#sleep sleep sleep time to go to sleep now… it is night and i need to sleep while it is dark….

[eraserbread]

satoru's two favorite things: convenience store sweets and his foreign!gf

"know what would be really good right now?" gojo wakes you up in bed, long fingers trailing over your nude back. face-first in the pillows, you thought you'd be able to scrounge at least five hours of sleep in with him next to you. wishful thinking, it seems. "7-eleven taiyaki and nanachiki."

you feel like shit, smell like sex, hair sticky and all over the place -- it's not good timing. you feel gross. "please, not now."

"pleaseeeee?" he's begging, pressing sticky kisses to your shoulder and across your neck. you're still recovering after two hard rounds, laying limp like gojo's personal cream-filled taiyaki -- leaking everywhere with his essence.

you end up saying yes, and you're standing in the middle of a 7-eleven in the middle of the night, western music blasting, and wrapped in gojo's hoodie.

"lemon creme taiyaki, baby. insane." satoru is a mess, himself. a polite mess with ruffled hair in a baggy t-shirt and sweats. when he doesn't have his blindfold on, he's letting a simple pair of black sunglasses hang from his nose. just like tonight - sunglasses at midnight. he's not so vague.

"there's already three in your hand-

"of course, i have to get the classic, red bean paste, chocolate, and then a new flavor," he's showing off his wrapped selection, holding each taiyaki at attention as he talks. "but this lemon creme looks good. and, I know you'll have some too."

you roll your eyes.

"justification. it always gets you."

"just put it in the basket." you're grumpy, sleepy and ashamed of yourself as you stand, grimacing at the cool cum seeping through your cotton shorts. gojo and his stupid fucking inability to pull out. if you weren't on birth control, you'd have a houseful of white-haired brats by now.

"scary," he deadpans, letting the taiyaki fall into your handle-basket one by one.

you go to walk away from him, drawn in by the cold wall of noodles. "well, hey grumpy. you can just walk home if it's that serious."

you decide on a cold soba, deciding it'd be a cheap lunch for work tomorrow. it'd save you a midday convenience store trip, too. "it's not that serious." you're mumbling, following behind him when he backtracks to the register.

"two nanachiki or four?"

"just totally skipping over one or three?"

satoru laughs, somehow you feel accomplished. "i'm gonna need two at least. just need to know how much you want."

"just get me one."

"so, four?"

"ohmygod."

satoru fed you gentle bites of your nanachiki on the walk home, now he's feeding himself propped between your thighs, red lips kissing at your quivering cunt.

laid out on your bed, nineties anime drowning out your breathless moans, satoru's fucking you lazily on his tongue. the entire walk home, you wouldn't stop complaining about the mess between your legs, calling him lazy and uncaring. even with chicken between your teeth, you still had it in you to bitch him out. he blames it on your ways - your sassy western heritage that bends to domination. so, yes, satoru is lazy because he'd rather just subdue you with lazy tongue-fucking, rather than talking it out like an adult and promising not to do it again.

because, he will be pumping you full of his cum tomorrow. and, the day after. you better get used to it now.

satoru slurps you up his favorite matcha, twisting and twirling his sinful tongue against your velveteen walls. every single drop of his cum he's sucked out like a menace, humming as his taste mingles with your warm slick. the sensation has him digging his thick fingers into the flesh on your thigh, own eyes flipping back into his skull.

it's all so heady -- the room is too hot, the anime too loud. you feel like you're going to pass out when you cum for the third time that night, breath warm with nanachiki, satoru's kisses and lemon creme as your jaw hangs stagnant.

he lets you come to your senses for a second, dry humping against the mattress, too overcome by the expression you're making. as he leans down to kiss your thigh, he whispers against the silky skin.

"serious question: now that you've had nanachiki, whose winning the chicken challenge? 7-eleven or family mart?"

[erwinsvow]

unintentionally falling asleep on jack abbot's arms GOD i need him so bad..

it would happen on one of those nights—a really long, never-ending night. since the moment you had stepped into the hospital, it had been back-to-back car accidents and gunshot victims. one of those nights where you can't seem to recall how many people you've helped save, because it seems like that number is lower than the ones you lost.

you usually have a routine during your night shifts. it's supposed to be less chaotic than the day, you're supposed to have time for your coffee at nine-thirty, your tea at one in the morning. it's nearing three, and you haven't had time to stop for either, just sips of water and half a can of an energy drink that you keep in the snack drawer that you share with dr. abbot, in case of emergencies.

and even the fact that you'd reached for it so early in the shift should have been a sign to you, that this was going to be one of those nights. but even as hard as it is, when you look up and meet reassuring hazel eyes, you know that you'll be okay. that you've done for your best for this patient, that you'll continue doing the most you can for all the rest that come into the trauma room tonight.

and around three-thirty, there's a lull. jack always says that five to seven is the hardest part of the shift, that the two hours at the end dictate how you go home feeling. those two hours are make or break, but right before them, that's when there's a lull. it's when the patients waiting for beds upstairs finally doze off. it's when the chairs are finally a little emptier. when notes are finished, when a fresh pot of coffee is made, when food is eaten.

four am might be your favorite hour in the emergency department. it's just quiet enough that you can hear jack's steady breathing from the computer next to you. he has to sign off on all of your notes—all the resident notes, all the nurses orders, and this is the best time to do it.

and it's hard, because he's really attuned to you. all you've been wanting to do recently is make jack feel the same way he makes you feel. heard, seen, recognized. you bring him a cup of coffee once it's been fifteen minutes without an incoming, your personal way of telling that you should have at least another ten without one. that's about how long it'll take him to finish the cup, so you bring it to him, in your yellow mug, and take a seat next to him.

you take one sip—but it's black, and you prefer yours with enough cream and sugar to make your teeth hurt. he laughs when you make a face, and then he takes the cup back into his hands, fingers brushing for a second. jack takes a big sip and sets it down, his hand lingering on the handle near where your hand is resting. he's reading notes and clicking a button on the keyboard.

"do you want a cup, sweetheart?" he asks quietly, making sure no one can hear him.

he doesn't care, but he knows that you do. but when he turns to get an answer, your eyes are drooping. somewhere between the repetitive clicks of the keys and your boyfriend's steady breathing, you momentarily drifted off.

"sweetheart?" jack repeats, and you sit up a little straighter, jolting out of it at his voice.

"yeah?" you blink quickly, like that'll wake you up. "what is it? incoming?" you almost get up, but jack brings his warm hand to your knee. you sink back down into the chair.

"no. it's nothing." he wants to offer you a cup but if you drink it now, you won't go back to sleep. "go back to your notes."

wordlessly, you comply, staring back at the screen. back to your own personal sound machine—calm heart monitors in the distance, jack typing something. you try to focus on the screen but your attention goes to how the veins and muscles in his forearm move everytime he brings the cup to his mouth for a sip. that's enough to get your eyes to shut again.

his arm rests next to you yours. and without even trying to, you end up slouched over, head resting on his arm. even at home, you sleep like this sometimes. you think that jack's arm must hurt, but if it does, he's never complained or told you to stop.

it's good that you're sleeping while you can. it's one of those times his favoritism can actually make an appearance—there's not a single other resident that gets to fall asleep in front of their attending, much less on their attending. and you need it—he can tell. you're still adjusting to the demands of night shift and this has probably been one of the worst nights since you started.

it's the kind of shift that would usually end with him up on the roof, but surprisingly, while watching your shoulders rise and fall with each breath, he hasn't thought about the roof once tonight. instead he thinks about what he'll make for breakfast when he takes you home. he'll have you shower first if you two go to your apartment—it's too small, not comfortable enough for you both. but if it's his place, then together it is. maybe he'll wash your hair for you, or let you cry against his chest under hot water.

you bought this sleeping spray stuff when you started, but when you come over to sleep in his bed, you haven't needed it once. hopefully this little nap and the cup of coffee he'll make for you at five-thirty won't ruin your sleep schedule more than it already is. he's remembering something about a pilates class you were talking about and an episode of that trashy reality show you love so much when he hears it—the almost silent yet completely recognizable laugh of his other residents.

shen and ellis look at your sleeping form, and then move their gaze to him.

"not a word," he says quietly. he's lost use of one hand but it doesn't really seem to matter, not as long as you get to close your eyes for thirty minutes.

"just one question-"

"-yeah, when's my turn?"

[kekewrites]

Tw. dark content, noncon, obsession, toxic, possessiveness, abandonment issues, sloppy blowjob, throat fucking, manipulation, size kink, overstimulation, name calling (cock-sleeve/warmer/bitch), multiple creampies, cunnilingus, slapping (baby slap though), baby-trapping, angst(?), coercion, dead dove do not eat

***

Thinking about being the manager of a yandere!Idol

You found him wandering in the streets, empty eyes and blank expression on his pretty face. If you didn't look hard you might've missed his tall figure. Being a newbie, you were finding it hard to recruit people but as you were about to go home, you caught sight of his attractive yet hopeless face.

The first time you approach him, he was wary and suspicious of you. Naturally so. But you persevere, introducing yourself as an agent recruiting handsome guys like him in the streets for a chance to become a trainee and become an idol.

"Fuck off. Scram."

That was the first words he said. Harsh. But he was all bark and no bite, like a puppy being defensive. After scuffling for a few minutes you managed to give him your card and phone number, convincing him to at least try.

Then a week later, he called and said yes. His voice was low, hesitant—like he didn’t fully believe in what he was doing, but was too tired of the streets to keep saying no.

You met up with him that same evening, in the same place you first found him. He looked cleaner, but still lost. You took him in without question, gave him food, a place to sleep, and most importantly, a reason to wake up.

For the first few days, he barely spoke. He just slept, ate, and stared at the ceiling like he was trying to remember who he was. You didn’t push. You just stayed nearby, gave him space, but made sure he knew, he wasn’t alone anymore.

Weeks turned into months. Slowly, he started coming back to life. You took care of him, through the bad days when he’d lock himself in his room, through the training sessions where he’d collapse from pushing too hard, through the nights he’d wake up in a cold sweat and pretend he was fine.

And you were always there. With water, with snacks, with a shoulder to lean on.

You watched him grow. From that broken boy on the street into someone who sang with soul, danced with fire, and spoke to crowds with a confidence he never had before.

He became an idol. And every time he stood under the lights, every time fans screamed his name, he always looked for you in the crowd.

Because you didn’t just recruit him.

You saved him.

And that’s when it went wrong.

At first, it was subtle. His smiles came more often when you were around, his tone soft and sugary. He’d cling to your side during breaks, crack jokes, brush your hair out of your face with that charming little smirk. You thought maybe he was just grateful, maybe he was trying to show affection in his own awkward way. After all, he’d been through a lot.

But then, it turned into something else.

He started showing up unannounced. Hovering around your office when he had no schedule. Getting visibly annoyed when you spoke too long with other trainees or staff. The sweet words never stopped, but they started feeling… off. Like they were laced with something heavier. Something darker.

The possessiveness crept in like a slow poison. At meetings, he’d glare at anyone who tried to sit next to you. He'd interrupt your conversations, redirect your attention, cut in with sharp remarks masked as jokes.

You tried to keep it professional, gently reminding him of boundaries, of roles, but he didn't like that.

"Why are you always talking to him?"

"Do you really need to be with them all the time?"

"I'm the reason you’re even doing well now, aren't I?"

And you saw it, in the way other staff avoided him, how they started whispering when he walked by. He was getting harder to work with. More demanding. More unpredictable.

But in front of cameras? He was perfect. The golden boy. Smiling, dazzling, every fan’s dream. But behind the scenes… the boy you once saved was slowly becoming someone else. Or maybe this was who he had been all along, buried beneath the brokenness.

And now, you weren’t sure if you had saved him…

Or created something you couldn’t control.

As his fame skyrocketed, managing him became nearly impossible.

He was everywhere, magazine covers, variety shows, drama cameos. His schedule was packed from sunrise to well past midnight, and you were running yourself ragged trying to keep up. But more than the logistics, it was him. His moods became harder to predict. Some days he was gentle, clinging to you like he used to when he was scared. Other days, he’d snap, throw things, or go cold for no reason.

You were still new to the game. Everyone could see you were trying your best, but it wasn’t enough, not for the industry, and definitely not for him.

The company made the call.

“We think it’s best to assign him a senior manager. Someone with more experience managing top-tier idols.”

They dressed it up as a strategic decision. And honestly? You agreed. Things had gotten too messy. Your once-close relationship had turned into something twisted, confusing, and emotionally draining. You told yourself it was for his own good, that maybe distance would help him reset.

“I’ll still be around,” you told him, forcing a smile. “But someone else will be taking care of your day-to-day.”

He stared at you. Didn’t say anything for a long while. Just stared.

Then, softly, too softly, he said, “You’re leaving me.”

You shook your head. “No. I’m just stepping back. This is better for you. For both of us.”

But he didn’t believe you. You could see it in his eyes. Something in him snapped that day, not outwardly, not immediately but you felt it. Like a quiet storm gathering behind the clouds.

You thought giving him space would help him unwind. Hoping he can finally indulge in the fame he had, probably get a secret girlfriend

You didn’t expect it to be the thing that finally made him unravel.

***

After that, you finally left.

Your first real break in years. You cashed your paycheck, packed your bags, and disappeared for a while, far from rehearsals, stress, and the boy you once pulled off the streets. It felt… weird at first. Empty. But you told yourself it was needed. Long overdue.

You didn’t keep in touch. Not because you didn’t want to but because it felt like the cleanest way to let go. Still, everywhere you went, there he was. His face lit up LED billboards with that same smile the one from when he had just debuted. Back when things were simpler. Sweeter.

You’d stop and stare sometimes, stuck between nostalgia and guilt. Wondering where it all went wrong. Was it the fame? The past he never healed from? Or… was it you?

But even through the ache, you hoped he was doing better. Independent. Stable. Happy. He wouldn’t have a hard time finding a girlfriend, not with that face, that charm, and a fanbase that worshipped the ground he walked on.

You were walking home from a quiet dinner one night, city lights buzzing around you, when you passed another ad of him huge and perfect lighting up the side of a building. You paused without meaning to, lost in your head.

That’s when your phone rang.

You didn’t even check the caller ID. Just answered, out of habit.

“…Hello?”

Silence. Then a voice you hadn’t heard in what felt like forever.

“I missed you.”

You froze.

And then, a shadow stepped up behind you.

A cap pulled low, sunglasses covering most of his face but you knew. You felt it.

He leaned close, his breath warm against your ear.

“You think you’re gonna escape from me?”

Your heart dropped.

Before you could react, he grabbed your wrist, firm, but not violent. Still, it sent your pulse racing. People were around, but no one looked twice. Just a couple under the lights.

“Wait—what are you doing?!” you whispered, trying to pull away.

He smiled, too calm, too practiced.

“Let’s talk. Somewhere quieter.”

***

He didn’t say a word as he dragged you through the maze of streets, only tightening his grip whenever you slowed down. You wanted to pull away, to yell, but something in his silence kept you frozen.

Eventually, he led you into a sleek hotel, one of those high-end discreet places celebrities used when they wanted to disappear. You were too stunned to resist, your mind racing with every step.

The elevator ride was silent.

He pushed the door open, guided you inside, and shut it behind you with a soft click. The curtains were drawn. City lights barely filtered through the fabric.

He finally let go of your wrist and walked ahead, pulling off his cap and tossing it to the couch, glasses following. You watched as he ran a hand through his hair, agitated, pacing the room like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

“I looked for you,” he finally said, voice tight. “Every day.”

You said nothing. He turned to face you.

“Why didn’t you call? Text? Anything?”

“It wasn’t my place anymore,” you answered softly. “We needed space. You needed to grow.”

He laughed bitterly. “Grow into what? A product?”

You flinched.

He stepped closer. “So that’s all it was, huh? A business deal? Get the pretty boy off the streets, polish him up, sell him to the world then cut him off once he gets too hard to manage?”

You swallowed, your voice barely above a whisper. “It was never just business. I cared about you. But things got—”

“Complicated?” he snapped. “Yeah. You left when things got complicated.” His voice cracked, the anger just barely covering the hurt underneath. “So your life with me,” he said, slower this time, like each word hurt, “was really just a job?”

You took a step forward, your chest tightening.

“No. It was real. I-I just... you changed.”

“And you didn’t?” he whispered, eyes shining with something fragile anger, betrayal, desperation. “You walked away like I meant nothing.”

"You matter to me—"

“That’s what it felt like. You gave me everything, then took it all back the second I started needing you too much.”

“I didn’t take anything back,” you said, stepping back instinctively. “I was trying to help you. You were becoming... unstable. You needed someone more experienced. I just wanted you to be okay.”

His hands balled into fists.

“Okay? I was only okay when you were there. You made me." His voice rising with desperate anger. In a flash, he grabbed your wrists and dragged you towards the bed, forcing you down onto the plush mattress. Before you could react, he climbed on top of you, straddling your waist and pinning your arms above your head.

"G-Get off me..." you gasped, struggling beneath him. But he was too strong, too determined. His eyes burned into yours, wild and unpredictable.

"No," he growled, one hand still gripping your wrists while the other tugged at his belt. "You don't get to leave me. I won't let you."

He yanked his belt off and tossed it to the side. Then his fingers were at your pants, popping the button and dragging the zipper down. You tried to close your legs, but he forced them open, settling himself between your thighs.

"No, wait-" you started to protest, but he silenced you with a brutal kiss, his tongue invading your mouth, claiming you. His cock was hard and insistent against your stomach, and you knew he wouldn't stop.

"Please," you whimpered when he let you catch your breath. But it was a lie and you both knew it. He'd never listened to your pleas before.

"Shut up. Shut up... Shut up."

He grabbed your hair and pulled your head back, forcing you to look up at him as he undid his jeans and shoved them down just enough to get his cock out. It bobbed in front of you, angry and hungry and so fucking hard.

"Open," he commanded, his grip on your hair tightening painfully.

You hesitated, your lips pressed firmly together. He cursed and slapped your cheek lightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to sting.

"Open your fucking mouth," he snarled.

Tears stung your eyes at the sharp crack against your cheek, but you parted your lips just as he slammed forward, shoving his cock past your teeth and into your mouth. He didn't wait for you to adjust, just started fucking your face with hard, brutal thrusts.

Hurts... He's hurting me...

You choked on his cock, gagging and sputtering as he forced himself deeper and deeper down your throat. Saliva flooded your mouth and spilled out over your lips as he used your mouth like a fuckhole, grunting and groaning above you.

Why is he always... mad at me?

He fucked your face hard and fast, not caring about your comfort, only chasing his own pleasure. Tears streaked down your cheeks as you gagged and choked around him, your throat constricting around his pistoning cock.

He used your mouth ruthlessly, slamming into your throat and pulling out just long enough to catch his breath before plunging back in.

You knew he wouldn't stop until he was satisfied, until he'd emptied his balls down your throat. All you could do was try to breathe through your nose and pray it would be over quickly.

Mine. Mine.

He chanted it desperately under his breath, eyes glazed over with lust and obsession as he continued to viciously fuck your face. His hips slammed against your chin with each brutal thrust, your neck bulging obscenely each time he hilts inside you.

"Gonna...fucking...ruin this...cunt of a mouth..."

He was breathing hard, sweat dripping down his face, lost in his own manic pursuit of release. He needed this, needed to take back control, to reclaim you. You had left him, abandoned him, but now...now you were his again. His to use, his to ruin.

Always wanted...to fuck this...painted whore mouth...of yours...

He could feel his balls tightening, his climax building from the base of his spine. He was going to come, going to fill your belly with his seed, mark you from the inside out. You were going to choke on his cum, swallow it all, and maybe then you'd understand. Maybe then you'd realize you belonged to him, and him alone.

"Fuck! Take it all, you...cock sleeve!"

His fingers tightened in your hair, yanking your head back even further as his hips slammed forward one last time. He hilts inside you, his cock pulsing and jerking as he started to come, flooding your throat and mouth with string after string of hot, thick cum.

Manager... Manager. Manager. I fucking love you.

He groaned long and low, his eyes rolling back in his head as he emptied his balls inside you. His cock jerked and spasmed as he pumped load after load of semen directly into your stomach, your throat bulging obscenely.

"Fuck!" he roared, his voice echoing in the room. "Fuck, yes! Take it all, you fucking...cock warmer!"

He held you in place, forcing you to swallow every last drop, his grip on your hair almost painfully tight. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he pulled out, his softening cock slipping from your abused lips with a wet pop.

He collapsed next to you, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling. You turned your head to the side, gasping for air, your throat sore and raw. Tears and saliva and his own essence coated your face.

"I...I'm sorry," you whimpered, voice hoarse. "I didn't mean to leave you. Please...forgive me..."

He turned to look at you, his expression unreadable. But his eyes, ah his eyes...they were haunted, desperate. Lost.

"Forgive you?"

He reached out and grabbed your chin, forcing you to meet his intense gaze. His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, smearing his own cum back into your mouth. You flinched at the taste, but he held you firm.

Forgive you?

His other hand slid down your body, over your breasts, your stomach, to cup your mound possessively. He squeezed, fingers digging into your tender flesh.

"You'd have to do more than that if you want me to forgive you. I won't let you go again. Ever."

H-Huh?

Before you could catch your breath, he yank your hips up and pulls down your pants and panty. You felt the cool air on your exposed ass and pussy.

"No, wait-" you started to protest, trying to crawl away. But he grabbed your hips in a bruising grip, pulling you back onto his still-hard cock. He rubbed the thick head up and down your slit, coating it in a mix of your spit and his own cum.

"Shut up," he snarled, voice ragged with lust and desperation. "Stop fucking fighting me. Stop resisting!"

With one brutal thrust, he slammed forward, spearing your cunt on his throbbing shaft. You screamed at the sudden intrusion, your walls clamping down around him like a vice. He was too big, too hard, splitting you open.

Hurts... He's being... cruel.

"Fuck!" he roared, starting to piston in and out of your helpless pussy. "Take it! Take my fucking cock!"

He set a punishing pace, the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. Each thrust jolted you forward, your tits swaying beneath you. Tears poured down your face as he used you, brutalized you, his hips slamming against your ass with every stroke.

But then, he slowed. His grip gentled, fingers kneading your ass almost lovingly as he rolled his hips into yours. He leaned down, lips brushing the nape of your neck, breathing raggedly against your skin.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he murmured, voice hoarse. "So tight. Like you were made for me..."

He peppered kisses along your shoulder blades, his touch almost tender. You shuddered, confused, not understanding the sudden change. He rocked into you, each thrust measured, deliberate, like he was savoring the feeling of your tight cunt gripping his cock. Fuck, so fucking perfect.

"Manager... You're mine, ok? No one... No one can touch you but me!"

But just as suddenly, he changed again. His hips started moving faster, harder, the room echoing with the slap of skin and the creak of the mattress. He hooked an arm under your waist, hauling you back onto every stroke, forcing you to take every fucking inch.

"Yes, fuck!" he bellowed, sweat dripping onto your back. "Gonna...fucking ruin this pussy. Gonna make it mine."

He was panting harshly, his rhythm faltering. You could feel him growing even harder inside you, his cock throbbing erratically against your battered walls. You knew he was close, that he was going to come again.

But then he paused, buried deep inside you, cock pulsing urgently. He gripped your hips, fingers sinking into your skin hard enough to bruise.

"Gonna...fucking...knock you up," he growled. "Breed this cunt. Pump you full of my fucking seed."

You shook your head frantically, a strangled cry escaping your lips at the thought. "No! No, please...don't..."

He ignored you, starting to move again, thrusts growing more intense, more desperate. "Yes," he hissed. "Yes, gonna make you...mine. Gonna keep you...swollen with my child..."

His voice rose with each word, until he was nearly screaming. You could feel his cock jerk and twitch, his climax approaching. He was going to do it, going to come inside you, maybe even...

"Take it!" he roared. "Fucking take it, you bitch! Gonna...fucking...breed you!"

He slammed into you with a last, brutal thrust, his cock erupting deep inside your unprotected womb. You screamed as you felt the hot flood of his seed gushing into you, painting your insides with his come. He groaned long and low, body shuddering, emptying himself inside you.

He panted against your neck, sweat-soaked and sated.

"Manager... You won't be able to run away from me now."

You lay still beneath him, tears leaking from your eyes, a sense of dread washing over you.

He rolled you over, cradling you against his chest, your tear-stained face pressed to his sweat-slicked skin. His arms wrapped around you, holding you so tightly you could barely breathe.

Tilting your chin up, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your heart clench. Gone was the wild, crazed look from before. Now there was only a solemn, almost reverent expression on his handsome face.

"Manager, you're the only one for me," he murmured, voice low and intense. "My heart, my soul... it all belongs to you. Don't leave me again, alright? All the luxuries, all the fame and wealth... it's meaningless without you here with me."

His thumb brushed over your cheek, catching the tears that still leaked from the corners of your eyes. He leaned in closer, forehead pressed against yours, breath mingling with your own.

You want to refuse. Want to push him away, but you're eyes gets blurry with tears, getting overwhelmed. Why you?

He pressed open-mouthed kisses along your neck, your shoulder, your spine, worshipping every inch of your skin like the devoted disciple he claimed to be. Tears leaked from your eyes at the tenderness of his touches, the heartfelt sincerity in his tone.

It's like the old him...

But even as you lost yourself in the gentle glide of his lips, you could feel the desperation radiating off him in waves. This calm, this tenderness...it was a fragile thing.

He's always been such a fragile boy.

His hands roamed your body with a hunger that was almost painful in its intensity. He was trying to memorize you, to burn every dip and curve into his mind.

He hitched your leg up over his hip, opening you to him. You could feel his cock, already hard and ready again, nudging against your thigh, making you freeze.

He... He's still ready?

He was insatiable, this man. He would never be satisfied, would never have enough of you.

His eyes were wild again, pupils blown wide with renewed lust. He notched himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pushing demandingly at your folds.

"Feel this, Manager?" he whispered hotly, pinching and rolling your nipples between his fingers. "Feel what you do to me? How much I just want to... Fuck you, need you..."

