#maybe ill sleep on the bus

[call-me-pup2]

Made myself cum, slept for two hours and now up for todays adventure!

[neims-skeleton-obsession]

i havent slept properly in four days and im kind of tripping balls i thinnk but im thinking about hallucinating skug and reading skug fluff and playing queen at an unholy volume so this is a bop actually

[flow2024]

Eating your fleabag tags like a starved man though I’ve watched the show so many times bc it’s like feeling the rush of the first watch second-hand, thank you and good luck it’ll pass

thanks 👍

[dandyshucks]

one of these days i will go to bed at a decent time instead of working on projects until midnight 🧍

[phagodyke]

happy flat fuck friday I feel likr I've been run over by a steamroller <3

[iamfuckingsorry]

my tram was late

which means I missed my bus, saw it leave

The next one goes in an hour :))))

Man I miss functional public transport

[ghastbutlikegay]

ouhhh the time loop......

[ghostbonetv]

I cannot do a full day if class today I will pass out

[merakiui]

coastal conversation.

yandere!floyd leech x (female) reader cw: (soft/subtle) yandere, nsfw, breeding, obsession, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, slight delusion, floyd's kind of a pervert in this one note - everything is in bloom in spring: the plants, the incessant rain, romance… for floyd, it means mating season.

In the most unfiltered way, Floyd feels like utter shit. 

He tossed and turned all throughout the night, drowning in an ocean of his own sweat. One minute, he was hot all over, thus the blankets were cast off, and the next he was chilled to his marrow so badly he had to cocoon himself in those same drenched sheets. Even though it’s early spring and the unpredictable forecast has hammered NRC’s campus with floods of cool rain, Octavinelle Dorm is kept at suitable temperatures for its residents.

Therefore, it shouldn’t be much of an issue. He’ll regulate and bounce back…or whatever it is human bodies do when throttled with wild weather.

Floyd has an innate sensitivity to everything, so it’s no surprise he’s able to immediately zero in on it—the creeping suspicion that something’s wrong. He knows he’s falling ill, but there are way too many human ailments for him to recall and some of them aren’t even worth pitching a fit over. He takes pride in his human immune system, which the doctors have observed is healthy every year he’s had to sit for his medical exams, so, really, he has no reason to fret.

And he’s not. It’s more inconvenient than anything. He has plans today—plans he’s not exactly thrilled about—but plans nonetheless. This mounting sickness is the perfect excuse to ditch them and sleep the weekend away. If he believed in all that universe-speaking-through-signs crap, he’d say fate is on his side. It’s destiny telling him not to go on this blind date.

That’s right. A blind date. Those are the plans.

He’s not even sure why he agreed to it in the first place. Maybe because it sounded interesting at the time it was proposed, but now he has to actually execute everything he once marveled at in theory. And dates are so much work, even more so when you’re not feeling it.

But Jade—the professional provocateur that he is—went and blabbed about this development to their mother, who was so thrilled on Floyd’s behalf and wished him all the best. If she wasn’t stuck in the sea with her own business to handle, she’d come up there to visit and cheer him on—something Floyd was quick to veto. He loves his mama, but sometimes she can be excessive in her affections. Any other day he’d be pleased to bask in it, but not when he’s feeling so volatile. It’s like the four seasons are at constant war within his body, each one battling for sole control over his temperament.

Still, he’s a little curious.

He’s never been on a blind date before. It was arranged through an app he’d downloaded for the sake of slaking his boredom. Find your next Charming Darling. That’s what the app advertised—purely fairy-tale experiences. True love and princesses and all kinds of lovey-dovey stuff Floyd scrunched his nose at. Azul had said the app itself seemed “dubious at best, but most certainly a scam,” as it worked only by pairing two anonymous users together for online chatting. It was a location thing, apparently. You wouldn’t know who you were talking to and neither would the other person—each profile kept private for suspense or some other stupid reason—but you’d both know where the other was in proximity to you. 

And it just so happened that Floyd’s Charming Darling was close. On campus close. 

He wondered which small fry had matched with him, and it was his theorizing that convinced him to melt out of bed and into clothes for the day. He can handle a few hours in town. He needs to pick up some things anyway, so if the date is a bust the trip won’t have been for nothing.

After confirming the meeting place with his so-called ‘darling’, he pulls his sneakers on, stuffs his wallet in his pocket, and then sets off to catch the bus into town. 

Even though the sun is high in the sky, the would-be heat is chilled by the gentle breeze rolling in from the coast. His head is pounding and stuffed full of crackling static and wires, and he feels an impossible itch deep beneath his skin. But the pleasant weather manages to lift his spirits enough for him to let his date know he’s arrived at the café. He finds a table outside and plops down, content to wait after receiving an enthusiastic almost there text.

He smells you before he sees you.

Suddenly, the sticky-sweet aroma of candy and pastries and every other saccharine thing invades his senses. It’s thrilling like blood in the water, widening his pupils until his eyes are nearly twin pools of the deepest black, but instead of iron and injury he catches the floral notes of arousal. Or maybe it’s a scarily strong perfume.

Either way, it has his hunting instincts switched on, that predatory hindbrain of his prickling with the urge to chase and capture prey.  

Just before he can sift through the other scents slamming his nose and narrow in on that very specific one, someone speaks up.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me. You’re my Prince Charming?”

Oh, he knows that voice. Immediately, whatever bad mood was sitting on simmer in the back of his head shuts off and is replaced with a burst of positive energy. A malicious smile curls on his lips, one he’s all too eager to flash at you when he turns around in his seat.

He almost falls out of it.

You look different. It’s a good sort of different. In your pretty blouse and skirt, stockings pulled up to your knees, you look ready for a date. You’ve even styled your hair and done your makeup to match your outfit. It’s a stark contrast to how you normally look at school: perpetually exhausted, too lazy to do anything more than simply pull your uniform on and attempt a semi-presentable attitude. Enough to get through the day. But this… This is a genuine effort.

You got all dressed up for this little date. Even put on a pretty scent.

All for him.

Cute.

If this was the sea, you’d attract all sorts of predators.

Thankfully, your scowl is evidence enough that you’re too miffed to notice his uncharacteristic silence. He beams up at you, the picture of innocence.

“Heya, Shrimpy. Looks like you’re the one I’m s’posed to meet.” To prove it, he holds his phone up for you to see. The chat log glints back at you.

“Unfortunately.” You fix your purse strap and eye the surrounding area with a frown. Floyd can tell you’re searching for your real date because you don’t believe it could be him. When you check your phone for confirmation, your expression sours. “So it really is you.”

“In the flesh. Sooo. You gonna sit?”

“I guess. I already made the trip here, might as well.” You slide into the seat across from him.

“Ya look good.”

“And you look like you just crawled out of a cave.”

“Nope, not a cave.” He rests his elbows on the table and leans in, a giggle tickling the back of his throat. “Bed.”

“Yeah, that sounds like you.”

“If I’d known it was gonna be you, I woulda wore somethin’ nice.”

“Can’t get much nicer than this.” You gesture at him vaguely and he laughs. He’s glad he didn’t miss this. “Whatever. I’ll just get some cake to go and be on my way.”

“Whaaat? That’s lame. Aren’t ya gonna stay a bit?”

I’ll make it fun, so don’t go.

“Why? Are you?”

He nods.

“You don’t even like me. Why would I make myself—and you—even more miserable by staying?”

“Cuz,” he replies with a noncommittal shrug, like that answers it.

Instead of offering him a response, you pry the menu open and hide behind the flaps.

“Didn’t think you were the dating app type,” he tries, aiming for small talk.

You lower your menu to look at him. “Tell me, Floyd. What’s the ‘dating app type’ supposed to look like?”

He leans back in his seat, amused by your annoyance. “Dunno.” And then, before you can recover, a rapid-fire question: “Who were you hopin’ to meet today?”

Tell me so I can beat ’em into the ground.

He snaps out of the sudden territorial jealousy and, like the waves, feels the violent urge ebb away. 

Weird. He’s not looking to start a fight today. So then why is he so…restless?

“Not you. You’re the furthest thing from my ideal Prince Charming.”

And he’s back in the ring, ready to swap verbal vitriol until someone succumbs to the blow. “Well, what’s your perfect, li’l prince look like?”

“I don’t know.” You huff and retreat behind the menu, and right then he knows he has you cornered. “Anyone but you.”

“Aww. C’mon, Shrimpy, ya gotta have an image of ’em, at least. If you’ve spent so much time thinkin’ about it—” and he knows you have because he was present for all of those midnight text exchanges, trading details on future partners like they were cards— “then you’ve gotta have an idea.”

“It’ll never be you, so I don’t see why you’re so interested.” But then you slam your fist against your palm. “Oh, I get it. You just want dirt on me.”

“What? No way. That’s boring.” He pulls a disgusted face. He’s not the type to rely on psychological warfare and mental manipulation. So not his style.

“Isn’t that your whole angle?”

His mood promptly nosedives. “Just cuz I’m in Octavinelle and I hang with Jade and Azul doesn’t mean I follow their flow by the letter,” he snaps.

Rather than flinch back, his irritated tone seems to smooth out your stiffness and he watches you visibly relax. He thinks that’s strange. Why aren’t you scared? Not that it’s his intention to frighten you. The last thing he wants is to chase you off. He’s waited so long for a moment like this one; he isn’t going to ruin it.

That’s why he’s so thrilled you’re you. The other small fry would just quiver like a bunch of babies, but you’re different. You meet his mood swings head-on, unflinching and unbothered. Patient, that’s what he’d call it. You’re patient. Not surgically so like Jade and definitely not meticulously like Azul. Your patience is like a tide pool. Calm and transparent. No ulterior motives. 

