#arsenal x reader

[gilverrwrites]

ꜰᴛ. ᴅɪᴄᴋ ɢʀᴀʏꜱᴏɴ, ᴊᴀꜱᴏɴ ᴛᴏᴅᴅ, ᴋʏʟᴇ ʀᴀʏɴᴇʀ, ʀᴏʏ ʜᴀʀᴘᴇʀ, & ᴡᴀʟʟʏ ᴡᴇꜱᴛ

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ɪɴꜱᴇʀᴛ: ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰʏ ʀᴇᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴄʏ ᴀɴɴᴏᴜɴᴄᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ. ᴀ/ɴ: ᴀɴ ᴀᴍᴀʟɢᴀᴍᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛꜱ, ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ!

ᴅɪᴄᴋ – ᴡᴇ’ʀᴇ ʜᴀᴠɪɴɢ ᴀ ʙᴀʙʏ, ʙᴀʙʏ! ᴛᴡ: ꜰᴇʀᴛɪʟɪᴛʏ ɪꜱꜱᴜᴇꜱ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ (ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ/ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰʏᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ)

After months at it like horny rabbits, a feat you didn’t think possible considering Dick’s baseline libido, it had seemed like an impossible task. You’d long since given up trying, at least until the fertility treatment appointment Bruce has dropped big bucks on, which wasn’t for a few more weeks.

It’s why you didn’t get your hopes up when your period didn’t come as expected. It’s why you didn’t reach for a pregnancy test straight away, why Dick didn’t push the subject. Neither of you wanted to deal with the sting of disappointment that the inevitably negative test would administer.

At least that’s what you’d thought the mutually agreed up status would be. When you emerge from the en-suite, limbo status pee stick in hand, Dick keeps his head down, but you see his stormy blue eyes, peeking out from under his dark locks, his yearning clear as day. It breaks your heart as you picture his face in 10 minutes' time, the same look of disappointment, of grief you’d seen too many times before, plastered on his face, only adding to your own feelings of pain and inadequacy.

But at the same time, it’s Dick who makes you feel better when you’re low, so you climb into the bed beside him and curling up in his arms. Eyes closed, focused only on the soothing fluctuation of his chest and the feel of his lips against your forehead.

“Hey, baby.” Dicks voice stirs you. You’re not sure if you’d been sleeping for a while or if you’d just started to doze but your eyes feel heavy as you look up at your partner. He’s trying to keep a straight face, but the corners of his eyes are creased in a way you recognise as his attempt to hide a smile, and you have to remind yourself not to expect anything. “Look.”

Something shifts in your peripheral, Dick is waving the test back and forth to grab your attention, but the movement makes it hard to read the test window until you reach out to grab it from him.

Two lines.

Two beautiful, beautiful lines.

“We’re…”

He finally cracks, lips twisting into a genuine, sunny smile. One you’d missed wholeheartedly. It doesn’t leave his lips as he presses it to your face, over and over, words marred as he smothers you with his affections. “We’re gonna have to give you a new nickname, cause we’re having a baby, baby!”

ᴊᴀꜱᴏɴ – ɪ ᴡᴏɴ’ᴛ ꜱᴀʏ ɪ ᴛᴏʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴏ. ᴛᴡ: ᴍɪʟᴅ ᴀʀɢᴜɪɴɢ.

There isn’t even a hint of irony or humour in his face. He’s stone-cold serious. More than 200 lbs of muscle, scar tissue, and don’t-fuck-with-me- face, standing in front of you with an unopened pregnancy test.

“You can’t be serious.” He doesn’t falter at your dismissal, position and face held firm even as you roll your eyes and attempt to gently bat the box away. “I think I’d know if I was pregnant.”

“Would you?” The stern look on his face finally waivers, making way for a cocked brow and a teasing smirk. He can be so smug sometimes; Thinks he knows you better than you know yourself.

You might regret giving him an inch, but you concede, slightly. “Okay, maybe I wouldn’t know know, but I’d have a hunch.”

“Yeah? Well, I have a hunch.” He fires back, following close behind you as you attempt to walk away. Right on your heels until you collapse on the couch. “Humour me.”

“A hunch based on what?” You ask as he joins you, lifting your legs to make space for himself before letting them fall back down onto his lap.

“Well…” Milky eyes land on your breasts just long enough to make a point before they trail back down your body, stopping at your ankles, which admittedly have been giving you trouble recently. When he pressed his thumb hard into its joints and starts to massage them, you don’t complain, but you’re not willing to admit defeat just yet. “You’ve been… swelling, and you’ve been peeing a lot. Weird things make you nauseous, things you used to like.”

Of course, you’ve noticed these things too, but when he starts listing them back-to-back like this you can’t deny that his case is might just be a teensy bit compelling.

“You’re tired all the time, and I’m pretty sure you’re-”

“Okay, fine.” You yield, playfully glaring at him as you grab the box from the coffee table where he’d placed it before joining you. “I’ll take the test, but when I’m right, and I will be, you have to go to the store and buy me ice cream.”

“Random food cravings, that's also a sign.” Before you bite back he already raises his arms in surrender, a cheeky, boyish laugh rolling off his tongue under the burn of your glare until you close the bathroom door behind you.

Jason can be quite the sore loser when his stake is high enough, but he’s always been a surprisingly gracious, if quietly complacent, winner. You know this, as you sheepishly exit the bathroom 20 minutes later, positive test in hand.