"I-I'm still sore... Please, I'm sorry."

"Stop saying that and just let me in your cunt, ok?"

He surged forward, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. You cried out, back arching off the bed, your nails digging into his shoulders. He was so deep, so hard, stretching you in ways that made you see stars. He's deeper this time?

"Wah... Your cunt still so tight, you're squeezing me dry~"

He started to move, hips rolling into yours with a force that shook the headboard. Each thrust punched the air from your lungs, left you gasping and mewling beneath him. He was lost in the heat of you, in the way your cunt gripped him.

"Tell me you need it, Manager," he urged, his cock slamming home and stilling, pulsing urgently inside you. "Tell me you want this... want me... as much as I need and want you!"

He pumped harder, faster, chasing his pleasure, his release. The room filled with the crude slap of skin against skin, with your choked cries and his grunts. He was going to come again, you could feel it in the erratic jerk of his hips, in the way his cock pulsed and throbbed inside you.

"Fuck!" he roared, slamming into you one last time. "Fuck, Manager, fuck!"

"N-no! Don't do it inside again!"

You bit your lips, muffling your ecstasy as you felt the hot rush of his come flooding your womb, your own orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your vision swam, your body shaking with the force of it.

He's gonna come inside... I'll get pregnant at this rate...

And then, with a long, guttural groan, he was coming again. His cock erupted like a fountain, pumping spurt after spurt of his hot cum deep into your hungry womb. The sensation was too much... too intense... and you felt yourself plummeting into oblivion, the darkness claiming you as his release seemed to go on and on.

The last thing you heard as you drifted off was his ragged voice, panting your name like a prayer.

"Manager... Manager... Manager! I love you! I love you! I fucking love you!"

***

You stared up at the ceiling, the memories of the past playing out like a movie reel in your mind. You could see him there, a young and nervous pop sensation, gripping your hands tightly as you offered him words of encouragement and support.

"You've got this," you had said, squeezing his fingers reassuringly. "Go out there and give them the performance of a lifetime. They're waiting for you."

"Okay," he nodded, squaring his shoulders with newfound determination. "Okay, Manager. I can do this. With you by my side, I can do anything."

He stepped out onto the stage. The crowd had gone wild, their screams and cheers a tangible force that seemed to lift him up and carry him forward. He had shone under the hot lights, his voice ringing out clear and strong, his movements confident and sure.

And you had watched from the wings, your heart swelling with pride and love as you beheld the man you had helped to create. He was more than just your client, more than just your star - he was your greatest achievement, your crowning glory. You had taken a scared and scrawny boy and molded him into a god among men, a king among the elite.

But now, as you lay there in the dim light of the bedroom, you could feel the weight of that responsibility crushing down on you. It was your fault, after all, that he had become this twisted and broken creature, this monster who would dare to touch you without your consent, to hold you against your will.

His arms tightened around you, crushing you against his chest, his breath hot and heavy against the back of your neck. He was saying all the right things, murmuring all the right words, but you could feel the dark intent behind them. The gentleness was a lie, a mask he wore to hide the cruelty that lurked beneath.

"Shh, it's alright," he cooed, his lips brushing your ear. "Don't cry, I'm here now. I'll always be here for you, no matter what."

But you didn't want him here. You didn't want his comfort or his affection or his twisted version of love. You wanted him to let you go, to release you from the nightmare that had become your life. You wanted to be free of him, to run until you couldn't run anymore, to disappear and never be found again.

But you knew it was impossible. He would never let you go, would never allow you to leave him. He needed you too much, depended on you for his every breath and his every heartbeat. And as long as you remained by his side, as long as you stayed in his life… he would never stop hunting you, never stop pursuing you until he had claimed you completely.

It was a bitter realization, a cruel twist of fate that left you feeling hollow and empty inside. You had once believed that you could save him, that your love and your guidance could be enough to keep the darkness at bay. But now… now you knew the truth. You knew that you had been the one to nurture the seeds of his madness, to feed the flames of his obsession until it had grown into an all-consuming inferno.

And so you lay there, trapped in his embrace, tears leaking down your face as you prayed silently for a miracle, for some way out of this nightmare. But deep down, you knew that there would be no miracle, no divine intervention to come rescue you from the man you had once called your star.

You had been his manager, his guide, his friend… and his downfall. And now, you would bear the consequences of your choice for the rest of your days.

With a sob catching in your throat, you closed your eyes and surrendered to the darkness, praying that when you opened them again… you would be somewhere, anywhere else. But far away from here, and far away from him.

Though, you only have yourself to blame.

You were the one who scouted him after all~

Stupid manager.

[throttleheart]

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

Pillow Problems

Pairing: Lando Norris x fem!Reader

Genre: Fluff, best friends to something more

Word Count: ~2.2k

Summary: You can’t fall asleep without hugging a pillow. Lando finds out.

⸻

It starts as a casual movie night.

Nothing fancy. Just you and Lando in sweats, too much popcorn, and a ridiculous action movie neither of you are really paying attention to. It’s late — past midnight — and you’re both curled up on the couch under a shared blanket like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Because with Lando, it kind of is.

You’ve been best friends for so long that sleepovers don’t even feel weird anymore. He’s crashed on your couch after race weekends more times than you can count, and you’ve stolen his guest bed on road trips whenever hotels were overbooked.

But this time… there’s only one bed.

Your bed.

“You sure you’re okay with me sleeping in here?” he asks, leaning against the doorframe, toothbrush in hand and curls still damp from his shower.

You roll your eyes. “Lando, I’ve seen you wear flip flops with socks. You think I’m going to draw the line at you borrowing my bed?”

He snorts and throws a hand to his chest. “That was ONE TIME.”

You toss a pillow at him. “Brush your teeth, Norris.”

Fifteen minutes later, the two of you are under the covers. You’re on one side, he’s on the other. very obvious pillow barrier stands between you, like a soft, cotton fortress of boundaries.

But there’s a problem.

You can’t sleep.

At all.

You stare at the ceiling. Then at the nightstand. Then at the outline of Lando’s face in the dark, just barely visible from the glow of your phone charger.

He’s still. Breathing slow. Definitely asleep.

And you’re… not.

Because — and this is ridiculous, so ridiculous — you can’t fall asleep unless you’re hugging something.

A pillow. A blanket. A stuffed animal. A person. Doesn’t matter. Your body just doesn’t shut off unless your arms are around something.

You try. You flip the pillow over. You bury your arms under it. You wrap the blanket tighter around yourself.

Nothing.

You’re one hour in when the whisper comes.

“Are you… okay?”

You flinch. “Jesus—you’re awake?”

Lando turns onto his side, blinking slowly. “You’ve been breathing like you’re trying to inflate a bouncy castle.”

You bury your face in your pillow. “I can’t sleep.”

“Why?”

You hesitate.

“Y/N.”

You groan. “It’s stupid.”

His voice lifts with amusement. “Now I definitely need to know.”

You sigh, dramatic. “I can’t fall asleep unless I’m hugging something, okay?”

Silence.

Then—

A loud, stifled laugh from the other side of the bed.

“Oh my god,” he chokes, “you’re like a human koala.”

You smack him with your pillow. “Shut up.”

“No, no, this is adorable. Do you need, like, a teddy bear? A weighted blanket? Should I draw a face on one of your pillows and pretend it’s me?”

“You’re the worst.”

He’s laughing, full and unfiltered now, twisting the sheets as he rolls away dramatically. “Y/N, my heart. All this time I thought you just liked cuddling me during movie nights, but you actually have a condition.”

You throw your hands over your face. “Please stop talking.”

Then—softly, after a pause—his voice shifts.

“…You could’ve just said something.”

You peek through your fingers. He’s looking at you now. Still teasing, but softer. Gentle.

“Wanna hug me?” he asks, cocking a brow like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

Your breath catches. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” he says, already sliding an arm out, inviting. “C’mon, koala girl.”

You glare. “If you call me that again, I’ll smother you with this pillow.”

He grins. “I’ll take the risk.”

You hesitate. Just for a second. Then you scoot closer, cautiously curling against his side, arm draping lightly across his chest.

And god — it’s perfect. His body is warm, steady, and somehow smells like mint and laundry detergent. Your muscles sigh in relief.

“You’re like a human radiator,” you murmur.

He chuckles, voice close to your ear. “You’re welcome.”

You fall asleep faster than you have in weeks.

And the next morning, you wake up still tangled in him — his arm heavy around your waist, face buried in your hair, breath soft on your neck.

You try to move.

“Don’t,” he mumbles, still half-asleep. “I’m your pillow now. Deal with it.”

And you kind of… do.

⸻

Sunlight spills through the half-closed blinds, catching dust motes in golden streaks as the room slowly warms with morning.

You’re awake.

Barely.

And very aware that you’re not alone in your bed.

Lando’s arm is still wrapped around your waist, heavy and warm and not even a little bit apologetic about being all up in your space. His chest rises and falls steadily against your back, his breath slow and even — he’s still asleep, or close to it.

You consider moving.

Really, you do.

But your limbs are lazy, your brain soft and sleepy, and honestly? He’s comfortable. Too comfortable. Like he was made to be a human-sized heating pad designed to be clung to.

His fingers twitch slightly at your hip.

You freeze.

“…You’re awake, aren’t you?” he murmurs against your neck, voice rough with sleep.

You sigh. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t move. Just hums. “Told you. Human pillow.”

You can hear the smugness in his voice, even through the sleep.

“I was desperate,” you mumble.

“Sure you were.” He yawns. “Could’ve hugged a pillow, but nooo. You went straight for me.”

You elbow him gently. “I tried the pillow.”

He just pulls you closer. “Mhm. Addicted now. No turning back.”

Your cheeks flush — and not just from the proximity.

You should pull away. You should. Friends don’t… do this. Or at least, you and Lando never have. You’ve always tiptoed the edge of this kind of closeness — flirty jokes, knee touches during movies, that weird moment last Christmas when you almost kissed but blamed it on mistletoe and wine.

But this?

This feels like something else.

You twist slightly to face him, only to find his eyes open, heavy-lidded and watching you.

“What?” you whisper.

He shrugs, smile lazy and lopsided. “Nothing. Just thinking.”

“About what?”

A pause.

Then, softly: “About how I could get used to waking up like this.”

Your heart stops. Completely.

He sees it. Feels it, probably. Because his smile shifts — less teasing, more vulnerable. More real.

“I’m not just saying that ‘cause you’re warm,” he adds.

You blink, the air suddenly too thick to breathe.

“Lando…”

“It’s okay,” he says gently. “You don’t have to say anything. I just— I think maybe this whole human pillow situation works both ways.”

Your fingers tighten in the sleeve of his t-shirt.

And just like that, the teasing melts away. The barrier between best friends and something else thins, bends, and threatens to break entirely.

“I liked waking up with you,” you admit, voice small.

He smiles again — that quiet, soft smile that doesn’t belong in interviews or podium photos. This one’s just for you.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Neither of you move.

Not yet.

Because the line is still there, but now you’re both standing on the same side of it.

⸻

You eventually untangle from each other.

Sort of.

By which you mean Lando finally rolls away only to immediately steal your pillow, shove it under his head like it betrayed him, and mumble something about needing a ten-minute nap before coffee.

So you leave him there — hair messy, half-asleep, wearing your hoodie like it’s always belonged to him — and shuffle into the kitchen.

Your legs feel weird. Your chest feels… floaty.

You touch your lips once when you’re sure he’s not looking.

Nothing happened. Not really.

But it almost did.

And it’s enough to change everything.

⸻

You’re halfway through cracking eggs into a pan when you hear the soft shuffle of feet.

Lando appears in the doorway, stretching with a sleepy groan, his hair a disaster and his eyes still heavy with sleep.

He looks like a dream you forgot you had. Like something that’s always been yours but never belonged to you.

“You’re cooking?” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes.

You shrug. “Seemed fair. You donated your body to science last night.”

He smirks as he comes up behind you, not even pretending to keep distance. He leans over your shoulder, chin nearly brushing your temple.

“That was a very important cuddle study,” he says into your ear, voice low and teasing. “Purely scientific.”

You fight a shiver. “Well, congratulations. You’re now certified as a human-size emotional support plushie.”

He chuckles, arms brushing yours as he helps you reach for the salt.

Silence falls. The soft sizzle of eggs fills the space. His presence is everywhere — beside you, behind you, in you — and it’s like neither of you know where to put all the things you want to say.

Then—softly, like it escapes without permission:

“You meant it last night?”

You turn your head slightly. “Which part?”

He doesn’t look at you. Just keeps gently stirring the eggs. “That you liked waking up next to me.”

You hesitate. Then: “Yeah. I did.”

A beat passes.

He nods, silent, and grabs a plate. You watch him.

He places a serving of eggs onto the plate and hands it to you without meeting your eyes. “Me too.”

Your fingers brush when you take it. Neither of you pull away.

He finally looks up.

And there’s that moment again — the one that feels like you’re both standing at the edge of something huge. Something terrifying and beautiful.

“Lando…” you start.

But the words don’t come.

Because part of you is still afraid. Of ruining what you have. Of hoping too much. Of the way your heart has never felt this calm around anyone else.

He sees all of it. You know he does.

So he just smiles, soft and sure.

And says, “It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

⸻

You eat breakfast shoulder to shoulder.

There are no declarations. No kisses.

But there’s a shared mug of coffee between you.

A soft look that lingers longer than it should.

And when he picks up your extra pillow later — the one you clung to for years before last night — and tosses it to the corner of the bed with a smirk, all he says is:

“You won’t need that anymore.”

⸻

You’re not sure why Lando doesn’t leave that night.

He doesn’t say he’s staying.

He just… doesn’t go.

You wash dishes together after dinner like it’s routine, like he’s done it a hundred times — and honestly, maybe he has. He scrolls through Netflix while you wipe down the kitchen counters, making dramatic sounds of disapproval at your movie suggestions. He disappears into your room at one point and comes back wearing one of your oversized sweatshirts like it’s his.

No mention of going home. No keys. No shoes. Just… him. Staying.

Again.

By the time you brush your teeth side by side — like you did last night, like it’s just what you do now — there’s a low buzz in the air. That awareness. That heaviness. Like the next thing might tip the whole thing into something neither of you can come back from.

You’re quiet as you climb into bed.

So is he.

The blanket settles over the both of you, and your hearts race a little too loud for a room that’s supposed to be quiet.

Then, softly—

“D’you still need something to hug?”

You let out a soft breath. “Yeah.”

He turns toward you in the dark. “Okay. C’mere.”

You hesitate only for a second this time.

You move closer. Not just tangled up like last time, but facing each other. His arm slides around your waist like muscle memory. Your hand finds the soft fabric of his sweatshirt near his chest.

You fit.

Better than you should.

You’re not even pretending to sleep yet when he whispers, “I didn’t leave because I wanted to stay.”

You blink slowly. “I know.”

“And I didn’t stay just because of you needing a pillow.”

You smile faintly. “I know that too.”

A beat.

He breathes in. “I don’t want this to be a thing we don’t talk about.”

Your heart flips. “Me either.”

“I don’t really know when it started,” he continues, voice low, “but I’ve wanted to kiss you for a while now. It just always felt like… if I did, I might mess it up.”

Your hand curls into the fabric of his sweatshirt. “You wouldn’t.”

He moves closer.

You feel his breath against your skin, soft and cautious. One hand lifts to your cheek like he’s checking to see if you’ll pull away.

You don’t.

“You sure?” he whispers.

You nod.

And he kisses you.

It’s not rushed.

It’s not perfect, either — his nose bumps yours, your hand fumbles awkwardly as you find his jaw — but it’s real. It’s warm. And it means something.

You can feel it in the way his fingers tighten on your waist. In the soft sigh you let out against his mouth. In the quiet, trembling kind of relief that settles between you once you both pull back.

You stay close.

Foreheads pressed. Noses barely brushing.

You could say something. Make a joke. Ask what this means.

But you don’t.

Because he’s already whispering, “Okay. I’m definitely your pillow now.”

And all you can do is laugh — quietly, into the space between your mouths — before tugging him back down and whispering,

“Yeah. Mine.”

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

[billionairebratenergy]

Wherever You Are, I’ll Be

 Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: He needs your touch like air, anchoring himself to you in every room, every moment, his hand always finding your skin as if you’d vanish otherwise.

Bucky Barnes had never known softness until you.

Not in the silk of a Sunday morning when the world hadn’t woken up yet. Not in the brush of a hand against the small of his back while he cooked eggs. Not in the way someone would instinctively lean into him instead of away. But now? He needed it like breath. Like blood in his veins.

He needed you.

And more specifically, he needed to feel you.

Your thigh draped over his on the couch. Your pinky finger curled into his when you walked through the city. His hand on the curve of your waist while you brushed your teeth, and the comforting press of your calf against his in bed. Even now—his arm lay lazily around your shoulders as you laughed at something Sam was saying across the room.

But Bucky wasn’t listening.

He was watching your profile. The way your lips tilted up at the corners. The crinkle beside your eyes. And, maybe more urgently, the way a man had just walked up to you from behind and tapped your shoulder like he’d known you for years.

And Bucky—without thinking—tightened his grip.

His vibranium fingers flexed slightly on your arm. A grounding pressure. Subtle, but unmistakable. You didn’t even glance at him, just reached over your shoulder and rubbed your thumb across his knuckles as if you knew exactly what that little squeeze meant.

You did know.

-

He never liked when people approached out of nowhere. Not when it was you. Not when he was already two seconds from spiraling.

“Sorry,” the guy was saying. “Are you Y/N? From the Stark internship program?”

You blinked, tilting your head. “Yeah… That was years ago.”

“I thought so,” the stranger smiled. “I recognized you. You did a seminar on AI ethics, right? I was in the audience.”

“Oh, wow,” you said, ever polite, while Bucky’s jaw tensed beside you. “That’s a blast from the past.”

He had the gall to laugh, too charming for someone standing way too close.

Bucky’s hand slid from your shoulder to your waist.

Not just touching now. Holding.

He kept his eyes locked on the guy, his chin barely tilted up. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.

And sure enough, after another thirty seconds of awkward small talk, the guy politely excused himself and walked off—leaving behind the heat of Bucky’s jealousy simmering in his chest.

You turned to look at him.

“I wasn’t going to walk away from you,” you whispered gently, your hand coming up to cup his cheek.

“I know,” he muttered, eyes dark. “But it feels like you might.”

Your brows softened. “Buck…”

“Every time someone walks up to you, I think they’ll take you. I know it’s stupid. I know you love me. But the part of me that lived through losing everything…” He swallowed hard. “That part doesn’t trust anything.”

You traced your fingers along his jawline. “Then let me show you. Every day. In every way.”

He looked at you like you’d just promised to rebuild him.

Because you had.

Later that night, he didn’t let you go once.

You brushed your teeth with his arm slung low around your hips. He undressed you with both hands on your waist like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go. And when you crawled into bed, he pressed his forehead against yours, breathing you in like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

“Don’t leave the bed before me,” he murmured, his voice sleep-heavy.

“Even for coffee?” you teased.

He opened one eye. “I’ll get it for you. Just stay.”

You did.

And the next morning, when sunlight peeked through the curtains, Bucky was already awake.

He hadn’t moved. His hand was resting against your bare thigh. The metal one cradled your ribs under the blanket. Protective. Possessive. Gentle.

“Morning,” you whispered.

His lips curved softly. “Still here?”

“Always.”

Throughout the day, it was more of the same.

Bucky on your hip at the grocery store. His thumb stroking circles over your back while you chose tomatoes. He kissed your temple in the aisle, not because he needed to—but because he had to. Because the warmth of your skin beneath his lips told him this was real.

He didn’t speak much in public. Never had. But the world quieted around him when you were near. And he knew—knew—if he just kept one hand on you, he’d never lose you.

At the Tower, Sam clocked the way Bucky’s hand kept drifting. To your lower back. The nape of your neck. Your shoulder.

“You two glued together now?” Sam teased as he passed by.

Bucky didn’t respond. He just shifted slightly closer to you.

You smiled, not even trying to move away.

“Jealous?” you called after Sam.

Sam huffed a laugh but didn’t reply.

Bucky’s hand slid lower, resting on your hip bone as if claiming you in silence.

And for all his posturing—for all the brooding and quiet sulking—when the door finally closed and you were alone, the first thing Bucky did was pull you into his chest and whisper, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For staying.”

You looked up at him, brushing a hand across his chest.

“I’m not going anywhere, James,” you said, voice steady. “Even if someone offered me the world.”

He kissed you like it broke him to believe that.

That night, after making love slow and reverent and full of whispered promises, Bucky tucked his head into your neck.

You ran your fingers through his hair, gentle and rhythmic.

His voice was barely audible when he spoke.

“Sometimes I think you’ll wake up and remember you could have anyone. And that you’ll leave.”

You pulled back, cupping his face so he had to look at you.

“I already have everyone I want,” you said. “He has blue eyes, a vibranium arm, and the softest damn heart I’ve ever seen.”

He blinked fast.

“Touch me,” he rasped.

You leaned forward, brushing your nose to his. “I already am.”

“No,” he said. “Always.”

And he meant it.

Because to Bucky Barnes, touch wasn’t just a way to connect.

It was a promise.

A silent vow that he wasn’t alone.

That this time, the people he loved—you—weren’t going to be ripped away.

And you, with your arms around him, legs tangled with his, fingertips dancing over his ribs, you were keeping that promise.

One touch at a time.

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Taglist: @avengersfan25,@doilooklikeagiveafrack, @hits-different-cause-its-you

[universefcb]

Peace sealed with paws

Pairing: Max verstappen X fem!reader

Summary: You have a big fight, and he sees how much he hurt you and made you sad. But to make amends, he gives you a dog as a gift.

Warning: Mention of Reader, fluff.

Author's note: My first imagine with pilots 🥰

And sorry if there are mistakes, English is not my language.I hope this is what you asked for!

Silence was the worst punishment of all. Max knew that. And that night, as he paced the living room of the apartment he shared with his girlfriend, the weight of her silence made his chest tighten more than any defeat on the track.

The argument had started for a small reason, like most big fights. A misinterpreted comment, an impatient look after a tiring day, and soon they were both on opposite sides of the same bed, like strangers. The problem was that he had crossed the line. He had said too many harsh words, with too much impatient a tone. And the worst part? He had seen in her eyes the exact moment when something inside her had broken.

She cried silently—she didn't scream, she didn't fight back. She just kept quiet, as if she had given up fighting. And that destroyed Max inside.

Two days passed. Two long days in which she avoided contact, answered in monosyllables, and left the room when he entered. Max tried to reach out. He tried to apologize. But the words sounded hollow compared to the damage he had caused.

So he decided to do it differently.

---

It was Saturday morning when she woke to a strange sound coming from the hallway. A high-pitched, clumsy bark, like a toy had come to life. Frowning, she got out of bed in sweatpants and a loose T-shirt, her hair still messy from sleep.

When he opened the bedroom door, he found Max sitting on the floor in the hallway, and on his lap, a little ball of white fur that could barely keep its paws on the floor.

“Hi,” he said, with a shy smile and his eyes fixed on her, as if waiting for a verdict.

She frowned in surprise, and her first reaction was to duck down too, letting the little puppy come towards her with uncoordinated steps and its tail wagging furiously.

“Max…?” she murmured, picking up the puppy. He licked her cheek as if he knew she needed to break the sadness there.

“I know it doesn’t erase what I said. I know I hurt you, and seeing you like that…” he swallowed. “It was the worst feeling I’ve ever had. You didn’t deserve that, not a single second of it.”

She looked at him. Her eyes were still streaked with the last tears, but now there was a different shine. A sign that she was listening to him. Really.

“I love you,” he continued. “And if you’ll let me, I want to prove it to you every day. This puppy… well, he doesn’t have a name yet. I thought you’d better pick one.”

She bit her lower lip, fighting back tears. “You bought a dog… to make amends?”

“Completely,” he said, unabashed. “Appealing to cuteness was my last resort.”

She gave a weak chuckle, and it was like a breath of fresh air for him.

“He’s beautiful,” she whispered, petting the pup. “But you still owe me at least twenty back rubs and a decent dinner.”

Max smiled, approaching carefully. “Deal. And a hundred more kisses a day. Just in case.”

She laughed finally and let him hug her. The puppy barked in the middle of the hug, squeezed between them.

“We have a new member, then,” she said, looking at the puppy.

“Yes,” Max replied. “And if it’s up to me, it’s the first of many good times. No more stupid fights, okay?”

She nodded, still nestled into his chest.

“So help me choose a name?”

“Sure,” she replied, looking at the little ball of fur that was now sleeping on the rug. “But I can tell you right now that if it’s a male, I’m going to name him Button. In honor of Jenson.”

Max faked a grimace. “Only if the next one is named Verstappen.”

“We’ll see,” she said, smiling. “It depends on how well you do.”

“On the track?” he asked.

She gave a mischievous smile. “In everything.”

Taglist: @paucubarsisimp @nngkay @meganesanchez @merinottt @htpssgavi @luvvpedri @moonvr @joaosnovia @httpsdana @ilovebarcaaaa @p4uul0vr @pedricando @barcapix @owala6789

[theodorenmyth]

hey!

could i please request a fic where theodore's sibling is dating mattheo and they want it to be a secret, but then everyone ends up finding out and they think theo's going to be angry/overprotective but he's really chill? and the pair are confused and a little offended by how unbothered he is?

i love reading your comedy fics because they always make me laugh!!

Secret Relationship

pairings ; Mattheo Riddle x GN!Reader

summary ; You and Mattheo Riddle secretly date behind your brother aka Theodore’s back, fearing his reaction. But when everyone finds out, Theodore is shockingly chill — leaving your chaotic friend group furious and dramatically disappointed by the lack of sibling rage.

