you go.

That night, the police drive you back to the motel so you can collect your things. Everything feels distant. Fuzzy—like you’re watching a blurry movie. Dissocociatively going throught he motions.

You push open the door to your room.

Jiji is curled up on the bed, fast asleep.

He lifts his head when he hears you, purring like nothing ever happened.

“Mrow,” Jiji purrs.

“Jiji…” your voice breaks. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

You stumble to the bed and collapse onto your knees beside him, pulling him into your arms. He’s warm. And soft. Innocent.

You’d forgotten him.

Spencer was right. You are a bad cat mom.

No—worse than that. You’re a bad person.

You were an accomplice in a murder mill. You got your ex-boyfriend killed. You dragged your first love—your only real love—into a web of blood and lies. You can’t do it anymore.

It’s only a matter of time before someone connects the dots.

You clutch Jiji tighter.

You have to find Spencer. Give him Jiji—whatever his real name is. He should be returned to his rightful owner, at least.

You stand, turning around and there he is.

Spencer, standing silently in the doorway.

You jump.

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, raising his hands. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I, uh… I came for my stuff.”

You gently put Jiji down.

Then you cross the room in two stumbling steps and collapse into Spencer’s arms, burying your face in his chest.

“‘M so sorry,” you sob, the words muffled by his shirt.

“Don’t apologize.” His voice is calm but firm. He lifts your face in his hands, his thum wiping a stray tear from your cheek. “What happened isn’t your fault. At all. You’re hyperaroused right now—your brain is stuck in fight-or-flight. Seeing someone die… especially like that—someone trying to kill you—you’re traumatized. Your brain doesn’t know how to process the overload, so it’s trying to simplify it. By blaming yourself. Through guilt by means of control.”

“Yeah, but… I made you kill someone.” Again, you think, but don’t say.

Spencer’s jaw tenses. He looks down at the floor, his breath shallow.

“You didn’t make me do anything. He hit you. I saw red.”

His gaze finds yours again—slow, deliberate.

“I’d do anything for you, Y/N. I promise.”

You search his face. You want to believe him. God, you need to.

Your gaze flickers to his lips. One of his hands slides from your cheek to your hip, his thumb rubbing back and forth.

“I promise,” he echoes, softer now. He leans in and kisses you.

Slowly and Intentionally. No hesitation or fear, just…want.

You kiss him back. Your hands move instinctively, clutching his shoulders, pulling him flush against you. Your hands trembling, the adrenaline from earlier in the day still coursing through you.

You feel so guilty that you’re choking on it. Bile burns your throat. What have you done? You wanted this—so badly. Once. But that was a lifetime ago. Before the comitee. Before blood. Before tonight.

You still want him now. Of course you do. But this could go so wrong, so easily. You’re lying to him. You're lying with omission, with your hands, with your silence. But what other choice do you have? Prison?

You begin to laugh—soft at first, then shaky and sharp—right against his lips.

“What?” Spencer pulls back just enough to look at you, brows furrowed with concern.

You drop onto the motel bed, the laugh escaping again, jagged at the edges. He sits beside you.

“Today is the stupidest fucking day,” you say, wiping your face with the back of your hand. “I got held at gunpoint, abandoned my cat, and—” you gesture vaguely between you two, “—kissed the guy who took my virginity after he shot my ex.”

Spencer lets out a breathy chuckle. “Normal Sunday for me.”

You smack his chest with the back of your hand. He pretends to reel from the blow, dramatically collapsing backwards, right onto Jiji.

The kitten hisses, writhes out from beneath him, and bolts to the other bed, glaring murder.

“Oh my God,” you gasp through a snort.

Spencer raises both hands. “I’m sorry, Sergio.”

That does it. You laugh—really laugh—and it feels wrong and right at the same time. Like your body doesn't know if it should be crying or hysterical, so it’s doing both.

Spencer stands. His expression shifts, a sudden gravity returning to his features.

“I’m heading back to Vegas,” he says. “Ethan’s funeral is in three days.” A pause. “Let me take you home.”

You sit there a moment, staring at him. Letting the words sink in.

Home.

You think about the job. The suicides. The chandelier. The coworkers that aren’t alive anymore.

All loose ends—tied. Well. Except Spencer.

But he suffered a brain injury. He doesn’t remember what happened. Not all of it. And he literally killed for you.

So maybe he’s the safest loose end there is.

“I’ll get my stuff,” you say, standing.

This will be interesting.

Tags:

[iheartcake123]

si-eun x f!reader

based on this request: Hello, please can you make one about Si-eun ending her relationship because she doesn't want you to get hurt, she says hurtful things to you, her friends tell her to tell you the truth because they broke up❤🥺🙏

warnings: none

Masterlist

si-eun sat across from you at a small table in the corner of the café, his usual calm demeanor replaced with something darker, more distant.

“so, what should we order?” you looked up at si-eun trying to liven up the dull mood. it felt like you were waiting for something bad to happen.

the way his eyes avoided yours made the air between you feel suffocating. you could already feel the tension.