It’s just you. That’s why he likes you so much. No elaboration needed.

“In that case, I could turn the question on you,” you continue, idly scanning the menu. “What does Floyd Leech’s ideal partner look like?”

Fuck. He wants you to say his name again. It pokes at some dormant part in his brain, the one that’s just starting to wake, humming with a queasy sort of desire. He fidgets with the menu, more focused on the extensive list of treats than the contents of your question.

He could say his ideal partner is you, but you probably wouldn’t believe him. And because of that it’s not worth using as a shock factor. Too predictable.

“Someone fun,” he says after a beat of quiet.

“So it was you… I can’t believe I didn’t realize that while we were texting.”

“Wasn’t obvious for me either. You talk so casually over text. It’s like a completely different Shrimpy.”

Equipped with this new information, it drapes another layer of context over your conversations. Because now he can associate your face with all of those flustered messages. He’s proud of that—of teasing you and eliciting such sweet reactions. To think it was you on the other end this entire time. He wonders if he made your heart skip a beat. Or maybe you stuffed your face in a pillow to hide your embarrassment. He pictures you holed up in Ramshackle, vibrating with nervous excitement.

Cute, cute, cute.

Refusing to dignify that with a proper retort, you fold your menu, pass it to the waiter, and voice your order. Floyd follows your lead, rattling off the name of the first dessert that caught his eye. 

Just beyond the umbrella shielding both of you from the sun’s searing gaze, storm clouds begin to darken the pastel sky. 

To shake off the ache that’s beginning to brew behind his eyes, he asks you about your plans for spring break. He must have won the small talk lottery because the suspicion in your stare disappears and you launch into a full-blown lecture about all the things you plan to get done. A whole grocery list. You’re going to be one busy Shrimpy come next week. A shame he won’t be around to witness it.

He’s keen to listen because it’s really all he can do with his waning focus. Your voice reels him in when his attention drifts. He doesn’t realize he’s admiring your mouth as it sounds out syllables he can only just register. Suddenly, it’s like he can’t even parse human speech. You’re looking through him, brows furrowed.

He’s always thought about kissing you. It’s in a moray’s nature to lie in wait, shrouded in the shadows, patiently waiting for the opportune moment. He doesn’t have anything to hide behind now, though. And if he kissed you here he thinks you might slap him. That would be invigorating.

Something stirs in him. 

No. Actually, it’s…

The world.

The world is being stirred. Someone’s stuffed a spatula into the fluffy mixture and given it a steady whirl, and now everything’s a blurry mess of shapes and colors. He blinks rapidly to clear his vision.

It’s too hot. He needs to peel himself out of his skin and soak in the abyssopelagic zone.

Is he sweating? He must be. He’d lick at the liquid gathering between his armpits to determine that, but he’s on a date with you and human courtship dictates that he must impress you. So he can’t do things humans consider ‘gross’ or ‘indecent’. He has to leave a nice impression. He has to prove to you he’s just as good, if not better, than your lousy Prince Charming.

So he wipes his palms on his pants. Not that he’ll hold your hand. He thinks you’d sooner chop your own hands off than willingly reach for him, and the image of this extreme aversion is too funny to offend him. 

Floyd swallows thickly. Your smell is so strong. Have you always smelled like this? Now that he’s looking at you, you appear…softer. He can’t explain it. Your skin looks healthier. The darkness sitting under your eyes isn’t nearly as sunken in as it usually is. Your lips shimmer with a beautiful shade of pink-red. It’s almost like you’re glowing.

If you were a mer, he thinks you’d be an ornamental fish. A pretty thing kept pampered, fins flowing like skirts, scales bright like individual chips of glass. A beguiling beauty who is just as fierce as she is stunning. 

Maybe, he wonders, his gaze trailing down to your chest, you have eggs. Maybe that’s why you look softer. 

“oyd… Floyd!”

He snaps back to himself. “Hmm?”

“Are you listening?”

“What part?” he asks without missing a beat, still smiling even though it hurts to do anything more than simply breathe. “Shrimpy’s got lotsa plans. You’re gonna be all diligent and hardworking. Hey, you should stay over at Octavinelle. We’ll keep ya nice and busy there.” 

You roll your eyes. “Keep dreaming.”

He giggles. Oh, if only you knew of all the things he dreams about. Nothing can compare to the real Shrimpy, though. The one who glares at him like he’s an insect. The one who puffs up like a pufferfish when upset or angry. The one who always has such fun reactions to his teasing. How could he possibly stay away?

Just then, the desserts arrive. Floyd can’t find the appetite and is instead satisfied watching you eagerly receive your fruity drink and cake. He scoops a bite of pudding on his spoon and holds it out to you. Unsurprisingly, you scowl at it.

“Absolutely not.”

“It’s a date, ain’t it? Gotta live up to your expectations.” And then, because he’s itching for your hands on him, whether to hit him or choke him out, he adds, “Shrimpy’s got some reeeal high standards.”

“Ugh. Gross. You’re the last person I’d want to feed me. And I’ve got my own food, thank you.”

���Ya sure? Should I manta it?”

“Should you what?” You fix him with a critical look, but he can see the interest bubbling beneath the thin veil of confusion.

“Y’know, manta it. Like this.” He moves his arm so that the spoon glides along an invisible current, moving smoothly like a manta ray. “Mama used to do that all the time when I didn’t wanna eat somethin’.”

“So the fish version of the airplane.”

“Eeh? That’s what humans do?”

You shrug. “It works.”

Floyd thinks he still prefers the manta. “Sooo. Wanna give it a try?” He’s itching to prove he can provide for you, even if it’s just pudding and not heaps and heaps of fish or an entire shark carcass. 

You eye his spoon​​ warily. “What flavor is it?”

“Secret,” he hums, delighted. 

“Fine. Just one bite.” You reach to grab it, but he moves his arm up and away. 

“Nuh-uh. You gotta let me do it. Defeats the whole purpose if you do it yourself.”

You submit, albeit with a stubborn pout. 

“Now say ‘aah’,” he prompts, thinking you might really swing your fist. 

Begrudgingly, you lean in and open your mouth wide. “Aah.”

Floyd straightens up in his seat, his eyes the size of plates. He swallows thickly, curling his free hand into a fist. He feels his nails pierce his palm, sharpened points drawing the tiniest pricks of blood. You crack an eye open, all while your wide, impatient mouth gapes back at him.

“Never mind,” he mutters, stabbing the spoon into the pudding and shoving the dish at you. He avoids your searching eyes and instead burns quietly in the flames of his own embarrassed arousal.

“Ugh. I can’t believe I fell for such an obvious trick,” you scoff around a dainty bite of cake. “Honestly… Life was so much better before I found out you were my match.”

Awkwardly, he rubs the back of his neck. He could make dozens of home runs out of the depravity that’s become his thoughts, what with how frequently he’s batting them away. When he looks at his hand, he finds a thin membrane webbing between each of his fingers.

That can’t be good.

“You can have mine,” he blurts, nudging the pudding towards you. “’m not hungry.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “I don’t suppose you want something in return for your generosity?”

“What do ya have to offer?” he asks, swallowing the bucket of saliva pooling on his tongue. It coats his dry throat on the way down. He can’t think like this. Maybe he really is sick because you’re all he can smell right now. It’s like he’s zoned in on it, a shark drawn to blood. Nothing else matters. You’re the only Shrimpy in his sea.

Predators, he remembers, the reminder tacked onto his mental bulletin like an afterthought. 

Restlessly, he glances about. He flexes his fingers, curling and uncurling them. Deep down he’s aware this doesn’t mean anything. You’re not his mate, but he wants to protect you anyway. That’s probably the last thing you want, though. You’re a capable Shrimpy. It’s one of your many strengths. 

Still… It’s nice to pretend, if only for the moment.

“An actual date,” you say, sipping at your drink. 

The way your lips close around the straw is so unintentionally erotic it brings him back to a few minutes ago, when you opened your mouth at him. He should’ve reciprocated, but then it wouldn’t have meant anything. Not to you, anyway.

To clear his head and hopefully cool his boiling temperature, he stuffs a spoonful of pudding in his mouth. It’s sugary but not nearly as much as he’s certain you are. If he licked a stripe up your neck, perhaps he’d know your taste for sure.

“Since we’re here, we might as well, right?” you add and he’s brought back to the present. “And then after that we never have to see each other again.”

“Uh-huh…”

He remains unconvinced. No matter how much you push him away, he’ll still be there to pop up and surprise you on campus.

He’s a bother, and you—sitting beautiful and shimmering in the glow of spring courtship—are everything he’s ever dreamed of.

So it’s definitely eggs, he decides, his mind made up. How else can he explain the smell and the softness, all tell-tale signs of a mate in waiting?

Floyd has never been one to pursue smooth seas, preferring the euphoria of a hard-earned success. But Sea Witch below does he wish today wasn’t so challenging. How is he supposed to express everything in his heart if you can’t even read his body language? He’s not even sure if he can gauge yours. Do you want to mate with him? That’s why you prettied up your fins and…

No.

No, no, no.

He has to remember this is a blind date. You had no idea it was going to be him and neither did he. He wants to come out and say it because the complexities of moray courtship are struggling to get through the muddiness of your own human signs.

It occurs to Floyd he could just cast a spell so that his thoughts are broadcasted to you and he can read yours. But that’s a dirty trick, one that would be heavily frowned upon in the sea and perhaps even on land as well. It’s all so complex. He doesn’t have the energy for all of this thinking.

With a petulant whine, he melts onto the table in a puddle of pouty Floyd. 