A/N ; it's been so long since I uploaded 😭😭😭😭😭 I missed u all sm, AND ITS BEEN SO LONG SINCE I WROTE A MATTHEO FIC HELLO?! I've been on a Theodore streak I swear 😭 pls enjoy this comedic mess

Warnings ; none, just pure chaos

Word count ; 4.1k+

The night air curled around you in thin, biting tendrils, the wind sweeping through the Astronomy Tower and chilling your fingers where they gripped the stone ledge. The tower loomed above the castle, far removed from the warm flicker of torches and the comfortable murmur of the common rooms. Up here, the world felt suspended—like time had stopped and the stars were the only witnesses to your terrible, beautiful secret.

You were absolutely not supposed to be here.

"You’re shivering."

The voice, smooth and low, cut through the silence. You didn’t even need to look—you’d recognize that voice in your sleep. Mattheo Riddle stepped forward from the shadows with that familiar slouch, half-hooded eyes glinting with mischief and something gentler he’d never admit to. His black coat hung loosely from his shoulders, already halfway off as he reached out and draped it over yours.

The weight of it was immediate—warm, worn, and unmistakably his. It smelled like firewood, mint, and danger. A combination you had no business enjoying as much as you did.

"I'm not cold," you muttered, hugging the coat tighter around yourself despite the denial.

Mattheo arched a brow, unimpressed. "You're a terrible liar."

"No, I’m not."

"Yes, you are," he insisted, stepping closer, his grin growing with every step. "You always do that thing with your nose when you lie."

You blinked. “What thing?”

"That—" He pointed at you with a smirk as your nose instinctively scrunched. "Exactly that."

Your scowl deepened. “You’re infuriating.”

“I’ve been told.”

“And yet, here I am.”

He was fully in front of you now, close enough to steal your breath if you let him. His fingers grazed your waist like a question, an invitation. One you never could refuse.

"You could’ve stayed in bed like a reasonable person," he teased, voice dipped in velvet. "Instead, you came all the way up here just to see me."

"Don't flatter yourself," you muttered.

But he knew better.

And so did you.

Mattheo leaned in, his lips brushing yours, barely touching—just enough to set your nerves alight. "Say it."

"Say what?" you breathed, feigning innocence.

"That you missed me."

"I didn’t."

"Liar," he whispered against your mouth, and then he kissed you.

The world fell away.

His mouth on yours was rough and unrelenting, like he had waited too long and thought too much and wanted to erase the time you’d spent apart. You kissed him back with equal fervor, clutching his collar as if to tether yourself to the moment. The cold didn’t matter. The risk didn’t matter. All that mattered was the way his hands roamed your sides like he couldn’t decide where to hold you, like he wanted to touch everything at once.

He was infuriating and impulsive and impossible—but gods, he was yours.

Eventually, you pulled away, lips tingling and lungs begging for breath. He rested his forehead against yours, his grip on your waist still firm, possessive.

"This is reckless," you whispered, eyes half-lidded and drunk on him.

Mattheo didn’t even blink. "Reckless is snogging your best mate’s sibling in the Astronomy Tower at one in the morning while the entire school sleeps."

You groaned and thumped your head against his shoulder. "Don’t remind me."

"Just saying. We’ve already passed the point of no return, haven’t we?"

You didn't answer right away. Instead, you watched the stars—millions of them, quiet and distant and probably laughing at the mess you’d made of yourself. You should’ve stopped this weeks ago. You’d tried to stop. But Mattheo always had this way of pulling you back in, like gravity.

"This is insane," you murmured.

"Mm," he agreed. "And I love it."

You tilted your head to look at him. "You would."

Mattheo smiled, that crooked, charming sort of smile that spelled nothing but trouble. He reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear with a gentleness that contradicted everything he usually projected.

"I like you like this," he said suddenly.

"Like what?"

"Defiant. Warm. Close." His voice dropped. "Mine."

Your breath hitched.

You hated how easily he could unravel you.

“You know my brother would murder you,” you said, only half-joking.

Mattheo’s expression didn’t change. “Yeah, well. That’s why he doesn’t know.”

“And if he finds out?”

His eyes darkened—not in fear, but in resolve. "Then we deal with it. Together."

Something in your chest tightened painfully. Mattheo Riddle was not known for making promises, but when he did, they meant something.

You tried to play it off, to lighten the moment. "Very noble of you. Might even make you look brave."

"I'm always brave," he deadpanned.

You laughed despite yourself and leaned up to kiss him again—softer this time, slower. Like a lullaby in the middle of a war.

Another set of footsteps—distant but undeniable—snapped you both out of it. Mattheo jerked away instantly, eyes sharp, scanning the stairwell below.

Your stomach dropped as you ducked behind one of the stone columns, barely breathing.

Please not a professor. Please not a prefect. Please not—

Silence.

The footsteps faded.

Mattheo let out a slow exhale. "That was way too close."

You nodded, pressing a hand over your pounding heart. “We need to stop doing this in public places.”

"Then invite me to your dorm."

"Absolutely not."

"The library?"

"Too exposed."

"Empty classroom?"

"Too cliché."

"Room of Requirement?"

You paused. "...Too convenient."

He gave a low laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are.”

Mattheo leaned forward and kissed your cheek, just above your jaw. “Tomorrow night?”

You hesitated. You should say no. You meant to say no.

“…Fine. But somewhere safer.”

"Deal."

He squeezed your hand once before retreating back down the stairs with the grace of someone who’d done this a dozen times and would do it a dozen more.

You stayed a moment longer, the weight of his coat still wrapped around your shoulders and the ghost of his lips still on your mouth. The stars blinked silently overhead, their light cool and unjudging. You exhaled and turned to go, already thinking about tomorrow—and all the chaos it might bring.

You were in too deep.

And you didn’t care.

Rain was pouring against the windows like the sky itself was throwing a tantrum, Hogwarts cloaked in that damp, miserable grey that made everyone collectively more dramatic than usual. You trudged into the Great Hall, dragging your feet like a ghost of your former, snogged-out self. You spotted your friends instantly—because they were loud, nosy, and sitting in their usual spot, plotting world domination over croissants and coffee.

You slid into your seat next to Blaise with the elegance of a sleep-deprived troll and immediately reached for a slice of toast, praying today would be normal. No scandal. No drama. No accidental references to someone’s pine-scented hair or stupid smirking face or warm hands on your—

Mattheo Riddle plopped himself directly beside you.

Your toast froze mid-air.

“Oh, excellent,” he said, sounding obscenely cheerful for someone who hadn’t brushed his curls. “You got the good jam.”

He reached across your plate like a heathen and scooped up a glob of raspberry jam with his butter knife, smearing it messily on your toast like he was helping.

“I was going to eat that,” you deadpanned.

“And now you are, but with flavor,” he replied, looking far too pleased with himself.

Across the table, Lorenzo choked on his tea. Draco froze mid-butter-spread. Blaise leaned back slowly with a suspicious grin. Pansy squinted like she was trying to read the entire history of your existence from the look on your face. Astoria didn’t even look up—she just let out the most disappointed sigh in the history of human breathing.

You, a rational and responsible person, did the obvious thing.

You pretended absolutely nothing was happening.

Mattheo, who was clearly born to make everything worse, leaned in. “Are you going to eat that, or are you going to keep staring at me like you’re in love?”

You dropped your toast. Draco visibly gasped. Blaise bit his knuckle.

“Okay,” Lorenzo said slowly, dramatically. “I think we all need to pause and—what the hell is going on here?”

“Nothing,” you and Mattheo said in perfect harmony.

A collective suspicious silence fell over the group.

Pansy narrowed her eyes. “You’re sitting suspiciously close to each other.”

“Coincidence,” you said.

“He stole your toast.”

“Generous community breakfasting,” Mattheo supplied.

“You’re blushing,” Draco noted, pointing a butter knife at your face.

“It’s warm in here,” you snapped. “There’s body heat. Circulation. Weather.”

“You’re playing footsie,” Blaise added smugly.

“We are absolutely not playing footsie,” Mattheo said, jerking his leg away from yours so fast he kneed the underside of the table and nearly knocked over the entire jug of pumpkin juice.

“Okay,” Lorenzo muttered. “If this isn’t a secret relationship, then I am the ghost of Salazar Slytherin, here to reclaim his house from the deranged couple defiling it.”

You tried to glare. Really, you did. But Mattheo had crumbs on his lip, and his eyes were doing that annoyingly attractive sparkle thing, and your face betrayed you by melting.

“OH MY GOD,” Pansy screamed. “YOU’RE LITERALLY SO IN LOVE.”

“I am in denial,” you barked. “Which is very different.”

Blaise laughed so hard he nearly fell off the bench. “So, just to confirm—are you or are you not snogging this absolute chaos goblin in secret?”

“We’re not snogging,” Mattheo said quickly. “Why would we snog? Snogging is for people with… lips.”

“You have lips,” Draco said flatly.

“Debatable,” Mattheo replied, before turning to you with pleading eyes. “Help me.”

“Everyone is being very dramatic,” you announced. “Mattheo and I are friends. Acquaintances. Mortal enemies with occasional group project chemistry.”

“You left the Potions lab last Thursday with your tie undone and a hickey on your neck,” Astoria said without looking up.

“It was a mosquito! ” Mattheo cried. “They were everywhere.”

“In the Potions lab?” Blaise asked, blinking.

“...Yes,” you said weakly. “It was.. uhm.. infested.”

Pansy slammed her hands on the table. “HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN GOING ON?”

“Five minutes,” you blurted. “No time at all. We’re still in the test trial phase.”

“Two months,” Mattheo mumbled at the same time.

You turned to him slowly, eyes wide. “What happened to denying everything?”

“I panicked!” he whispered. “You’re really bad at lying and it’s contagious!”

“Oh my god, it’s been TWO MONTHS?” Draco’s voice cracked like a choirboy’s. “And you didn’t tell us? We could’ve made popcorn!”

“I’m going to cry,” Pansy announced. “I feel betrayed. Emotionally compromised. Romantically offended.”

“You literally told me yesterday to snog someone or die lonely,” you muttered.

“I didn’t mean him! ”

Mattheo raised a hand. “Okay, now that’s just rude.”

“I SWEAR,” Pansy continued, “if Theodore finds out and kills you, I am not attending your funeral unless there’s drama and vengeance.”

You blinked. “Okay, but—what if he just doesn’t… find out?”

The table went still.

Pansy looked like she was about to burst into flames. “Okay. Someone get Theodore. He deserves to know that his sibling is dating—dating—Mattheo ‘bite me’ Riddle.”

You stiffened.

The entire table stilled.

Then, as if summoned by the devil himself, all heads turned in slow-motion toward the far end of the Slytherin table… where Theodore Nott sat, expression calm, buttering a scone with the serenity of a man who was either extremely zen or planning to murder someone using only a teaspoon.

You froze.

Mattheo froze.

Even Draco looked nervous.

“He doesn’t know,” you whispered.

“He definitely knows,” Astoria said calmly. “He’s buttering that scone with deadly precision. No one but assassins butter that neatly.”

Blaise leaned in, stage-whispering like a six-year-old gossip. “He’s holding the knife like he’s considering options.”

Pansy was practically vibrating. “I live for this. Theodore is going to explode. It’s going to be glorious. I want screaming. Threats. At least one table flip. I want to feel alive again!”

“Do not summon violence into this sacred breakfast,” you hissed.

Draco smirked. “Better tell Mattheo to run now while he still has all his limbs.”

Pansy stood up and immediately rolled up her sleeves. “I AM READY FOR THE DRAMA. BRING IT. DUEL AT DAWN. I’LL BE YOUR SECOND.”

Astoria grabbed her by the back of the cloak and yanked her down like she was restraining a feral cat. “Sit. Down. You’re not sword-fighting Theodore in the middle of breakfast.”

“Why not?” Pansy whined. “We live in a magical castle. This is the perfect place for sword-fighting!”

You and Mattheo exchanged a horrified glance.

“I think we just declared war,” he whispered.

You nodded. “Well. At least we’re dying pretty.”

If Mattheo Riddle had a Galleon for every time he thought, “this is how I die,” he could’ve funded a whole underground resistance, a few cursed artifacts, and still had enough left to buy you a shiny ring and a nice flat in Hogsmeade.

This time, though?

There would be no ring.

No flat.

No wedding.

Just his body launched into orbit by Theodore Nott’s inevitable, unstoppable rage.

You were standing in the corridor just outside the Great Hall, trying to decide whether to walk into your own execution or drag your boyfriend back to the dungeons by his ear.

Mattheo Riddle had been pacing like a man possessed for the past fifteen minutes.

“Okay, okay, okay—maybe I should bow?” he muttered to himself. “No. Too much. Theodore might think I’m mocking him. Should I curtsy? Would that be better? Classier?”

“Mattheo,” you said, voice deadpan, “if you curtsy to my brother, I will physically throw you out of a window.”

“I just—he’s going to murder me,” Mattheo wailed, throwing his hands in the air like some kind of tragic widow. “He’s going to skin me and use my corpse as a decorative throw for the Slytherin common room. I’ll be throw fashion, darling.”

You stared. “You’ve lost your mind.”

He spun dramatically and grabbed both your hands. “You don’t get it. That man terrifies me. He’s tall. He’s quiet. He wears all black. He looks like he reads tragic poetry for fun. He has ‘I’ll bury you behind the greenhouse’ energy.”

You tried not to laugh. “He’s just my brother.”

“No. He’s a whole experience. A terrifying one. Like one of those silent movies where the guy never speaks but everyone dies anyway.”

“Mattheo—”

“What if he pulls a wand on me and casts some obscure ancient curse from the Nott family grimoire and my skin turns inside out?”

“Then I’ll get you some exfoliating cream and a hug.”

Mattheo gave you an utterly wounded look. “That’s all the sympathy I get in my darkest hour?”

“Your darkest hour hasn’t even started.”

Footsteps echoed ominously down the hallway.

Mattheo froze, grabbing the wall like a man in mourning. “Oh Merlin. It’s him. It’s Theodore. I’m not ready. You said I had five more minutes!”

“You said that twenty minutes ago.”

“I wasn’t emotionally prepared then and I’m *less* emotionally prepared now!”

You didn't have time to argue. Theodore turned the corner, walking toward you with his usual unbothered, slow-as-hell stride, like he had all the time in the world to arrive at your crime scene.

Mattheo made a strangled noise like a dying bird and—without shame—threw himself behind you.

“Don’t let him hurt me!” he whisper-yelled into your shoulder. “If I die, tell your mother I looked amazing at my funeral.”

Theodore raised a single eyebrow. “Are you hiding behind my sibling?”

Mattheo popped his head out. “Not hiding—strategically retreating. It’s different.”

“Yes,” you muttered, “the strategy is cowardice.”

He clung to your robes like a damsel. “This is not cowardice. This is self-preservation, thank you very much.”

Theodore stared at him blankly. “You’re pathetic.”

Mattheo inhaled deeply and then stepped out with the air of a man marching to the gallows. “Okay. Okay. Theodore. I—I want to say something.”

Theodore tilted his head, mildly curious.

“I want to apologize for—uh—for all the... snogging. And emotional bonding. And, uh, the fact that I may or may not have licked and attacked your sibling’s neck in a highly inappropriate location on the Astronomy Tower—NOT THE POINT—what I’m trying to say is I’m sorry and please don’t hex my kneecaps or transfigure my ears into cauliflowers or whatever it is you Notts do when people betray your bloodline.”

Theodore blinked.

Mattheo cleared his throat. “I just—really, really like your sibling, alright? Like, a lot. Like, ‘I’d write you letters in blood if I wasn’t squeamish’ a lot. And I know I’m kind of a mess and also a little deranged but I swear on Salazar’s bald head that I’m serious about this and if you want to punch me, just go for the left side, that’s my less photogenic side anyway—”

“I already knew,” Theodore interrupted.

Mattheo stopped mid-rant, finger in the air like he had more dramatic declarations to unleash. “Wait. What?”

“I’ve known for weeks.”

There was a beat of complete, shell-shocked silence.

Mattheo’s hand slowly lowered. “You… what?”

“I saw you sneaking out of the Astronomy Tower the first time,” Theodore said casually. “The scarf was a dead giveaway. And the second time. And the third. And the time you came back to the dorms with glitter in your hair and that weird grin like you'd just invented a new sin.”

Mattheo blinked rapidly. “So you knew... this whole time?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t say anything?”

“No.”

“You didn’t curse me? Or duel me? Or send a howler to my mother?!”

Theodore shrugged. “I was enjoying watching you panic.”

You smacked your forehead.

Mattheo gasped and dramatically grabbed your sleeve. “He played me like a fiddle. A fiddle made of pure emotional torment.”

Theodore looked at you, dead serious. “If he breaks your heart, I’ll feed him to the Giant Squid.”

Mattheo nodded solemnly. “Honestly? That’s fair. Bit overkill, but poetic.”

“You two are insufferable,” you muttered.

Mattheo flopped against your back again, sighing dramatically. “You love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

He peeked at Theodore again. “So we’re good?”

Theodore gave him a long look. “Don’t push it.”

Mattheo immediately retreated behind you again. “He said don’t push it. I’m not pushing it. I’m hiding behind it.”

“You’re a grown man.”

“I’m a terrified man!”

Pansy, who had just turned the corner behind you with Draco and Astoria in tow, screeched like someone had been stabbed—an unholy, earsplitting shriek that ricocheted off the stone walls of the corridor like a cursed howler let loose during a funeral.

“HE FUCKING KNEW?!” she howled, her eyes wide with the sheer betrayal of it all, like Theodore had personally wronged her ancestral bloodline.

The entire hallway fell into a stunned silence for half a second before chaos exploded like a badly brewed potion. A nearby portrait of a sleepy wizard jolted awake and threw his goblet at the ground, muttering something about “witches these days.” You and Mattheo both flinched so violently you almost knocked heads—and Mattheo, being the brave soul that he was, dove behind you like a coward, clutching the back of your robes with the death grip of a man facing an angry hippogriff.

“HOLY SHIT, Pansy!” Lorenzo barked, careening in behind her like a gale-force wind in Gucci boots, nearly tripping over his own feet and the bag of crisps he had clearly brought specifically for this moment. “You trying to rupture the space-time continuum with your lungs? I think my left eardrum just committed suicide!”

“You—you KNEW?!” Blaise turned to Theodore with all the grace and fury of someone who just found out his favorite soap opera had been canceled mid-cliffhanger. “And you didn’t do anything?! Not even a single ominous shoulder squeeze? A disapproving nod? A slow, terrifying walk behind them in the corridors with your eyes narrowed like a cryptid in the fog?!”

“I was counting on some emotionally stunted vengeance,” Lorenzo chimed in, now holding his crisps like a judgmental gavel. “You let us down, Nott.”

“EXACTLY!” Pansy shrieked, spinning around with the energy of a banshee leading a revolution. “Where’s the drama?! Where’s the furious wand duel at midnight in the courtyard? WHERE'S THE TWO-PAGE SPEECH ABOUT BETRAYAL AND SIBLING HONOUR AND A TRAGIC LOVE DOOMED FROM THE START?!”

Draco looked like he was genuinely grieving. He placed one hand on his heart, the other dramatically outstretched as if speaking to the heavens. “This is worse than my father’s fourth engagement party. At least that had fireworks and an enchanted swan that exploded.”

Theodore, for his part, looked like he’d just woken up from a nap and couldn’t be arsed. Standing with his hands in his pockets and his expression set to “Could Not Care Less If I Tried,” he said, “I already told them. I’ve known for weeks.”

“WEEKS?!” Blaise yelped, clutching Lorenzo’s shoulder like he needed emotional support.

“And you didn’t even glare once?!” Draco gasped, eyes practically bulging out of his head. “You didn’t pull out your wand and threaten to CRUCIO his bloodline?!”

“I expected some level of ominous sibling rage,” Lorenzo muttered. “Instead I got... emotional neutrality. Honestly, it’s offensive.”

“I’m just—confused,” Blaise said, flinging his arms out. “Do you even care? You’re acting like Mattheo hasn’t spent the past month playing tonsil hockey with your sibling in every broom cupboard in the castle.”

“I expected fireworks,” Pansy seethed. “Screaming. Maybe a duel that would’ve made the school nurse cry. At least a threatened expulsion! And instead—” she gestured wildly at Theodore “—we got this! Calm! Rational! Emotionally intelligent?! I’m DISGUSTED.”

Astoria, who had been quietly standing by, now had both hands around Pansy’s waist, physically holding her back like she was restraining a chihuahua on steroids. “Pans, don’t lunge. You promised no tackling.”

“I DIDN’T PROMISE NOTHING,” Pansy roared.

Theodore blinked slowly, looking almost bored. “If Mattheo breaks their heart, I’ll throw him off the Astronomy Tower myself. Until then, I’ve got exams.”

Mattheo, still half-hiding behind you like a traumatized Victorian child, made a strangled sound. “He’s gonna what—?”

“I—I tried to apologize,” Mattheo spluttered, peeking out from behind your shoulder with the world’s most wounded expression. “I was halfway through my bloody sentence and he just cut me off! I had a whole speech! With metaphors!”

“You didn’t even get to the metaphor about comparing Theodore’s glare to a dementor with a caffeine addiction,” you whispered.

“RIGHT?” Mattheo pointed at you with a pout. “That was my best one!”

“You were sobbing into a chocolate frog outside the potions lab,” Blaise said, deadpan.

“Yeah, I remember that,” Lorenzo added with a snort. “You kept whispering, ‘he’s going to turn me into a ferret’.”

“You weren’t even dating me when you did that,” you muttered.

Mattheo groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “I was emotionally preparing! For war!”

“And there was no war!” Draco cried. “Just—just peace! Like we’re living in some healthy, emotionally mature AU!”

“This is worse than my cousin’s vow renewal,” Pansy snapped, now pacing in a circle. “At least that ended with a hexed priest and someone’s wig catching fire.”

Lorenzo clapped Blaise on the back. “Well, guess I lost the bet.”

“What bet?” you asked, dreading the answer.

“I had twenty galleons on Theodore turning Mattheo into a cactus and leaving him outside Hagrid’s hut.”

“Honestly, I would’ve preferred that,” Mattheo muttered.

“Same,” Draco said, disgusted.

“You’re all insane,” Theodore said.

“And you’re boring,” Blaise fired back. “Where’s the trauma?! Where’s the iconic sibling rage? You had the perfect opportunity to deliver a one-liner and threaten him with a slow, painful doom! Instead you let him live?!”

Pansy turned on Theodore with wide, devastated eyes. “You’re not mad at all? Like not even a little? There’s no secret plotting? No passive aggressive breakfast commentary?!”

Theodore just shrugged. “I like my sibling. I don’t hate Riddle. I’m not wasting spell energy unless he does something dumb.”

“I am something dumb!” Mattheo squeaked from behind you.

“WE KNOW!” Pansy and Draco yelled in unison.

Astoria buried her face in her hands. “I’m too sober for this.”

Draco sighed dramatically and crossed his arms. “Fine. New plan. Someone date someone they shouldn’t so we can salvage this absolute travesty.”

“I VOLUNTEER!” Lorenzo said immediately.

“NO YOU DON’T!” Blaise and Draco snapped.

You turned to Mattheo with a dazed smile as the rest of your friends devolved into chaos, arguing over who should pretend to get engaged for maximum scandal.

“Well,” you muttered. “That went well.”

Mattheo blinked at you, still clutching your robes. “I feel like I survived an execution by emotional chaos.”

You patted his cheek. “You did great, sweetheart.”

“I hate all of them,” he whispered.

From behind you, Pansy screamed, “SOMEONE THROW SOMETHING DRAMATIC OR I’M GOING TO COMBUST.”

A shoe flew past your head.

“Okay,” Mattheo muttered. “Maybe I don’t hate them. I just… fear them.”

You nodded. “Reasonable.”

And somewhere, Theodore was already walking away from the scene like a man who had never emotionally invested in anything except his morning tea and the hope that someone, someday, would shut Pansy up for more than two minutes.

[paulyenvol6]

The Bolter

An angsty Joel x reader story but don't worry there's gonna be a part two!!! (And shoutout to @mrspascalsworld for the inspiration <33)

Contains: angst, mentions of pregnancy, age gap (unspecified), fighting, crying, anxiety, mentions of a panic attack

Wordcount: 7,167

Masterlist

Your heart was beating fast.

Sweat drooled on your forehead and the anxiety bubbling in your stomach made your head dizzy. You were gripping the edge of the table to ground yourself, your nails painfully digging into the oak wood when Joel entered the room and you instantly let go, pushing yourself away and approaching him on wobbly knees.

"Joel," you unnecessarily said as though he hadn't seen you yet.

"Hi hon," his husky voice rang in your ear and for some strange reason it sounded louder than usual tonight.

"I need to talk to ya," you said with your head low and almost bursted into tears when you lifted your gaze.

His dark eyes looked concerned and worried and you wanted nothing more than to rip the pain and hurt out of you, bury it deep in the ground underneath his house and have everything be perfect again. Cut out the painful ache right below your chest even if it required the worst methods just to avoid the upcoming conversation.

It wasn't like everything was bad. Of course not. You had good reason to jump into his arms and bury your head in his neck and you would have done that if you hadn't had a certain encounter with Maria the other day. You knew you should have spoken to Joel right away because it was never good to surpress anger and hurt and as your boyfriend wasn't exactly the most talkative and communicative person you oftentimes had to do the emotional heavy lifting for the both of you but this time even you hadn't acted the way you should have. You had needed an evening at the very least to process what Maria had told you and along with the other thing that had just completely swept you off your feet you had cried yourself to sleep that night, unsure of how to handle this situation.

"Course. What's up?" he said sounding like he was in a good mood tonight which made you straighten your back. Although your body was resisting, your insides clenching and twisting when thinking about the words you had already formed in your head, you knew this was the perfect opportunity to talk to him.

"I need to talk to ya," you repeated and Joel laughed, his eyes narrowed.

"You already said that."

"I know."

A crease appeared between his brows and he became suspicious.

"What is it, babe? C'mere."

He sank down on a chair tapping on his thigh to gesture you to sit on his lap but you couldn't. Not now, when the weight on your heart seemed to be trying to drown you, pulling you down and through the ground in the depths of the earth until all you could taste and smell was mud and dirt.