You’re not quite sure what you’d expected to find upon your emergence, but Jason, grinning ear to ear, ice cream and a copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting in hand is certainly a sight you could get used to.

ᴋʏʟᴇ – ᴍoᴍᴍʏ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ.

He’s clueless. Tired as a worn-out rag, as he drags his feet around the apartment. He’s greeted you with a cheery smile, and a long-awaited smooch, undoubtedly happy to be home and with you once again. But Lantern business is arduous, and while his heart might be all in on being home, his brain certainly isn’t switched on.

“I can do all that for you.” You volunteer, watching closely as he boils the kettle, tries to undress, and attempts to unpack what he can, but he’s having none of it.

“No, no, it’s fine. I can do it.” He reassures you, love in his eyes as he blinks slow and sleepily at you, tasks at hand almost forgotten. “I- um- you- you rest. I’m home now, so um- so you don’t have to do everything around here.”

With his attention on you for a moment, you try to avert his gaze downward to the growing bump in your belly, or your t-shirt which states; ‘MOMMY TO BE’ in big, bold, colourful font, but the kettle starts to sing before he comprehends anything, and he’s turns away from you all too soon.

“You do everything all over the universe.” You point out as you join him at the counter, retrieving two mugs for him to fill. “I don’t see why you should have to do everything around here too. Not yet, anyway.”

“Not yet?” He questions slowly, eying you confused, following your hands as you smooth them down your shirt before resting your palms against your stomach. “Mommy to be.”

He reads your shirt aloud, slowly sounding out each syllable before repeating, “Mommy. Momm-eee… Wait, you’re gonna be a mommy?”

Already his drowsy eyes are several inches wider, his mouth agape, curling into a wide grin as you nod. “You’re gonna be a mommy, which means I’m gonna be a dad? Me! A daddy!?”

“Yes!” Clutching your hands tight and bringing them to his chest.

“Oh, this is the best news! This is amazing! I love you so much.” Kyle is the first to start jumping up and down, newfound energy now coursing through his body, but you follow his lead soon after, briefly. All that hopping can't be good for the baby after all.

ʀᴏʏ – ᴘɪɴᴄʜ ᴍᴇ.

Telling Roy became more of a spectacle than you’d hoped. Despite all your best efforts to play things cool, you could feel their eyes on you across the table. Roy’s, Dinah’s, Ollie's. Every glance might seem totally innocuous to any onlookers, but you could see the curiosity behind every prolonged stare and quirked lip as you declined alcohol, and coffee, and coke. Who knew there were so many boundaries on what pregnant people should and shouldn’t eat. No eggs, no poultry, no cheese, no fish.

Obviously, you couldn’t have known that Roy would have succeeded in his long-standing purpose to knock you up when you’d agreed to dinner with the soon-to-be in-laws, but man, had you known, you’d have declined.

At least then you wouldn’t be sweating like a sinner as you try to stomach the only thing on the menu that meets all your new dietary requirements. They're some of the smartest people you know, surely they can tell.

“So,” Dinah starts, and you can feel yourself unraveling. “Are you-”

“Yes! Yes, fine, I’m pregnant.” The word vomit escapes you under the mounting pressure before you even think them through, and you realise very quickly, as you process the barrage of wide, confused eyes staring at you, that your confession may have been unnecessary.

“I was going to ask if you’re enjoying your food.” Dinah clarifies, smiling as her eyes find Roy’s over the table. “But congratulations, how exciting.”

“That is great news. I think another round is in order, don’t you Di? Lemonade all round!” Ollie continues, and you nod and smile politely, but really, your energy is focused on Roy, who hasn’t moved an inch or said a word since your impromptu announcement.

His expression gives nothing away, and his eyes don’t even land on you until he feels the palm of your hand drape over the top of his. “Roy, are you okay? I thought you'd be excited.”

You thought he’d be happier. He’s been begging for this for months, but you have to strain your eyes when he finally speaks up, forest green eyes detached as he whispers. “Pinch me.”

“What?”

“Pinch me.” He repeats, and the relief floods through you as you watch his lips crack into a triumphant smile. Unadulterated joy flooding his face all at once as he grabs both your arms and pulls you closer. “This is the best thing to happen since Lian was born!”

ᴡᴀʟʟʏ – ꜱᴄᴀʀᴇᴅ. ᴛᴡ: ᴍɪʟᴅ ᴀʀɢᴜɪɴɢ.

“Open up I gotta take a leak.” Your husband calls from the other side of the wood that separates you, stirring you from your disoriented train of thought.

As a couple, you’d been trying for a baby ever since you’d tied the knot, but now that it’s really happening, the reality of the situation has hit you like a ton of bricks. A baby. A real flesh and blood child, a fragile little being who will be reliant on you, who will look to you for guidance and for, well, everything.

“You good?” Wally shouts again, this time knocking on the door, stopping your descent into internal panic before it happens again.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” You lie, shoving the cap back on the test before hiding it in your back pocket, opening the door, and greeting Wally with a smile that even you know doesn’t reach your eyes.

He smiles back at you, but his gaze lingers on your expression, those emerald irises seemingly looking right through you, but the pressure in his bladder must win out because he doesn’t follow you as you swap places, and the sound of his zipper fills your ears before the door is even closed.

You barely make it downstairs before the telltale rush of wind that signifies his presence hits you, however. He’s waiting for you on the couch by the time you reach it, bottom lip between his teeth and he looks at you with big sad eyes.

Before you can even ask him what’s wrong, he pipes up; “So, when where you gonna tell me?”