You raise a questioning brow and finish off the rest of your cake. “I’m eating your pudding so it doesn’t go to waste.”

He waves you off. “Don’t got much of an appetite for it anyway.”

“Suit yourself.” Shrugging, you take a bite and hum in delight. The tiny smile that traces your lips stuns him.

Oh.

He’s never seen you smile like that before… Usually, if you’re smiling, it’s one of malice—directed at him and accompanied with the threat of a clenched fist.

From where his head rests against the table, he’s free to admire you and your gluttony. Will this be enough? If you have eggs, you need to eat so much more than a measly slice of cake and some pudding. 

But before he can call the waiter over to order everything on the menu, there’s a loud tearing sound and then a heavy flop. He glances behind him and finds his tail is protruding from his lower back like a thick, winding snake. It thumps against the ground in anticipation, almost as if it’s wagging.

That’s fun!

“So,” he starts, lifting his head to look at you properly. He remembers something you told him over text, when it was well past midnight and the both of you had strayed into more private discussions. “Shrimpy’s never had her first kiss, hm?”

“And it’s not going to be with you, so don’t even try,” is your scathing comeback.

Fuck, he wants you.

A wild grin breaks out on his face, sharpening in time with the fins that pop out from his ears. Crisp sounds rush in all at once, as if the cotton has been tugged out. Traffic, nearby conversations, the shush-shush of the waves crashing against the rocks. He pulls a face at the cacophony assaulting his hyper-sensitive ear-fins.

You stare at him. “You’re…green.”

“Huh?”

But then his fins shred through his sleeves and it becomes apparent his mer features are starting to poke through his human disguise. Teal flashes across his skin in speckled patches, swallowing up what’s left of his previously pale coloration. 

This is odd because, as much as he despises it, he choked back that nasty potion just a few days ago to avoid this exact scenario. What gives?

It’s in this transitional stage, the space between half-human, half-mer, that the haze really settles in. Floyd staggers to his feet, rifling around for his wallet, and slams a fistful of bills down. It’s getting bad. He needs something he can’t have, and if he spends any more time here…

“We should go,” you say before he can, already out of your chair. “You need to get back to school or… Well, I guess if it comes down to it we can go to Craneport and throw you in the water there. It’s not too far from here.”

“Aww. Worried I’m gonna dry out?” He manages a casual tone despite the heat bubbling in his blood.

“As if. I just don’t want to haul your heavy eel ass around.” Scoffing, you step out from under the shade of the umbrella.

Just in time for the first few droplets of rain to come pattering down. You and Floyd glance skyward before sharing a quiet look. He extends his hand to catch a few drops on his palm.

“Look at that. The weather wants us to stay together,” he remarks, delirious.

“Even the universe wants us to split,” you speak over him.

“Hee-hee. The universe’s gonna hafta try harder than that. This is nothin’.”

As if in response to his challenge, lightning flashes across the sky in a crackling arc. It’s quickly followed by deep, rumbling thunder. Again, you and Floyd eye each other. His wide, toothy grin makes you frown. But that becomes the least of your worries when a smattering of rain comes pouring down on both of you. 

You gasp, your hands flying up to protect yourself. “My clothes! My hair!”

Floyd watches you fall into a panicked sprint, his tail swishing to and fro. He doesn’t care about the many stares he’s starting to draw when he takes off after you, his obnoxious laughter echoing down the path. His clothes are already ruined. A rainstorm isn’t going to make any difference. 

You take shelter in an alley, beneath an awning shared by conjoined buildings. Just beyond, a steady curtain of rain falls. Floyd marvels at it with a whistle. What a downpour… The forecast didn’t say anything about rain, but then he supposes that’s normal for springtime on land.

“As if this day couldn’t get any worse,” he hears you mutter. Floyd’s gaze pans from the slick street to you and finds you’re shivering. Your arms are wrapped around yourself and his mismatched eyes travel down, down, down.

Your blouse is clinging to your body and through the sopping fabric he can see the frilly outline of your bra. Unconsciously, his tongue darts out to wet his lips. He tastes sweat-tinged rain as it trails down his face in salty streaks. When he brushes his matted hair out of his eyes—and it feels more like he’s draped a mop of seaweed over his head—he finds you’ve lowered your arms and are now attempting to check your makeup with a pocket mirror.

“Nooo. I spent so much time on it, too…”

Can you get any cuter? If he could afford just the smallest peek, maybe he’d see what type of panties you’re wearing. Are they as lacy as your bra? Are they thin like it, too, allowing him to see the pebbled peaks of your nipples poking through?

Damn it all to the deepest trench! Floyd can’t take it anymore! He needs to know.

“How big is it?” he blurts, grabbing your shoulders. He’s careful not to dig his claws into you, even though his instincts are telling him to shred that silky blouse to ribbons, snap through the strap of your bra with a voracious chomp, and make you his. But you’re precious, not prey, and so he’ll try to exercise some restraint. 

You blink back at him in bewilderment. “What are you talking about?”

“You know…” he trails off in hopes that you’ll fill in the empty space.

“No, I don’t.” You shake him off, but he’s quick to latch onto your wrists next. “Seriously, I don’t! What’s gotten into you? You’re acting weird.”

Floyd inhales through his nose. A bad move because your pheromones or perfume—whatever the fuck it is—invade his senses all over again. He can’t keep swatting the inevitable away. It’s only a matter of time before his biology incapacitates him. But while he’s still semi-coherent he’s going to take this opportunity to tell you everything that’s been on his mind ever since he first saw you. 

That’s the plan, at least. How much of it he intends to follow, good question. 

You’re staring at him like he’s lost his mind and maybe he has, drenched and looking like a teal Godzilla. He pulls back to rake his hands through his soaked hair. 

“Y-Your clutch,” he mutters. “Can never tell in human form.”

“My…clutch. You want to know how big my clutch is. As in, like, eggs?” 

“Mhm.”

He avoids looking at you out of sheer embarrassment—this sort of thing requires tact and sly communication, not direct fumbling that could be borderline begging—so he can’t imagine what expression you might be making. There’s a long, drawn out silence. He prepares himself to be slapped or berated—maybe both.

You touch his arm gingerly. He peers at you. 

“If you were struggling, say so. Gosh, you’re so stubborn.”

Warmth and concern are hidden in those criticizing eyes. Even though your tone feels more like a scolding, it lifts his mood to know you care. He’d tease you for it, but he’s just not feeling it right now.

Floyd shakes off his reservations like a dog drying itself. For once, he doesn’t know what to say or do as he watches you through lidded eyes.

“I don’t really understand what’s going on, but you don’t feel good, right?” At that, he offers a small nod. “You were forcing yourself this entire time. Why didn’t you just leave? Why stick around and suffer?”

“Cuz Shrimpy was really lookin’ forward to this. Didn’t wanna disappoint ya.”

He wanted to impress you, show you that he’s a worthy mate, but that feels impossible now. With his back to the wall, he slides down until he’s sitting on the wet pavement. He’ll probably change back into a moray mer soon. Maybe the rain is delaying it. Maybe it’s the magical properties of the potion regulating what’s left of his human form.

You step into his line of sight then. His gaze travels up your stocking-clad legs. Before he can picture what’s beneath your skirt, you’re crouching down to view him. “I don’t think it matters whether you disappoint me or not.”

Yeah, it does. It matters cuz I like ya and want ya to have a good time.

“So you don’t have eggs,” he says, switching topics.

You sigh. “Yes, Floyd, I don’t have eggs. I’ve never had eggs. Not in the way you’re thinking. Humans don’t lay eggs.”

He knew that. Learned it in land boot camp. A shame. You’d look adorable saddled with a clutch or two.

But if that’s not the case, what’s with your smell? It can’t be perfume. Even the strongest of scents can’t compare to this. This is a sweetness that’s coming from between your legs, he’s sure of it. 

You’re reaching into your purse now. “What’s Azul’s number? I’ll give him a call. Don’t push yourself.”

His tail moves without thinking, coiling around your waist to drag you closer. The force of it knocks you forward. With a startled yelp, you shoot your arms out to brace yourself against the wall, unintentionally caging him in. He gazes up at you, an unfocused stare that you hold with newfound intensity.

“Floyd,” you breathe, and he can see you’re scanning his face for answers.

Gently, you run your fingers over the dark swirls on his cheekbones. He gives a full-body shudder in response, biting back an enthusiastic trill when your touches trail to his ear-fins. He flexes his tail and squeezes your waist. He shouldn’t let it go further than this.

But if he does he could finally have you.

“I’ll help. Whatever this is, I’ll…do my best.”

Now it’s his turn to be confused. “You sure?”

You glance at his lap. Floyd follows your line of sight to find his cock pressed prominently against his pants. You swipe his hair back and hold your hand to his forehead.

“You’re burning up! Why would you even come out in the first place if you’re so sick?”

“Didn’t think it’d get this bad.”

You huff. “You’re unbelievable. Aren’t you scared?”

“Course not. How can I be when Nurse Shrimpy is takin’ good care of me?” He tries a playful smirk, but it falls short into a grimace.

“Whatever.” A serious look passes over your face next. “I’m not sure what to do, but… But I think it’s safe to…to do it. That’s what you need, isn’t it?”

Floyd drags you into his lap. “More or less, yeah.”

He doesn’t have to get into the details. That’s for future Floyd to explain…or not.

“Okay. Then… Hurry up and get it over with. The rain’s cold.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll warm ya up.”

“If I get sick from this, I’ll kill you.”

“Hee-hee.”