You stood up straight, slightly shaking your head and interwined your fingers in front of you.

"No… I just… I talked to Maria yesterday."

Joel frowned again, folding his hands between his slightly spread legs and tilting his head as he watched you in the dim light.

"Okay?"

"I… I wanted to talk to you a few days ago and I don't know, I didn't and – it's… everything was so much and – I – I know I should've gone to you earlier but – it was too much yesteday and I – "

You suddenly bursted out in tears, your shaky hands pressing on your eyes to hide the wetness dripping on your cheeks but of course Joel had watched you with growing fear and now was on his feet rushing towards you to pull you to his chest.

"Hey, it's okay…," he soothed you, rubbing the small of your back with his left hand while his right pressed your head to his neck.

"I got you, it's alright. We can talk about anythin'. You know that, right? Shhh, hon…"

It felt so good that you wanted to scream but at the same time you felt that you couldn't enjoy it. You had sworn to yourself that you would talk to him and now first had to deserve to be held by him. Therefore you gently pushed against his chest drawing away and immediately turning away to rub your eyes and wipe away the tears. You weren't able to see Joel's puppy eyes that followed your every move and perhaps it was for the better because you surely would have broken down again had you seen the sad look on his face.

"Darlin'. Please talk to me."

Silence fell over the room, broken only by the sound of your sniffing.

"Look at me, baby."

You turned your head carefully and saw Joel's eyes soften at your painfully contorted expression.

"What's goin' on, pumpkin?" he whispered and your chin twitched at the nickname. A deep inhale followed, your brain forcing your body to cooperate and vocalise what was bothering you so you could peacefully fall asleep tonight knowing that you had communicated everything there was to say and had been truthful to your boyfriend.

"I talked to Maria the other day," you started again and wiped over your wet eyes. "I don't really know how… And why… I mean I can't remember why it came up but she said somethin' 'bout you… Somethin' I didn't know an' I… I just couldn't believe that you kept something like this from me, Joel."

It was so quiet in the room that your heart stopped. The air was hot and tense, your lashes nervously fluttering as Joel swallowed loudly, his expression tensing just a little bit.

"What did she say?" he spoke, glancing at you through small eyes. It was hard to hide your anger now and at the same time your breathing became heavy.

"Why didn't you tell me that you have a daughter, Joel?" you pressed and it was way more emotionally loaded than you had planned it in your head. At first, his face was unreadable, the clenching of his fists being the only sign that he had heard you. But then the muscles in his forehead twitched and his face tensed with anger, his nostrils flaring and his teeth gritting.

"Careful," was all he hissed, but now anger washed over you like a wave, swallowing you whole and making you say things you most certainly hadn't meant to.

"I told you everything. Everything I went through and everything that I swore I'd never tell anyone. And I thought you opened up to me as well and now I sit there with Maria and she mentions that you have a daughter an' I have to act like I know who she's talkin' about? How the fuck do I not know about this, Joel?"

"You better shut up now," Joel whispered but it sounded dangerous. Unfortunately you were at a point where you couldn't hold back anymore and almost acted hysterical. The little knives that seemed to cut in your heart were simply to painful and you felt that the only way to deal with the unbearable sorrow was to let it all out. Thus, you threw your hands in the air, walking around Joel like an animal hungry for its prey and your teary eyes spitting fire at him. You had wanted to stay calm and you had been at the beginning of the conversation, but now you were in a maelstrom that was sucking you in and there was nothing you could do about it.

"This is just so goddamn typical of you. I trusted you an' I opened up to you like I've never fuckin' done before. And we talked about this so many times, you not being able to get your shit together and communicate with me in a healthy way and every time I think 'oh he's definitely doing better and starting to tell me more, too' you come around with somethin' like this. You have a daughter named Sarah? What the fuck? Where is she and who is she and – and what the fuck? Where did she come from all of a sudden?"

You had to inhale deeply because you were so out of breath. You panted loudly, the anger still making the air around you feel heated but you didn't even have any time to calm yourself because new accusations were stumbling out of your mouth.

"I fuckin' get that you need time 'n' all but we can't go on like this. You can't just keep those things to yourself so I have to learn about it from freakin' Maria? Not just for our bond but because I have to know shit about you, Joel. We're a couple and I have to know about your fucking life and – and who you are – and what you have done in your life – and – "

"SHE'S DEAD!"

There was a high-pitched noise in your ears. It hurt and stung but you couldn't do anything about it. Your head was throbbing, your pulse roaring in your whole body. All you could do was stare at Joel. Look at the sweat on his forehead. His flexed bicep. His glistening eyes. His clenched jaw. His mouth that was in a thin line. The heavy lifting of his chest.

He took a big step towards you that made you flinch but your feet didn't follow the commands of your brain and you were frozen.

"She's dead and that's why I didn't tell you about her. That's why I have the scar on my temple, that's why I swore to myself to never have any kids again and that's why I don't go to the fuckin' cemetery with you."

You wanted to throw up. A brief moment later you believed that you might actually empty yourself on the carpet but in the last moment you coughed which certainly didn't fit the moment but you couldn't help yourself. Tears were rolling down your face although you hadn't even noticed you had started to cry again.

"S'that what you wanted, mhm? You wanted me to tell you all of this on our first fuckin' date? 'Cause you think you're my goddamn therapist or somethin' that feels entitled to work through my fuckin' trauma all the time?"

He came closer and now your weak knees managed to take a step back which made you bump into a chair and you stumbled, your hand closing around the edge of the table just before you would have fallen. You sobbed uncontrollably but Joel seemingly didn't care which terrified you more than anything else. Your view was blurry and you felt sick in every part of your body. Your throat felt sore and the lump that was restricting your breathing wouldn't vanish any time soon, you were certain.

"Stop fuckin' cryin'," Joel fizzled, towering over you, who hunched over slightly, as if you could escape his piercing gaze that way.

"M'sorry," you mumbled and wanted nothing more than to feel his arms around you but you had never been more emotionally distanced from him than in that moment so you didn't even attempt to dream about it.

"I don't fuckin' care," he hissed and then suddenly turned around and left the room.

You wrapped your arms around yourself as if you could protect yourself that way, inhaled deeply but the needed air simply didn't come. Perhaps you would just suffocate, you thought and tightly held on the table. Strangled cries left your mouth and you whinced as you became more and more aware of what had just happened. How could you have been so stupid? How was it possible that it didn't cross your mind for once that his daughter might be dead? You had fucked up. You had fucked up big time and there was no way of catching those hurtful words that had come out of your mouth and swallow them before they could reach Joel's ears.

Suddenly your heartbeat thundered in your chest and cold sweat broke across your back. The insides of your cheeks were hurting from the way you had chewed on them and all you could taste now was fresh blood that didn't do anything for your rumbling stomach. You were still crying but almost didn't pay mind to it at all as you tried to calm your racing heart and quick and unsteady breaths.

What were you supposed to do? Follow him, apologize a million times and hope that he would listen to you? Leave and give him time to process your fight? But what if you would lose him? What if he would be gone with the wind quicker than you were able to notice and this wicked evening would end up taking from you what you held so dear.

You didn't know Joel for that long, to be fair. How could you, he had only arrived in Jackson roughly a year ago. And looking back, you had been cowardly, dancing around him, imagining what it would be like to go on a date with him, but too shy to actually ask him out. It had taken you almost three months until your best friend had finally convinced you that you had nothing to lose and the following weeks and months had felt like a cheesy movie.

Your first date in a café where Joel had told you all about his adventures with Ellie, his slightly grumpy mood that seemed to fade away in the gentle autumn wind the longer the two of you talked and eventually your first kiss on his veranda. You had bonded over music and movies, and somehow you both had found in each other something to hold on to. It was hard not to feel broken in this world but now you clung to each other in a desperate attempt to have at least some stability in life. To hold on to something that would last. Something that you could put your trust in. Something that couldn't make you forget the pain and suffering both of you had endured in the past but something that could try and stitch it up so the pieces could grow back together and leave a scarred wound.

And the time you had spent together had been beautiful and yet it was still delicate and fragile and right now you couldn't help but feel that you had fucked it up. That you had shattered the vulnerable bond between Joel and you and that he had come to the realisation that as pleasant as your time together was, it wouldn't be enough after all. That you were not strong enough to carry his burden and go on with him which would leave him no choice but to let you go. He would leave you behind as he went on and then you would be lost in the darkness just like you had been before Joel and you would try to find orientation in this wasteland of your heart without him and you honestly didn't know if you would be able to do that.

And then there was this other thing. This other way bigger and way more important thing that you had tried to tell him just now but of course you had panicked and messed up and looking back you now realised that you should have told him earlier. 'That's why I swore to myself to never have any kids again.'

The words rang aggressively in your ears, taking control of you like cordyceps and making you shiver as if you were in the middle of a snowstorm. It was just his words, just the promise he had made to himself that now gave you no choice but to cry again. You were almost too tired to cry but at the same time you couldn't hold back the tears and simply prayed that Joel wouldn't hear you. You were still in his house after all and although the bond of you had grown deep and intense during the last few weeks you weren't living together yet.

Leaving and going back to your own place was the right thing to do but somehow you felt that if you went through that door, turning your back towards his house and walking past his mailbox it would set an end to something. Something that you couldn't quite grasp just yet but at the same time you didn't want to find out. What if this had just done serious damage to your relationship? What if Joel wouldn't forgive you so easily?

You just couldn't lose him, not after everything you had gone through. You've lost more people than you can count, you've had to bury your own sister and move on because there just wasn't time to deal with her death, and you've had to say goodbye to the people closest to your heart.

You remembered the way you had sat on your bed after your first date with Joel. There had been a smile on your face, very slight and careful as if you were just starting to explore something that was beautiful and endearing but you feared about the consequences. After a single date you had felt ready to pour your little heart out to him and be embraced by his warmth, but at the same time you were so scared to put your love into another person's hand and have them slip it out of their hand once more.

And now you were here with Joel shouting at you and it was entirely on you. Carefully, you pushed yourself away from the table to straighten your back. No matter how miserable you were feeling right now, Joel needed time now and so did you. And no matter how angry he was with you, you would fight for this, for your relationship. Perhaps you overdramatised all of this. You were tired, you had cried so much today and were overstained with all of these recent events so it was no surprise that your nerves were especially thin today. What you needed was a good amount of sleep and maybe when you woke up tomorrow and confront Joel again everything would turn out fine. Yes, you thought. You would be fine; had to be fine. You didn't know what else you would do.

The next day you woke up with a stuffy nose. You immediately exhaled and turned to your other side, the corners of your mouth dropping as a cold wasn't what you needed right now but the problem became second row when you remembered the events of the day before. A quiet whimper escaped your throat as you stared at the ceiling and pulled the blanket under your chin.

You didn't know when was the last time you had woken up without Joel but it must have been a long time ago. The way he would embrace you when he opened his eyes before you, pulling your sleeping body towards him and nudge his face against your neck. The way he would inhale your scent and hold you so close as if he was just as scared to lose you as you were to lose him.

Suddenly there was a big lump in your throat and fresh tears collected in your eyes. You missed him and his presence and you knew you couldn't wait another day to go over to his house. When you had cried yourself to sleep last night you had promised yourself to give him the next day and not show up at his place and risk to annoy him but you physically couldn't fall asleep alone in your bed another night. Perhaps you were clingy and needy and maybe he would be pissed that you didn't let him breathe freely for a few hours before apologizing to him but you accepted it.

You would have loved to immediately do it, walk the short way to his house, apologize to him and make sure that the two of you were still good but although it pained you, you forced yourself to have breakfast first, start the dishwasher and do all sorts of other things just to distract yourself. But no matter how hard you tried Joel was in your head at all times and at some point you stopped fighting it. His face, his voice, his eyes lingered in your mind and seemed to haunt you every step you took, but you surrendered to it, allowing a few tears to quietly roll down your cheeks while you stuffed your dirty clothes into the washing machine.

It was 12am when you looked at the clock. You hesitated and fought the urge to throw your jacket on and instead decided to make yourself lunch before the inevitable encounter. Because as much as you wished to get over with it already and tell Joel how sorry you were you were afraid, too. Afraid that everything was so much worse than you hoped and that there would be serious consequences to the way you had messed up. And then there was the life that was growing in your belly at this moment.

You had to tell him. It was the only right thing to do but then again you heard his words over and over again in your head and it was strange because when he had said them they had sounded muffled and far away but now in your memory they were clearer than the white of the snow and the blue sky outside.

'That's why I swore to myself to never have any kids again.'

You gulped but the lump in your throat wouldn't go away. He didn't want any kids and of course you accepted it. You had never planned to be a parent, not because you actively decided not to be, but simply because it had never been a prospect. All your life you had fought for your survival and for the safety of the people around you and romantic love, let alone offspring had never been on your mind.

But now it was. There was a child growing in your belly. A child that Joel didn't want. You hadn't even had any time to think about your thoughts on this. Your first reaction had been shock and surprise, then you had doubted that the test was right, but when you had done three more, all positive, you had felt overwhelmed and had panicked about how to tell your boyfriend.

And then there had been the conversation with Maria that had totally swept you off your feet and your mind had been elsewhere for a while and now… Now you at least knew what Joel thought about having children so had he already chosen for you? Bringing a child into this evil world was a thought that had scared you at first. Not because you didn't like children, but because there would be another beloved creature that could possibly be taken away from you.

You had to care for yourself, now had found true and deep love in Joel – and you sometimes woke up in the middle of the night from a nightmare that involved losing him – and would have to protect a vulnerable little child? It sounded terrifying and surreal but on the other hand… If you did it with him? If Joel was at your side, accompaning you throughout the whole journey? Raising a child with the love of your life suddenly didn't sound so bad. Maybe it was the Joel-effect because sometimes when you were with him you felt like the two of you could defeat everyone in the world. You were torn between the fear of him getting dragged away from you and the poetic trust that you could go through anything as long as he was with you and your attitude highly depended on your mood – whether you felt miserable and depressed or like a hopeless romantic.

Suddenly you had to smile which felt unfamiliar because the muscles in your cheeks hadn't worked for quite a while now. But you couldn't help it, you saw Joel and yourself in your mind, cradling a little baby in your arms while he had his arms around your waist. His chin resting on your shoulder as the two of watched the little creature that was safe in your grip. Yes, you oftentimes hated this world and everything and everyone on it. But having a family with Joel…? Living with him, waking up beside him every day and watching your child grow up together? Keeping it safe with him and having an actual family with him? You had never even dared thinking about it and the thought lingering in your head was too beautiful to even consider.

There is nothing to consider. Joel has made clear what he thinks about having children.

The corners of your mouth dropped just as quickly as they had lifted.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

That was what happened when you daydreamed for too long. There was no family, there was no future that involved him, you and a little child and he hadn't been shy to let you know about his opinions. Even if you would be able to make up with him and make him forgive you, there was no way he would suddenly embrace you and celebrate the fact that you were pregnant. He would probably just immediately dump you and tell you to stay away from him and you weren't even able to be mad about it. His daughter died and you couldn't imagine how horrible that must have been. Having a child now might make him feel like he was trying to replace his daughter's memory or he simply was too scared to lose another child and go through the same sorrow again. Putting this burden upon him was cruel and heartbreaking, but… what were you supposed to do? You were pregnant right now, whether it was convenient, whether you wanted to be or not.

Suddenly, a loud noise made you flinch and you remembered that you had wanted to cook yourself lunch before visiting Joel. You blinked a few times and then looked around trying to figure out where that noise had come from.

The door.

A loud knock on the door and you couldn't think of a lot of people who would show up at your place on a Sunday noon. You rose from the chair and headed to the door, your feet dragging over the floor and your heart sinking lower in your stomach with every slow step you took.

Your shaky hand grabbed the door handle and you closed your eyes, inhaling and forcing yourself to breathe steadily before turning it and opening the door only to look right into a pair of dark eyes. At first, this was all you could focus on. His deep eyes that had left you in awe back when you had started dating because you had never felt so lost in someone's gaze. You felt that you could drown in those eyes, the hazel tone somehow offering you the promise of home and had you not felt so awful you might have been able to fill ahundred pages of a book, solely focused on describing those perfect warm eyes that were shimmering like sunlight reflecting on clear blue water.

The only problem was, well, his eyes were squeezed. Everything about his face was tense and hard, his mouth a thin line, his neck flexed and a crease between his eyebrows. It almost looked a little bit like he was pouting as he briefly ran his eyes over you and then walked right past you like he owned the place. What had you expected? A warm morning hug?

You closed the door behind Joel and then followed him into the living room where he had sat down on the armrest of your couch and something about the way he looked so natural and right in the center of your living room made you sad. He was meant to be in here. He was a part of this room, the heart of your house just like he was part of your home and your heart. You were on the verge of crying again although you hadn't even exchanged a word so far but Joel was about to change that from the way he cleared his throat.

"I needa talk to ya," he began, his voice rough but much steadier than you felt. You nodded and folded your hands in front of your stomach just to do anything.

"Yes. I wanted to talk to you, too," you replied and wondered why your voice sounded so high. His eyes found yours and you tried your best not to avert your gaze but Joel redeemed you soon anyway and pressed his hand on his eyes, rubbing them while exhaling loudly.

"We have to – "

"I'm sorry, Joel," you interrupted him. "I'm so sorry, I… I really am."

Your eyes were round, your pupils dilated as you ran your gaze over him in desperate search of any sign of reaction. Any sign that the two of you would be fine. Joel exhaled loudly, his shoulders rising and falling and then dropped his hands to his side to look at you again.

"This ain't gonna work."

There was this high pitched noise in your ear again that had been there the day before. You stared at him but didn't actually perceive him, didn't see how he swallowed deeply or how he bit down on his bottom lip. When your mouth twitched you didn't know how much time had passed and for how long you had looked at him in silence.

"What," you breathed, your eyes wet, but you somehow weren't able to let go off the tears just yet.

"This… between us. It ain't gonna work."

"Because of yesterday? I'm sorry, Joel, I… I wanna make it up to you and I know that I'm gonna be able to – I… please, you're not breaking up with me right now, are you?"

Joel grinded his teeth as he turned around to run a hand through his hair, his fingers nervously tapping against the desk.

"Jesus… I don't wanna talk about yesterday right now."

"What," you hissed, your voice airy and weak and your heart beating louder than ever before.

"Listen, I… yesterday was messed up 'n' all but the reason I'm here today is 'cause…" He sighed and put his hands on his hips.

"Fuck. You're too young to me an' I'm too fuckin' old for you and it's been on my mind all the goddamn time since we started datin' but I don't know I shut the voice up and acted like it's right but I can't no longer."

You narrowed your eyes at him, the content of his words slowly and with some delay reaching your brain.

"What," you whispered again but this time you weren't lost for words. "Joel, this… you can't mean that."

"Yeah I do," he grimly said, his eyes flickering as a single tear escaped from the corner of your eye.

"Give me one reason why it's a problem. I'm an adult, I can choose who I wanna be with 'n' I… I just don't get it, this is bullshit." Your voice had became high and thin which made you fear you were about to have a panick attack so you pressed your hand to your chest to calm the rapid pounding of your heart.

"It ain't right. I'm not gonna deny I had a very beautiful time with you, y/n, but the age gap is too big for somethin' serious," he whispered, his voice softer now but it only enraged you further.

"Fuck you," you hissed before you could properly think about it and although you instantly regretted it you couln't stop.

"Fuck you, Joel Miller. This is a stupid fuckin' excuse 'cause of yesterday and I know you don't wanna talk about it so now you're choosing to lie to me instead and use our fuckin' age gap as a reason why you don't wanna be with me anymore. This is horseshit and-and stupid and…"

You stopped mid-sentence because Joel had pushed himself away from the desk and now took a step towards you, his arms crossed in front of his chest.

"No," was all he said through clenched teeth, his mouth forming a thin line.

"Be honest with me at least," you sobbed and pushed against his chest once. You didn't care about anything anymore. You didn't care about crying or being childish for not being able to accept his words. All you wanted was for Joel to take you in his arms and tell you that he loved you just as much as you loved him. Did he? Had he loved you at some point during your relationship or had it just been a fling for him? Or was he actually lying to you and the core of his problem was yesterday's fight.

"Be fuckin' honest," you shouted and pushed against his chest once more which Joel reacted to by grabbing your wrists and pinning them to your hips.

"Stop it," he said with a voice that was way too calm for the occasion.

"No you stop it."

"I am honest. I told you, you're too young. We shouldn't have even started dating in the first place."

Although you had felt like your heart had already been shattered into a million little pieces it seemed to shatter again at his words and you brought a hand to your mouth to surpress you uncontrolled sobs.

"How can you say something like this?" you cried and flinched when Joel involuntarily took a step towards you. Had you been able to see through the curtain of tears you would have noticed that his eyes were glossy now as well and it might have made you feel better. But you didn't so you allowed your sadness and despair to utterly take over and you spat out everything that came to your mind.

"S-So you're just g-gonna end it 'cause you randomly remembered that you're o-older than m-me and now that's it? It d-didn't mean anything to you a-and we're just gonna l-live our separate lives f-from now on and act like nothing ever happened?"

"Of course it meant something to me," Joel whispered and he sounded just the way he sounded when he wanted to comfort you which didn't do anything for your current state. You whimpered when you felt his arms wrap around you and your first instinct was to make him let go so you winded in his hold.

"N-No..." you whimpered, wanting to shut off all your senses because now you could smell his scent and feel his warmth and touch the rough fabric of his shirt and it hurt you so much that you squirmed as Joel put his hand on the back of your head.

"Y/n," he whispered but you didn't listen.

"Let m-me go," you stuttered and after a brief moment of silence he did and somehow it felt even worse.

Now it was coldness and lonliness that silently embraced you and when he took a step back it meant something. He was leaving you right now and if you weren't careful he would slip away. It was like you could feel his finger against yours and all you had to do was hold on tightly and pull him back, but you couldn't. You couldn't grasp at him and he would leave. He would leave because all of this hadn't been that important to him and perhaps you had just floated around Jackson on cloud seven the last couple of months but it seriously had meant something to me. Fuck, it had meant more than something to you. Joel was the love of your life and you were about to watch him leave out your front door.

"Please," you whimpered, a weak hand reaching for him but he didn't react, his sad brown eyes lingering on your tear-stained face.

"Joel."

"I'm sorry," he murmured and put his hands in his front pockets as though he would feel less bad for not taking your hand if they were occupied elsewhere.

"It meant something to me. Of course it did. But it can't go on."

You couldn't even disagree or fight back, all you did was stand with weak knees wishing that the floor would swallow you and take the pain away. The stinging sharp sting that had started in your chest but had spread all throughout your body and was so breath-takingly excruciating that the flesh of your limbs seemed to melt off your tired bones. Joel opened his mouth and you expected to hear another cruel word but he seemed to change his mind and just nodded once.

"I'm sorry. I really am. But I wish you the best."

A cold hysteric laugh broke out of you which was followed by another wave of fresh tears. You wanted to reply and insult him or refuse to accept this pathetic attempt of a breakup or just scream and shout mindless words but it seemed like your throat had shut down and not even the quietest rasped noise could escape. Your swollen eyes were on the back of his head when he turned around to slowly head to the door.

You hated everything about it, how slowly he set one foot in front of the other as if he wanted to give you time to stop him but this honestly couldn't be the case because he had been the one to end it so why not just vanish in the air instead of spending an unnecessary amount of time in your home.

You stared at the ground counting the carves and lines in the wooden floor until you twitched at the sound of your door slamming shut. He wasn't supposed to leave. He was supposed to lay with you on the couch, his arms holding you close to his chest, protecting you from the cold and dark and a crappy old movie playing on your TV that Joel swore you just 'had to see'. He was supposed to listen to your complaints about the cold weather that you, as someone who was born in the south of the continent weren't used to and he was supposed to braid your hair in the mornings while you sat in front of the mirror and could laugh about his focused expression in the reflection.

He most definitely wasn't supposed to step out of your door without knowing when the two of you would be seeing each other again. It even had become a running gag between Joel and you because once you had started dating he had never let you go without agreeing on the next date.

You remembered standing on his doorstep, his lips pressing a soft kiss on your cheek and his lips curled in a crooked smirk. 'When will I see you again?' he had asked and you had shyly chuckled, your nervous hands toying with the hem of your jacket. 'Maybe Thursday? But a little bit later because I'm working long.'

Joel had pursed his lips and the I-don't-like-physical-contact and don't-show-any-emotions Joel Miller had grabbed your hand for a brief moment and squeezed it. 'Okay. 'Cause I really wanna see you again. And I think it would kill me to watch you leave without the promise that we're gonna see each other again.' You had laughed, excited butterflies swirling in your stomach and restlessly shifted your weight from one foot to the other. 'I wanna see you again, too, Joel.'

The memory made your stomach turn and you feared that you were going to throw up all over the carpet. That was it. He had ended it and he had made pretty clear that he wouldn't change his mind. When you started to feel dizzy once more you feared to actually have a panick attack so you forced yourself to inhale although it felt like iron clamps were closing around your lungs with every breath.

The drumbeat in your ears, the cold clammy sweat that pooled on your back, the weight of fear that pressed down on your shoulders. Everything was too much and the situation seemed to slip out of your hands when your view became blurry. You quickly grabbed the backrest of a chair, steadying yourself and then sinking to the floor before you could collaps. The ground wasn't comfortable at all but at least your weak legs didn't have to carry your weight now and so for a moment you felt better, your head resting against the chair and your throbbing pulse making it impossible for you to concentrate on anything else.

A whimper escaped your mouth but now there was no reason for you to hold back so you allowed yourself to break into tears and your loud sobs echoed against the high walls of your living room. Your sad empty lonely living room that suddenly felt like a prison. Or rather a cold basement. The kind that children were scared to enter alone in movies.

You adjusted on the floor, your back finding support against the chair leg and in that moment you believed that nothing in the world could make you rise from this spot again. There was nothing left. Nothing that you cared about enough to make you do anything. Perhaps you should just stay there and either starve or freeze to death because what did it matter anyway? Joel had been your life's purpose, your reason to get up and keep going even at the deepest lows in your life and you were just tired of pretending that the two of you had casually dated a few months.