"i think we should break up," he said then said, his voice tight, barely audible above the quiet hum of the café.

the words hit you like a slap, but it wasn’t just the suddenness that stung. It was the way he said them. as if he were stating something inevitable. something that had been decided long before you even walked into this café.

when you opened your mouth to speak, no words came out. instead, you just stared at him, waiting for some kind of explanation, something to help you understand what was happening.

si-eun sighed, running a hand through his dark hair “i can’t have you in my life right now. you’re not good for me”

your heart clenched at the words “what do you mean? where is this coming from?”

"i’m talking about how you care too much, i don’t want you dragging me down- you’re too weak. so, we’re done” his voice was cold and distant as his eyes cut through you like dagger.

the words sliced through you, each one more painful than the last. weak? he thought you were weak? you weren’t weak. you’d stood by him, supported him through everything, and this was how he was going to end it? with a few words that crushed your heart under their weight?

“i don’t need your pity or your excuses si-eun” you whispered, your voice trembling “you don't even care about how much this hurts me, do you?"

he didn’t answer. instead, he stood up and walked away, leaving you with nothing but the empty, bitter feeling of being discarded.

the next few days were a blur of emotion—anger, confusion, heartache. you tried to understand why he’d done this, but no matter how many times you replayed the conversation in your head, the words didn’t make sense. weak? you weren’t weak. and you sure as hell didn’t drag him down.

the more you thought about it, the more his words stung too much, and you couldn’t just ignore them.

then, came the knock on your door.

you were surprised to see that it was his friends. jun-tae, gotak and baku. they were also kind to you and were fully supportive when you were with si-eun. but it was confusing why they were visiting now that you weren’t with him.

youu let them in, trying not to show how much you were hurting. they followed you to the dining room and you got some snacks for them.

“y/n. we need to talk” jun-tae said gently, sitting down across from you.

he pushed his glasses up his nose as the two beside him started digging into the snacks.

"about what?" you asked, your voice still hoarse from the crying.

"i-it’s about si-eun" jun-tae began and he then cleared his throat before nudging baku.

“oh right.” baku quickly swallowed the food in his mouth and then spoke loudly “you see. the cutie, he didn’t want to break up with you. he didn’t want this to happen”

your breath caught in your throat as soon as he said those words “then why did he say all those things?”

baku let out a sigh and gotak then spoke up.

“because he’s an idiot. he thought if he pushed you away, that you’d be safe from the chaos that come with being close to him” gotak had a soft expression.

"yeah, he doesn’t want you to get hurt. he thinks that by pushing you out of his life, he’s protecting you from the dangerous people after him” jun-tae now added “he thinks you’re better off without him”

your heart skipped a beat. you’d always known si-eun was carrying a heavy load, but to hear his friends confirm it. it didn’t make the pain any easier to bear. but it made sense now, in a way.

“is… is he okay?” you asked, suddenly worried “he just—he looked so distant, so cold when he said it. i thought that i meant nothing to him”

baku shook his head, his eyes softening with sympathy.

“si-eun doesn’t know how to express what he feels, especially when it comes to you. he cares about you more than anyone else, but he's terrified of putting you in harm’s way. you’re the only thing that’s kept him from going completely off the deep end. but he doesn’t know how to protect you without pushing you away” baku explained.

your mind was busy, you didn’t know what to do with all this new information. you couldn’t just forget what had happened. the hurt was too fresh, too raw. but at the same time, you couldn’t deny how much si-eun meant to you.

you knew that whatever world he was caught up in, it wasn’t one he could escape easily. but you also knew that running away wasn’t the solution.

you had to try.

his friends gave you his location so you found him. alone in his usual spot by the old bridge, his head down, shoulders hunched as if he were trying to become invisible.

"si-eun” you called, your voice shaking.

he froze, his entire body going tense. slowly, he turned to face you, eyes wide, guilt written all over his face. he opened his mouth to speak, but you stopped him before he could say anything.

“stop. si-eun, you were right about one thing. that i care too much” you said, taking a step closer “but you were wrong about everything else. i’m not weak. i can handle whatever this is. i just need you to be honest with me. i just need you believe and trust me. you’re all i care about and i want to share your burdens so that you’re not alone. i know you think i can’t handle it but, i can. as long as you’re by my side. i love you si-eun. i always have and always will”

his eyes softened, and for the first time since that painful break-up, you had your si-eun back.

“im so sorry, y/n you don’t understand” he whispered “i never wanted to hurt you.”

“i know” you said quietly, stepping up to him “i know. but, we’re in this together. don’t shut me out. i’m not leaving you. not now, not ever.”

si-eun’s eyes glistened, and he pulled you into a tight embrace. For a moment, neither of you said anything. there was nothing more to be said—just the feeling of being close again, of mending the rift that had almost torn you apart forever.

“i love you y/n. so much” his arms didn’t let go of you and in that quiet moment, everything felt right again.

you were together, and that was all that mattered.