You shift awkwardly, searching for the right rhythm when you press down against his erection. Floyd hisses through his teeth. It almost doesn’t seem real. He thinks he can feel your pussy through your panties, and he wonders if they’re just wet from the rain or from something else. While you roll your hips, his hands move up to fiddle with the buttons on your blouse. It’s significantly harder to undo them when his claws are long and curved, and in a fit of impatience he grabs hold of the fabric and yanks it open. It comes away with a rip, buttons popping off and exposing your rain-slick skin and bra, much to his minacious delight.

“Floyd!” You yelp as he tips you backwards, pressing you against the cobbled ground. This new position allows him to slot himself between your legs, where he ruts like a mindless animal.

“I’ll get you a new one,” he promises, his mouth laving over your neck.

He just barely remembers to tug his pants and boxers down enough to free his cock, now more moray in structure, the shaft tinted teal and peppered with dozens of nubs. He nearly shreds through his underwear when his claws catch on the waistband. All you can manage is an aggrieved whine, which soon tapers off into a low moan when the head of his cock bumps against your clit.

“Off.”

“Wait, wait! I’ll do it. This is my nicest pair—don’t you dare ruin them.”

He’s sure they’re nice, but right now he doesn’t have time to appreciate them in full. He needs to be inside you or else he’ll pass out. The want is unbearable. Fuck, he wishes this was the sea. It would be easier to entice you there, with colors and scents and shows of strength. It’s way too complicated on land.

Your panties aren’t even halfway down your legs before he’s burrowing himself between your soft folds. It feels better than anything he’s ever known before. You’re warm and gooey inside, squeezing him like you’re intent on snapping his dick in half. And suddenly he can’t think or speak. Everything is blank as he grabs your hips and pulls you down. Your pussy swallows him up in one reckless thrust, and you squeak in surprise when it knocks against your deepest part. He feels your arms wrap around his neck, your legs twisting around his waist, and you cling to him like you’re afraid the storm will sweep you away. 

He can’t muster another second of patience or restraint, so he slams in and out of you at an erratic pace, chasing the euphoric bliss that’ll finally satisfy every instinct buzzing beneath his skin. 

“S-Slow down, Floyd! I ca—aah—can’t! S’too much,” you babble and dig your nails into his back, which only serves to embolden the brutal snap of his hips against yours.

“Shorry,” he rasps against your skin, his mouth watering with so much drool it drips in fat, warm drops and puddles in the slope between shoulder and neck.

He’s a pathetic moray. He can’t even offer you a nice cave to curl up in. He can’t even manage the patience to prepare you, to work you up until you’re glistening with desire. The best he can do is this filthy alley during the worst weather ever, and even then it’s far from romantic. 

To offer you a modicum of comfort, he slides his tail beneath you to raise your ass for a better angle and provide a pillow for your head. You cry out a string of incoherent words. He pants against your pulse, the little heartbeat pounding in time with his own. 

It’s wet and filthy and desperate. He’s not even sure if he’s breathing. All he knows is that he needs to fill you until you’re heavy with his seed, until your pussy weeps nothing but cum. You can’t walk around with your fins all prettied up, smelling like a sweet treat, attracting the worst kinds of predators with each step. If you smell more like him—if every inch of you is marked by him—no one else would dare to approach you. He’ll make damn sure of it.

Oh, that’s what this is.

Mating season.

Perhaps he could’ve gotten it out of his system if he stayed on campus and swam laps in Octavinelle’s special pool. He’s not used to feeling it in spring, but then his cycle has never followed any set schedule. It’s only this bad because he saw you—because he caught your scent and it flipped the switch in his brain, the one that’s screaming at him to breed his mate.

Because that’s what you are, even if you don’t know it yet.

That’s what you’re going to be. Biology won’t give you a choice.

Floyd grits his teeth, his pace mostly uneven now. He won’t bite. He’s not sure he can control his strength, and if he sinks his teeth into you what’s stopping him from tearing the flesh from your bones? Instead, he presses sloppy, open-mouthed kisses to the space above your heart. His arms twist tightly around you to keep you trapped in place.

It’s fine if you think he’s scum or the worst moray in the Coral Sea. 

Nothing is more titillating than a challenge.

Wrapped up in you and your hypnotic scent, your breathless voice in his ears, he cums so hard his vision whites out. You seem to have done the same, for your pussy clenches like a vise, rendering you boneless beneath him.

The haze in his head is dizzying. He blinks until color returns and that’s when he tugs your skirt up to see where you’re connected. He’s buried snugly inside, keeping all of his cum plugged deep. Your chest rises and falls with every wheezing gasp, and in this moment you are so fragile he thinks you might shatter if he fucks into you without warning again.

A feral smile widens on his lips. 

“Hey, Shrimpy.” He nudges your cheek until your head lolls to the side. He knows you’re still conscious because your eyes, ringed with ruined eyeliner, find his. “There you are. Don’t fall asleep on me, ’kay?”

Thunder rumbles in the distance. 

He leans in close. “Didja know? You came to this li’l date smellin’ suuuper sweet and I came sick.”

It takes a moment for you to register his words, but when you do all you can provide is an intelligent: “Huh?”

His hands settle on your spread legs, claws digging shallowly into the meat of your thighs. “Isn’t that funny?”

“Wha… I don’t…” You shake your head. “Don’t get it.”

“Hee-hee. Did I fuck all the brains outta ya? Oops. Guess you’ll figure it out later then.”

We’re each other’s cure, he thinks, his form shadowing yours.

And now a mated pair.

[phagodyke]

I slept rly deeply last night even tho it took me a while to get to sleep but I think that was bc I had acid reflux and I'd been playing videogames too late not anything else.... still only got 6 hrs but doing pretty okay all things considered 😚

[ohgodthevoices]

hey swaggy author, i would absolutely LOVE if u did a tsukishima fluff + angst 🤭 smtg like the osamu timeskip one with the themes of childhood best friends and development of feelings once they're like older 🙂‍↕️🙏

omg i never wrote for tsukishima and im scared it'll be ooc but here we go ill try my best 😭

Tsukishima kei x reader

tags : fluff , a lil angst , he’s not good with feelings , childhood friends to lovers , gn!reader

you and tsukishima kei had been inseparable since chilhood. you were there when he got his first dinosaur book , sitting cross-legged beside him as he rambled about prehistoric eras with excitement only a kid could muster. he was there when you scaped your knee falling off your bike offering a "don't be dumb next time" as he handed you a band-ai

your friendship was nothing too loud , sitting next to each other on the bus , sharing earphones and bickered over song choices or staying up on call when one couldn't sleep and the other was studying.

but somewhere along the way, somwhere between your first and second year of highschool , something shifted.

it wasn't obvious at first , maybe it was the way his gaze lingered a second longer when you laughed, or how your heart stuttered when he absentmindedly fixed your scarf on a cold day. small, almost imperceptible moments stacking up, like a slow-building crescendo neither of you wanted to acknowledge.

when summer was finally here, your joy was quickly met by confusion when tsukishima started leaving you on read longer than usual, it was the way he stopped comming to your place to pick you up for your weekly saturday morning coffee date , the way you'd see him with yamaguchi after he told you he couldn't go out today, the way he stopped answering you calls when you wanted to give him a haul of what you bought.

you decides to brush it off , ever since the start of your first year , tsukishima has been getting closer to his new volleyball teammates , maybe he had decided to change friendgroups , maybe you weren't enough for him anymore...but then days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months and it was already the first day of your second year in highschool

obviously you didn’t know the way he felt about you, that him distancing himself only equaled to his realization of his growing feelings for you. he couldn’t accept it, him liking loving someone ? and that someone had to be you ?? that just couldn’t be good. so the only logical solution to him was to disappear, maybe that way the way he was feeling would disappear too…

but tsukishima only found himself seeking you even more, he was seeking your presence , your unfunny jokes , your stupid smile that he just loved to see , he tried distracting himself with practice and hanging out with his teammates, he thought he’d get used to the feeling of something missing when you weren’t here. but boy was he wrong.

now that second year tsukishima stood in front of you in silence, his arrogance was quickly replaced by vulnerability as soon as he locked eyes with you, his best friend next to him quickly got the notice and left the two of you alone in the school’s empty hallway , he suddenly didn’t assume all those unanswered calls and texts , tsukishima opened and closed his mouth as if looking for the right words “i know i acted like an idiot.” he was gonna put his pride to the side for this, for you.

he told you everything— from the reason to why he ghosted you to how he realized he liked you, and you didn’t say a word until he finished , you had known him for so long yet this was the first time you saw tsukishima nervous, actually expressing how he feels. when he was done , he looked at you with an intense gaze waiting for an answer , anything— but you laughed, not because you were going to reject him but because he looked so out of it. of course he got pretty mad at your reaction but you didn’t reject him.

tsukishima preferred to keep your relationship on the low, he didn’t want it to be private, he wanted people to know you were off limits, but he hates showing off. but that changed over time, he was glad you continued to grow up together.

tsukishima thought it was endearing that the person he played hot wheels with was actually driving a car now, that he went from eating pretend food you made in your play kitchen to actually coming back to you and savoring the nice warm meal you made him.

both your families were over joyed when tsukishima finally agreed to let them know you had been dating for 3 (almost 4) years , your families were already pretty close thanks to your mothers being best friends but now they were even closer, holidays were spent together and dinners that were actually enjoyable were hosted more often.

he’s the type of boyfriend to be very attentive, very teasing, his teasing isn’t as mean as it was back in highshool, but he liked how affective it was on you. he’d tease when you mess up a word and kiss you if you got annoyed. tsukishima’s way of showing his love for you is act of service omg he just does everything for you and if you dare tell him “i could do it myself yk” he will hit you.

he still has the stupid little playlist you made him back in your first year of high school that he listens to when he gets nostalgic or when you argue.

a/n : HEY I’M SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG 😭😭🙏 i’m catching up on all the requests istg

[vandal-flower]

In Sicknes and In...