You had fallen head over heels for him, been swept off your feet and fallen in love in every other poetic way there is to describe it. And you couldn't believe that Joel hadn't felt the same way; things had felt too real and natural.

Your shivering hand came down to rest on your lower stomach, an unpleasant ache in your chest.

You hadn't told him.

You knew you should have but the last hour had been agitating enough and you weren't sure you would have been able to handle announcing the surprise. So there you were now, left alone by your boyfriend you had believed to be the love of your life, pregnant with his child and unable to get up from the floor because it just hurt too much. Were you supposed to raise this child on your own now? Joel had just broken up with you and although the memory was still way too fresh and surreal to process it, you knew what it meant.

Not only did he not want to be part of your life, no, he had made clear what he thought about children. This had to be one horrible nightmare, you thought as you rubbed over your eyes that just wouldn't stop producing tears.

And while you had always found yourself in Joel's caring arms whenever you had a nightmare in the past few months, now you were on your own.

[clarkeysbedchem]

you got me nervous | part two

previous part | next part

george clarke x fem reader

summary: you’re chris’ younger sister who has a crush on his best friend. you’ve spent the past two years hiding your feelings from him - until you all end up in a club for your brothers birthday.

warning: mature content (18+ only)

masterlist | main masterlist

You had left the club earlier than everyone else. The feeling on George’s hands still linger on your skim, the taste of his lips on yours which sent your mind into a frenzy. You had to get put of the club or you felt like you were going to explode.

You were now sat tucked into the corner of the sofa in the boys flat, your hoodie pulled over your knees and makeup still a little smudged. The adrenaline of the night had mostly worn off, and been replaced by something quieter. You could still taste George on your lips, and everytime you thought back to that moment, his hands on you, your pulse stirred into a frenzy.

The front door clicked shut followed by Chris and Arthur drunken bicker down the hall before they vanished into their rooms.

Not even a few minutes went by before you heard the creak of the hallway floorboards. You didn’t even have to look up from your lap - you knew it was him. You could feel it before you had to see it.

George’s voice came out low, careful, like it was wrapped in velvet, “You still awake?”

You glanced over your shoulder letting your eyes study George. He was stood there barefoot, his hair messy from the night, and a hoodie lazily thrown over his shirt and his eyes locked on yours in the dim light of the living room lamp, and the air shifted.

You nodded, “Couldn’t sleep.”

George crossed the room without a second thought, collapsing into the sofa next to you. He didn’t say anything at first - just sitting there in silence, his knee bumping yours, his fingers drumming lightly on the cushion like he was trying to work something out in his head.

Then he turned, his gaze dropping to your lips like it was muscle memory, “I haven’t stopped thinking about earlier.”

Your breath catches, the blanket suddenly too warm, “Me neither.”

He leans in slowly, cautiously - like he was scared that you’d push him away. His fingers found your jaw, tilting your face toward him, and then his lips landed yours again - softer this time, less heat, more meaning.

The kiss deepened fast as his hand slid into your hair, the other pulling at the edge of the blanket that was wrapped around your waist. Your fingers are already curled into the front of his hoodie, like you knew this was coming the second he walked in.

He pulled back just barely, forehead resting against yours, “Come to my room.”

You knew it was not a question, it was a plea.

You nod, breathless, “Yeah.”

He stands, offering you a hand, and you take it without thinking. Every step down that hallway is loaded, your pulse pounding in your ears. The second George’s bedroom door clicks shut, something shifted. The air weighed on you both like a tonne of bricks, both of you filling with an overwhelming need.

You barely had time to breathe before he was on you again, his mouth crashes into yours, hot and desperate, his hands under your hoodie like he had been dying to be skin to skin since the club.

You clutch at the hem of his hoodie, slipping your hands under it, needing to feel him just a desperately.

He slipped the hoodie off of your body tossing it carelessly to the side not caring where it landed. His goes next along with his shirt, and your fingers are dragging over the hard lines of his stomach before you even realize what you’re doing. He hisses through his teeth, eyes burning.

His hands slid up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through the tank top you were wearing before moving up to your nipples. You gasp against his mouth, and he smiles - just a little - like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“You always so responsive?” he whispered, lips trailing down your jaw to your neck, “Or is it just for me?”

You tilted your head for him instinctively, breath shaking, “You’re cocky.”

He grinned, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “You like cocky.”

He stepped forward backing you towards the bed, his hands dragging over your body like he was memorizing it. When the backs of your knees hit the edge of the mattress, he just stands there staring at you for a moment making your cheeks burn.

He dipped his head to your neck again, kissing, sucking, dragging his teeth just enough to make your knees shake, “You’re already squirming,” he said softly, one hand sliding down to your hip, holding you still, “I haven’t even touched you yet.”

“Then do it.”

His breath hitched like he hadn’t been expecting you to push back but you felt his lips curve into smile against your skin, and then his hands are on your thighs, gripping tight.

“Take this off,” he says, tugging at the hem of your tank, “Slow.”

You nodded, peeling it off inch by inch, watching the way his eyes darken as more of your skin is revealed. It slipped from your fingers landing on his floor leaving you standing bare for him breathing hard.

He doesn’t move.

“Take those off too,” he says, nodding to your joggers.

Your eyebrow quirked up, “Just gonna sit there and watch?”

“For now.”

You rolled your eyes, but your hands moved to your waistband anyway, sliding them down - slow, teasing. You kick them off, standing in nothing but your underwear. He still hadn’t touched you.

“George.”

His name fell from your lips like a plea and he instantly stepped forward finally dragging his hands over your bare waist, pulling you against him. You could feel him hard against your stomach making heat pool low in your belly.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, dipping his head to kiss the swell of your breast.

A gasp falls from your lips as his mouth found your nipple, hot and wet and just a little too much. He sucks, then licks, then bites – it’s gentle but possessive.

Your hands fly to his hair, tugging, “Fuck,” you whispered.

“That’s it,” he muttered, trailing kisses to your other breast, giving it the same attention, “Let me hear you.”

He slid his palm between your thighs next, pressing his fingers against the damp heat of your underwear, not going under yet. Just rubbing, slow and firm, watching you come apart in his hands.

“George-”

“You’re soaked,” he teased, “That all for me?”

You nod, biting your lip, and he hums, satisfied with your answer and then without a warning, he drops to his knees.

You barely had time to react before his hands slid your underwear down and he lifted your thigh over his shoulder, burying his face between your legs like he’s starving for it.

Your head falls back with a moan.

He licked one long stripe up your center, groaning into you the vibration making a louder moan slip past your lips. Then his tongue starts working in slow, deliberate circles, building you up so gradually that it bordered on torture.

He slowly slipped two of his fingers into you, watching your reaction through his eyelashes. Your head fell back letting out a whimper as you gripped his hair, trying to grind down, but he gripped your hips tighter, holding you still.

“Stay still,” he muttered, voice vibrating against you.

His lips circled around your clit sucking softly making you cry out, legs shaking, hips twitching but he wouldn’t let up. His fingers pounding into you faster with every sound that left your lips. With every movement he made he was dragging you higher, higher, until your whole body’s trembling.

“You gonna come for me?” he asked, eyes flicking up, mouth glistening.

You nodded frantically, and he smirked, locking his lips around you again.

It doesn’t take long. You break with a cry, thighs clamping around his head, riding the wave with your fingers twisted in his hair and his name spilling from your lips.

He kisses the inside of your thigh once - almost sweet - before standing again, licking his fingers like he’s savouring you.

Then without a word he lifted you onto the bed.

You reached down hands fiddling with the draw string of his jogger but he stopped you, holding both your wrists in his hand, “Lie down. I’m not done with you yet.”

You nodded laying back as he stood at the edge of the bed removing his joggers and boxers watching you carefully as your head buried into his pillows the smell of his aftershave overpowering your senses.

He crawled over you, kissing you hard, letting you taste yourself on his tongue making you moan into him. His hands sliding down, parting your thighs again, lining himself up and just before he pushes in, he stops and you let out a whine.

“Beg.”

Your breath catches in your throat and you blinked up at him in surprise, “What?”

“Tell me you need it. That you want me to ruin you.”

Your stomach flipped and before your mind could catch up the words tumble from your lips, “Please, George. Please, touch me.”

He groans, eyes fluttering shut like he’s barely hanging on.

And then he thrusts into you hard, deep, perfect.

A groan ripples low in his throat as he buries himself into you, inch by inch, your walls stretching around him so perfectly you almost forget how to breathe. It’s too much and not enough all at once - your back arching, nails digging into his shoulders as you gasp out his name.

“Fuck, you feel-” he breaks off, breath ragged, hips stilling as he bottoms out, forehead pressing against yours, “So tight.”

Every nerve of your bodies burned as if its about to burst into flames. Your whole body clenched around him needing to be close to him, your thighs wrapped around his waist and arms holding onto his biceps feeling them flex as he starts to move into you.

It started as slow, deep, dragging thrusts that make your toes curl and your mouth fall open. He watches every flicker of your expression, like he needed to know what makes you fall apart.

Your hands slide down his back, desperate for something to hold on to, something to ground yourself with as his hips rock into you again and again. He pulls almost all the way out, then slams back in – you let out cry trying to muffle it with his arm but it was no use.

“You like that?” he growls, thrusting harder, “Like it when I fuck you like this?”

You nod frantically, but it’s not enough. He grabs your chin, forces your eyes to meet his.

“Words, baby.”

“Yes,” you gasp, “God, yes. Please, don’t stop-”

He kisses you again in a frantic manor, his teeth catching your lower lip as he groans into your mouth barely holding on.

“You’re taking me so fucking well,” he pants against your skin, lips trailing along your jaw to your throat, “Been dreaming about this. Thinking about how good you’d feel wrapped around me, moaning my name like you’re doing right now.”

You whimper as he thrusts harder, faster - like something’s snapped inside him.

He grabs your wrists and pins them above your head, leaning over you, driving himself deeper into you now. You could feel everything - the weight of him, the way he stretches you, the way your body clenches around him like it never wants to let go.

“You’re gonna come again for me?” he says, voice rough and low in your ear.

“I – God – I don’t think I can.”

“Be a good girl for me, yeah?”

His free hand snakes down between your bodies, thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight, relentless, fast circles, “Come for me,” he growled.

It crashes over you like a wave - hot, overwhelming, like everything inside you snapped loose as you scream his name muffled by his hand, your entire body trembling under him. You’re clenching so hard around him that he nearly loses it right there, cursing under his breath.

“Fuck, y/n, fuck-”

He pulls out for half a second, flips you over like you weigh nothing, and slams back in from behind. One hand fists in your hair, the other gripping your hip so tightly you know it’ll leave bruises.

You cry out again, face pressed into the mattress, overwhelmed but aching for more. He thrusts harder now, rougher, losing control.

“You gonna let me fill you up?” he groans, “Gonna let me come inside you, fuck you full?”

“Yes, fuck, yes- please, please-”

Your voice breaking on the last word and that’s enough for him.

He grunted out your name like a prayer and slamming into you one last time, coming hard, hips jerking against you as he spilled inside you, his breath hot and frantic against your shoulder.

For a long moment, everything is still. The only sound is your breathing, his ragged and shuddering, and yours barely holding steady.

He collapsed beside you, pulling you into him slinging one arm over your waist as if to stop you from leaving, “holy fuck,” he mutters into your neck, still breathless, “I’m not letting you go after that.”

You smile, dazed letting you fingers brush lazily down his chest, “Didn’t want you to.”

He kissed your shoulder, then your jaw, then your lips - slower now. Softer.

“You’re staying tonight,” he muttered, “Non-negotiable.”

You don’t argue, you just tucked yourself against him, skin still buzzing, your body aching in the best way.

The next morning you woke up to warmth. George still wrapped around you - one arm flung over your waist, bare chest pressed against your back, his breath soft and steady against your neck.

His duvet now half-kicked down, your legs tangled under the covers, skin sticking slightly from sweat and the heat of him. Your body ached everywhere in the best way, muscles sore and heavy with satisfaction, a slow smile tugging at your lips.

And then it hits you.

You’re still in George’s room. In George’s bed. And it is most definitely morning.

The soft yellow light peeking through the curtains telling you the sun is up, which probably means so are Chris and Arthur. Your heart pounded against your ribs, adrenaline kicking in with no warning.

Shit.

You shifted carefully, painfully aware of every creak of the bed. George murmuring something half-asleep, fingers twitching against your hip, but he didn’t stir properly. You twist just enough to look at him.

God, he’s beautiful in the morning. His curls are a mess, lips parted, face slack with sleep. You didn’t want to leave, you hated that this has to be a thing.

But your brother is right down the hall.

You slipped out from the duvet like you were defusing a bomb, every motion slow and precise. The floor cold against your bare feet as you gather your clothes, praying they’re all here - your hoodie flung over his computer chair, your underwear somehow had ended up on the bedside table, and your jogger curled in the corner like they were ashamed of last night.

Once dressed, you crept toward the door, opening it with painstaking care.

The hallway was quiet. You held your breath, inching down toward the living room, hoping no one’s there - just a few more seconds and you’re off the hook.

“Morning.”

You jump out of your skin.

Arthur was sat on the sofa, bleary-eyed with a cup of tea in one hand and a blanket draped over his lap. He blinked at you like he’s not sure you’re real.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, clutching the wall like it might help you disappear, “You’re up.”

Arthur sips his tea, “Clearly, so are you.”

Your mouth opened before snapping closed again as your brain scrambled for something normal to say.

“I- I couldn’t sleep. The sofa was uncomfy.”

He snorted, very clearly not believing a word, “Right. And I assume George’s bed was more your style?”

Your heart dropped.

Arthur raises an eyebrow, “Look, I’m not gonna tell Chris. But you might wanna sort out your neck before he sees you.”

You fly to the mirror in the livingroom, fingers instantly darting up to your throat. Hickeys. So many fucking hickeys.

You groan, tugging your collar higher, cheeks blazing.

Arthur just scrolled through his phone, barely hiding his grin, “You owe me.”

“Forever,” you muttered.

You took your place on the sofa next to him lifting the blanket over you and you hear George’s bedroom door creak open down the hall. You don’t turn. You can’t turn.

You just hear his low voice, still rough from sleep.

“Morning.”

Arthur hums into his tea, “Yeah, we’ve covered that.”

You can feel George’s eyes on you - burning, amused, and far too smug.

taglist: @jamiekluivert @reidyourpalms @roc-haze @whisperturnedecho @graceln4 @dopeysunflowers @super-gay-for-u @bethorwhateverr @livvymd @lilyyxoii @4ngelrealm @kiyoomology @canyouseethesainz @happyclifford @golden-hoax

[monicfever]

ddba + punisher characters with a reader that's just as obsessed with them as they are obsessed with the reader? i feel like ben would be insane 😭

mutual obsession. 𝜗𝜚 daredevil & punisher hcs

characters used ᝰ .ᐟ matt murdock / frank castle / foggy nelson / karen page / elektra / amy / ben poindexter / billy russo / dinah madani / muse

r e q u e s t e d ♡

cw ᝰ .ᐟ mutual obsession ,, unhealthy relationships ,, yandere (?) tendencies ,, dark themes ,, swearing ,, jealousy ..

⏜︵ MATT MURDOCK. 𐂯

he used to beg god to take the feelings away. the hunger, the want. he'd sit in the confessional with blood on his knuckles and your name on his lips, whispering that he couldn’t stop thinking about you. that it wasn’t pure. that he didn’t care. now he doesn’t pray for mercy. he prays for you. to you.

you tell him one night — quiet, almost embarrassed — that you think about him constantly. that it’s starting to hurt, physically, when he’s not around. he goes completely still. then he laughs — breathless, broken — like the world just split open in front of him and inside it was you.

after that, something in him snaps. not like glass. like a leash. he stops pretending. doesn’t bother hiding the way he follows you when you leave without him. doesn't try to mask the bite marks he leaves on your throat, your thighs. he wants people to see.

you don’t shy away. you lean in. you leave lipstick stains on his collar and scratch marks down his back and you smile when you see his fists clench. you whisper in his ear that you dream about hurting anyone who looks at him too long.

you start going to church together. not to pray — to sit in the back pews while he grips your hand like a lifeline and confesses all the awful things he’s imagined doing in your name. you squeeze back. tell him you think sin looks good on him.

sometimes he ties your wrists. not for control, but because he’s afraid of what you’ll do if he lets go. he wants you dangerous, but only for him.

he listens to your heartbeat. when it stutters, when it speeds — he knows you. knows your moods, your lies, your lust. sometimes he forces your pulse into chaos just to hear it.

matt’s never been the type to lose control. but when it comes to you he’s a mess. he knows it’s not normal, knows it’s not healthy, but every time you look at him, every time you smile, every touch, it makes his heart race in a way he can’t ignore. “im not supposed to feel this way,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. but the way his fingers tighten around yours says it all. he can’t let go.

even when he tries to pull back, tries to focus on his work, he’s consumed by thoughts of you. he knows you’re just as involved, just as obsessed, but that knowledge doesn’t make it easier. It just makes the ache worse. when you’re around the rest of the world fades into the background. he can’t hear the usual noises of hell’s kitchen, can’t focus on his other senses. he’s so tuned into you — your voice, your breath, the warmth of your body next to his — everything else becomes a distant echo.

matt’s struggle isn’t just with the world outside of you, it’s with himself. every time he gives in to the pull of you, every time he lets his emotions get the best of him, he feels like he's losing a piece of his sanity. “this isn’t normal.” he says softly, as if he’s trying to convince both you and himself.

when you’re not around he can’t focus. doesn’t sleep properly. his mind races with thoughts of you, trying to keep it together, trying to push through the guilt and the dark need clawing at him. every time he’s near you, it’s like his willpower shatters. “I can’t think without you, I can’t...” he trails off, not even knowing how to finish the sentence. his every thought, every decision, revolves around you.

he’s so rational — matt murdock, the lawyer, the vigilante, the man who’s always thinking a few steps ahead. but when it comes to you, all that goes out the window. the second you kiss him, or even just touch him, he’s gone. the more you give him, the more he needs. he never expected to be the kind of man who’s so deeply obsessed, so utterly dependent on someone else, but now he can’t imagine life without you.

when you pull away, even just a little bit, it drives him crazy. he’s always been good at dealing with separation, but with you? It’s like he’s drowning. the moment you distance yourself it’s as if every ounce of his reason evaporates. “don’t do this.” he says, voice almost frantic, fingers grabbing at your wrist, pulling you back into his orbit.

you tell him you’d kill for him. not as a promise — as a fact. he doesn’t test you. he doesn’t have to. he’s never loved anyone more. doesn’t fear the devil in him anymore. now he knows you’d kiss his horns, kneel at his altar, and worship him anyway.

⏜︵ FRANK CASTLE. 𐂯

he never thought he’d love again. didn’t want to. love is vulnerability. it’s blood on the floor and pictures on a mantle that get burned with the house. but then there’s you. and it’s not peaceful. it’s not healing. it’s an obsession that rips him open.

you say “i want you” like it’s salvation. he hears it like a death sentence. you touch his scars and kiss them like they’re holy. like you understand. he hates how much that matters. how much you matter.

because the more he loves you, the more he knows he’s going to ruin you. and he can’t stop.

when you talk about hurting people for him, there’s this look in his eyes — somewhere between arousal and grief. part of him loves it. another part mourns what you could’ve been. the softness you used to have before him. now it’s gone and it’s his fault.

he’s tried to leave. once. maybe twice. you found him. he told you he wasn’t good for you. you told him you’d rather be damned with him than holy without. he broke right there.

got on his knees and begged you never to say that again. because if you mean it, he won’t survive losing you.

he keeps you hidden. not because he’s ashamed — but because if anyone ever touched you, looked at you, found you— he wouldn’t stop at revenge. he’d erase cities.

sometimes he holds you too tight, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. sometimes he pushes you away just to see if you’ll come back. you always do. every time he falls harder.

he wants you to have a better life. somewhere safe, somewhere clean. but you only ever smile when you’re with him, blood on your hands and his dog tags around your neck. and that smile? he’d kill a thousand men just to see it one more time.

⏜︵ FOGGY NELSON. 𐂯

foggy’s always been good at hiding the darker parts. the jealousy. the possessiveness. the way his stomach turns when he sees someone laugh too long at your jokes. he smiles through it. doesn’t flinch.

but when he gets home, he takes off his tie with shaking hands and fantasizes about never letting you leave the apartment again.

he’s the type who won’t sleep if you haven’t texted goodnight. who memorizes your coffee order, your allergies, your usual parking spot. it looks sweet. it is sweet. it’s also surveillance.

he’s always watching. people forget how smart he is — how much he sees. you belong to him. he knows your tells. your schedule. your scent. he doesn’t just notice — he documents. pages in his journals. photos tucked in books. voicemail recordings he’s saved for years.

you find out by accident. stumble across a notebook of his, full of your name. you don’t get mad. you add to it.

he doesn’t understand at first. thinks maybe you’re playing him, testing him. until you press your mouth to his ear and whisper, i think about killing her every time she flirts with you. then he gets it. you’re just like him.

jealousy becomes a language between you. subtle, coded. a look. a hand on a knee. a deep inhale when a stranger gets too close. then later — your nails in his back, his teeth on your throat, both of you desperate to prove the other is yours. every time someone looks at him, you fuck him like it’s war. he does the same.

he starts locking the door when you're both inside. always. you don’t notice at first. then you do. you start handing him the key yourself.

you leave notes in his briefcase. “you looked at her too long.” / “he touched your arm.” / “don’t forget who you belong to.” he keeps every single one.

his apartment becomes a shrine. your perfume on his sheets. your clothes in his drawers. your lipstick on a wineglass he refuses to wash.

he’s terrified of losing you. not because he thinks you’ll leave — but because he knows how deep your obsession goes. how far you’d go for him. how far he’d go for you. it’s not safe, but it’s perfect.

you watch him in court. walk past his office and peek in. offer to do laundry just to touch all of his clothes. he lets you. lets you into everything — even the ugly stuff. he trusts you with it. knows you’d never leave. if you ever did, he wouldn’t let you.

you start dropping by the firm unannounced. he pretends to be surprised every time. he’s not. he’s been waiting for you all day. his calendar’s clear, his desk is spotless, there’s already a drink for you on the table. he’s trained his whole life to make people feel comfortable — but with you he wants to be needed. wants to be kept.

you both get good at pretending. to matt. to marci. to the world. you’re just a little codependent. just a bit intense. nothing dangerous. not like the way your phone is never off for him. not like the way he keeps your used lip balm in his drawer and smells it.

he doesn’t dream of a white picket fence life. he dreams of locking the door, turning off the phone, and never letting you leave again. just you. and him. no one else in the world to ruin it.

he tells you once, voice low and shaking, “i’d do anything for you.” you smile. you already knew.

⏜︵ KAREN PAGE. 𐂯

it’s slow at first — eye contact held too long, texts that go a little too deep — but when it hits her, it hits hard. she clings to it like a lifeline.

you don’t scare her. not your obsession, not your intensity. in fact it comforts her because she’s the same way. she checks your social media like clockwork. reads every comment, every like. she never says anything, but you notice certain people suddenly stop talking to you. you don’t ask questions. you’re too busy doing the same thing to her.

when you say it the first time — “i think about you constantly” — she doesn’t believe you. not really. she smiles like she does, leans into the comfort of the words, but there’s this look behind her eyes like she’s preparing to lose you anyway.

then you start proving it. you start showing up everywhere. you text her at 2 a.m. because you miss the sound of her voice. you walk her home even when she says she’s fine. you memorize her coffee order, her bylines, her favourite shade of lipstick, and you say things like, “i hate when people interrupt you. i want to break their hands.”

she tries to test it. mentions an old flame. lets her hand linger on someone else’s arm while telling a story. your jaw tightens, you go quiet. later, in the dark of your apartment, you grip her waist hard enough to bruise and say, “don’t do that again.” and she melts under it.

karen has always kept her secrets close. the trauma. the violence. the things she’s done and the things she liked doing. but when she tells you — piece by piece, raw and shaking — you don’t flinch. just ask her what it felt like. she kisses you like she’s trying to crawl inside you.

you start picking up on her habits. the way she gets quiet when she’s thinking of something ugly. so you touch her, gently. and she starts associating your hands with safety. and danger. because she knows you’d kill for her, and that terrifies her. and turns her on.

she shows love in small, quiet control. she makes sure you eat. double-checks your calendar and finds excuses to keep you close. sends articles she knows will get under your skin just to start conversations you’ll obsess over for days. she likes being inside your head.

the first time you tell her you’d kill for her, she laughs like you’re joking. but you’re not. and when she realizes that — really feels it — she kisses you like it’s the last time you’ll ever speak.

she’s not violent, not by default; but she knows how to destroy people. how to leak things. how to plant a story. how to spin a narrative so tight it strangles someone’s entire life. you see it once — someone gets too close to you. and the next week, their career’s over. she never mentions it. but when you thank her with your hands in her hair and your mouth on her throat, she understands.

she gets jealous in small, brutal ways. you say someone’s name too fondly and suddenly she’s cold for a day. distant. it drives you insane, so you stop saying anyone’s name but hers.

she finds your journal once. reads every page. you catch her. she doesn’t apologize. just says, “i needed to know if you felt the same.” you tell her you wrote it hoping she would. she cries when you say that.

then you both stop pretending this is normal. you live in her apartment more than your own now. your toothbrush. your shirt in her drawer. your charger on her nightstand. you don’t talk about moving in — it just happens. like everything else with you two.

she keeps a file on you. your first conversation. old texts, photos. random facts. you find it by accident. instead of being scared, you pull it closer and say, “you missed a few things.” and you help her fill in the blanks.