[luvendiary]

breaching sunlight / f. g. weasley

summary: you could always count on fred to be like sunlight in your life. even when hogwarts seemed to be eternally overcast by a certain pink devil. warnings: not proofread. no use of y/n. 2k words. inspired by that one scene where fred and george are being super cute and console a younger student.

“What’s your name?”

Was the first thing you heard once you escaped Umbridge's office.

It was a quiet whisper. Not directed at you, but to someone else entirely down the corridor. 

You didn’t dare show your face yet. Not with your cheeks still damp and blotchy, your eyes puffy and your nose red from crying. Tears you’d held back until you were well out of her line of sight.

“Michael,” came a much smaller voice in reply. A boy — younger, no older than a second year by the sound of it.

“It’s going to be alright,” said another voice. Older and steady. George.

“Yeah,” came Fred’s voice next. “It’s not as bad as it seems. See? Ours are already fading.”

You stood hidden behind the wide stone column, one hand clutched tightly over your chest as you tried to regulate your breathing. You couldn’t let them see you like this. You knew they were waiting for you.

You heard Michael sniffle again — a tiny, wet sound. It cut through you like a knife. It made you want to punch that awful toad in the throat. It made you want to hug the little boy, tell him he did nothing wrong. 

“The pain stops after a while,” said George.

Michael sniffed again. “Does… does it always hurt that much?”

There was a pause.

You leaned closer to the stone.

Fred answered. Softer this time. “First time’s the worst.”

With a deep breath, you decided to reveal yourself. You inhaled deeply, before exhaling. You wiped your tears off your face and put on a smile before stepping out.

The sound of your shoes against the rock floor, made their heads snap up at you. You just smiled and raised your arm, showing them your newly acquired scars.

Fred stood up, quietly meeting you halfway, whilst George stayed crouched next to Michael.

“Do you think you’ll be able to sneak in a proper bomb in her tea without her noticing?” you asked, trying your best to sound humorous. 

“I’ll see what we can do about that,” he said as he ever so gently grabbed your arms to inspect it. You felt his eyes trace over the words carved into your skin.

I must not be a brat.

You felt the way his grip briefly tightened around you before loosening again. 

You stared at George and offered him a small smile along with a wave of your left hand — the one left unoccupied by Fred.

He and Michael both waved back. 

“You alright love?” George asked.

You just nodded, but a quiet sniffle made it past. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Fred didn’t press you on that — just gave your arm one last careful squeeze before letting go. He tilted his head slightly, eyes scanning your face with that unreadable expression he wore when he was trying to make sense of something he didn’t like.

You just smiled, a tight lipped smile, up at him. 

He got the message. Even though he didn’t like it one bit. There was nothing he could do, not without a visit to the toad’s office of his own. Instead, he just placed his hand on your lower back and gently led you to the others.

You settled on the cold stone bench beside the others, the only sound echoing through the corridor being George’s encouraging words to the younger boy.

It made your stomach turn. Just a few months prior, these same corridors would have been buzzing with energy. Even Peeves seemed to not be in the mood for anything anymore. 

“What’d she get you in for?” Fred asked, breaking the silence as he stood beside you.

You exhaled slowly through your nose, the smile on your face faltering.

“I snapped,” you murmured, eyes fixed on the floor. “She said the Ministry’s wasting money funding the permanent care ward at St. Mungo’s.”

That seemed to get George’s attention as well.

“She said it right in front of Neville too,” you went on, voice taut and low.”

You paused, knuckles white where your hands were clasped tightly in your lap.

“And when I told her she was wrong,” you added, jaw tightening, “she called me a brat. An attention seeker. Said I was just trying to cause trouble.”

Everyone remained quiet for a moment, and you felt tears spilling over your eyes once again. You stood up sharply, anger flooding through your veins. Your head replayed the scenario, going over every other possible wretched and horrible thing you could’ve said to her.

You faced the opposite wall, your body shaking with anger as you tried blinking the tears away. 

“Merlin, that woman… she deserves Azkaban,” you mumbled, your voice breaking slightly as you bit your nails.

Fred was quiet behind you.

You didn’t turn to look at him — couldn’t — not with your eyes glassy and your hands trembling like that. The silence stretched out, thick and heavy, until the only sound was the soft scratch of your nail against your teeth and Michael’s sniffles a few feet away.

You flinched when you felt the faintest brush of fingers against your sleeve. His hand slipped down slowly until it found yours.

Your fingers had been at your mouth again, nails raw where you’d been chewing without thinking. But Fred’s fingers gently curled around yours, coaxing your hand down. He didn’t say a word, just held it quietly.

“Hey,” he murmured.

You didn’t turn.

He didn’t ask you to.

For a long second, you stood there, you facing the wall, him just barely close enough to feel the warmth of his arm against yours. His thumb moved once, brushing over your knuckles, careful not to go over the freshly carved scars. Though they seemed intent on doing so, you could feel his gaze wandering lower —taking them in. Wanting to brush his thumb over them to make sure you were okay. 

Then, barely above a whisper, he spoke again.

“How long were you standing back there?”