Ror men reacting to their s/o with a serious illness and coughing up blood.

Requested Characters: Various.

Warnings: Sickness, blood, angst.

Notes: Saw the latest chapter, and Loki... thoughts and prayers. 😶

Hoping for a Miracle.

He gently wipes the blood of your lips and prepares a new set of washed clothes for you to change in. He doesn't say anything, he doesn't need to.

He knows you've been fighting this illness, maybe even longer than you have known him. He's seen some recover after some time, others...a memory from the past. A memory that aches his heart.

He just hopes, hopes that you end up well. It may be pathetic for a man like him to be beg for a miracle, when he's known for making them by others, but he doesn't care.

He just wants you to stay with him. He doesn't want to lose you. Not now, not ever.

HADES, Poseidon, Simo Häyhä, QIN SHI HUANG, Leonidas, Tesla and others...

To feel is to breathe.

Underneath that smile hold a baggage of emotions. Rage, sorrow, guilt. All for things he wished he had the power to prevent. What's even worse is how others look at him. How they look at you.

Behind those eyes that hold pity, he knows they don't care. As much as he tries to be above the situation, he can't help but feel as if he should beat them to a pulp, to scream his head off. But that wouldn't make the situation any better. Not for you anyway, he thinks.

Folding your clothes as you sleep, quiet snores leaving your mouth. He smiles, it soothing. He's sure you'll find it weird if you found out. He doesn't care.

It's a clear sign you are still breathing. You're still here.

LOKI, SHIVA, Hermes, APOLLO, Susanoo and others...

Quiet moments between you and him.

His arms wrap around you, providing warmth and security. You've long fallen asleep in his embrace, occasional jagged breaths leaving your mouth. It eventually stops as he tightens the hug and places a thick blanket on top of you.

He cherishes moments like these. No noise from the outside, no one to disturb both you and him. It's peaceful. It's sad.

He wishes he could do as much as you have done for him. How even when he has his moments, you still continue to be with him. Through thick and thin. It's amazing how you even manage to shine a smile his way after everything you've been through.

His arms tighten even more, careful not to hurt you. He'll be with you, just like how you've been with him. Through thick and thin.

THOR, HERCULES, Lu Bu, JACK THE RIPPER, Buddha and others...

Hi...

[maxispixels]

HANDPICKED

PART TWELVE.

Hobie Brown x GN!Reader

3.9k words

You work at a flower shop in late 70s London and Hobie's being a menace. Slowburn? Probably will be around (more) 10 parts. Strangers to reluctant acquaintances to friends to something more. Maybe a lil' messy ? (very)

CW/TW: Panic attack description, kinda murder talk, lots of political talk, mention of state violence i guess?,, (Tell me if I should add something?)

Part one. Part two. Part three. Part four. Part five. Part six. Part seven. Part eight. Part nine. Part ten. Part eleven. Part twelve. Part thirteen. Part fourteen.

The air felt thick, and heavy, clogging your throat, your lungs refusing to work right.

Your eyes fell on Hobie, at the other side of the room, back turned to you. Blissfully unaware. The world blurred around the edge. 

You believed it. If you’d been able to convince yourself that it was just a vile lie, you wouldn't have felt so ill. You didn't know who this man was, what his problem was with you or Hobie, but his last words had the ring of truth.

You pushed yourself to your feet at once, and a violent rush of blood drained from your head, your eyes going black as you lost your balance. Your hands shot out blindly, gripping the back of the couch, anything to keep you upright. The squat swayed around you, voices distant, muffled like they were coming through water. It took a few seconds before you were able to slide along the wall towards an exit.

Ugly and unexpected, a feeling of inadequacy swept through you. You felt invisible, an overwhelming panic washed over you like waves, and no one had seen you. 

You weren't the type to like being the centre of attention, but this was different. You were losing your footing. You were drowning and there was no hand on your shoulder to keep your head above water.

You let the current drag you to the first door, shuffling with the handle until you almost crashed inside. The bright blue light made your eyes hurt, and your nostrils twitched at the harsh, pungent smell of an unclean bathroom. 

The tiles were shattered, the grout black with filth, and the sink stained with dark matter. You couldn't bring yourself to care as you turned the rusted faucet, letting the water run cold before splashing it over your face. It dripped down your skin, soaking the collar of your shirt, and still, you couldn't feel it.  

You cupped your hands, took a quick sip, only to gag. It tasted wrong. Metallic. You spit it out, coughing, gripping the sides of the sink as a wave of nausea slammed into you. The mirror swam in front of you, you really looked terrible. Your reflection seemed to multiply, and when you moved, it didn’t move on beat with you, slightly delayed, like a record skipping.

The walls closed in. The bathroom wasn’t enough. It wasn’t open enough. You needed out, you needed air. You shoved your way back through the door, barely looking where you were going. The squat felt hotter than before, suffocating, your skin burning. You reached the front, pushed the door open, and stumbled out onto the street. The cold whipped your wet face, but you could barely feel it. 

Were you ever going to be able to go anywhere with Hobie without breaking down? Maybe that was a bad sign, your body trying to drag you away from him, from the danger you might have been unconsciously feeling. Were you really just blinded by his smooth voice and golden brown eyes? 

You were just starting to be okay with it. Hobie swiping food, nicking random stuff from corporations that deserved to lose more than they already stole from everyone else. That kind of theft didn’t hurt anyone.

But this? This was blood. Someone’s life. And the thought clamped around your ribs like a vice.

What if it was true? What then? Hobie seemed to be more than okay with it. You resented him for it. You were still losing sleep over that one time you didn’t say hello to your bus driver, and there he was, in your bed, in your arms— well, he did not sleep well, you’ll give him that.

Was it the reason? The reason why his eyes would get lost? The way he seemed to tense at sirens?

You didn’t notice anyone coming until a tall shadow loomed over you. Your eyes trailed up to Hobie’s worried face, and you wondered since when he was that tall, until you realised you were sitting down. His presence forced you to ground yourself, although his words still didn’t reach you.

You looked down, realizing you were sitting in a puddle. You let something between a breath and scoff, staring down at the soaked fabric of your trousers, watching the water seep in deeper. That was your luck. 

When you looked back up, he had crouched in front of you. You saw his lips move but you couldn’t hear him over the ringing in your ears. When did the ringing start?

He was a murderer. 

His fingers ghosted toward your cheek, and you flinched. Hobie pulled his hand back like he had been burned.

The sight made your heart ache. You wanted to tell him to go away. To tell him to hold you. To tell him to never talk to you again. To tell him to never leave you alone again. 

You didn’t say anything. 

His words finally cut through to you. And oh god, your name sounded so sweet in his voice, especially dripping with worry like that. It was intoxicating, how it made you feel special, precious. That couldn’t be faked. 

“Oi, look at me.” Sweet like honey, each word stuck to your clammy skin. You tried to look in his eyes, his two, no, four, eight… Yeah, you couldn’t really focus your eyes. But you were conscious. Now that you listened, he knew you could hear him.

“It’s going to be alright, yeah? You take a deep breath with me okay?” 

You let him guide you through it, each breath slower than the last, until everything stopped being blurry. 

Your stomach still churned at the thought of everything, but it could wait just another moment. Especially as you came back to senses you didn’t realise you lost and was hit with an uncomfortable wave of cold, wetness seeping in through your clothes. 

Hobie offered his hand, not daring to reach for you first. You looked away, plagued with the man’s words. You found it in yourself to push your body up, with the help of the wall behind you. Without another word, and in spite of both your instincts to speak, you made your way home.

The silence was heavy and uncomfortable, filled with bootsteps the distant clatter of conversations that weren’t yours. 

“You good now?” He asked carefully. 

You nodded, but he didn’t seem convinced. You felt the twist of nausea in your guts, but you kept it down, focusing on the feeling of your steps.

“I.. I know crowds can be a lot.” He murmured. “Shoulda noticed sooner.” He thought back to the concert, the way you grew overwhelmed to tears. Was that the same thing? “You’ve… done this before?” His words were tentative, like he didn’t want to assume.

It took some time to hit. Of course he’d think this was about the protest, or the people. In some way he reassured you. He wasn’t some kind of master manipulator that knew everything and could read your mind.

It gave him a certain innocence that was stolen from the way you looked at him. This felt better, more familiar already.

Faced with your lingering silence, he continued. “T’s okay you know. You don’t need to put yourself out there. Not if…” his words got lost in the wind.

You let him believe whatever until you reached your flat. He let you in your silence, although careful that you weren’t slipping back in whatever mental space got you there in the first place.

You struggled with your keys like a drunk, your hands shaking. 

“Let me?” He offered quietly, still not daring to reach first after what happened. You gave in, handing him the keys.

Once he opened, you shuffled inside, the warm scent of flowers and leather making you feel just slightly better. It was warm and comfortable. It was home. Your shoes got kicked and you dragged yourself to your bathroom, familiar and clean. 

You locked the door and stared at your reflection. You felt like you took ten years in one night. You quickly shed your wet clothes, the sensations barely bearable at this point.

Warm water felt like heaven’s gift, but it wasn’t enough to clean the filth underneath your nails, the man’s words lingering in every fold of your brain. You wished you could pull it out of your skull and wash it as well, use some scented products, get it squeaky clean, smooth and shiny. No thoughts at all.