He looks as troubled as you feel, but apparently for different reasons.

“Tell you what…” You trail off as you clock it; the pink plastic stick that has been in your pocket now twirls deliberately between Wally’s anxiously animated fingers. “Of course I was, I just needed a little time to process first.”

When Wally talks-faster-than-he-runs West has nothing to say, you know there’s something wrong. There is rarely silence between you, and while you’ve never felt the need to justify anything to the man you love, you do feel an itch to make some noise, so you keep talking. “It’s just, I know I should be happy, and I am! I’m just also, scared. You know?”

In an instant, the concern etched into his features melts, replaced by the sunshine you’d come to love; his freckles shifting under the stretch of a smile. Your own tense muscles relaxing at the sound of his laugh. “Of course you’re scared, I'm scared too” Having kids is terrifying!”

“Yeah?” You ask quietly, feeling silly for getting so in your head about the situation.

“Yeah!” Wally replies. You watch as he starts to stand before disappearing from view, and reappearing right behind you, arms wrapped tight around your torso, bringing you in for a hug. His lips are soft against the back of your neck as he nuzzles into you. “But we’re gonna be scared together, right, Momma?”

<3

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[jacevlog]

love between- kali uchis.

ricardo calafiori x reader

just a story with no commitment to reality and just for fun!✨

content: soft domestic boyfriend, silly couple, caretaker boyfriend! calafiori, sexual content explicit, oral sex(male receive), non protected sex.

You loved and hated wedding parties in equal measure. They were beautiful, lively, and a lot of fun, but they were laborious and required specific attire and took a long time to get ready for, so going home and being free made the end of the party even better.

Your feet hurt in your heels, and your bridesmaid dress had become uncomfortable. Ricardo noticed your discomfort, it was clear, more than five hours of partying had passed and you were still standing next to the bride, I mean, now wife and your best friend, Lia.

He could tell your feet were tired by the way you sat, sideways with your legs crossed, reducing the impact of the sole on the floor.

"You barely spent the night with Riccardo," said your friend, nibbling on the cake you had given her.

"We'll have time to spend together." You were really tired and felt like your feet were going to kill you at any moment, and to top off your drama, the side zipper of your dress was uncomfortable, as if it were pinching your ribs.

"Y/N," Lia got your attention, "you did more than anyone else here today, please." She wasn't wrong. After the decorators, you were the one who put the most effort into it. It was almost like it was your wedding. "And he spent the whole night watching you," she said, nudging you with her elbows.

"It's okay," you said, trying to reassure her, "but tonight is your night." You brushed the strand of hair that had fallen over her forehead behind her ear and then gave her another piece of cake.

"That's exactly why," she said in a louder voice, with a little cream on the corner of her lips. "As the most important person of the evening, I release you from your duties," she said, as if blessing her. "You are free to spend the rest of the evening with Ricardo." That brought a smile to your face; you were dying to sit down and rest for a while.

After giving Lia a sisterly kiss on the cheek, she got up with pain in her feet and walked toward Riccardo, her face betraying the pain that was killing her, and he made a pained face in return.

She sat on Calafiori's legs, crossed them, and put her arms around his neck. He kissed her cheek while running his hands around her waist to get her more comfortable.

"That must be killing you. I think I'd better take a look." One of his hands lifted her dress up to her knees to get a better look at her feet. They were swollen and very red, as if the blood wasn't circulating in that area. The straps were also pinching her toes. No wonder she was limping. "I have some gel at home, it'll be great." She felt Calafiori's hands touch her ankle. It was relaxing, but then she felt him unfastening her shoe.

"What are you doing?" you asked, astonished.

"Taking them off” they'd kill your feet if you kept them on another minute."

"No, I need to stay with them until the end of the party, I need to stay beautiful." Riccardo looked at her with a mocking expression.

"You're the most beautiful woman here, I assure you," he said, untying the straps of her heels. At that moment, she felt her feet relax, but she couldn't miss the joke or the chance to tease him.

"So you looked at other women?" Her eyes narrowed, she knew it was a joke. "Good to know, Mr. Riccardo Calafiori."

"I didn't need to," he said, placing her heels on the chair next to him, wrapping his arms around her waist, and pressing his lips close to hers. "I'm sure you're the best and most beautiful here." His hand held her chin, and he planted a peck on her lips.

"Wise words," you said, still looking at him with half-closed eyes. Calafiori's head rested on your shoulders and your hand went straight to his hair to caress him.

They continued at the party until they were tired enough to return to their hotel room. She couldn't walk alone, it was obvious, so Ricardo carried her most of the way and the rest of the way they took the elevator.

As she lay down on the bed in her room, she felt like she was in paradise, something she had longed for all night. She wasn't sleepy, but she was tired, her body craving rest.

However, Calafiori seemed to be pacing back and forth in the room. It didn't annoy her, but it made her anxious. What had he lost?

"What are you looking for?" she asked, propping herself up on her elbows in bed.

"My pain relief gel to rub on your feet." Calafiori was a classic lover. If she was sick, he would take care of her. If she was stressed, he would calm her down. If she was tired, he would help her relax. Did she have a bad day? He would make her night the best ever to make up for it. These gestures captivated her and made her feel even more in love.

"I put it in the bathroom drawer," you said, watching him go there and come back with it in his hands.

Riccardo's hands and the coldness of the product gave your body a slight shock. It felt good. He saw your hair stand on end and your body create small goose bumps because of the product, which made him smile.