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat thick and unmoving. You shook your head a little, still not looking at him.

“I’m fine,” you said again, soft and too hollow to sound true.

Fred didn’t challenge it.

He just held your hand a little tighter.

After a moment, you turned your head just slightly, your eyes fixed somewhere far off down the corridor.

“How’d you know?”

His voice was low. Gentle. “I didn’t.”

You knew in true Fred fashion, a smirk was trying to make its way past his lips like it always did when he outsmarted you in some way. Though he held off for your sake and this particular situation. That didn’t stop  you from throwing a small glare his way, one that didn’t hold much power, because the simple sight of him looking at you with those pleading eyes disarmed you.

“I didn’t know for sure,” he clarified, voice quiet. “Just though I heard you.”

Crying. He didn't say it, but you knew that's what he meant.

You huffed a breath — half a laugh, half a sigh.

“I waited,” he added, softer still. “Just in case you wanted to come out when you were ready.”

Your grip tightened slightly around his fingers.

Fred nodded, once, just enough to let you know he understood.

Then he leaned back a little, shoulder resting against the stone wall beside you, still holding your hand. His thumb moved again, slow and thoughtful.

Neither of you said anything for a while.

“I’d say she deserves being trampled by Buckbeak,” George said, breaking the silence. “Wouldn’t you?”

A chuckle escaped your throat as you turned around to face him. “Or eaten by Thestrals.”

“Maybe the mermaids in the Black Lake would be interested in taking her for a swim,” Fred added, which made Michael laugh for the first time since you'd met him.

You let yourself breathe. One beat. Then another. The tension started to ease, just slightly, from your shoulders.

Fred glanced at you again, just for a second. And then he bumped your shoulder, gentle and deliberate.

You laughed softly once again and just tilted your head a little closer toward him — not quite leaning, but not quite not — and let that count for something.

George was still keeping Michael distracted with his increasingly ridiculous suggestions for Umbridge’s demise, when a sharp ahem echoed down the corridor.

Everything went still.

You didn’t have to see her to know.

You just knew.

The air felt heavier, colder, and yet somehow cloying, like you’d stepped into a cloud of cheap perfume.

You turned your head slowly — just in time to see Dolores Umbridge standing at the end of the hall. Her eyes scanned over the group like she was surveying insects beneath her shoe.

She cleared her throat again. Louder this time. Demanding attention.

You immediately stood straighter and moved.

Your steps carried you to Michael without thought. You planted yourself in front of him, shielding him from her sight with your body. You didn’t speak, didn’t glare, just stood there.

Fred and George flanked you without needing to be asked.

“Well,” Umbridge finally said, smiling so sweetly it made your stomach churn, “it seems I have stumbled upon a little gathering.”

No one answered.

Her smile never wavered.

“Naughty children,” she said softly, voice feather-light and utterly revolting, “must be disciplined. It's the only way they ever learn, after all.”

Still, you said nothing.

Umbridge's eyes fell on you for a moment longer than the others — almost like she was expecting you to speak up again. To bite back.

But you didn’t.

Finally, with a satisfied little hum, she folded her hands in front of her robes and said, “I believe it's nearly curfew. Best you all run along to your respective dormitories… before any of you make another unfortunate choice.”

She turned with a flounce, disappearing down the hall, the echo of her heels lingering long after she was gone.

“You know George,” Fred spoke up after a second. “I’ve always felt our futures lay outside the world of academic achievement.”

George chuckled, his gaze still pinned on where Umbridge had been standing moments before. “Fred, I’ve been thinking exactly the same thing.”

The days that followed felt like wading through mud — slow, heavy, and utterly exhausting. With Umbridge’s suffocating presence blanketing the school, it was as if every student at Hogwarts carried their own personal dementor, draining the life out of them bit by bit. Even the professors weren’t immune to the gloom. McGonagall, normally rigid and unsparing, had begun turning a blind eye to late assignments and overlooked detentions.

Umbridge was everywhere.

Or at least, it felt that way.

To escape the depressive atmosphere, you buried yourself in your OWL preparations. Every free moment was spent studying, revising, memorizing, anything to keep your mind from wandering. If you filled every hour, every breath, with work, then there would be no room left to think about how miserable everything truly was. The goal was simple: be too exhausted by the end of the day to feel anything else.

And you managed it. So well, in fact, that you barely noticed the twins slipping away more often than usual. You didn’t catch the way they whispered in corners or exchanged glances across the common room.

Then came the exams. And that was when everything finally boiled over.

The Great Hall had been transformed: desks arranged in long, even rows, spaced precisely beneath the enchanted ceiling, which mirrored the leaden skies above. The air was thick with tension. Quills scratched across parchment like hissing whispers. The only other sounds were the rustle of paper and the relentless ticking of the large brass clock at the head of the room.

Umbridge stood at the front like a bad omen, arms crossed tightly beneath her horrid pink cardigan. Her ridiculous bow sat perched on her head like a ribbon slapped on spoiled meat. She paced back and forth, her heels clicking sharply across the stone floor, each step as grating as her presence.