⏜︵ ELEKTRA. 𐂯

elektra doesn’t do “casual.” she doesn’t do “normal.” she does devotion. when she sees it in your eyes — the way you watch her like a religion, the way your jaw tightens when someone touches her — she knows you’re not just another game. you’re a match.

she tests you, of course. she pushes. she flirts with strangers in front of you, brushes her hand down their arm just to watch your reaction. you don’t yell. you smile. walk over, take her by the jaw, and whisper, “again, and i’ll cut his throat.” elektra’s pupils dilate like she’s high. she kisses you so hard your teeth clack.

she lives for the obsession. the way you memorize every scar on her skin. the way you track her when she disappears for days. the way you scream at her when she comes home bloody and laughing. she likes it when you scream.

she loves that you don’t try to tame her. you don’t ask her to be soft. you understand that she was built for violence. when you match her — when you come home with scraped knuckles and someone else's blood on your boots — she moans when she sees you. says, “tell me what they did. slowly.” you do.

you start fighting together. not just sparring — hunting. you follow her into danger and she doesn’t stop you. she wants you there. you’re better when you’re both bloody and grinning, breathing hard, backs pressed together, knives dripping. it’s not love. it’s carnage.

when she’s jealous it’s not subtle. she’ll walk up to someone who touched your arm and ask, “do you want your fingers broken or cut off?” you say nothing. you’d let her do it.

when you’re jealous, she smiles. she feeds on it. she wants you possessive. wants to see you furious. wants you to grab her hair and remind her whose she is. she’ll laugh the whole time, bleeding and smiling and saying, “that’s it. show me.”

sometimes you disappear for a while she hates it. won’t say it out loud, but she starts getting reckless. picking fights. baiting enemies. when you come back, she says, “i was fine.” but you find the way she’s been sleeping in your shirt.

she doesn’t cry, not really. but once — after you nearly die, after you bleed out in her arms and she can’t stop it — she breaks. for just a second. says, “if you leave me, i’ll kill everything. everyone. the whole world.” you’re too weak to speak. so you just kiss her hand.

she adores how obsessed you are. you don’t just want her body — you want her mind, her violence, her chaos. you ask her about her kills. beg her to show you the scars. you study her and it makes her feel seen in a way that’s almost unbearable.

she’ll lean in real close when you’re out together, whisper, “you’ve been staring all night. tell me what you’re thinking.” and when you say, “i want to kill the guy who just looked at you,” her eyes light up. she bites her lip. you feel her hand on your thigh, and she says, “then let’s give him a reason to stare.”

she’ll push you, too. tell you she’s meeting someone dangerous. see how you react. you pull her back by the wrist, say, “not without me.” she grins. says, “i was hoping you’d say that.”

she’s always been good at disappearing. but now? she doesn’t want to. she wants to be seen by you. she leaves her weapons on the table; lets you see her without the makeup, the mask, the armor. lets you wrap her in your arms like she’s something worth holding. she lets it happen. because you’re not trying to fix her, you want her ruined.

sometimes she watches you sleep. not in a sweet way, in a consuming way. like she can’t believe you exist. like she’s counting how many places she could carve her name into your skin.

the more obsessed you are, the calmer she becomes. you’re the only thing in the world that makes her feel safe in her own skin. the only one who doesn’t ask her to be better. the only one as unhinged as she is. when you wrap your arms around her and say, “i’d kill god if he tried to take you from me,” she doesn’t laugh. she cups your face in both hands, eyes wide, voice soft. “i’d help you.”

⏜︵ BEN POINDEXTER. 𐂯

he’s obsessed with being watched. he wants your eyes on him always. his hands shake if you don’t say something sweet every hour. if your texts slow down. if you forget to tell him he’s yours. he remembers what it felt like to be ignored. and now that he has your attention? he can’t live without it.

he keeps everything you give him. notes. receipts. hair from your brush. you say “i missed you,” and he writes it down in a notebook.

he thrives under your obsession. he needs it. when you get jealous? his pupils blow wide. you tell someone to back off and he smiles like it’s his birthday. you slap someone for flirting and he’s ready to marry you on the spot.

he asks constantly if you still want him. over breakfast. mid-sex. in the dark at 3 a.m. “do you still love me?” / “do you think i’m good?” you say yes every time, and every time it’s like a hit to his veins.

he spirals fast if he thinks your attention is fading. too many texts? too little response? you might just be busy — but in his head, you’re gone. you’ve left him. and if you’ve left him he doesn’t care who dies next.

because if you’re not watching, if you’re not loving him — what’s the point of behaving?

he wants to feel owned. collar around his throat. bite marks under his shirt. you tell him he belongs to you and he glows. he’ll sit in your lap like a housecat if you let him. wrap his arms around your waist and bury his face in your chest like he’s trying to crawl inside you.

he panics if you’re mad at him. not just hurt — terrified. starts pacing. whispering apologies. offers to hurt himself if that’s what it takes to get you back. you have to hold his face and say, “i’m not going anywhere.” you have to say it over and over. the second you stop he’s slipping.

he lives for praise. tell him he’s good. tell him he’s yours. tell him he’s the only one. he’ll do anything. kill for you. die for you. just don’t stop looking at him.

he starts doing things just to get reactions out of you. spinning a knife in front of strangers. flirting with danger. and when you grab him by the collar and say, “don’t play with what’s mine.” he melts. moans into your neck like he’s starving.

he doesn’t care if it’s unhealthy. all he wants is you. all he’s ever wanted is to be wanted. now that he has it he’ll never let go, even if he has to drag you down with him.

the first time he realizes you’re obsessed with him — like really obsessed — it hits him like a drug. you say something low and honest, something insane, like, “i thought about gutting the waitress when she smiled at you.” and his breath catches.

not because he’s scared — because he’s relieved. he stares at you for so long it’s uncomfortable. you ask what’s wrong. he just says, “i didn’t know you meant it. when you said you loved me.” and then he’s on you, kissing you like it’s the last time, like you’ve given him permission to exist.

from that moment on, it’s over.

he texts constantly.

asks you where you are, who you’re with, what you’re wearing, if you’re thinking about him. he says “i miss you” even when you’re in the other room. you laugh once. he doesn’t. he says, “no, i mean it. i hate when i can’t see you.”

he gets better when you’re watching. calmer. focused. you say, “good boy,” when he lets someone live and he glows like a kicked dog being pet for the first time. if you ignore him — or get too quiet — he falls apart fast.

he needs routine now. calls with you every night. sleeping with one of your shirts. you brushing his hair when he can’t stop pacing. if any of it changes, he panics. clutches your shirt. stares at the wall. says things like, “are you gonna leave me?” with wide eyes and bloody fingers.

he gets nasty when he’s scared. accusations. pacing. snapping at strangers. but when he’s alone with you, he collapses. on his knees, clutching at your thighs. saying, “don’t stop loving me. i’ll be good. i’ll be anything you want.” and the worst part? he doesn’t want to get better. he wants to worsen with you. sink into this need until there’s nothing left.

he feeds off your jealousy. pushes people just to make you snap. and when you grab him, spit in his face, he nearly cries from how right it feels because no one’s ever fought for him like that. no one’s ever wanted him so violently.

he doesn’t say “i love you” like other people. he says, “if you die i’ll put a bullet in my throat.” / “i want you to skin me open and crawl inside.” / “i’d rather go to hell with you than live in heaven alone.” and when you say, “same” he starts laughing. then crying. then begging you to never leave him.

he doesn’t knock anymore. he shows up at your door in the middle of the night, eyes wide, nails chewed bloody, hoodie unzipped like he ran here. you ask if he’s okay. he shrugs, says, “i missed you.” but there’s this fracture in his voice like if you said “go home,” he might lie down in traffic.

he’s glued to you in private. head in your lap, arms around your waist, hands always moving — petting you, holding your wrist, fisting your shirt. if you leave the room, he follows. if you lock the door, he sits outside it. he’ll sit on the floor by your feet for hours like a dog, completely still.

you make the mistake of joking, “clingy much?” once. his whole face drops. he pulls away instantly. sits in the corner like you hit him. you have to drag him back, put his hands on your chest, say, “no, baby, i love it. i love you like this.” and he breaks. murmurs, “don’t joke like that. i can’t take it.” then he just clings again. tighter this time.

if he thinks you’re pulling away even a little? he loses it. starts apologizing for things you never said he did wrong. starts offering things — his money, his blood, his life.

he gets physically ill when he can’t see you. his head pounds. hands tremble. stomach flips. he tells you once, “i think you’re the only thing keeping me alive.”

one time you forget something at his place. he won’t give it back. sleeps with it tucked against his chest like a baby blanket.

he panics if you take too long to text back. he paces. rocks. mutters your name under his breath like a rosary. if it goes on too long he’ll show up. doesn’t matter where. work. family dinner. a funeral. he’ll be outside, eyes wide, voice small. “you didn’t answer. i thought something happened.”

he never wants to be apart from you. ever. the idea of you going anywhere without him— doing anything without him — drives him mad. “where are you going?” he’ll say, voice frantic as he grabs your arm, pulling you back in. he’s almost frantic, but in a way that makes him seem like a puppy needing affection. he just wants to be wanted. he wants to be needed like you need him. it feels like everything is right with the world when you’re there, close to him, giving him that attention. when you give him that attention back he melts. he’s so happy he can barely contain it.

ben’s not above being clingy. in fact, he thrives on it. every moment you’re not with him, he’s thinking about you — wondering if you’re thinking about him. he’s practically glowing when you give him your full attention. it’s like a drug. the more you show him you care, the more he craves it. he loves being the center of your world because, for the first time, someone truly sees him.

sometimes, he’s so lost in the feeling of being wanted that he’ll act a little over-the-top — like he’s suddenly showering you with affection, wrapping you up in his arms at all times, never wanting to let you go. he’s clingy, needy, adoring, and the more you reciprocate, the more he gives. he’s like a puppy who just wants you to love him back, and when you do, he’s on cloud nine.

if you ever did leave he wouldn’t survive it. not emotionally. not physically. neither would anyone else.

⏜︵ BILLY RUSSO. 𐂯

your obsession feeds his ego like wine in crystal. he’s not used to being worshipped back, and it makes him feel godlike. you call him beautiful even when there’s blood on his hands. he looks in your eyes and sees something holy, something sick. it makes him want to kneel, or make you kneel. maybe both.

he used to crave power. money. control. now all he wants is your attention. your obsession. your insanity. he feeds off it. bathes in it. needs it like air. when you cling, he melts. when you beg, he purrs. when you scream that no one else can have him — he nearly cries. because finally, someone loves him.

he’ll lie through his teeth just to make you cry a little. just to see if you’ll beg. just to watch you lose your mind for him — because he loses his for you daily, hourly, minute by minute.

your fights are full of broken glass and kisses that taste like blood. he wants to hurt you just a little, just enough for you to need him, for you to bleed his name. he watches you spiral over him and it’s better than sex. better than blood. you skip meals when he’s upset. cry when he ignores you for half a second. you lose sleep over him. it makes him feel immortal. “you’re fucking crazy,” he whispers into your mouth when you say you’d rather die than lose him. and he’s smiling because he’s just as bad. maybe worse.

you don’t mind his lies. he tells you what you want to hear, and you believe it, because why would he lie to someone who loves him this much? (he does. he lies all the time.)

billy’s voice turns sugar-sweet when he whispers: “no one’s ever going to love you like this.” and he’s right. no one ever will.

he’s touch-starved and sick with need. he holds you too tight, kisses you too long, stares at you like he’s trying to memorize your soul. he can’t get enough.

when you get jealous, when you cry and scream and beg him not to leave, he feels alive. like he’s worth breaking down over. like he’s worth killing for. he’d ruin the world to keep you looking at him like that. sometimes he stares at you like a painting. like a fever dream. like something he hallucinated out of sheer desperation and loneliness. it hits him like a knife — you’re real. and you want him. only him.

it’s scary how much he enjoys the way you need him. there’s a rush every time you get a little possessive, every time you remind him that you belong to him. he loves it more than he’d like to admit. “you don’t get to want anyone else.” he thinks.

he doesn’t want you sane. doesn’t want you logical. he wants you devoted. unhinged. desperate. he wants you looking at him like he’s the only thing that’s ever mattered. because that’s how he looks at you. when you finally say— “i’d kill for you” — he just smiles, pulls you in close and whispers, “i already have.”

⏜︵ DINAH MADANI. 𐂯

“you’re not good for me,” she tells you, voice trembling. but she doesn’t stop touching you. doesn’t stop coming back. you’re everything she’s ever wanted. the worst thing. the only thing.

she tells herself it’s not obsession. not really. she’s just looking out for you. watching your back. making sure no one gets too close. but the truth is you’ve become a fixation. she knows it. you’re a weakness she can’t afford. a vulnerability she should’ve cut out the second she noticed it. but now you’re in her — rooted in her spine, in her lungs, in the way she thinks. she can’t pull you out without bleeding to death.

when you act crazy for her, it shakes her. she tells you to stop, to breathe, to not throw your whole life away over her. but then you look at her like she’s worth it. like she’s your whole reason for existing. she swallows hard and pretends she’s not melting inside.

she scolds you when you lash out. when you talk about hurting people who get too close to her. but later, when it’s quiet, she holds your face and whispers, “i’d do the same.” and you know she means it. she knows she’s not clean. not righteous, not anymore. but she wants to protect what little softness is left in you. she’ll burn the world down to keep you safe. she’ll lie. she’ll run. she’ll break everything. just don’t lose that part of yourself. let her be the monster if she has to.

you cling to her. idolize her. and she wants to correct you, wants to tell you she’s not what you think. but the way you love her — it heals something brutal inside her chest. so she stays quiet. lets you believe in her. she gets possessive, even when she pretends she’s not. the way she stares too long at anyone who touches you. the way she keeps one hand on your back when you’re in a crowd.

she tells herself she’s not like them. not like the people she hunts. not like you, even — when your voice shakes and your hands won’t stop clinging to her jacket. but the truth is she likes it. likes how desperate you are. likes that she’s the only one who can calm you down. it makes her feel powerful. chosen.

she still talks like she’s the sane one. like she’s holding the leash. “you can’t keep threatening people,” she says, stern. but her voice always softens after.

she keeps tabs on you like it’s her job. not in a creepy way — at least, that’s what she tells herself. she just wants to know where you are. who you’re with. she doesn’t ask for passwords. she doesn’t need to. you’d give them to her anyway. that’s what scares her. that she’d use them.

she doesn’t like what she becomes when she’s afraid of losing you. cold. violent. unrecognizable. but if it means keeping you safe, keeping you close—she’ll be a monster. she’ll burn her own conscience to the ground and not look back.

“you’re not thinking straight,” she says, when you cry and beg her not to leave. but her arms are already around you. she’s already kissing the top of your head. because the truth is she was never going anywhere.

you say things like “i’d die without you.” and she flinches. not because it’s dramatic, not because she thinks you’re lying. because she believes it and she doesn’t know how to live with that.

sometimes she looks at you like she’s memorizing you. every scar, every habit, every broken piece. like she’s preparing to lose you. like she knows something awful is coming. but she won’t let it touch you. she swears it. even if she has to die first.

she’s the kind of person who breaks quietly. no screaming. no begging. just silence. just the soft sound of her heart snapping in half behind her ribs. so if you ever walked away — she wouldn’t chase you. she’d just never recover. but you won’t leave. you’re just as far gone. and that’s the only thing keeping her whole.

⏜︵ MUSE. 𐂯

he calls you divine. muse, angel, apocalypse. your obsession doesn’t scare him, it enchants him. he sees your madness like a mirror. beautiful. necessary. artful.

when you cling to him, when you lose control, he doesn’t soothe you. he paints you in that moment. with his eyes, with his hands, with his words. “stay like this,” he encourages, fingers tangled in your hair. “you’re perfect when you’re falling apart.”

you talk about love like it’s worship. he talks about it like it’s murder. and somehow, you both mean the same thing. he doesn’t get jealous, he gets possessive. obsessive. someone brushes your hand in a crowd and he’s already deciding how they’ll be immortalized — in oil, in ink, in red.

they touched his masterpiece. they don’t get to keep their hands.

he lies to you constantly, just to see how far you’ll go to prove your trust. and when you lie back? when you twist your mouth into a smile and feed him poison sweet as honey — he falls deeper. “good,” he breathes. “lie to me again.”

he carves your name into canvases. into his skin. into the bones of those who get too close. he calls it devotion. if you do it back? when you come home with your wrists inked in his handwriting? he stares like he’s seen god.

you don’t run from his madness. you reach for it. kiss it. trace the blood on his cheek and say “you’re beautiful.” and he laughs like it’s a love song.

he brings you pieces of the world like gifts. fingers. teeth. blood on his collar. “this one was for thinking about you,” he grins. “aren’t they lucky?” your obsession becomes art. his obsession becomes religion. he talks to you like a prophet would speak to their god. trembling. awestruck. doomed.

the first time he sees your blood, it’s almost too perfect. too raw. too alive in a way that his brushes can’t even capture. he watches the red streak across your skin, and he’s trembling. this is art. you’re art. when he whispers, “let me paint you,” you think it’s a metaphor until you feel the cold steel of the blade against your wrist. “just a drop.” he coos, his voice almost too sweet. you don’t protest. you never do.

you know. you get it. you’re his masterpiece, his obsession, his bloodied canvas. he’s obsessed with how the red looks against your skin — how the veins shift under the surface, how the blood blooms out in delicate, wild patterns. it’s perfect. “you’re my creation.” he says, fingers covered in your blood, painting it across his walls, his floors, his soul.

he doesn't care if it hurts. he doesn't care if you're trembling beneath him, scared or in pain. in his eyes it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. when you bleed, he breathes in deep, the metallic scent making his skin hum. it’s like a drug to him. when he’s done painting, when he’s covered his room in the dark red of you, he doesn’t stop. he stares at the canvas like he’s staring at the universe. he looks at your blood and he feels alive.

he doesn’t just want you. he wants to destroy you. to remake you. to see if you’ll survive it. and when you whisper, “do it.” he knows. you’re his greatest work.

⏜︵ AMY BENDIX. 𐂯

amy doesn’t just fall for you — she pounces. one minute, she’s sweet, full of giggles, telling you how lucky she is that you’re finally hers. the next, she’s throwing herself at you, desperate for your attention, eyes wide and frantic.

her obsession is like a sugar rush. one second, she’s all smiles, pulling you close and showering you with kisses. the next, she’s possessive, clinging to you like she’s afraid you’ll disappear.“stay with me,” she demands, like a child who doesn’t want to share her favorite toy. “please, please don’t leave.”

she’s got this spark in her when it comes to you— a kind of chaotic energy that’s infectious. she’s constantly smiling at you like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to her. you make her feel things she can’t even name. her moods flip like a switch. one minute, she’s laughing, pulling you into playful, breathless kisses. the next, she’s staring at you wide-eyed, full of that manic energy, demanding your attention. “you better not look at anyone else.” she growls, fists tight around your shirt.

amy can’t sit still when you’re around. she follows you everywhere. she’s the kind of person who’ll ask the same question over and over, just to hear you say it again — that she’s the only one who matters. when you finally give in, when you pull her into your arms and whisper that she’s the one, her whole body lights up. “I knew it!” she beams, kissing your lips like she’s been starved for it.

she’s not subtle. ever. when you catch her staring at you with that gleam in her eyes, she doesn’t hide it. she jumps at you, laughing like it’s the best joke ever. “I love you so much! can’t you tell?” she giggles, biting your lip playfully, and then the next second, she’s asking, “so, like, you’re not gonna leave, right?”

the best part? she loves how obsessed you are with her. she feeds off it. every time you act possessive or clingy, she’s thrilled — it’s proof you’re as tangled up in her as she is in you. even when she gets childish and pouty, you’re right there with her, matching her energy. when she kicks her feet and sulks because you’re not paying enough attention to her, you can’t help but laugh, and it only makes her more determined to get you back. “hey, hey, don’t ignore me!” she demands.

when amy is ecstatic, you feel it too. when she pulls you into her orbit, it’s impossible to say no. she’s bubbly, clingy, everything you never knew you needed. when she’s in her manic, hyper mode, you’re as bad as she is — bouncing off the walls together, as if the whole world can see how in love and obsessed you both are. the intensity of it all doesn’t scare either of you. it thrills you both. her obsession matches yours in the most twisted, adorable way. when you’re apart for even a minute, she’s texting, calling, doing whatever she can to bring you back to her. “where are you?” she’ll ask, pouty and clingy on the phone. “I need to see you right now.”

when she’s around, you can’t focus on anything else. her presence is electric, all-consuming, like a spark that lights a fire in your chest. she thrives on it, the constant rush, the pull between the two of you. she needs you as much as you need her, and you both know it.

★ a / n : benjamin poindexter was not harmed in the making of this story, though he did insist on bringing a briefcase full of glitter to every scene for “dramatic effect.” we’re still finding sparkles in the carpet. thanks, ben.

started 4.23.2025. finished 4.25.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[hrrtshape]

EMMA, MY BELOVED, I DEVASTATINGLY NEED YOUR HELP. So nowadays when I wanna shift I do my thing and then fall asleep and wake up and go back to sleep again hoping to shift then wake up and this cycle continues. Then I realize I've wasted my precious time here and haven't shifted and just fall behind things in life in general. (I try to shift around the afternoon because I usually fall asleep at night) What do I do to end this cycle? It's become very unhealthy and I can't seem to stop because I have hope to shift.

you need to stop using sleep as a trapdoor. like i get it. i get it so bad. you're clinging instead of claiming. shift awake. shift before sleep. shift while brushing your teeth. shift while doomscrolling. shift before you even think about sleeping. you're not stuck, you're just trying to break through a door that was never locked. stand up. you're allowed to choose it now. you're allowed to shift in the middle of being alive

[azzibueckers5]

i wanna know peace again (wanna sing a different song) (ao3 link) (chapter 1 link)

chapter 2: in which azzi is a drama queen and mentally calls herself the word stupid so many times that it loses its meaning (wc: ~8.5k) (gasp)

AN: ummmm hiiiiii i'm back. please enjoy! i wanted to make it angstier but i didn't want to actually write that? so here you go. umm. any and all mistakes re: basketball and the wnba (and anything else) are mine and mine only! i'm learning slowly and I googled a lot of things but who knows. i think that's it? idk have fun freaks <3

azzi wakes to a pounding headache, a crick in her neck from sleeping on the couch, and an overwhelming sense of dread at everything in the world ever. 

hanxiety doesn’t even begin to capture the feeling that curdles in her stomach when she goes to confirm that last night wasn’t a hyper-realistic dream, the words outgoing call, 1:47 reflecting back at her bleary eyes underneath paige’s contact. she’d called her at two in the fucking morning. good god. 

she’s not sure if the wine or the hours of crying is the cause of the absolute knife between her temples, but it doesn’t matter because she needs three advils, like, now, before she begins processing the nightmare that the previous night really was. 

she drags herself off the couch, wincing at the ache in her muscles, and heads to her bedroom to change out of last night's pjs and try and dig up the pain killers that she knows are somewhere in her bedside table. 

briefly, humorously, she contemplates the tub of miscellaneous, much stronger drugs that she’s accumulated over her years of surgeries and injuries. maybe if she overdoses on the opioids she’d been given but never taken after her acl tear she won’t have to deal with this whole L-word realization that is sure to ruin the current stability of her life. 

as she mentally picks through the haze of wine over her memories from the night before, the pit in her stomach grows. she had been a lot of things the prior night- stupid, emotional, drunk, but wrong about the truth of her complex web of emotion surrounding paige? 

she wasn’t so sure. (she was actually kind of sure she hadn’t been wrong. which. fuck.)

after swallowing her pills (advil, not the oxycodone), she picks up her phone and fires off three texts to aaliyah in quick succession, needing her to know how much her line of questioning had caused azzi to spiral.

azzi: u suck btw. 

azzi: the all-star break isn't the time to make me over analyze my friendships

azzi: or my sexuality for that matter

the older girl responds in a matter of seconds.

lili: BRUH I THOUGHT U KNEW

lili: come shoot before practice w me and we can talk it out

lili: but jsyk uve been moping for A YEAR my bad for thinking it was cause yall broke up

azzi: brooooo everyone always says friendship breakups r worse anyways

she releases a long suffering sigh to the mirror above her dresser. she looks a little bit like shit, eyes puffy and cheek creased, posture slumped over looking at her phone. the picture of i don’t want to have this crisis right now but i fear it’s too late. 

screw everything. she looks back down at the buzz of her phone in her palm:

aaliyah: that’s only for straight girls dumbass

azzi: ok well i thought i WAS a straight girl

lili: [screenshotted image of her profile photo for azzi: her, sitting on the ground in the uconn facilities, propped up against the base of her locker, legs spread comfortably. her head is tilted up at the camera, a smirk lopsided on her face, and one hand is throwing up a four, the other splayed out across the top of her trucker hat. she’s wearing a huskies sports bra and sweatpants, slung low enough on her hips to exhibit the the thick band of her basketball shorts and the v of her lower abs] 

lili: does this look like a straight girl to u 

it's almost funny how obvious the answer is. azzi types out a succinct kill youself and throws her phone across her bed.

she feels like she should be concerned with how easily the knowledge that she’s into women (or at least one specific woman) settles into her skin. but somehow it feels more like something she’d known about herself and simply buried, waiting for the right time to fully process. and this doesn’t necessarily feel like the right time, but it's happening whether azzi likes it or not, and she supposes that accepting that you’re gay is a lot easier when every single person in your life already knew and thought you knew before you actually did. 

the only person she really has to solidly come out to is herself (she ignores the voice in her head telling her that she will also maybe have to come out to paige at some point. if they talk and y’know. things go the way azzi is somehow already desperately hoping they will), and she’d always kind of known, in an abstract sense anyway, that she was attracted to women, but she’d never really had a crush on one or had the inclination to actually do anything about that thought so it had sat on the backburner, something she only really thought about when she was drunk, or lonely,  or some combination of the two. 

she figures she can work out whether she’s ever even been into men at all at a later date. all she can think about right now is paige anyways, and it's childish, but she’s almost annoyed at how cliche she feels for having her gay realization be the blonde, like she’s just another fangirl in paige’s tik tok comment section writing some variation of ‘i'm straight, but its paige bueckers!’ 

and it’s stupid, but it feels like she’s feeding into paige's ego by just acknowledging this space that’s been carved out in her chest. paige had always been droning on and on about how much rizz she had, how everybody wanted her, and azzi had loved nothing more than humbling her, calling her conceited and egotistical and stupid, and well. it seems azzi had been the stupid one all along. 

she knows, though, that this feeling, this thing in her chest that has somehow ballooned inside of her overnight, runs much, much deeper than the silly, surface level attraction that most people attributed to paige. and she also reasons that she knows paige, both her flaws and her insecurities and the parts that make her so wonderful, in a way that none of the teenage girls on tiktok could ever begin to even dream of. 

being in love with paige (and she guesses she’s really acknowledging it now, so that's. cool.) didn’t feel like a fluke, but rather something that was simply innate inside of her, ever humming under her skin. 

she curses the universe for giving her this mid-life crisis eight days before she has to hop on the flight that will take her directly to paige’s city, but there's an underlying feeling of hope, too, that she tries to squash. she firmly ignores the thought that it feels a little bit like a cosmic sign. 

paige having a woman she was almost certainly sleeping with, minimum, in the background of her phone at 1am also kinda felt like a cosmic sign. a sign that meant it's too late. 

and. oh god. she needs to text paige about dallas. 

and what the fuck to you say to your ex best friend who you hypothetically were (are?) in love with and drunkenly called crying after a year of not speaking one-on-one to try and plan a hangout? your ex best homoerotic friend who maybe has a new girl? 

but paige had insinuated that she wasn’t expecting azzi to actually reach out, which, aside from the fact that azzi did want to, also made it somewhat of a competition, and azzi didn’t lose competitions. especially against paige. 

it's already nearing 10 am, and even though paige is an hour behind, she wants to make it clear that she’s true to her word. paige had seemed like she’d wanted her to text, too, and. she’d said she missed her. a lot.

she types out the first thing she thinks of, u gonna show me your cowboy boots collection or what, and sends it before she can talk herself out of it.

the anger at paige from the night before is still simmering in her blood, a little bit, because what the fuck? they haven't talked in a year and it was paige’s fault. but also. azzi knows paige, even after all this time, and. she has a growing hunch that instead of the callous disregard for azzi and their friendship that paige had tried so hard to portray, azzi is starting to think that it had been hurt, not indifference, that had caused paige to distance them.

when paige doesn’t immediately respond to azzi’s text and profess her undying love for azzi and azzi only, she tries to convince her immune system that she did not, in fact, just drink poison and she was not, in fact, having a heart attack. 

and god, was it normal to feel like she was dying after sending a text? yesterday-azzi was lucky as fuck that she thought she hadn’t been in love because this fucking sucked. 

she makes breakfast with her anxiety at an all time high, checking her phone every sixty seconds and nearly burning her omelette. as the minutes tick by, azzi tries to resign herself to the reality that maybe paige had told her to text because she didn’t believe azzi would, not in spite of it. 

but then, as azzi is throwing things in her bag to leave for the facilities and bombard aaliyah with questions and a borderline mental breakdown, she feels her phone buzz in her pocket. she drops her water bottle on her foot in her haste to check what it says, and it hurts like a bitch, but paige responds with ‘unfortunately only one pair of boots. but im sure my hat collection will impress u’ and well. 

azzi’s foot could be broken for all she cares, because paige responded and she’s texting like old paige, and maybe it's flirting, maybe it's not, azzi clearly has no idea, but it's a million times better than the one-word messages she received throughout last year, and.

hope blooms, slow and steady, in azzi’s heart, despite her attempts to squash it.  