He was careful with the massage, afraid of hurting your feet. You felt them relax with the massage. It felt so good that in a few minutes you didn't even remember your sore feet anymore, only your boyfriend's hands.

"Done," he said, getting up and slowly releasing your feet onto the bed. "Now we can take a shower."

"Already?" you said, surprised. "Wait, you didn't give me that massage just so you could see my beautiful, sensual body naked, did you?" Calafiori laughed at the insinuation; being funny always suited you. Maybe on another occasion he would have thought about having sex, but now he was just tired and needed a shower to relax.

You used to be a little lazier than usual around bedtime, and now was no different. You were dragging your feet about taking a shower. He knew you wouldn't get out of bed with the excuse that your feet hurt, which was valid, so he carried you to the bathroom.

It wasn't heavy, at least not for him. He sat down on the closed toilet lid and started to take off his dress. The zipper burned when he pulled it down. It had been poking his skin all night, and when he took it off, he saw a large red mark where it had been covering his skin and let out a slight moan of pain.

"Did something happen?" Is it your foot?" Ricardo heard her moan from the bedroom when he returned with both towels on his shoulder to check what had happened and saw the zipper mark on the side of her ribs. "Does it hurt?" he asked, checking.

"No," you replied, checking the mark too, "only when I opened the zipper."

"I'll put some ointment on it when we get out of the shower." Ricardo was careful about the smallest details, he probably wouldn't even let you touch the side of the mark on the bed for fear of hurting you, but you, on the other hand, thought that concern was cute.

"Oh my God," you said, holding his face between your hands, "you're so careful." You placed a light kiss on his lips. "If my feet didn't hurt, I'd kneel down right now and ask you to marry me." That elicited a light laugh from Riccardo.

"I'll wait," he said, taking off the white shirt that covered his body. It was the first time that day that she had seen him shirtless, and the sight was hot as hell, the tattoos adorning his physique and enhancing it. She wanted to take him right there and then, but he didn't notice her lustful gaze until he looked at her sitting there in front of him.

It was good to see you wanting him. It wasn't an innocent or hopeful look, it was the look of a woman waiting to be taken by her man, and you didn't look away from him for a moment.

Your hands ran over Calafiori's belt, wanting to take everything off, but you were interrupted by his hands “amore, your foot” he was trying to remind you, it wasn't that he didn't want to, but he was worried about your injured foot.

You loved it when Calafiori spoke to you in his native language, but that amore didn't sound the way you wanted it to sound.

"I'm fine," you said, trying to free yourself from his hands and continue what you were doing, but Calafiori interrupted you.

“Mia cara” it was a reminder and you hated it, you knew he was taking care of you, but for a moment you felt angry at that excessive care, Riccardo on the other hand was amused by the angry expression on your face.

“I think that's all we have left, let's go take a shower” he knew that sarcastic tone.

You just dropped the straps and the dress fell over your body. Calafiori loved that sight. She would have been almost naked if it weren't for her almost invisible thin fabric panties.

His hands were wrinkled and his body was starting to feel cold, which meant it was time to get out of the shower. Calafiori was quick, but you insisted on staying in the shower. You liked the feeling of the drops and the noise they made when they hit your body.

The bathroom was foggy from the heat of the shower, and it was humid, so you were careful not to slip.

When you reached the door, you saw Calafiori relaxing with headphones on and his eyes closed. He probably wouldn't even notice you until the side of the bed sank.

Her footsteps were silent, her feet didn't hurt like before, but she felt a slight shock against the floor.

She wasn't as tired as she thought, maybe it was just the lack of a shower, but the shower hadn't washed away the desire she felt for her boyfriend, only he could wash that away. Calafiori felt her body and stretched out his arms to cover her. At first glance, you seemed innocent, that was Riccardo's mistake, thinking that you would be content just to lie down on the curve of his neck.

It started with sweet kisses on his jaw, and soon they were dancing on the Italian's neck. It didn't take long for them to splash over his collarbone and then over his Adam's apple.

They were wet and slow, she could feel the full extent of his lips on the surface they touched, they were sweet and warm in just the right measure and aroused desire in Calafiori's body. His hair stood on end and his muscles twitched involuntarily, as if relaxing to receive her.

She felt every response from him and the kisses deepened even more. It didn't take long for Calafiori's fingers to grab her hair to guide her over him. She felt them play with her curls as she delighted in him, and her lips ran to his.

He was gentle until he needed air, but when he kissed him again, it was wild, a warning to Calafiori that he missed him completely.

His hands were rough against the length of his robe, and he felt him harden.

Riccardo knew what you wanted from the beginning: pleasure.

He felt her hands playing with the length while she stared at him, she was incisive, her eyes following every movement of his face, not wanting to miss a single expression, her hands thin and quick.

"You are so good to me," an innocent smile appeared on her face, contrasting with her actions. "I would like to repay you a little for what you do for me." Her kisses were wet with his lips, and her hand was not generous with its movements down there. They were so gentle when they untied the belt that held his robe together.

Completely naked and hard, as soon as she found him under the robe, only the tattoos she loved so much covered him, it was the vision of paradise, completely perfect. Her lips descended from his lips to Calafiori's groin, not sparing any saliva to excite him.

He kissed every inch of his cock, every visible vein, it was hot and hard.

His tongue played with the glans of the tallest one enough to elicit gasps and fingers in his hair.