You were halfway through a particularly difficult theoretical question when a loud, thunderous explosion rang from outside the Great Hall’s enormous doors.

Heads shot up.

Then another sound. Another explosion.

The hall was filled with murmurs then. Quills loosely hanging between unsure fingers.

Umbridge stiffened as she crossed the hall towards the great doors. Her heels echoing on her trail.

Another bang. Then a sizzle. Then what sounded unmistakably like cheering from somewhere beyond the doors.

Then, the doors slammed open with a thunderous bang that echoed off the high stone walls.

And in they came.

Fred and George Weasley — streaking through the air on broomsticks, red and gold fireworks trailing behind them like comets.

The hall erupted.

Fireworks shot in every direction — serpentine rockets looping and spiraling across the high enchanted ceiling. You ducked instinctively as a firework zoomed overhead, shaped like a Chinese Fireball. It exploded midair in a flash, releasing a burst of glittering red sparks.

Fred flew low between the rows of desks, scattering parchment and ink bottles in his wake. George followed, pulling a string of enchanted fireworks from his satchel and tossing them high into the air. They exploded in a synchronized display.

Once you looked up, you caught Fred’s gaze —and he winked along with that stupid, crooked smile of his that made your stomach flutter.

You laughed.

It bubbled out of you so suddenly, so violently, that your stomach hurt.

It felt so good. You could not remember the last time you had laughed like that. Was it perhaps last summer? Had Hogwarts even heard your laugh this year? You did not remember, and to be frank, you didn’t care. Not right now at least.

Everyone poured out into the corridor, laughter and shouts reverberating off the stone.

Out into the courtyard they flew.

You pushed your way through the crowd, breathless and smiling as the doors swung wide and the cold spring air rushed in.

Students had flooded the courtyard, some cheering until they lost their voices, others just staring up in open-mouthed wonder. You stood near the front of the crowd, craning your neck to see them — laughing so hard your cheeks ached. It felt like breathing after being held underwater for too long.

Even the professors who had come outside — Flitwick, Sprout, and even McGonagall — wore expressions that ranged from begrudging amusement to thinly veiled satisfaction. She didn’t smile, not really, but there was a certain tightness at the corner of her lips as she watched the twins circle around once more.

Umbridge stood red-faced at the entrance, screaming orders no one could hear over the noise, arms flailing in utter futility.

And just like that, with one final swoop — a blaze of gold behind them and a long ribbon of smoke trailing in the sky — they were gone.

The crowd was still clapping and shouting by the time you were herded back into the castle. Professors were firm but unbothered. There was nothing more Umbridge could do without losing what little control she had left.

Still, even being ushered back into classes couldn’t quite smother the fire they’d lit.

By the end of the day, your voice was hoarse from laughing.

You walked arm in arm with two of your friends, the three of you still giggling over the look on Umbridge’s face. The mood in the common room had been practically electric all day.

After dinner, you finally made your way up to the dormitory, a pleasant ache in your muscles and warmth still lingering in your cheeks.

You weren’t expecting anything when you pulled the curtains back from your bed.

But there it was. Nestled on your pillow.

A letter.

Plain parchment. No name on the outside. Just folded once, neatly. You recognized the handwriting immediately.

Fred’s.

You sat slowly on the edge of the bed, the voices of your friends fading behind you as they chatted near the wardrobe. You turned the letter over once, then opened it.

Inside, written in that unmistakably messy, slanted script:

Thought you might want a bit of quiet tonight.

(Also figured a flying exit would score me some rep points. Did it work?)

You were the first face I looked for. You always are.

Hope you laughed today. Hope you remember how to keep doing it.

It’ll be a bloody shame not to hear that laugh every day.  I’m rather fond of it.

See you soon. Can’t wait to show you what we’re working on.

Don’t miss me too much.

— Fred

You read it twice. Then again. You didn’t even realize you were smiling until your friend asked what was on the parchment and you shook your head, folding it carefully and slipping it under your pillow.

For the first time in weeks, sleep came easily.

[tinyshyteacup]

Taglist: @kellynickelsgirl00 @dixonsbridexx @yikes-myguy @blackwidownat2814 @euqsia @lliteratii @imadisneyprincessiswear @satata @smashleywow @misspendragonsworld @captain-shannon-becker @i-doutt-it @bookies16 @brianna-merlim @staley83 @insaneintheemembranev2 @dummylovewp

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TW: cussing, heavy angst, descriptions of walkers (Zombies), firearms, death of character, detailed descriptions of dying and injuries, Merle, grief.

A/N: this is also a dark chapter 🖤

Part 16

Dead Weight - Part 17

The Georgia sun beats down through the trees, dappling the forest floor with shifting patterns of light and shadow. Daryl moves silently among them, crossbow raised, every sense on high alert.

He's been tracking for hours now, following the distinctive signs of his brother's passage—tire tracks, cigarette butts from the cheap brand Merle always smoked, broken branches that tell the story of a man moving with purpose away from the prison.