You took your sweet time thinking everything over. Who cared it was probably 3A.M? Well, maybe Hobie, his worried words coming from time to time to make sure you hadn’t drowned in your bath.

You were more worried about drowning in your thoughts, especially when seeing Hobie's jewelries at your sink made you recoil. You weren’t sure how to deal with this.

You lingered in front of the door, scared of having to face him after everything. You closed your eyes and swallowed down a shiver before you finally stepped out of the bathroom.

You saw him sitting on the bed, waiting, almost sheepish, one of his legs tucked under his chin. You never saw him look so meek, it tugged at your heartstrings. You felt bad for even doubting him, but the seed had already taken root.

“Hey there.” He mumbled, watching you come out, relief obvious on his face.

“Hey…”

“You’re alright?” he asked softly, “can talk now?”

You paused. No, not really, you couldn’t when it was still eating at your mind like a parasite.

“Hobie…” you started, unsure, barely a breath. “Have you ever…”

He waited.

“Hurt someone?”

Your voice wavered, words hanging in the air as everything stilled. The euphemism was a little ridiculous, but you couldn’t bring yourself to be more clear. It’s as if saying anything more crude would burn your tongue.

Hobie didn’t answer right away, he was caught off guard. Your question didn’t make sense—hurt someone? You’ve seen him bruised, joking about getting in a fight, it never bothered you before, or maybe it did, but not like this.

Was that what got you all sullen tonight?

He didn’t deflect, didn’t joke, didn’t smirk. He just looked at you, at your shape barely held together against the doorframe. Your skin was still glistening from your shower, it looked raw, as if you scrubbed too hard, and your face looked so sulken and tired.

His eyes never wavered, but you saw something flicker. It was like he was testing the weight of your words, trying to be sure what you were really asking.

“I don’t like to hurt people.”

It wasn’t a no. You felt your knees go jelly. 

“But sometimes,” he continued, “you just gotta make sure people don’t get the chance to do worse.”

You clenched your teeth. Part of you hoped he would laugh and make fun of you for getting weird ideas in your head. That he’d be offended by the implications. That he’d tell you how wrong this was.

“Did you?” you murmured, barely above a whisper, “did you…” the words wouldn’t come out, still trapped in your throat.

He knew what you meant. Part of him wanted to ask you how you found out, maybe beat the idiot who ran their mouth to you of all people, but he knew it wasn’t the right time for threats of violence.

He was reminded of the way you flinched earlier, how he tried to convince himself that you just couldn’t handle people at that moment. Were you scared of him? His stomach churned at the thought, the feeling familiar, like this was all inevitable.

“Yeah.”

You thought the walls were closing in again. He didn’t look proud, nor did he look ashamed.

He gave you no justification, no excuses, and the words of the man in the cowboy hat rang in your ear. Some people just deserve to go. You wanted to go back under the shower head, let the water drown out your thoughts.

“Why?” You tried, voice steadier.

He finally looked away.

“Cause I had to.”

That was all? Your ribs felt tight, like they constricted around your lungs to suffocate you. 

You tried to justify it in your head, but it only led to growing self disgust. What you hated most was how the way you saw him didn't change. 

He was just sitting there, on your bed, the moonlight pouring over his shoulder. You wanted to climb next to him and curl up at his side, but you weren't sure you could look at yourself in the mirror after that. 

He let the silence linger, he let you sit with it, never pushing.

After a beat, he spoke up. “What now?...” His voice was quiet yet steady. “Should I leave?”

The thought of sending him out there in the middle of the night felt wrong. Did he still have a place to go? He had been there for a while.

But worse, the risk of him not coming back hurt more than anything else.

“I won’t be mad…” he murmured like he would to a wounded animal, like he thought you were scared to tell him to leave but wanted to.

Your words all got tangled in your throat and he stood up, slowly, grabbing his things, trying to appear as non threatening as possible. Sure it hurt to think that you could ever be scared of him, but he didn’t want to make it worse. 

You watched him grab his jacket next, every one of his movements slow and careful. He didn’t look you in the eyes, not even in your general direction, not in a way that showed how much he wanted you to stop him. Like he had accepted it already. You pictured the room without him. Without his guitar.

His name fell out of your lips like it was the only thing that could make it out. His eyes met yours.

“Don’t go.”

That surprised him. 

“Stay. Please.” 

Your words stopped him cold, his jacket slipping from his hands like he forgot he was holding it. He sat back down, slower this time, shoulders drawn in like the weight of the night had finally caught up to him. He almost looked small. Not something to be pitied, but something to cradle and love. 

With agonizing slowness, things settled. 

He put his spiked bracelets on the nightstand, his jacket on the designated clothes chair and you eyed the way his shoulders rounded without pads or artificials angles.

And without a word, your tired bodies found their way under the heavy blankets.

The bed felt too small. Or maybe too big? Maybe it was the way you laid with your shoulder pushed against the cold wall, the way Hobie laid on the very edge, his arm dangling off the mattress like he was trying to take up less space.

Maybe it was the way your shoulders hovered inches apart, your breathing uneven, your heart hammering behind your ribs in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion. 

You hoped this tension wasn't going to be your new normal. Your eyes were wide open, despite the fatigue. You weren't going to sleep easily. Your body was heavy and aching, but your thoughts were still racing. 

You stopped breathing for a moment to concentrate on his. Too fast to be asleep, but you hesitated anyway. You needed to ask more. You inhaled deeply.

“Are you awake?” Your voice came out a tentative whisper, reminiscent of children trying to bypass their bedtimes with quiet late night talks.

“Yeah.” He answered after a beat too long. 

You didn’t look at each other, eyes glued to the popcorn ceiling like it was a summer day’s sky. You looked for shapes in the relief of the ceiling, like you would in clouds. You were hoping to find a message, perhaps the right words to say, or just something to reassure you.

“Can you talk to me?” you tried.

“About what?” his voice gentle and quiet. 

“I dunno. Everything.” you tried to be vague, but you only had one thing in mind. “The cop.”

“You wanna know what happened?”

You nodded. He couldn’t see you, but he felt it. He hummed, pensive. Your head turned to him just enough to see his brows furrowed from the corner of your eyes. He didn’t argue or try to run from an explanation.

“Was defending myself.” He confessed, but it didn’t sound like an excuse or a justification. Just a fact.

Your breath stilled in your throat. “Defending?”

He nodded. You had to be honest with yourself, relief started to course through your veins. You felt him shift. Not to look at you, just to prop his arms behind his head, just enough to ease the flow of words from his chest.

“Fighting a system that thrives on violence,” he murmured, voice quiet, measured, too tired to be anything but honest, “comes with its own share of violence.”

You swallowed.

“Pacifism isn’t great,” he paused, “not when they got a gun to your head.”

The words felt distant, like he was explaining to himself, not to you. Like it was just something he carried, something he had always carried. 

"You ever notice how the only people told to ‘stay peaceful’ are the ones already gettin’ killed?”

His voice was still quiet, but the sharpness in it could cut through iron.

"That’s the thing, innit? They don’t need to play fair. Don’t need to follow no rules. But the second we start fightin’ back—" he let out a dry, humorless chuckle, shaking his head, “they call us the threat. Call us the criminals."

His fingers tapped against his side, restless, his mind already miles ahead, already thinking in movements, in battles, in history repeating itself.

"Not being violent never stopped violence. Never has. Never will. The world doesn't work like that. If it did, the state wouldn’t need cops, wouldn’t need prisons, wouldn’t need no weapons to keep us in our place. They got ‘em. They use ‘em. And then they tell us we gotta sit there, take the hits, and ‘wait for change.’ T’s just like the kids teachers told to ‘ignore their bullies’. Never stopped bullying.”

His jaw flexed, eyes dark, sharp.

"That's a luxury. Thinkin’ you can just… wait for things to get better. Not everyone gets to wait."

You listened to him, hanging to his every word. This felt much bigger. Bigger than him defending himself from a cop. Bigger than what you could conceive in your tired brain. Those words would stick with you for a long time, and you'll need to sit with them and process them. But right now, your stomach twisted, your fingers curled into the blanket, knuckles white. 

And then, before you could stop yourself, before you could even think, “Some people just need to go.” 

Hobie turned his head, not enough to see you properly, just enough that you could feel his stare. “That what you think?” His voice was suddenly shaper. Not angry. Concerned.

Your breath came short, shallow, unsteady, before you cracked. It spilled out, shaky and ugly. The squat, the man, the filth, the words, the way he had dug into you, twisted you up. The way he had looked at you, smirk curling slow and lazy as he dragged you through the dirt, made you feel less than. The way he had forced you to imagine Hobie like that, like a killer. Like someone who could take a life and feel nothing.

Like someone who could take a life and then come home to you, slip under your blankets, press a kiss to your temple like there was no blood under his nails.

Hobie listened, and the longer you spoke, the more his stillness became terrifying. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t react, didn’t even breathe too loud.

Finally, he sighed, not with frustration, just something heavy.

“Nah. That’s not how it works.”

His voice was quieter now, thoughtful, measured. He exhaled again, rubbing his knuckles over his jaw, thinking. Choosing his words.

“It ain't about who deserves what. It never was.”

He turned onto his side now, fully facing you, and for the first time since the conversation started, his eyes held you there. Grounded you.

“Deserve’s got nothin’ to do with it. Everybody deserves to live. Everybody. That’s the fuckin’ point.”

You listened carefully, trying to understand, to comprehend.

“The problem ain't that some people need to go. The problem’s that some people decided a long time ago that they get to choose. That they get to pick who lives, who dies, who gets a roof over their head, who starves, who gets to grow old, who don’t make it past seventeen. That’s what we’re s’posed to be fightin’.”