…

azzi: please tell me you don’t actually wear any of them outside the house

paige: u have to wear one here at all times or they’ll kill u

paige: texas is no joke

azzi: so i guess i’ll need to borrow one when im down there then

paige: when do u fly in 

paige: ill give u the pick of the litter 

…

(azzi does not shriek when she sees that text after practice. she does not.)

…

three days before azzi flies to dallas (and potentially lights herself on fire), she has a moment of weakness. after a particularly tiring lift and a day without more than a few new texts from paige, she settles into bed freshly showered with her laptop propped open on a pillow. she means to put on the rest of the abbot elementary episode she’d been watching earlier, but her fingers apparently aren’t connected to the rest of her body because they type in “paige bueckers and azzi fudd” into the youtube search bar instead. 

a couple nonsense videos pop up before her eyes catch on to the SLAM interview they’d done together right before azzi’s freshman year season. she clicks the link before she can chicken out.

it's a behind the scenes, with interview anecdotes thrown in between clips of them messing around, and they look so young. and jesus the way paige is looking at her. like she hangs the moon in the sky. and eighteen year old azzi isn’t much better, and she can’t keep her eyes off the blonde for more than five milliseconds, and they’re, well, they’re flirting right in front of current azzi’s face, and good god. no wonder everyone had thought something was going on. 

if azzi hadn’t lived through it, known the way they’d only ever tiptoed the line, never crossing, she would’ve thought so too. 

she makes it six minutes into the video before she slams her laptop shut, rolls over, and screams bloody murder into her pillowcase. 

…

the mystics don’t fly down until the night before, and their game is in the afternoon, so she and paige make tentative plans to hang out after azzi ‘find[s] out what happens when you mess with texas.’

paige is a dork, and an unfunny one at that. she hearts the message when azzi tells her as much, and azzi has to hide her smile in the hood of her sweatshirt so georgia doesn’t ask any pestering questions when paige adds ‘unfunny maybe but a loser? never.’

azzi really, really hopes that this text-flirting or whatever they’re doing means that paige doesn’t have a girlfriend. she doesn’t think her heart could take it if she did, and she doesn’t understand how paige (maybe? she’s being optimistic. sue her.) lived with these feelings for so long and didn’t act on them because it's been a singular week of occasional texting and only that has azzi feeling like she’s going to tear her hair out. 

the flight to dallas and subsequent restless night of sleep in a mediocre hotel room crawls by so slowly that azzi feels like she’s been physically transported to a planet in which every minute that goes by is actually an hour. or something. she doesn’t remember the plot of interstellar but she feels like messy time travel and space stuff like that was part of it. maybe it's happening to her. stranger things have occurred.

(like not knowing you were in love with your best friend for eight years)

(she doesn’t remember the plot of interstellar because the uconn team had watched it one slow off-season afternoon, and azzi had let paige coax her into taking an edible, gotten ridiculously high and scared, and had spent the entire movie with her face tucked into paige’s shoulder, letting the hands rubbing her back and stupid commentary in her ear lull her into safety) 

(fuck everything)

…

and then the most dreaded and anticipated day of azzi’s short, miserable life so far is upon her. thank god it’s a saturday game, so tipoff is at 2:00, and she doesn’t have to drown in anxiety for a whole day beforehand, because breakfast and the pregame meeting in the hotel is tortuous enough as is. 

kiki has to forcefully put her hand on azzi’s leg on the bus to get it to stop jumping up and down, and everyone knows not to bring up anything related to paige in front azzi, and she hasn’t said anything to anyone other the aaliyah about how they’re speaking again, but she can feel the sideways glances her teammates are sharing behind her back and her brain itches. 

they warm up on the court after the wings are done with their shooting drills, meaning azzi only gets a glance of paige disappearing back into the tunnel when they head out to stretch, but it's enough to transform her anxiety from a level 6 on the richter scale to a solid, nauseating 8. 

there’s signs of paige everywhere: posters with her face all over the walls, her number plastered on the sides of the hallway they have to walk down to get to the arena, and, worst of all, fans milling about, decked out completely in #5 jerseys and paige paraphernalia. several have carefully drawn out posters and clever slogans, clamoring in the stands to get as close as possible in an attempt to gain the one and only paige bueckers’ attention. and azzi can’t even fucking blame them, as pitiful as it is, because she wants paige’s attention on her, too. probably more than any of these fans combined.

a twisted, irrational seed of jealousy takes root in her heart when she thinks about how these fans have gotten to see paige grow and blossom over the last year and a half, how paige had left connecticut and the team and azzi and come here and immediately charmed the hearts of this entire stupid city, not caring what, or rather, who she left behind.

and fuck texas and their stupid cowboy boots and hot weather and their ability to win over really pretty blonde girls and entrap them in their clutches. 

her shots are off during warmups, and it takes everything in her not to turn around and look for a familiar blonde head when they announce the starting lineup and paige’s name is called, but then that effort is entirely futile because paige’s face is suddenly plastered on every single god-forsaken screen in the entire arena as she runs back out through tunnel. and she looks so cool and confident and definitely not like she’s having a tweak-fest about her ex best friend being in such close proximity. and life isn’t fair. 

and azzi loses her breath for a second at how stunningly beautiful paige is. she’s always been gorgeous, even self-proclaimed-straight-azzi had known that, but something about paige in the center of the basketball court, completely in her element, has always made her look more magnetic than usual. 

paige’s eyes flit across the visiting team’s bench for a second, like she’s looking for someone, looking for azzi, and she wants to jump up and wave her arms or do something equally as ridiculous to get her attention, but it turns out she doesn’t need to because then blue eyes find azzi’s without any help, like a magnet, and, wow, azzi had thought that she’d mentally prepared herself for this as much as possible, but she’d been horribly, terribly wrong. 

paige seems almost bashful when her face tilts into a lopsided grin, and azzi’s heart is doing this weird little flipping thing inside of her chest, which, it's never done that before, or maybe it had and she’d just never noticed because she’s an idiot, but regardless, azzi grins back, eyes probably all squinty and everything, and she really hopes no one is paying attention to them right now because she knows she looks absolutely sick in the head. 

she feels bolder than usual all of a sudden, adrenaline coursing through her and the high of having paige’s attention on her after all these months must be messing with her brain to mouth filter, because then she’s mouthing “you ready to lose?” to the blonde girl across the arena. 

paige’s smile drops in exaggerated offense and she’s getting nudged by her teammates to pay attention to something else but she smirks lazily, and flips azzi off before her attention is dragged into their huddle. 

and azzi feels woozy- like a fucking cartoon character with little birds circling her head. lord give her strength. paige flips her off and suddenly she’s acting like the blonde girl came over and proposed or something. this whole thing is so. stupid.

the anthem and pre-game huddle is a blur of nerves and trying not to get caught staring at the back of paige’s head. and then it’s tip off, and blessedly, graciously, they’re not guarding each other, and azzi tries valiantly to focus on the ball and her teammates’ positioning and not on the blonde in her peripheral vision. 

she’s off balance though, only making one of her first four shots, and she knows exactly why that is and it's so frustrating because paige already has seven points and seems entirely unaffected. 

and then, six minutes into the game, paige knocks the ball away from kiki in a breakaway, and azzi is the only one who has a chance at stopping her from a simple, uncontested layup. they run up the court together, paige just out of azzi’s reach until they get to the paint. and azzi knows exactly the move paige is going to pull, could draw it up in her sleep, and the only real way to stop it is to throw her hip out and jump up at the exact second she knows paige will release the ball and pray that her hand makes contact with rubber and not skin.

and she does knock the ball away, fuck you, paige blockers, but her hip also makes contact with paige’s side and she goes sprawling, sliding across the linoleum. azzi has a split second of panic that she’s actually hurt paige, but paige is grinning up at her, the drama queen, and azzi groans when she hears the familiar whistle of a foul call somewhere behind her. 

azzi’s hand grips paige’s to pull her up, other hand going out to steady her hip, and the first real skin on skin contact in a year shocks her to her core. her fingers are tingling, and how on earth was she able to ignore the feeling that arises in her whenever paige is close to her for so long because it feels like the world has stopped spinning on its axis for a second. 

nothing had ever been able to pry azzi’s attention away from basketball before, except for paige, (which. add that to the list of things that probably should have clued her in years ago) and it’s even worse now that azzi understands why that was the case. 

and they are in the middle of a basketball court on live television with thousands of people watching their every move and azzi is still gripping paige’s hand. and someone needs to put her in a psychiatric hospital or something. 

she regrettably pulls her fingers away from the taller girl’s grasp and immediately misses the contact. 

“you playin’ dirty cause you don’t think you can win?” paige taunts, but she’s grinning at azzi like she knows it was an accident, and her face is flushed from the first few minutes of running and she looks positively edible and. how azzi thought of herself as immune to paige’s charm for so long is well beyond her now because she wants to do. a lot of things, actually, but she needs to focus on basketball right now. because again. middle of the basketball court.  

“shut up, cheater. you’re the one flopping around trying to get a call,” is her very mature and reasonable retort.

and oh. azzi realizes again, in real time, what everyone was talking about when they used to say that her and paige were constantly flirting. because her hand is still on the taller girl's hip (just to steady her. yeah right.) and paige is smirking down at her and azzi is teasing her and- oh my god she’s been so stupid. 

the familiar spark of competition (and probably some other things. like attraction. whatever.) lights up between them like no time has passed since they were staying late after practices and running shooting drills just the two of them, and azzi feels herself settle for the first time since she caught sight of paige warming up. 

she’d been worried that she’d be too distracted by paige’s presence to play well, but the feeling of blue eyes on the back of her neck whenever she has the ball, and even when she doesn’t, fuels her like nothing else. 

by halftime, she has 19 points. 

and when the mystics finally edge out an unexpected, much needed win, there’s a 34 next to azzi’s name in the box score. she only misses two shots after her exchange with paige in the first quarter. 

and it's merely an out of conference win, but it's a close one because paige had played well too, and she can feel the satisfaction of a well-fought game settling in her bones, and the added bonus of beating paige, specifically, is making her feel like she's on cloud nine.

they keep their post game hug short and cordial (or. as cordial as a paige burying her face in azzi’s neck and azzi gripping her shoulders as tight as possible can be) (azzi might be delusional but she swears the crowd gets louder when they hug)

she kind of never wants it to end, and misses her instantly when paige pulls away, but then paige stays close when they separate, and looks nothing but proud when she congratulates azzi, asking “you tryna outdo my rookie of the year performance?” 

azzi is grateful for the flush on her cheeks from the game, so it masks how hot her blood gets at the question. “maybe, we’ll see,” is the only thing she can come up with in response, and it sounds coy even to her own ears. 

“i know we will” is paige’s fond response, and there’s cameras surrounding them and azzi’s not stupid enough to bring up their post-game plans right now but she wants to so she just hums and stands there, probably looking like a fucking adoring idiot. 

paige smiles, big this time, despite their loss, and tugs azzi back into a much briefer hug. it’s friendly for the cameras, and quick, but paige manages to tuck an “i'll text you” into azzi's shoulder before she’s pulling away and leaving azzi to watch helplessly after her as she’s immediately swarmed by teammates and media. 

and winning the game was fun and great and awesome or whatever, but the mile-wide smile on azzi’s face has a lot more to do with residual tingling of paige’s hugs than anything else. she is so stupendously screwed. 

…

the press conference goes by torturously slow because azzi doesn’t have time to check her phone beforehand, but they only ask her one question about paige so she counts it as another win.

(they ask azzi if this victory is sweeter because paige is on the other team and azzi answers with a really eloquent “yes,” and doesn’t elaborate when asked. her teammates nearly wet themselves with laughter)

azzi almost falls out of her chair in her attempt to get up as fast as possible when they’re released from press, and it takes everything in her not to sprint back to the locker room to check her phone. aaliyah doesn’t even try to hide her laughter.  

three texts from paige from 10 minutes prior are waiting for her when she finally gets back to her locker. 

paige: about to hop in shower

paige: wanna j do something straight from here

paige: or we can do something later if u wanna go back to hotel first idc  

the three separate texts means that paige is nervous, and some satisfaction settles in azzi’s stomach, but it’s overshadowed by the fact that she’s left the decision making to azzi. 

she debates it for two seconds before deciding she might run into oncoming traffic or something equally as gruesome if left to her own thoughts for more than 5 minutes. she hearts the second text.

azzi: if u wait for me to shower i can be ready in 20

and then she’s only 20 minutes away from being one-on-one with paige for the first time in a year. her shower goes by in a haze and she hopes she remembered to like. use body wash but she can’t really recall because her mind is an abyss of nausea and stress and the little glimmer of hope that she keeps trying to make shut up. 

paige’s ‘kk call me when ur ready and ill tell u where to go’ is waiting for her when she gets out, and she curses herself for only packing a pair of old sweats and a tank top. whatever. it’s not like she needs to impress paige anyway- she’d seen her in every state of dress from black tie evening gowns to pajamas- but still. she’s stressed. 

and then she’s slipping out of the locker room (she’s not doing anything wrong, but she still feels a little bit like she’s sneaking around, trying to avoid questions on where she’s going from her teammates), and calling paige, and letting her voice guide through a hallway and out a couple doors and into the parking lot. 

she hangs up when she sees paige’s recognizable grey jeep ahead of her, and something settles in her stomach at the familiar sight. she’d been in the passenger seat of this car a million and one times. 

but then she’s opening the door and, wow, she feels the furthest thing from settled because there is paige, sitting in the driver's seat and looking clean and nervous and adorably small in an oversized hoodie and shorts. her hair is down and still damp, and she’s wearing glasses, and her hands are fidgeting with her phone in her lap, partially covered by the cuffs of her sweatshirt, and azzi feels something crack in her chest. because how had she not realized that this was exactly what she’d wanted all along?

“hi” paige greets her, voice small and a little shy. 

azzi’s answering “hey, loser” sounds just as bashful and wow, what have they become? 

but then azzi climbs into the passenger seat as paige groans and says “i knew that would be the first thing you’d bring up” and they fall into the ease of bickering about the game and the music paige is playing, and as they pull out of the garage and into the bright afternoon dallas sun, azzi relaxes a bit into her seat. 

they decide to drop their stuff off at paige’s apartment before potentially heading out to find some dinner, and it’s weird- how normal it feels, even though they haven’t done this in forever. azzi still has an undercurrent of panic coursing through her, and she knows she’s looking at paige a little weirdly because the blonde keeps glancing at her funny, like she’s trying to figure something out and can’t quite place what’s changed, but despite that, they fall right back into the simplicity and comfort that each others company has always held. 

until paige decides to ruin the ease of their conversation by glancing across the car at a red light and asking “you gonna tell me why you’re looking at me funny?” 

azzi squirms. debates jumping out, ladybird style. decides against it only because the risk/reward ratio is particularly low. she could deny it, call paige crazy, but that seems useless when she plans on bringing it up when they get inside in 10 minutes anyways. she was planning on waiting until after dinner, but the thrill of having paige within arms reach is making her antsy and she knows she won’t be able to wait that long. 

“no,” she replies. at paige’s sideways glare, she relents, “when we get inside.” 

paige hums, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, and the relaxed environment turns tense in seconds. the remainder of the drive is silent, and it's not awkward, necessarily, but anticipatory, tension clogging azzi’s lungs. 

she fiddles with the ac vents and tries to stop herself from thinking at all. she fails, obviously, and her mind is a mess of paige and random moments from their time at uconn and, the girl in the back of the phone call, and. somehow her hands are shaking. perfect.

she is somehow both thankful and miserable they’re almost there.

they finally pull into paige’s complex, and the mostly silent walk through the garage and elevator ride only further serves to heighten her anxiety. and then paige is pulling out her keys and opening the door and. 

they barely get inside before azzi is rounding on her, dropping her bag on the floor and backing up to lean against the opposing wall. she’d planned this part out in her mind a hundred times, dissecting all the possible pros and cons of asking in different ways, figuring out how to slowly work up to the question that’s been eating her alive since the the all star break, but one look at paige’s confused face and the adrenaline that's been coursing through her veins throughout the whole car ride has her sidestepping logic and reason entirely and blurting out a strangled “were we in love?” 

she’s pretty confident she knows the answer, but the ensuing silence is agonizing anyway. 

azzi can see the second paige processes her question, her face dropping in utter disbelief, and something like heartbreak splinters in her eyes at azzi’s words. paige’s arms go limp at her sides, her keys slipping to the ground beside her, and the jangle of metal against the hardwood floor is deafening in the silence of her entryway. 

“azzi,” paige chokes on her name, like it causes her physical pain. she looks shell-shocked, like she can’t breathe, and azzi can’t breathe either, but she needs to know anyway.

“were we in love, paige? were you in love with me?” she asks again, more desperate this time, the words ripping out of her chest almost without her permission. she feels out of control. between the two of them, paige was always the one to push things too far, press and press until azzi was forced to answer her questions or shut down, and the whip-lash of that role reversal is clear on the older girl’s face. 

still, paige is silent, gaping at her in shock. 

just as azzi opens her mouth to ask a third time, paige closes the gap between them with two steps and seals their mouths together in a desperate, searing kiss. 

azzi’s hands fly to paige's chest immediately, and the blonde’s hands find their place on the sides of her face, cupping her cheeks. azzi opens for her in seconds, and paige makes a wretched, helpless sound in the back of her throat as their tongues meet. she drags one hand down to azzi’s waist and pulls her closer, fingering the gap between her sweats and tank top, and azzi’s hands grip her shirt in return, needing her as close as possible. 

and wow. okay. if there was any lingering doubt in azzi’s mind about whether or not she was into women, into paige, it evaporates into thin air, heat pooling immediately in her stomach. 

and also. paige probably doesn’t have a girlfriend if she’s kissing azzi senseless in her foyer. the relief of that makes her needy, desperate. 

she feels wild with it, with the sudden release of this desire for paige that's been hibernating just under her skin for years, and as paige presses her back into the wall, all azzi can think to do is tug her as close as possible. her hands move again, this time sliding up to the back of paige’s neck, everywhere they can reach, and when they separate from each other for a second to breathe, foreheads pressed together, azzi’s eyes flutter open to probably the prettiest version of paige she’s ever seen. 

she looks absolutely ruined, cheeks flushed and mouth swollen, and azzi feels drunk on the look in her eyes, gazing at her like azzi is the sun and the moon and the whole fucking solar system too. and she’s struck with the thought that they probably could have been doing this for years, probably should have been doing this for years. 

“did you- azzi- did you not know?” is the first thing paige gets out, voice sounding wrecked with emotion and something else, and if azzi had a nickel for every time someone had seemed incredulous that she hadn’t known about paige and her being in love, she’d have five fucking nickels. five nickels to place on the shelf next to her #1 stupidest person on earth trophy. 

azzi can’t help but sound indignant when she sputters out “well no one told me!”

paige just looks at her for a second, like she’s trying to cement this as real, and then she smiles, small and beautiful and just for azzi.

“you’re stupid” is her only retort. and, well. yeah. 

and she looks like she’s about to cry but in a good way azzi thinks, and then azzi can’t see her face anymore because they’re kissing again. she makes a sound in the back of her throat that she will not be recounting when paige slips a hand underneath her tank top, pressing her fingers to her ribs, and jesus, they’ve been making out for maybe a total of two minutes max and she already feels like she’s going to melt into a puddle on the floor. 

paige kisses her like she means it, like she’s starving for it, and azzi didn’t know it until right now but it's exactly the way she likes to be kissed. 

paige wedges a leg between azzi’s, somehow pressing closer, and this is really nice and azzi really doesn’t want to stop but also. they need to actually discuss this before she lets paige do something stupid like finger her in the hallway or drag her off to her bedroom. she might be jumping the gun but also. one of paige’s hands is sliding underneath the waistband of her sweats to caress the smooth skin of her hip, teasing. and, and. she really needs to stop this before her fingers dip any lower because she knows any coherent thought she has will crumble into nothingness. 

she tugs her mouth away for a second, and murmurs out a breathless “paige” in between kisses. she receives a contented grunt in response. 

“paige-” she tries again, except the older girl simply hums and moves lower, pressing open-mouthed kissed down her neck instead. azzi’s brain goes blank for a second, nothing but thoughts of paige’s mouth on her neck and her hands on her waist. but. 

they do need to talk about this. regretfully. 

“paige, we need to- to talk about this,” she stutters out, and when paige still seems undeterred, having moved down to attempt to suck a mark into azzi’s collarbone, she adds, “before we have sex.”

she tries to look away, so she doesn’t have to see the smug grin that she knows will spread across paige’s face at her words, but a consequence of furiously making out with the blonde is that their faces are still inches apart, so she still sees the sly smirk on paige’s stupid, self-satisfied face. 

“who said anything about sex, hmm?” she crows, and azzi blushes, and then looks down pointedly at paige’s hand that is currently slipping under the waistband of her sweats.

“oh i’m sorry, was that not on your agenda?” she asks, teasing, and pushes herself out from underneath paige, walking down the hallway towards the living room, smiling to herself at the immediate feeling of paige’s hands back on her hips, grasping at her to keep her close. 

“no, no, azzi, c’mon, i’m jus’ playing, come back here,” and she actually sounds a little bit worried, as if azzi will somehow change her mind or something ridiculous. 

she spins back to face paige when she gets to the couch, and laughs at the look on her face, hopeful and kind of like a puppy dog. it's definitely a diversion tactic and it almost works, she almost says fuck it and drags paige further into the apartment in search of the bedroom, but she stays strong.

“talk first, and then you can give me a very thorough tour of the rest of your apartment,” she assures, and paige relents, but not before pressing a short, close-mouthed kiss to azzi’s lips, as if sealing the deal.  

“‘kay. i’m holding you to that,” she adds, but she looks unsure of herself, and then they’re just standing there like idiots in the evening light of paige’s apartment, looking at each other. 

azzi decides she wants to be sitting for this, so she kicks off her slides and drops onto the couch behind her. 

for a second, paige looks like she doesn’t know what to do or where to sit, and she’s never been unsure of invading azzi’s personal space before, so azzi just rolls her eyes and tugs her down onto the couch next to her. paige flops down, sprawled out next to azzi, and they settle into the cushions, azzi curled underneath paige’s arm, facing her, legs crossed and socked feet tucking under paige’s thigh. 

paige is quiet, waiting for azzi to formulate how she wants to start this, and she’s grateful for the silence as she mentally grapples with how to open this particular can of worms. 

she settles on “can you tell me what happened the night of the championship?” 

might as well start out with the big guns.

paige inhales sharply, and she looks like she really doesn’t want to recount that night, so azzi gently takes one of her hands in her own and tangles their fingers. 