Away from him.

Daryl's jaw clenches as he pauses to examine another print in the soft earth.

The trail is a day old now.

One day of Rick and the others looking at him with that mixture of suspicion and pity that makes his skin crawl.

"He's gone to the Governor," Rick had said, not a question but a statement. "He's chosen his side."

Daryl had defended Merle automatically, the response ingrained from childhood—always cover for Merle, always stand by him, always believe in him even when the evidence says otherwise.

But privately, doubt had gnawed at him.

He remembered the tension in the prison, the way Glen still flinched when Merle entered a room.

The worry in your eyes when you looked at his brother, despite your best efforts.

Maybe Merle had finally had enough of being the outsider, the monster everyone feared. Maybe he'd gone back to where he was valued, even if it was for all the wrong reasons.

But Daryl has to know for sure.

Has to hear it from Merle himself before he can believe his brother would betray him like that.

So he'd slipped away, ignoring Rick's warnings.

Like he ignored the flicker of hurt in your eyes when you'd realised despite standing up for his brother with him, Merle had left anyway.

Now, as the trail leads him deeper into unfamiliar territory, Daryl wonders if he'd been wrong to come alone.

The forest here is different—older, darker, the trees growing closer together with hanging vines that create a natural barrier. It's the kind of place Merle would choose for a meetup, secluded and defensible.

The kind of place perfect for an ambush.

Daryl pushes the thought away. Whatever Merle's faults, whatever damage has been done between them, Merle wouldn't lead him into a trap.

That's one line his brother wouldn't cross.

At least, that's what he needs to believe.

A sound breaks the forest stillness—the unmistakable groan of a walker somewhere ahead.

Daryl freezes, listening.

Just one, by the sound of it. He can handle one walker. He raises his crossbow, moving toward the noise with practiced stealth.

The small clearing appears suddenly between the trees, sunlight streaming down in a way that seems almost peaceful. At first, Daryl doesn't see anything, just tall grass swaying gently in the breeze.

Then the grass moves against the wind, parting to reveal a figure kneeling over something on the ground.

A walker, feeding.

Daryl's lip curls in disgust as he takes aim. One clean shot to the back of the head, and the threat will be neutralized. His finger tenses on the trigger.

The walker shifts, turning slightly to reach for another piece of whatever poor bastard it's consuming, and Daryl gets his first clear look at its profile.

The crossbow dips, just an inch, as shock floods his system.

No.

It can't be.

But it is.

Even from this distance, even with the blood smeared across the once-familiar features, even with the cloudy, dead eyes and grayish skin, Daryl knows his brother.

Something breaks loose inside Daryl's chest, a sound rising in his throat that he barely recognizes as coming from himself—a strangled, wounded noise somewhere between a gasp and a sob.

The crossbow trembles in his suddenly unsteady hands.

At the sound, walker-Merle's head snaps up, milky eyes focusing on the new prey standing at the edge of the clearing.

It—he—rises from his crouch, revealing the blood-soaked front of his shirt and the gaping wound in his chest. The stump where his right hand should be is caked with dirt and gore.

Daryl takes an involuntary step back as Merle—no, not Merle, not anymore—lurches to his feet with that distinctive walker gait, a horrible parody of his brother's swagger.

A snarl rips from the creature's throat as it starts toward him.

"No," Daryl whispers, the word barely audible even to his own ears. "No, no, no."

His feet feel rooted to the ground, his limbs suddenly heavy as lead. The crossbow slips further, pointing at the forest floor instead of the approaching threat.

Some distant part of his brain screams at him to raise the weapon, to protect himself, but his body refuses to comply.

Because it's Merle.

His big brother.

The person who, for all his faults, was the only constant in Daryl's life.

The only one who ever bothered to look out for him growing up, even if that protection came with its own brand of twisted cruelty.

Walker-Merle is closer now, perhaps ten yards away, arms outstretched, jaw working mechanically as if already tasting his brother's flesh.

The sunlight illuminates him fully, revealing the true extent of his injuries—not just the chest wound, but bruises covering his face, a swollen eye, split lip. Signs of a beating before death.

The Governor. It has to be. Merle hadn't betrayed them. He'd gone to confront the Governor on his own, and this—this abomination shambling toward Daryl—is the result.

The realization hits Daryl like a physical blow, stealing his breath, making his knees buckle slightly. Guilt crashes over him in waves.

He'd doubted his brother, suspected him of betrayal, when all along Merle had been trying to protect them.

To protect him.

"Merle," he chokes out, his voice breaking on the name.

Daryl's shoulders hunch, his body physically curling inward as if trying to protect itself from the emotional pain. His crossbow comes back up mechanically, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought fails him. But he can't pull the trigger. Not yet.

"No," he says again, louder this time, backing up as the walker advances. "No, no, no."

Tears blur his vision, hot and unwelcome. Dixon men don't cry—he hasn't cried openly since he was a child and learned the hard way that tears only invite more pain.

But now they come unbidden, tracking down his dirt-smudged cheeks.