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t have to. The weight of it pressed down on you all the same.

“Ain’t about countin’ up sins and handin’ out punishment.” His voice dipped slightly lower. “It’s about stoppin’ the ones who think they can do it without consequence. The ones who’ve been doin’ it since before we were born.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, like you needed to chew his words, swallow them, let them replace whatever rotten seed the other man had planted in your stomach.

“So nah. I don’t decide who deserves to go.” He let that settle, watching you, making sure it landed. “But I’ll do what I gotta do to make sure the people I love get to stay.”

You nodded. Not because you understood, hell, you could barely process everything that happened today, you were exhausted. You nodded to promise you’d understand later, when your brain will be rested and his words would come back to you, and you’ll sit with them and maybe find it in you to either agree or find arguments compelling enough not to.

“I should’ve never left you alone.” He started again, his voice so much softer. “Should’ve looked after you better. Should’ve been the one to tell you.”

And something inside you broke completely. Because it should’ve. It should’ve been him. Not a stranger with a cigarette and a cruel mouth, it should’ve been Hobie. It should’ve been like this.

Your hands trembled and you rolled on your side to face fully. His face was partially hidden in shadow, but his eyes were open, tired, pained. He looked wrecked and you hated it. Hated that he felt guilty, hated that you felt guilty for making him feel guilty.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. 

Then, without thinking or really meaning to, your hands moved, tentative, hesitant. It was like putting your fingers on the glass protecting a work of art in a museum and expecting an alarm to go off on contact. 

It was just the smallest brush, and Hobie finished the movement. His fingers caught yours, warm, before he shifted, his arm curling around you, pulling you in, gentle, slow, careful, like he knew you needed it but wouldn’t ask. 

You let yourself sink into it. The weight of his arm over your back, the press of his chest, the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing against your skin… It was grounding. It was the safety net you tried so hard to fall back into. You could breathe again too. 

You stopped shaking.

Part thirteen.

i have books to recommend if anyone wanna

that feels way too heavy for silly fanfiction about flowershops

Tags: @hoe-bie @kittenjujusblog

[itzkingbo]

butterflies & roses

chapter one.

Stray Kids ot8 x fem!reader

masterlist / next chapter

overview: you are one of their managers. you're tired, overworked, and sad. the last thing you want to do is worry your boys. but they notice everything. and the love and care for you, like you do for them.

word count: 1.8k

contains: cussing, mentions of pain, fluff, nicknames, use of y/n, mental illness

a/n: RAAAHH imma be so honest. this started off as a one shot drabble idea for anon and turned into whatever tf this is. but i love it? i fear ill have to make this a series 😔 lemme know if you wanna be part of the taglist! pookie out 🤪

Sure, you were one of the boys' many managers, but to them you were special. With the DominATE tour right around the corner, all of you were incredibly busy. You worked day in and day out to practically keep 3racha alive in the studio as they finished up any last touches to the solos they'd be revealing on stage.

You had barely gotten any sleep the night before, eyelids heavy with exhaustion as you dressed yourself for another tiresome day at the company. Many things went unnoticed by your usually trained eye. You left your quaint apartment in the sweatpants you had slept in, only mascara, and a coffee cup with only sugar because you forgot to pour it before you left.

Luckily you were smart enough not to drive yourself and settled on taking the bus. Several stops later you were waddling through the front doors of JYPE, one airpod in and a half-crooked smile to the doorman. The elevator ride seemed to take an eternity and you slipped into a daydream against the cold metal railing.

The loud ding snapped you out of it quickly, and you scurried past the other staff members entering the box. With a flushed face, you moved down the hall towards the dance practice studio, then shoved the door open.

Music harassed your ears immediately and you walked over to the counter to set your things down and cover your ears. It made your head pound. You hadn't even noticed your headache until now.

When the music suddenly stopped, you looked up to see Minho staring at you. "Y/n-ah? Are you alright?" His voice was calmer than usual, laced with genuine concern for his favorite manager.

You took in a deep breath and nodded, lowering your hands from your ears. "Just.. a headache. I didn't sleep well last night." You say honestly. This causes Minho to furrow his brows and step closer to you.

It was just you two in the practice room at the moment, as the rest of the boys were usually not this early. His hands move to cup your cheeks, and if they weren't already red, they would be now.

He moved your head around cautiously, looking into your eyes and then moving away to his bag. When he returned, he handed you a few pills. "Medicine. You need to take care of yourself like you take care of us."

You take it with a smile and reach for your cup. When you look down your straw, your brows furrow and you let out a low growl.

"What's wrong now?"

".. I must have been too tired. I didn't even finish making my coffee before I left." You grumble, handing him the cup to see for himself.

A hearty laugh escapes his lips and he sets it down and hands you his water bottle. "Maybe instead of managing you should take a nap in the studio."

This made you scowl, and you took the water and then plopped the pill into your mouth. "I can't afford a nap right now, Minho. There's too much to do and not enough time. The tour is right around the corner."

His snicker didn't go unnoticed and you shot him a glare. "You sound like Channie-hyung." He snorts, moving back to the laptop to finish his warm-up before practice.

When he unpauses the music, you notice he has turned the volume down and your glare softens. The sound of his sneakers squeaking on the floor fills the room as you make your way to the chairs in the corner.

It only takes a few short minutes for the practice room door to bust open, and the loud yapping of the boys makes you flinch at the sharp pain in your temple.

Minho stops completely and faces the boys, hands on his hips. "Hush! Manager-nim has a headache!" He whisper-yells, barely audible over the music.

Chris is quick to jog over to the computer to turn off the music. "Heh!?" Jisung harps, clearly having not heard his elder the first time. A hiss escapes your lips and you bring a hand to your head.

Felix turns to you and his eyes widen. "Oh! Sorry, Y/n.. we'll be quieter." He says, his puppy dog eyes causing your anger to vanish. "She has a headache, Ji. Please be less loud today."

Han's head snaps in your direction with an apologetic look, and he mouths you a quick 'Sorry' before placing his stuff down with everyone else's.

As they begin their warm-up stretches, their fearless leader dares to approach you, hands behind his back like he wants something. "Yes, Chris?" You ask quietly, trying not to upset your head while you wait for the medicine to kick in.

He bends down to your level, hands on your knees. "What time did you sleep last night?"

The question makes your chest tighten. You're HIS manager. The one who scolds HIM for late nights and no self-care. Yet here he was, looking at you like you had spit in his Cheerios.

You look down at your lap, pouting slightly. "Six.." You muttered, and his eyebrow cocks the way it does when he isn't too sure of something. "Y/n."

"Six. In the morning." This time you've said it louder, still refusing to look him in the eye. But he forces you to. He is older after all. "Christ, Y/n. We left the studio together at midnight." He scolded, tone stern yet filled with worry.

You huff and cross your arms. "I know. I just, couldn't sleep." You say, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. There had been so much on your mind lately. The tour, schedules, meetings, family, your boyfriend. Well. Scratch that. Ex-boyfriend. It was a sudden breakup that happened a few days ago. You hadn't had time to process the loss, the now empty bed, and quiet apartment.

Chris stares at you, watching as your eyes water. But before he can say anything, his name is called. "Hyung. C'mon." Hyunjin calls out.

You look down at the man, a small frown painting your features. "We'll talk more later." He says, now standing up after patting one of your knees and walking over to the group.

Throughout the entire practice session, you zoned out every other second. You were either falling asleep or in your head. Time after time, one of the boys would look your way with a frown or walk over to bring you water.

Once they finished up, Chris looked over to see you completely passed out with your head leaned back against the wall. He waved the others on, moved over to you, and tapped your shoulder gently. “Y/n-ah.” His voice was soft, and you hummed in response as your eyes opened slowly.

With a small smile, he grabbed both of your hands and pulled you up to your feet. Your eyes widened at the sudden movement and you grabbed onto him for support. "C'mon sleepy head. Let's go."

He grabbed your things, shouldering your bag after tucking your empty cup away. Then, he slung your arm over his shoulder and his hand found your waste.

Then he lead you out of the practice room, and down the hall to his studio.

When the door creaked open, Jisung's boba eyes met your tired ones. He felt like he could squeeze your adorable little cheeks at that moment, but he resisted and stood up to help you to the couch.

You didn't complain, far too tired to fight them at the moment. The moment your head hit the cushion, you were out like a light. "I'll go fetch her a coffee, keep an eye on her." Chris said, looking over at Jisung as he left the room.

"Yes sir." Han saluted, sitting in his chair and facing the laptop.

Your soft snores filled the room and created a comfortable silence mixed with the clicking of the keyboard and mouse.

Not long later, Chris returned with a few cups of coffee and Changbin behind him with bags. The aroma of something baked instantly flooded your nose and woke you from your nap. You grumbled and turned to face the boys with half-lidded eyes as you rubbed them. "How long was I out for?"

"Literally thirty minutes." Han chuckled, taking his coffee and breakfast. You groaned and sat up straight with a grumpy expression. It softened quickly as you were handed a cup with your name, and a turkey croissant. You licked your lips and bit into it with a satisfied hum.

The three laughed at your excitement for food and took their places in the studio.

The rest of the day was spent working on small projects, as well as the backing track for each solo. Then you were off to your office to finish the week's paperwork. You hadn't even realized how late it had gotten. However, this wasn't the first time you were glued to your chair by 11pm.

A subtle knock on your office door made you jump, and you looked up to see the familiar Aussie face. "Y/n." He greeted before moving over to your desk.

"Chan. What are you still doing here? It's late." You scolded, brows raised at him.

He scoffed and leaned against the wall nearest to him. "Says you. C'mon. You need sleep."