It was like being in heaven, his mouth so soft and wet, his tongue sliding along the length, and what his mouth couldn't handle, his hands caressed. Calafiori's moans grew louder as you went deeper, becoming more guttural, he couldn't control them.

He felt the tip touch deep inside his mouth and his nails scratch his groin.

He was close, and his eyes were watering. He felt the liquid playfully bathe his tongue and drip down his lips, Riccardo's cock touched his own belly and his breathing was irregular, he saw his chest rise irregularly to control his breathing.

When he looked up to face him, the first thing the Italian saw was his teary eyes, and they ran down his cheeks and wet lips.

He couldn't contain himself, he needed to kiss you, he was so needy, so desperate, he wanted to taste your lips.

His body silently begged for his warmth, an almost unbearable pain forming between his legs.

Riccardo knew every signal your body gave, from dissatisfaction to a twinge of pleasure. He was quick to remove your robe, and there you were, just as he liked you best, naked and totally vulnerable to his touch. It was an irresistible sight, your body begging to be touched.

"Please, love," you begged, almost inaudibly, and it was music to his ears.

"Sì amore mio," you loved it when he spoke Italian, it increased your desire and willingness to have him inside you even more.

Calafiori didn't waste a single minute, he positioned himself between your legs and penetrated you. It was soft, warm, and cozy, it was the perfect place, your walls always welcomed him.

Her nails dug into his back, no one would see the marks because of his tattoos, and she was grateful for that.

The curve of her neck was perfect for him, but no more so than her lips. He loved to hear her moans and kiss them while they had sex. He wanted to feel as connected to her as possible, as one.

His skin tingled every time he went deeper into you, and your nails scratched his back. Every inch of your body craved more. Your bodies tingled with pleasure, and it was even better when you felt every detail of each other's bodies.

Calafiori's hands slid over you as if you were made of porcelain, and your hands touched him as if he would disappear if you let go.

At the end of the night, they were just a couple with energy and passion to spare to pour out on each other.

[suigenerisisadiva]

ᯓ⚽︎ Goal Side Romance ✮⋆˙

Pairings: Roy Harper, Wally West, Dick Grayson x ProAthlete!Reader

Summary: Being a matilda, hell even and athlete at that, isn't easy, but being a girlfriend to a hero? More complicated than you can even imagine, but you both love each other to death!

CW: none really

A/N: I love the matildas

Requested by my gloriously caked up moot @kitkatscabinet this one is for you my fellow aussie.

Dick Grayson!

Shows up to your games wearing your exact jersey, but signs autographs for kids anyway.

Jumps into post-game interviews like he’s your media manager. “Yeah, she was amazing. Ten outta ten. No one works harder.”

Gotham tabloids eat it up:

“Matildas Star Linked to Billionaire Ward?”

Bruce: 🧍

Dick: “...guilty.”

Constantly sends you videos of himself “trying” soccer tricks from tiktok and youtube shorts… and failing.

Quote: “Yeah, I fight crime, but have you seen her bend a free kick? That’s real power.”

Roy Harper!

Brags to Ollie

Ollie likes you 'cuz your uniform is green

Lian literally loves you because your cool, kind, and an athlete

Brings you energy drinks, protein bars, and sometimes flowers hidden in your kit bag after training.

"Bro fr shot his shot and WON" - Mia Dearden

Quote: “She doesn’t need saving, man. She’s already the MVP of my heart.”

Wally West!

The two of you work out together

He steals your milo and was so excited when they sponsored you

If the press gets too invasive, he just zooms you both away before they can blink.

Paparazzi photos of him shirtless with a giant painted sign reading: “GO (Y/N)!”

Aussie mums dislike the fact that your with an American, a red head at that but whatever

Quote: “Fastest man alive? Nah. Fastest to fall for a girl who scores goals like that.”

Hope you all enjoyed this! Likes, comments, reblogs and requests are highly appreciated! Requests are open!

Sources! -

Headers - @ssopdet

Dividers - @hyuneskkami

Property of suigenerisisadiva, do not repost my work pls & ty!

[holyblonded]

negotiations | always sunny in australia

pairings: arsenal wfc x teen!reader

summary: your contract is under negotiation, causing unrest on the team

notes: i feel like i am slacking in the chickie fics 💔

Leah Williamson couldn’t sleep. Her sheets were tangled like the mess in her head, the clock taunting her with every passing minute that nothing was changing.

How could she possibly sleep when her entire world was in shambles?

Some might call her dramatic. Leah would call them wrong.

Your one-year contract with Arsenal was coming to an end, and negotiations were happening behind closed doors— closed, locked, and apparently soundproofed doors that Leah had no access to. Every time your agent was asked about your future, she gave the same vague response,

“I’m doing what’s best for Chickie.”

Which was sweet. Noble. Responsible. And also not nearly enough information for someone who had basically appointed herself your co-parent, moral compass, part-time chauffeur, and emotional support footballer.

So yeah, Leah was stressed. But she wasn’t alone. Across London, your actual legal guardian was also losing it. Leah’s phone buzzed next to her pillow. 2:47 AM. She picked it up faster than she had in her life. “Finally,” she whispered.

“Are you alone?” Sam’s voice came through, dead serious.

“Yes. Are you?”

“I’m in the laundry room with the dog. No one suspects anything.”

Leah sat up. “Is your team ready?”

Sam let out a low chuckle. “Everything is set in place. Vic’s on standby. Kyra’s been bribed.”