Five yards now. The walker that was once his brother shows no recognition, no hesitation in its relentless approach.

Whatever spark made Merle Dixon who he was—the swagger, the crude jokes, the surprising moments of rough affection—is gone, leaving only this hollow shell driven by hunger.

Daryl knows what he has to do.

Has done it countless times before to strangers, to friends, to people who deserved better than to exist as mindless, walking corpses.

But knowing doesn't make it any easier, doesn't stop the trembling that's spread from his hands to his entire body, doesn't quiet the voice in his head screaming that this is Merle, his blood, his only family.

Three yards.

Too close now.

Daryl manages to raise the crossbow again, the movement almost mechanical, driven by survival instinct rather than conscious decision. Through the sight, Merle's ruined face comes into sharp focus.

A face Daryl has known his entire life, now transformed into something unrecognizable yet still hauntingly familiar.

"I'm sorry," he whispers again, finger tightening on the trigger.

The bolt flies true, as it always does, embedding itself in what used to be Merle's forehead with a sickening thud.

Walker-Merle drops instantly, all animation ceasing as the virus keeping the corpse mobile is finally neutralized.

Daryl stands frozen, crossbow still raised, staring at the crumpled form that was once his brother.

The forest around him seems suddenly too quiet, as if even the birds and insects are holding their breath in witness to his grief.

The crossbow slips from his numb fingers, landing in the grass at his feet. His legs finally give out, and he sinks to his knees just yards from his brother's corpse.

A sound escapes him, raw and primal—not quite a scream, not quite a sob, but something more elemental. The sound of something breaking that can never be repaired.

"Y'stupid son of a bitch," he gasps between heaving breaths. "Why'd you have to go alone? Why didn't you take me with you?"

Tears burn hot trails down his dirt-streaked face, but he makes no move to wipe them away. His hands hang uselessly at his sides, trembling with adrenaline and grief and rage.

"I coulda helped you," he continues, the words coming faster now, tumbling over each other in a rush of long-suppressed emotion. "We coulda figured something out. Together."

But Merle, for once, has no comeback, no sarcastic retort, no dismissive laugh.

There's just the empty shell of what used to be Daryl's big brother, lying still in the grass with a crossbow bolt protruding from his forehead.

Daryl's gaze falls to Merle's chest, to the wound that killed him. Not a bite. A stab wound. The Governor didn't just kill Merle; he murdered him and left him to turn. A final, twisted message.

Fury rises in Daryl's chest, momentarily overwhelming the grief. He lurches to his feet, staggering the few steps to his brother's body, and drops beside it.

Time loses meaning as Daryl lays in the dirt, grief and rage pouring out of him in waves. The woods around him blur and distort through his tears.

The carefully constructed walls he's built around himself over decades crumble like they're made of sand, revealing the wounded child still hiding beneath the hardened survivor.

The forest shifts and continues its indifferent existence around them—birds calling, leaves rustling, sunlight shifting as clouds pass overhead.

Eventually, Daryl wipes his face with the back of his hand, leaving behind smears of dirt mixed with tears. He knows what he has to do now. What Merle would expect him to do.

He retrieves his crossbow first, slinging it over his shoulder with mechanical precision.

Then, with gentle hands that belie the storm of emotions raging inside him, he removes the bolt from Merle's forehead.

The sound it makes coming free sends another wave of nausea through him, but he pushes it down.

This isn't the time for weakness.

After cleaning the bolt on the grass, Daryl turns back to his brother's body. He can't leave him here, not like this. Merle deserves better. Deserves to be laid to rest properly, not left to rot in the Georgia sun as just another nameless walker.

With strength born of determination rather than physical ability, Daryl lifts his brother's body, one arm under the knees, the other supporting the shoulders. Merle is heavy, deadweight in the most literal sense, but Daryl doesn't falter. He stands, adjusting his grip, and begins the long walk back toward the prison.

Each step is an effort, not just physically but emotionally. Each step takes him farther from the place where Merle died but closer to the reality that his brother is truly gone.

Not Juvie.

Not the military.

Not some distant drug fueled haze.

Not some bender

Just

Gone.

No matter how distant Merle was, no matter how long he disappeared for, there was always the knowledge that somewhere out there, Daryl had a brother.

Someone who shared his blood, his history, his name.

Now there's nothing.

Just memories and regrets and the cooling body in his arms.

As he walks, Daryl's mind fills with fragments of their shared past—Merle teaching him to hunt, Merle taking a beating from their father so Daryl wouldn't have to.

Merle leaving over and over again, Merle's drug-fueled rages, Merle's rare moments of clarity and almost-tenderness.

A lifetime of complications bound up in the relationship between two brothers who never learned how to exist in a world that only ever showed them cruelty.

By the time the prison comes into view through the trees, Daryl's arms are burning with exertion, his body drenched in sweat.

But he doesn't stop, doesn't rest.

He owes Merle this much at least—to bring him home, to ensure he doesn't become just another forgotten corpse in the endless sea of the fallen.