“you don’t remember?” she mumbles, and her voice sounds so small, not at all like the confident paige that had just been giving azzi shit and kissing the living daylights out of her. 

“no, only. only that we kissed, but even that’s hazy. and i had a mark,” she reaches up with paige's hand still tangled in hers and presses at her collarbone, “right here.”

“yeah.” paige’s voice breaks on the acknowledgement, and she looks like she’s gonna cry at the reminder, eyes watery where they gaze at the spot that her fingers are pressing into. azzi’s heart squeezes in her chest. she looks a little relieved, though, that azzi can’t recall what happened. 

“if i’d known you were that drunk i wouldn’t have…” she trails off, voice shaky, and azzi cuts in. 

“you were drunk too paige, s’not your fault.” 

paige hums. when azzi squeezes her fingers, she continues. “it was such a good night until then. we were so drunk, and you were so happy, and you were clinging onto me like it-” her voice breaks, and azzi leans further into her side to try and comfort her. they’re both already crying a little bit, and her heart squeezes, again, but she needs to hear this before they go any further. 

“like it meant something. something more than usual. and then you wanted to go upstairs and i kept thinking finally. and. and i kissed you when we got to my room and you seemed so into it. and then i said-” she cuts off again, and azzi feels dread pool in her gut. she isn’t sure she actually wants to hear this story but she can’t stop listening. 

“i told you i was in love with you, like an idiot, and you-” she inhales, through her tears, like she’s steeling herself, and azzi squeezes her eyes shut in preparation, gripping paige’s hand tighter. 

“you asked me why i had to ruin it, why we couldn’t just kiss without it meaning anything.” 

azzi makes a wounded sound, curling closer, and paige is sobbing now, and this is so, so much worse than she’d thought. 

“paige.” is the only thing she can get out as comfort, and now she's sobbing too. god she’d been so, so stupid.  “i didn’t know.” she shifts, and then climbs all the way into paige’s lap, trying to ease the hurt that her unconscious drunk mind had caused and pressing a messy kiss to her hairline. she tries to get as close as possible as a reminder that they're here now, not in a shitty hotel room in tampa.

god. no wonder paige had distanced herself. azzi doesn’t even know what she’d have done. probably run straight out of that hotel and thrown herself off a cliff

paige isn’t done, though, and azzi briefly wonders how it could possibly get worse, before regretting her curiosity instantly. 

“and then you got mad when i wouldn’t. wouldn’t just keep going. and i asked if we could jus’ talk about it in the morning and you promised that we would.” paige presses the words into azzi shoulder, bring her arms up to wrap around the younger girl’s back. her tank top is wet from paige’s tears and. this whole thing has azzi sick to her stomach. 

she presses a sob into paige’s hair, and she knows the next part but she lets her finish anyway. 

“and then you didn’t say anything the next morning and i didn’t know if you didn’t remember or if you just didn’t want to talk about it, but either way i just. couldn’t do it anymore.” her voice is shot, and she’s still crying, but she looks relieved to have finished. 

azzi lets the silence sit for a minute before responding. “i thought you regretted kissing me. or whatever happened, i couldn’t remember. and then you just. stopped, like, wanting to be friends, and i thought you’d decided you didn’t need me anymore,” azzi releases through tears, and her heart breaks for both of them at the stupidity of the last year. 

a “no!” rips from paige’s chest, insulted, and she laughs humorlessly. “az, i’ll always need you. for god sake, i pretty much just moped for the entire year plus. arike banned your name ‘cause she got tired of listening to me whine about how much i missed you.” she looks up at azzi through her eyelashes, tears clumped together, and she looks so beautiful, despite them, that azzi’s heart breaks all over again. 

“if it makes you feel better, i missed you just as bad, except i wouldn’t talk to anyone about it. the whole team knew not to bring you up around me cause i would just shut down.” 

she knocks their foreheads together, gently,  in affection before continuing, “one of the freshmen got your old room and i wouldn’t go anywhere near it.” 

paige smiles, brokenly, at that. “bet she didn’t decorate it as well as me.” 

it's not really funny, but azzi lets out a watery giggle anyways, pressing it into the curve of paige’s brow. “she probably didn’t have a blanket over the blinds though.” 

paige hums in agreement, and motions for azzi to continue before starting to trace lines on azzi’s back. 

azzi takes a deep breath before speaking. “over the break we went to dinner, me ‘n lili and a couple others. and somehow like dating and stuff got brought up and she asked me if i’d ever been in love. and i said no.” 

paige tenses under her, but azzi squeezes their hands that are still tangled together and waits until she relaxes again to continue. 

“and none of them believed me. they all thought we’d been dating in secret or whatever. and i couldn’t believe it but then i started thinking about it and. and then i got home and called my mom, and asked her if i’d been in love with you,” she pauses for a second, trying to get her words straight. paige’s hand on her back falters for a second, before continuing, slow and steady, and it grounds her. 

“and she said if i was asking her than i already knew.” 

paige laughs a little bit, commenting “‘course she did.” 

“i know,” she agrees, “and then. well. i got really drunk and somehow thought it was a good idea to call you.” 

paige smiles, a little crookedly. “wasn’t your worst idea, though.” 

azzi hums in agreement. “no, it wasn’t”

paige opens her mouth to say something and then stops, reconsidering. 

azzi narrows her eyes. “what,” she prods, needing to know everything. 

paige hesitates again before continuing. “i thought god was punishing me when i saw who was calling. i’d just made the first step in so long to try and get over you, finally relented to all my teammates telling me to get laid for the first time in over a year and. here you were calling me for the first time in forever like you knew i’d just spent half an hour pretending the girl on top of me was you.” she shakes her head, laughing a little. “i left as soon as i hung up. cried all the way home.” 

and azzi knows it’s fucked up, but satisfaction settels in her bones at the knowledge that paige hadn’t been sleeping her way through texas in azzi’s absence like she’d thought, even if the reminder of the girl on the phone kills her a little.

“i wanted to die when i heard her voice. almost hung up you,” she gets out, and paige presses a kiss to her shoulder in response. 

“baby, i haven’t wanted anyone but you since i was like, sixteen.” 

the word baby echoes inside azzi’s head and she smiles, ducking her head. 

“maybe if you’d ever told me that-”

“-i did tell you-” paige protests, but azzi’s having none of it.

“sober- if you’d told me sober i probably would’ve figured out i was in love you a lot quicker.” 

paige huffs. “azzi, the entire world knew i was in love with you. obviously i thought you knew, too, ” and then, when azzi’s words sink in a bit more, and she adds, a little in awe, “you’re in love with me? like, forreal?”

azzi doesn’t bother correcting her verb tense. it might seem stupid to already be saying i love you when they haven’t actually had a conversation in a year, but she knows with more certainty than anything ever that this is a past and a present and a future kind of thing. 

“obviously.” is her only response, gesturing to where she’s sitting on paige’s lap, their fingers still curled together. 

and paige’s smile is positively blinding as she leans up to press their mouths together, murmuring “s’ fire.” 

honestly. you’d think she’d be a little more romantic. 

and their faces are both damp from tears, but it doesn’t matter because paige is kissing her like her laugh is the best thing she’s ever tasted, and maybe it is.  

and paige flips them somehow (azzi isn’t really paying attention to the logistics, too focused on the patch of skin she finds below paige’s ear that makes her keen) and they end up pressed into the couch, paige laying on top of her. 

azzi finds paige’s mouth again, fingers tangling in her hair, and paige presses their hips together, swallowing the brunettes' moan at the contact. 

and then paige pulls back above her and grins. 

“so can we have sex now,” she questions, and azzi rolls her eyes, shoving at her shoulder.

“way to be a romantic, p,” she responds, but it just sounds fond instead of annoyed. 

“excuse you, i am such a romantic,” she retorts, and at azzi’s unimpressed look, she tries again.  “azzi jazlyn, i am very much in love with you, can i please make sweet, sweet love to you?” 

azzi groans, but it’s kind of a futile attempt to seem like she’s not utterly charmed, because she lets paige tug her up off the couch anyways. 

and there are still residual tear tracks on their faces, and more conversations to be had, but as she chases paige down the hallway to her bedroom, laughter flowing freely from them both, she figures they can figure that out later. right now, this is enough. 

AN: ummmm thank you for reading? pleaseeee comment/send me asks it literally makes my whole entire day and I need all the love I can get over the next week of hell (finals). i know i said i was writing smut and i ammmm it just is taking me. a while. so i cut it off here. but maybe keep your eye out for more of these two being freaky? idk. also if you wanna like see any more from them pls let me know what that would be! i have a couple ideas for a paige pov but it would be really angsty. and also a few about like their friends and fam finding out and being like THANK FUCK. took u long enough. idk. again, only time will tell but I can confirm that comments and asks do wonders for my creativity soooo. please do that! ok bye now <3

[russo-woso]

New feelings || Aggie Beever-Jones x reader

Request + Request | Masterlist

Warning smut 18+, strap on, breeding kink, squirting, fingering, cunnilingus

Summary Some new feelings arise when you see Aggie with a baby

“Oh, hi.” Aggie cooed as she took the fans baby in her arms. “How old is he?”

“Three months. We decided it was time for him to see Chelsea play for the first time.” The fan responded

You continued to watch Aggie with the baby, your stomach doing flips as she cradled the baby so gently.

You’d been saying Aggie since the Under 17 England camps and the talk of your future had come up many times before - the two of you dreaming of children with each other - but you’d never actually seen Aggie with a baby.

You quickly walked through the tunnel and into the changing rooms, trying to think of something other than Aggie with the baby but it was impossible.

“Hiya, love. You played so well today.” Aggie said, her hands coming to rest on your ass as she kissed you. “I just met the cutest little fella. He was so small.”

“I saw.” You said, your cheeks reddened as you imagined Aggie with a baby - your baby.

“Oh, that was quite a reaction.” Again smirked, gripping your hips as you hid your face in embarrassment. “I’ll keep that in mind for later.”

“Aggie…” you whined, hiding your face in her neck.

“What’s going through your head, darling?”

“You with the baby made me think things.” You revealed, Aggie knowing what you meant.

“Did it now?” Aggie laughed

“Please, just forget it. It’s embarrassing.”

“Hey, I’m not forgetting this, darlin’. Try get some sleep on the coach because we’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

Just like Aggie said, you were in for a long night.

As soon as you stepped into your apartment, you knew what was going to happen.

Aggie had dropped the bags, before pushing you against the wall, her hands on your hips as she kissed you deeply.

“When you saw me with the baby, did you think about us having a baby?” Aggie asked, the two of you breathless from the kiss.

You nodded before taking a deep breath.

“I also thought about you trying to get me pregnant.” You said with a smirk, Aggie bringing you back into a kiss.

“Fuck, I know I cant but tonight I’m gonna try my hardest.” Aggie told you, picking you up and carrying you to the bedroom.

You may have crashed into a few things on the way there but you had bigger things on your mind.

“Take your shirt off, baby.” Aggie said and you did, leaving you in your bra.

Aggie lips immediately connected to your upper left breast where the lace of your bra sat.

She sucked harshly, marking you - marking what’s hers.

You lifted yourself onto your forearms so Aggie could reach your back, undoing your bra with expertise.

You let it fall off you as she threw it to one side.

Her tongue immediately ran over your hardened nipple.

She sucked gently as you squirmed under her.

Her fingers came to play with your other nipple, pinching and pulling at it.

Your back arched as she kissed down your chest, getting closer and closer to where you needed her.

“Gonna make you a mummy tonight.” Aggie whispered against your pussy as you let out a breathy moan.

Her tongue ran through your folds as she lapped gently at them.

She moaned helplessly as she tasted you.

“Fuck.” You muttered as her tongue flicked at your clit. “Feels so good, Aggie.”

She gripped your thighs to stop you from squirming.

“Aggie.” You moaned, pulling at her hair as you felt your pleasure building.

She continued to lap at your pussy, before sucking at your clit.

“Aggie, baby…”

“Close, darling?”

“So close. Fuck ‘m gonna cum. Please don’t stop.” You begged

Aggie continued sucking at you clit but just as you were about to reach your high, she pulled away leaving you shocked and desperate.

“Aggie!” You whined, throwing your head back in frustration.

“Sit in front of the mirror for me.” Aggie said.

You gave her a confused look, moving to fit in front of the mirror you had on your wardrobe that faced the bed.

Aggie came and sat behind you, he hands spreading your legs revealing your soaked pussy in the mirror.

Her fingers travelled to your clit as she rubbed it gently.

You tilted your head so it rested against her shoulder, small whimpers leaving your mouth at the sensitivity.

“Look at the mess you’re making, darling. Making a mess for me.” Aggie whispered in your ear as she pushed her middle finger into your soaked core.

Your back arched away from her chest at the action.

She pumped her finger into and out, as she sucked at your neck.

“Look in the mirror.”

You obeyed her command, looking at the mess you were making on her fingers.

She thrusted in and out with pace, hitting your sweet spot with each thrust.

“Fuck, Aggie, I’m gonna cum already.” You warned her, desperate to come.

“You can cum for me, darling. Cum on my fingers for me.”

You threw your head back against her as you came, a cry leaving your mouth as your pussy tightened around her fingers.

“Such a good girl for me. Gonna be an even better girl and gonna take my dick. Gonna let me make you a mummy.” Aggie said, whispering the last bit in your ear.

The words itself made you moan.

“Please make me a mummy. Let me have your baby.”

Aggie grabbed the strap and put it on herself, lining it up with your entrance and slowly pushing in.

You’d taken it many a times before but this felt different.

Your eyes shut as you felt Aggie bury the strap in you.

“Such a good girl.” She cooed, rubbing your clit to take away the sting.

She slowly moved in and out, stretching you out gently.

She had no issue moving in and out, your previous orgasm having made you dripping.

“Fuck.” You moaned, the feeling overwhelming as you clawed at Aggie’s back.

“I know, love.”

She started moving quicker, your body squirming as she thrusted in and out of you.

“Feels good.” You managed to say through moans.

“I’m gonna cum in you, love. Gonna make you a mummy. You’re gonna carry my baby. God you’d look so gorgeous with my baby.”

The feeling of her cock pounding into you along with her words made you closer to your impending orgasm.

She grabbed your legs, spreading them even further as she pounded into you.

You cried out as she reached the deepest part of your pussy.

“Oh my god. I’m gonna cum. Fuck, please make me a mummy. Aggie, let me have your baby. Fuck I’m coming!” You babbled as you pulled her into you, her hips relentlessly pounding into you.

A wave of pleasure ran through you as clear liquid soaked the sheets and Aggie’s torso.

“Fuck, baby. You squirted.” Aggie muttered, looking at the strap that was buried inside you.

You hummed, too overwhelmed and tired to speak.

“Oh, love. Do you want me to get you anything? Water? A snack? Do you want me to run you a bath?” Aggie asked, having pulled the strap out of you and taking it off herself.

“I just want cuddles.”

“Okay, come on then.”

Aggie laid down, pulling you onto her chest as you listened to her heartbeat.

Although you were definitely too young for a baby, you knew one day, Aggie would make you a mummy.

[abbotjack]

found this sexy shawn selfie and knew you had to see it. i’m literally going crazy

OK BUT LIKE IMAGINE

It starts with a joke.

You’re curled up in bed wearing his zip-up jacket, legs tangled in the sheets, while Jack’s pulling on a clean pair of black scrubs by the closet, dog tags hanging loose around his neck. You watch him in the low light, hair still damp from a rushed shower, stubble catching the shadows. It’s late—almost 6:45 PM. He’s got night shift again.

“You should get Snapchat,” you say, yawning into the pillow.

Jack snorts without looking at you. “For what?”

“So I can send you stupid pictures of me missing you at 3AM. And so you can send me that exact face you’re making right now,” you tease, waving your phone vaguely in his direction. “You know. Thirst content.”

He zips up the jacket he’s already left you in twice this week, steps into his shoe. “I’m almost fifty,” he mutters.

“You’re forty-nine,” you shoot back. “And if I have to survive your night shifts without at least one blurry selfie to bully, it’s actually cruel.”

Jack laughs under his breath, leans over to kiss your forehead. “You’re ridiculous.”

But two nights later, your phone buzzes.

It’s nearly 2:00 AM. You’re half-asleep on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, reruns playing quietly in the background. You blink at the notification.

Jack Abbot sent you a Snap.

You sit up.

It’s a selfie—low angle, dimly lit, taken in what looks like the breakroom bathroom. His face is flushed, hair messy, the front of his undershirt damp at the collar like he’s been running up and down trauma halls all night.

“That enough content for you?”

You forget how to breathe for a second.

From then on, it’s a full-blown bit.

You send sleepy, messy snaps at ungodly hours. “Thinking about you. The dog tags. Your hands. Dying a little.”

He sends back mirror pics from break rooms and stairwells. Sometimes it’s just a photo of his hand gripping a pen or rubbing his face mid-charting. Once, it's a blurry shot of the ambulance bay—captioned “this night is a disaster. i miss you.”

But then, one night, you take it a little further.

You send him a snap from your bathroom—dim lighting, warm glow, just out of the shower. The steam’s still clinging to the mirror. You’re wrapped in a towel, hair wet, skin glowing.

“Wish you were home.”

It takes less than five minutes for his reply to come through.

“Don’t move. I’ll be there as soon as I sign out.”

And he is.

He walks through the door just after 7:20 AM, sun barely up. His eyes sweep over you, standing barefoot in the kitchen in one of his old T-shirts and nothing else.

He doesn’t even speak at first. Just drops his bag, closes the space between you, and presses you back against the counter with his mouth on yours—tired, hungry, rough around the edges. His hands find your hips. One glides up the inside of your thigh.

“All night,” he breathes against your neck. “All fucking night I was thinking about that picture.”

“I wasn’t trying to torture you,” you lie.

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

He lifts you onto the counter without warning. The kiss turns deeper, heavier. You can taste how long the night was. You can feel how badly he needed to get back to you.

Later, when you’re curled up in bed with him, you open Snapchat one more time.

You snap a picture of your hand on his chest, his dog tags resting just beneath your palm. You can see the line of his jaw in the corner of the frame, lips parted in sleep.

Caption: “morning shift: complete.”

You set your phone down. He stirs slightly beside you, eyes barely open.

“You still documenting this?” he mumbles.

“Only the good parts,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

He hums low in his throat. “Good. ‘Cause you’re not getting a sequel. You’re stuck with me.”

And you are—happily, completely, irrevocably.

[msfantasy-comics]

The BatParent Dynamic

Bruce Wayne x Batmum! Reader

Summary: A fluffy story in which Dick and Jason would climb into bed with you and Bruce.

Nothing was more meditative than listening to the muffled sounds of the crickets chirping, as the cold night air filtered though the high ceiling windows. The opposing warmth exuding from your husbands form as he pulls you in closer. Melting around your napping figure.

His airy breath tickling your ear, nuzzling further into your neck.

He’s taking his time, holding you close, breathing in your scent as he presses chaste kisses to your shoulder slowly waking you from your bliss dream into his blissful arms.

Not a single word is spoken, both just enjoying the romantic lul.

But of course, this is the Wayne Manor, where any number of things can happen that leads to loud and rambunctious events.

“Ma! I need a hug!” Dick shouts outside the door, a quick twist of the door nob and the door is slammed open, destroying any sense of peace within your shared bedroom. “Jason is being Jason again!” Dick jumping into a swan dive, aiming to land in the middle of the bed where you and Bruce are currently huddled.

Bruce quickly slides out of the way leaving Dick to land perfecting in the centre of the mattress, he rolls over wrapping his arms around you. Cheek pressing against your arm making his lips press into a pout just like they always did when he was a young boy clinging to you for comfort.

You look down at your eldest son with a warm smile. Eyes almost sparkling at his cute demeanour, even as an adult, Dick will still be your sweet child.

Bruce, however, is feeling other feelings.

“For some silly reason, I assumed that when you boys grew up. You’d finally stop seeking your mothers comfort. In MY bed.” He grumbles irritatedly which only makes Jason’s hulking figure shake with laughter as he takes a quick snapshot of Dick snuggling up to his parents like the man child he is.

“Seriously bro? You go cryin to ma because I wouldn’t share my sandwich with you?” Jason muffles with a mouth full of bread.

He strides towards your bed, stepping up onto the mattress ignoring Bruce’s refusal to move, he shoves himself into the small space left between Dick and the almighty Batman.

Bruce grumbles irritably as he accepts his fate.

Your heart couldn’t help swelling at the sight of your two grown boys, still behaving like the naughty trouble makers.

You still remember a younger Dick, crawling under your sheets so that he could finally sleep though the whole night without being awoken by his nightmares.

Often the young boy would have reoccurring and vivid nightmares about his parents, and would more often then not, come to your bed seeking comforts.

Slinking up the centre between your sleeping forms, Dick would snuggle up towards you as your sleepy arms encircle around Dicks anxious form.

Whilst Jason was already a grown pre-teen when he came into your home. However, when traveling around South-East Asia, Jason caught an aggressive parasite from stagnant water. He was so Ill and weak, you were too nervous and tired to leave him alone, so he slept between you and Bruce until he made a full recovery.

Now you look at your boys, they both lay between you and Bruce, arguing, elbowing and shoving eachother. You look at your husband sweetly, as if silently discussing how this scene warms your heart.

It’s moments like these, you remind yourself how lucky you are to have such a loving family.

[lazysoulwriter]

the love we hide. - pedro pascal.

requested! hope you like it, honey. thank you for sending.

----

You always knew dating Pedro Pascal wouldn’t be easy. Not because he made it difficult — if anything, he made it feel like the most natural thing in the world. It was the world around him, the world that didn't stop spinning faster and louder with every new movie, every new award, every new headline with his name in bold letters.

From the start, he had asked for your privacy. "I just... want this to stay ours for as long as we can," he'd whispered one night, arms wrapped tightly around you, voice heavy with something that felt like fear. And you agreed. Happily. Proudly. You understood.

But lately... it had started to hurt.

The more his fame grew, the more invisible you felt. He walked red carpets with stunning co-stars, smiled in interviews when asked about his love life ("I'm married to my work," he'd joke), and your phone buzzed with articles, photos, videos of him living a life you weren’t allowed to share publicly.

And no matter how much you told yourself you were strong enough, you started pulling away. Little by little.

Skipping dates under the excuse of being tired. Replying to his texts hours later. Letting your hand fall from his when no one was watching. Convincing yourself it would hurt less this way. That he wouldn't even notice.

Of course, Pedro noticed. Pedro always noticed you. Every blink, every breath, every tremor in your voice. You were his favorite story to read.

It all came crashing down on a quiet Tuesday night. You were supposed to have dinner at his place — just the two of you, homemade pasta, a bottle of wine. Your favorite kind of night.

But you canceled, blaming a headache. And when you didn't answer his third call, he showed up at your apartment, heart pounding, palms sweating.

You opened the door, still in your pajamas, surprised and guilty at the same time.

"Pedro—what are you doing here?"

He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, eyes scanning you, searching for something. "Why are you doing this?" he asked softly.

You swallowed hard. "Doing what?"

He laughed, but there was no joy in it. Only hurt. "You think I don't see it? You think I don't feel you slipping away from me?"

Tears burned the back of your eyes, but you blinked them away. "It's better this way," you whispered. "For who?" he demanded. "For you!" you snapped, voice cracking. "You're becoming Pedro Pascal. You deserve someone who can stand next to you, someone who belongs in your world. Not someone you have to hide."

Silence. Heavy. Devastating.

Pedro stepped closer, closing the space between you with careful, deliberate steps. His hands framed your face, thumbs wiping away the tears you didn’t even realize had started to fall.

"You think I’m hiding you because I'm ashamed?" he asked, voice breaking. "You think I don’t want the whole damn world to know you're mine?"

You shook your head helplessly, but he wasn’t finished.

"I was trying to protect us," he whispered. "Protect you. From the cameras, from the gossip, from people who don't know anything about how beautiful and strong and perfect you are."

You let out a broken sob, and he pulled you into his arms, holding you like he'd never let go. Like he couldn't.

"I notice everything about you," he said into your hair. "Every smile you force. Every time you don't call me 'love' like you used to. Every night I sleep in an empty bed because you're trying to convince yourself I’m better off without you."

You clung to him, sobbing now, your heart cracking wide open. "I'm sorry," you choked out.

He kissed your forehead, your cheeks, your eyelids. "Don't be sorry," he whispered. "Just stay. Stay with me."

You nodded against his chest, breathing him in like he was the only air you needed. "I love you," you said, and his body trembled with the weight of it.

"I love you," he echoed. "So much. So much that I can't—"

He pulled back slightly, enough to reach into his jacket pocket.

Your breath caught when you saw the small velvet box.

Pedro smiled through the tears shining in his eyes. "I was going to wait," he said. "I had a whole plan. Paris. Fireworks. The whole cheesy thing."

You laughed wetly, heart hammering against your ribs.

"But I don't want to wait," he said, voice steady. "I don't want to hide. I don't want to spend another second making you feel like you're not everything I've ever dreamed of."

He opened the box. Inside, a delicate, breathtaking ring sparkled under your living room light.

"Marry me," he said simply. "Let’s tell the whole world you're mine."

You gasped, a hand flying to your mouth.

"Yes," you whispered, before throwing your arms around him. "Yes, Pedro. A thousand times yes."

He kissed you like it was the first time, the last time, and everything in between. When you pulled apart, he rested his forehead against yours, smiling that soft, boyish smile that had made you fall in love with him in the first place.

"Tomorrow," he said, "I'm posting about you. About us. About my fiancée."

You laughed, giddy and overwhelmed and so, so in love. "Are you sure?" you teased. "Might ruin your mysterious reputation."

He chuckled, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "You're worth ruining everything for."

And for the first time in a long time, you believed it. With your whole heart.

----