Leah smirked, already proud. “Good. My team’s been briefed. Beth’s got the snacks, Lotte’s baking passive-aggressive pies. We’re ready.”

There was a pause. A dramatic silence only two women plotting to emotionally manipulate a child into signing a football contract could share.

“I’ll be dropping off the package at approximately 8 AM,” Sam said finally, solemn. “Make sure everything’s in position.”

“Roger that.” Leah saluted into the phone.

That’s when the bedroom door creaked open.

Leah whipped around and yelped, fumbling the phone and almost knocking over her bedside lamp.

Elle stood in the doorway, arms crossed, one perfectly sculpted brow raised in judgment. “What. Are. You. Doing.”

Leah blinked. “Uh. Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Elle’s voice was suspiciously calm. “Because that nothing sounded like you were coordinating a covert operation with a woman in a laundry room.”

“I don’t—there’s no covert—” Leah was stammering now, panic painted all over her face.

Elle raised a hand. “Leah Cathrine Williamson, if you are plotting behind Chickie’s back—”

“I’m not!” Leah shouted, then immediately winced and lowered her voice. “I’m not. I swear.”

Elle walked in, graceful and terrifying in her silk pajama set. “She’s a kid. And yes, she might joke and act chaotic and get away with everything because she’s adorable, but you have to respect her decisions.”

Leah opened her mouth.

“I’m not done.”

Leah closed her mouth.

“Her contract is her choice. You can’t bribe her or manipulate her or—”

“Sam already gave her a custom pair of cleats with ‘London’s Little Terror’ printed on the side,” Leah mumbled.

Elle stopped mid-rant. “You what?”

“I didn’t do it! Sam did! And Mario offered to do her Spanish homework for a month, and Kyra promised to make TikToks with her every day, and—”

“Leah.”

“What?!”

“She’s fifteen.”

“I know. That’s why we’re doing this!”

Elle opened her mouth to reply, but Leah was already up, throwing on a hoodie. “I’ve gotta go.”

“To where?!”

“To the Emirates. The cakes need frosting. I gotta be there when she walks in.”

“You are deranged.”

Leah, already halfway out the door, just grinned and shouted back, “We all are, babe. She’s ours.”

Elle stood there in the doorway, blinking at the chaos her girlfriend had become.

Somewhere in the darkness, the real MVP of Arsenal, Chickie, slept peacefully, unaware that the next morning was about to be full of suspicious pies, emotional bribery, and thirty very dramatic people pretending they weren’t all completely obsessed with her.

Vic, Kyra, and Beth stood pressed against the wall in the hallway like they were part of a low-budget spy movie. Arms crossed. Expressions intense. Suspiciously casual. Beth had even shoved a protein bar halfway in her mouth like she was definitely not trying to cover for something.

Renee walked by, clipboard in hand, eyes squinting at them as she slowed her steps.

“Alright. What are you three planning?”

Immediately, all three said, “Nothing,” in perfect harmony like it had been rehearsed. Beth even smiled with all her teeth… too many teeth.

Renee narrowed her eyes. Vic stared ahead like she’d never committed a crime in her life. Kyra fiddled with her sleeve like she wasn’t plotting emotional warfare. Beth blinked, possibly trying to look innocent but instead looking like someone hiding a raccoon in her bag.

Renee took one step forward, and they all visibly tensed. “I’m going to ask one more time—” she began, but a voice called from the end of the hallway.

“Coach! We need you in the physio room!”

Renee gave them one last squint and reluctantly turned on her heel. “This isn’t over.”

As soon as she disappeared, the three of them exhaled dramatically like they’d just evaded a SWAT team.

Then there you were. Just walking down the hall, blissfully unaware, humming a Laufey song under your breath.

They all exchanged a look.

“Now,” Beth said.

Vic reached out like a ninja and yanked you by the sleeve into the nearest door, Kyra shutting it behind you with suspicious speed and determination.

You stumbled into the physio room, blinking at the snacks scattered around, chips, cookies, juice boxes, a suspicious number of croissants.

“Um,” you said.

Beth locked the door.

Vic grabbed your shoulders gently but with great purpose. “We won’t let you out until you spill.”

Kyra pointed at you with a banana. “Where are you going next season?”

You blinked at them. “This is dramatic.”

“You’re dramatic,” Beth mumbled through a mouthful of gummy bears.

You giggled, plopping onto the padded physio table like you were being held hostage by puppies instead of professionals. “You guys are actually crazy.”

“Crazy in love with our baby Chickie!” Vic wailed, flopping down beside you and cradling your arm. “Just tell us. We can’t take the suspense.”

“I can’t tell you,” you said, still laughing.

“Okay, fine,” Kyra muttered. “Time for temptation.”

Vic leaned in, deadly serious. “I will do your homework. A full week. Even the maths.”

Beth gasped. “Not the maths.”

You tilted your head. “All of it? Even history?”

Vic flinched. “…Even history.”

You giggled but shook your head. “Can’t. Sorry.”

Kyra crossed her arms. “Then I’m calling Sam.”

You looked her dead in the eye and said, “Do it. She’ll probably join your little rebellion and bring snacks.”

Kyra blinked. “True.”

Beth, meanwhile, said nothing. She simply reached into her bag and pulled out a sparkly, glitter-covered sign that said in bold bubble letters: STAY.

With three glitter hearts and your name spelled out in rhinestones.

You burst out laughing, sliding off the table. “You guys are unwell.”

“We love you,” Beth said. “Let us have this.”