You shake your head and continue typing away. "Can't. I'm not finished yet." "I wasn't asking."

You look up again, stunned at the demanding tone he was using. Frankly, it pissed you off. "I'll leave when I'm done here." You say, tone slightly aggressive.

"You say that now." "Christopher! Get off my ass, would ya?" You didn't mean to snap at him.

"Y/N! Go home! Look at you! This morning you could barely stay awake, you looked exhausted. You're a mess!"

His words caused you to stop what you were doing and look up at him. You bit the inside of your cheek, saved your work, and slammed your laptop shut. "You have no room to talk to me like that." You huffed.

"Maybe not, but at least I'm trying here. You can't work in these conditions."

You began to stuff your things into your bag, then pushed past him out of your office. "Fuck sake. Leave me alone."

"What is wrong with you!? Why are you acting like this, Y/n?" He begged, following after you like a lost puppy.

You ignored him and kept walking. "Answer me."

"Nothing! Nothing is wrong, Bangchan! I'm just fucking tired!" You snapped again. You stopped walking and looked at him. That's when he realized you had tears running down your face, brows furrowed angrily.

You weren't mad at him. Your tears weren't angry. They were sad. He noticed the bags under your eyes. How much thinner and pale you looked. Your hair was greasy and tangled, very much unkempt like the rest of you. Why hadn't he noticed sooner?

"Oh. Y/N." He reached out to touch your cheek, but you flinched and turned away. "I'm just tired."

With that, you hurried away from him and left the company building.

[dreadfuldevotee]

Like I love Star Wars, I have to begin this statement by saying Star Wars is a genuine joy of my life and when its good it means Everything and even when it kinda fucking sucks I still love it. MY ISSUE is that everyone is fucking insufferable. Star Wars fans are some of the most annoying people I've ever had the misfortune of talking to. I can name every person I can stand to have a extended conversation with where we are both giving thoughts and opinions on One Hand. The fans across the board, are joyless and nhilistic and I'm convinced half the people who talk about SW hate it because you're not having fun, nothing is good enough if its not the exact version that exists in their head and I just couldn't do it anymore. Even people who I agreed with and thought their criticism are valid just! where is your joy! Why are you here if you hate it so much??

So I took a fucking break! The Ahsoka Discourse took me out and I wanted a different all consuming black hole of sci-fi to swallow me whole. And it was either DW or Star Trek but between Good Omens putting David Tennant all over my TL and a trip through my universities theater archives reminding me how much I adored Antigone and Jodie and Christopher's performances in it, I choose here! And honestly I don't know why I wasn't into this show sooner, like I was here on tumblr since late 2013, idk how I missed the bus but it doesn't matter. But, I come on here and twitter and tiktok and it's just the same shit. Like the discourse is near identical, the terms are just different but they're the same! And I come on here and its like "Oh boy I can't want to talk about the parts of this show I find enjoyable and the things that I find interesting, I sure hope I don't have to wade against waves of hate from every fucking angle again because you're all sad little losers sucking some random white guy's dick" I don't know WHHYYYYY I'm surprised that that's exactly what it is!

Its such a shame I really really enjoy fandom, in the sense of: creativity and fan creations and discussion and theory and just general comradery but also I think if I have to see another person who only writes "critical" think pieces on 13 but is balls deep into 10 or 11 I am going to start screaming, I think. Like I'm not the first person to say it and I won't be the last but its not about thinking its perfect, ever. And maybe its because her era just ended and it'll cool off but I DON'T KNOW!!! I think about how people still kick around sequel trilogy discourse like the movies came out yesterday and I've lived through fucking years of "Jedi Attachment Rule" fighting and I Think I'm Too Old For This Now. But I'm also an attention whore and I need people who are also in the well but Also I think hate all of you. I don't know.

I need to go back in time and strangle myself for jumping ship from Star Wars to Doctor Who thinking literally anything would be better. pick up anything else dear lord alive

[httpsdana]

hey i'm already sick, i think i've got influanz or something

please can you write something where the reader is so sick and gavi is comforting her , fulff maybe

it will be so cute if you did it

When the Storm Passes~Pablo Gavi

*Pictures are from Pinterest*

I'm still alive 😃 things have been a bit quiet for a few days and I'm bored so I thought I might write something in my free time. enjoy <3

request from here

master list -> part 2

players/drivers I write for

The rain fell relentlessly outside, each drop hitting the window like a tiny drumbeat echoing through the quiet apartment. y/n was curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket that felt a little too heavy, the world outside blurring into shades of gray.

A nasty cold had knocked her off her feet, leaving her with a stuffy nose, an aching head, and an overwhelming desire to do nothing more than sleep. The cozy warmth of the blanket brought little comfort against the chill of her illness.

y/n glanced at the clock on the wall, feeling a twinge of guilt that she had canceled plans with Pablo, her boyfriend. He had wanted to take her out for a surprise dinner to celebrate her recent achievements, but instead, she was here, sniffling and swaddled in layers of fabric.

Just as she settled deeper into the couch, her phone buzzed on the coffee table. With a groan, she reached for it, squinting at the bright screen. It was a message from Gavi.

Pablito <3 : Hey, how are you feeling?

y/n hesitated for a moment, not wanting to admit how miserable she felt, but the truth bubbled to the surface.

y/n: Not great. Just sick and tired.

Pablito <3 : I’m coming over. I’ll bring soup!

She couldn’t help but smile at his thoughtfulness. He always had a way of making her feel better, even from a distance. A few minutes later, the sound of keys jingling at the door broke her thoughts. She had barely enough time to grab a tissue before Gavi entered, a warm smile lighting up his face, instantly making her heart flutter despite her illness.

“Hey, you,” he said softly, closing the door behind him. He kicked off his shoes and rushed to her side, placing a steaming bowl of soup on the coffee table. “I brought you something to warm you up.”

“Thank you,” she croaked, her voice hoarse. Gavi settled down beside her, the couch shifting slightly as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. The heat radiating from him was comforting.

“How bad is it?” he asked gently, brushing a strand of hair away from her forehead.

“You look like you’ve been run over by a bus.” he joked

y/n chuckled softly, even though it sent a wave of coughing through her chest. “Just a cold. I’ll be fine.”

“Fine?” Gavi teased, giving her a mockingly skeptical look. “You’re wearing a blanket like it’s a battle shield. You’re basically a warrior right now.”

“More like a sickly knight,” zhe mumbled, burying her face into his side. The warmth of his body melted away some of her discomfort.

“Okay, then,” he replied, chuckling. “Sickly knight, let me take care of you.” He reached for the soup, holding the bowl in his hands. “Open wide, your royal highness.”

y/n giggled, feeling a little more like herself. Gavi expertly fed her spoonful after spoonful, his playful jokes breaking through the fog of her illness. Each spoon of the warm soup felt like a hug from the inside, soothing her sore throat and warming her belly.

After she finished, Gavi placed the bowl down and brushed his fingers across her cheek. “Do you want to watch a movie or just cuddle for a while?”

“Cuddles sound perfect,” she murmured, nestling closer to him. y/n could feel his warmth wrapping around her like a protective cocoon, and it made her feel safe and cherished.

Gavi turned on the television, scrolling through her favorite movies. As he selected a light-hearted rom-com, she settled into the crook of his neck, breathing in his comforting scent, a mix of cologne and the fresh air from outside. His fingers started running through her hair, gently massaging her scalp as the movie played.

“Can I just say,” he whispered, his voice soft and teasing, “that you’re the cutest sick person I’ve ever seen?”

y/n pulled back slightly to meet his gaze, smirking at his compliment. “You say that to all the girls you date?”

“Only the ones I really care about,” he replied, sincerity washing over his playful tone. She felt a blush creeping onto her cheeks.

As the movie played, she found herself drifting in and out of sleep, comforted by Gavi’s presence. Each time she stirred, he would gently adjust jer blanket or tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear, ensuring she was warm and cozy. It was as if he had taken it upon himself to be her personal caretaker, and she felt a wave of gratitude wash over her.

“Hey,” he said softly during one of her drowsy moments, “do you want me to read you something? I brought your favorite book.”

She nodded, feeling touched by his thoughtfulness. He reached for the book on the coffee table, flipping it open to a marked page. His voice was soothing, wrapping around her like a lullaby as he read aloud, bringing the story to life. The combination of his gentle voice and the story’s familiarity sent her drifting deeper into comfort, her eyelids growing heavier.

At some point, y/n realized she had fallen asleep completely, lulled into a peaceful slumber by Gavi’s warmth and his soft reading.

When she stirred awake again after a while, the movie had ended, and the apartment was quiet except for the sound of rain outside.

She opened her eyes slowly, blinking in the dim light. Gavi was still there, now lying beside her, his head resting against the couch with one hand resting on her arm, a peaceful expression on his face. She smiled, feeling a rush of affection for him.

Carefully, y/n shifted to curl up next to him, resting her head against his shoulder. He stirred slightly, his eyes flickering open. “You’re awake,” he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep.

“Yeah,” she replied softly, smiling at him. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

“Always,” he said, brushing a kiss across her forehead.

“I’d do anything for you.” He yawned, stretching his arms before wrapping them around her tightly. “How are you feeling now?”

“Better,” she admitted, leaning into him. “It’s nice to be taken care of.”

He grinned, his eyes twinkling with warmth. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere until you’re completely better. I’ve got plenty of soup and movies to keep us company.”

With that promise, y/n snuggled deeper into his embrace, feeling the warmth of his body seep into hers. As the rain continued to fall outside, she knew that with Pablo by her side, she could weather any storm.