He sees the figures at the fence before they see him—Rick and Glen on watch, you pacing anxiously nearby.

Your posture changes the moment you spot him emerging from the treeline, your hand going up to shield your eyes from the sun as you try to make out what—or who—he's carrying.

Daryl watches as realization dawns, as you say something to Rick that makes him turn sharply.

He watches as the three of you start running toward the gate, and he wonders distantly what his face must look like to cause such alarm.

But he keeps walking, one foot in front of the other, his brother's body growing heavier with each step. Because this is the last thing he can do for Merle—carry him, lay him to rest, ensure that whatever else is said about Merle Dixon, the final word will be that he died trying to protect his brother and the people his brother had come to care for.

The gates creaked open under the dull orange of a fading sun.

Daryl walked in slow, boots dragging through the gravel like they weighed a hundred pounds each. He carried Merle’s body—one arm hanging limp, the stump swinging with each step.

His clothes were streaked in dried blood and walker filth, but it was the look in his eyes that stopped everyone cold.

Empty.

Hollowed out.

Rick was the first to move, stepping forward cautiously, mouth opening to ask—but one look from Daryl stopped him.

“Don’t,” Daryl muttered, low and sharp.

He placed Merle’s body gently onto the dirt, but his movements were jerky, like his hands didn’t quite know how to let go.

He turned, walked past everyone without a word, and grabbed a spade from the fence line.

The dirt in the far corner of the yard was hard-packed and dry.

Each slam of the spade was violent, raw.

He wasn’t just digging—he was fighting the ground. Muscles rippling under the grime, jaw clenched tight, breath hard through flared nostrils.

No one dared come closer.

Dirt flew, then clumped, then scattered again.

Rick had approached once and was met with a wordless snarl that sent him retreating without protest.

You walked slowly. Quietly. Like approaching a wounded animal.

He didn’t look up as you neared. Just kept digging. His breathing ragged. Forearms trembling. He wasn’t going to ask for help. He was going to bury himself with Merle if it came to it.

He looked so alone in his grief, in his rage.

When he paused, arm trembling at the apex of a swing, you stepped forward.

You reached out gently and placed your hand over his on the spade.

“C'mon ... Let me,” you said quietly.

He flinched—his head snapped up, eyes red, jaw tight. For a second he looked ready to bark at you. But then…

He saw your eyes.

The sincerity.

The ache.

He let go.

You stepped beside him and pushed the blade into the dirt. Your arms shook, but you didn’t stop.

You worked beside him in silence until the hole was wide enough.

Until the earth was ready to hold what was left of Merle Dixon.

The prison yard had fallen quiet.

Most of the group had retreated for the night, but you couldn’t sleep. Not after the way Daryl had carried Merle's body—arms trembling, shoulders hunched under the invisible weight of everything he wasn’t saying.

You’d waited, hoping he’d come inside.

He never did.

A chill crept into your bones as you slipped from your bunk, feet slapping quietly against the cold cement floor, until you found a door left ajar, swaying slightly in the breeze. The moon hung low and heavy in the sky, casting long shadows over the yard. You followed them.

There, tucked behind a shed, in the alcove of crumbled stone and overgrown weeds, was Daryl.

He sat slouched against the wall, knees drawn up, arms braced over them, head lowered. The dim moonlight caught the slope of his shoulders and the curve of his back—his whole body folding inward, like he was trying to disappear.

You froze at first.

But then you heard it. A low, wet sound. Not a sob—just a leak of pain. A tremble in his breath.

The kind that only escaped when you thought no one could hear.

You stepped closer, careful not to startle him.

He didn’t look up when you sat beside him. Didn’t speak. His hands were dirty, blood still under his fingernails, and his boots were stained from the grave he’d dug.

Another sniffle escaped him. He wiped at his face roughly with the heel of his hand.

“He was a son of a bitch,” Daryl muttered, barely above a whisper.

You stayed quiet.

“Always talkin’ shit. Always makin’ things worse. He shoulda been left behind.”

A pause.

A breath.

“But he was m'brother.”

His voice cracked then, and he looked away like he should feel shame for this and put up a shield.

You nodded, your own throat tight.

“You don’t have to hide this,” you whispered.

A moment passed.

Then another.

And then—slowly, hesitantly—Daryl’s body shifted.

His arm brushed yours, then stayed.

You didn’t move, didn’t flinch. Just stayed still, letting the silence be its own kind of comfort.

And then he broke.

With a breath that wasn’t quite a sob, not quite a gasp, Daryl tipped his head forward—until it pressed gently against your shoulder. His hair was damp against your neck, his breath warm and trembling.

You felt him shaking.

You didn’t say anything.

Didn’t ask him to be strong.

Didn’t tell him it was okay.

You just wrapped your arms around him.

Not tightly—just enough to hold him together.

Your hand slid up to cradle the back of his head, fingers brushing through his unkempt hair as his breathing hitched. He turned his face into your neck, quiet and raw, letting the grief come in waves.

He cried.

Really cried.

For the first time in a long, long time.