You opened the door, still giggling, and as you walked out, you threw them a grin over your shoulder.

“I guess you’ll find out soon enough… if your muffins are good enough.”

The door shut behind you, and all three girls stared at each other in stunned silence.

“She’s messing with us,” Vic whispered.

“I knew she was a menace,” Kyra said.

Beth sighed, hugging her sparkly sign. “I respect it.”

Leah had been patient. Painfully, torturously patient. She’d watched the others try. Watched Vic bribe, Kyra threaten, and Beth basically create an arts-and-crafts-based emotional hostage situation. But now… it was her turn. And she wasn’t going in with snacks or sparkles. She was going in with emotion.

“Hey Chick,” Leah said casually, hands in her jacket pockets, head poking into the rec room where you were minding your own business, watching a video of a squirrel on a skateboard.

You turned, suspicious. “Hi…”

“Fancy a walk?” she asked, voice light, but with a slightly manic glint in her eyes.

You narrowed yours. “A walk.”

“Just a casual one. Around the facility.” Her smile was too nice.

You sighed. “You’re gonna guilt-trip me, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely.”

You considered that, then stood up. “Alright. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The tour began at the entrance of the training complex. Leah made sure to slow her pace as you passed the front wall, where a massive photo of your mid-goal-celebration was printed on the side of the building.

She stopped dramatically and gestured toward it like she was Vanna White.

“Wow,” she said, her voice dripping with reverence. “Would you look at that. Who’s that? Is that Chickie? Huh. Wild.”

You squinted up at the photo. “That’s from the Brighton match, you told me I celebrated like a gremlin.”

“A powerful gremlin,” she corrected, before continuing on.

She led you through the hallway lined with photos and memorabilia, kits, trophies, all the stuff that said “This is Arsenal and We’re Kinda a Big Deal.” And every few feet, she’d stop and point something out.

“Remember this?” she asked, tapping a picture of you and Leah laughing after your first match. “You were so nervous you nearly put your shin pads on backwards.”

You groaned. “Leah—”

“And this one,” she continued, pointing to a shot of you hugging Beth after a last-minute assist. “Everyone cried. Even me. And I’m so emotionally stable.”

You snorted. “Lies.”

They passed the physio room. She paused at the door.

“Just the other day I saw Vic, Kyra, and Beth dragging you in here like it was a hostage situation,” Leah said. “And what did I do? I let it happen. Because this is your home. A loving home. Where kidnapping is done respectfully.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think this is subtle?”

“Nope,” she said brightly. “But is it working?”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away.

Then Leah upped the stakes. You two walked outside now, onto the training pitch, where everything was calm. The sun was just setting, casting a warm light over the grass. Leah pulled her hands out of her pockets and looked at you, suddenly soft.

“You know,” she began, voice quieter now. “When you showed up, I didn’t know what to expect. You were all wide eyes and nervous energy and this massive heart that you tried to hide under your hoodie.”

You looked down at your feet, kicking at the grass.

“But you got under my skin so fast. In a good way. You made me laugh again, made the team lighter. You talk too fast and steal everyone’s drinks and I caught you naming the training cones once.”

“Stanley and Patricia,” you muttered.

“Exactly,” Leah grinned. “And when you’re not around, it feels weird. Quiet. Too grown-up. Like something’s missing.”

You tried to hide your face in your sleeve. “This isn’t fair.”

Leah stepped closer, gently bumping your shoulder. “My mum asks about you every time we talk. You’ve got everyone wrapped around your finger. The crowd chants your name. You’ve got your face on three walls. You’re not just part of the team, Chickie. You are the team. You’re Arsenal.”

You looked up at her with a soft little frown. “Why are you saying all this?”

Leah smiled, so earnest it made your chest ache. “Because I love you, kid. And I’m scared. I don’t want to lose you. But I know I have to respect whatever you choose. Still, if there’s any part of you that wonders where you belong… just know, it’s here.”

You blinked hard, tears threatening. “So… manipulation. But make it heartfelt.”

Leah shrugged. “Pretty much.”

You sniffled, laughing through it. “You’re such a loser.”

“But am I a convincing loser?”

You threw your arms around her waist and buried your face in her hoodie. “I can’t say. I’m emotionally compromised.”

Leah smiled, hugging you back tightly. “Good. My job here is done.”

She walked you back in, a little skip in her step, muttering under her breath, “Sam owes me five bucks.”

It was a perfectly normal afternoon. Or at least it should have been.

You were hungry, minding your own business, just trying to make your way into the cafeteria for some pasta and possibly a suspiciously dry brownie. You pushed open the door, walked in and the entire room fell silent.

Not quiet. Silent. Like, “a pin could drop and echo” silent.

You froze in the doorway, tray in hand, eyes scanning the sea of teammates who suddenly couldn’t meet your gaze.

Steph stood up first. “I, uh, just remembered I left my… shampoo on the pitch.”

You blinked. “Your shampoo?”

“Yeah. Real slippery stuff. Can’t risk it.” She bolted.

Kyra followed, gripping Vic by the elbow like they were hostages escaping a war zone. “We have… stretching to do.”

“In the broom closet?” you asked flatly.

“Dynamic stretching.”

Beth pretended to get a phone call. “Oh look, it’s… the Prime Minister. Gotta go.”

You watched her sprint out with the phone screen clearly off.

One by one, they all trickled out, Caitlin muttering about an “urgent email,” Laia claiming she had “a soup emergency,” and Katie just yelling “NOPE” and walking away at full speed.

Within seconds, the packed cafeteria was empty. All except one person.

Lotte. Sweet, chaos-immune Lotte Wubben-Moy, who sat at the very center table with a suspiciously large pie sitting in front of her. She looked up at you with those innocent, hopeful eyes, and gestured to the seat across from her.

You sighed.

You made your way over slowly, already regretting every choice that led to this moment. You sat down, slid your tray aside, and looked at the pie.

It had “DON’T LEAVE” spelled out in carefully crimped crust letters. It was a lattice-crust plea for emotional commitment.

You stared at it. “You baked your feelings.”

Lotte smiled like this was normal behavior. “It’s blueberry. Your favorite.”

“I thought my favorite was peach.”

“I found that out after this one was already in the oven,” she replied, without missing a beat.

You kept staring at the pie, then at her, then back at the pie. You reached for the fork and the whipped cream. Lotte leaned in, eyes wide, waiting for the emotional moment and you just dug in.

With no hesitation, no comment. Just a bite. Then another. Like the words weren’t even there.

Lotte looked personally offended.

“You’re just… eating over the message?” she said, horrified.

“Yup,” you mumbled around a mouthful of flaky, guilt-ridden crust. “It’s good pie.”

“The message, Chickie,” she said, poking at the edge of the tin. “Are we ignoring the part where it says not to leave us in baked lettering?!”

You shrugged and took another bite. “Seems dramatic.”

Lotte gaped. “You are suddenly emotionally unavailable in the worst way.”

“Yup,” you said again, voice cheerful.

“Do you even care how much we’ll miss you?”

You paused, looked at her for a second, really looked, and then reached out and picked up the whole pie tin.

“Thanks for the snack,” you said with a wink, and walked away, pie in hand.

Behind you, Lotte dramatically collapsed onto the table like a tragic Shakespearean hero. “I BAKED MY SOUL INTO THAT CRUST!”

From down the hallway, you yelled back, “AND I’M TAKING IT TO MY ROOM!”

It started out as a simple mission. Well. As simple as anything gets when the team has collectively decided to break every ethical guideline in the “Contract Negotiation Interference Handbook” to figure out whether you were staying at Arsenal or leaving for another club.

Alessia had been quiet at first. Watching. Waiting. Letting the others attempt their wild schemes, Vic’s emotional monologues, Kyra’s threats, Beth’s glitter posters, Lotte’s pie-shaped manipulation. All good efforts. All massive failures.

So Alessia decided to take a different route. A calculated one. A bribery one.

You were sitting on one of the benches outside the training ground, minding your business, trying not to crack under the collective weight of a team who had turned into a desperate cult of affection.

Alessia approached with a calm, neutral expression. A shoebox in her hands.

You blinked. “What’s that?”

“Oh, nothing,” she said casually. “Just something I thought you’d like. No pressure. No questions. Just a gift.”

You looked suspicious. “This isn’t a trap?”

Alessia gave you a beatific smile. “I’m not Kyra.”

Fair point. You opened the box. And then you saw them. Bright. Yellow. Boots. Custom-made. Kangaroos embroidered on the sides. “CHICKIE #1 GUNNER” printed across the heel in bold white lettering. Your eyes widened like dinner plates.

You didn’t speak. Not immediately. You just stared at them. Then sniffled. Then blinked. Then let out a soft, high-pitched squeak as your bottom lip trembled.

“Oh—oh no,” Alessia panicked. “Are you crying?”

You nodded, aggressively. “Th-these are the most b-beautiful boots I’ve ever seen!”

Alessia winced. “Oh my god. I didn’t mean to make you cry. I thought this would make you—oh, Chickie—”

You were already hugging the box to your chest like it was a newborn child. “You know yellow’s my favorite color and kangaroos are my favorite animal and that slogan—you remembered my slogan—”

Alessia awkwardly sat down beside you, patting your back as you fully sobbed into the cardboard. “Okay, alright, breathe. It’s okay. They’re just boots. Special boots. Very cute boots. But boots.”

“I love them so much,” you wailed.

“I know, honey, I know.”

That’s when Leah stormed into view like a general on a battlefield. “Less! I told you to get the info out of her, not her tears!”

“She cried when she saw the boots!” Alessia defended, hands raised.

“They have kangaroos on them!” you sobbed, holding them up like Simba in The Lion King. “And my slogan, Leah!”

“Oh my god,” Leah muttered, rubbing her temples.

Alessia leaned into you again and whispered, “You sure you don’t wanna just hint at your decision? Maybe one boot tap for yes?”

You shook your head violently, tears still streaming. “This is such a sweet gesture. I—I—” You hiccupped. “I want to wear them forever.”

Leah sat down with a thud. “I hate it here.”

Alessia shrugged, gently pulling you into a side hug as you sniffled into her shoulder. “Honestly? I think I won.”

“You got her snot on your hoodie,” Leah said, unhelpfully.

You clutched the boots tighter. “I love you guys so much.”

“Still not telling us anything, though,” Leah said.

You shook your head with a tiny smile, eyes wet, nose stuffy, heart full. “Nope.”

Alessia sighed. “I gave her kangaroo boots and all I got was this emotional breakdown.”

Leah muttered, “Add that to the shirt.”

Kristie knew before you did. Of course she did. That’s the curse and blessing of being loved by someone like Kristie Mewis. She just knows.

She doesn’t ask, not right away. She doesn’t push or poke like the rest of the squad. She watches you stumble around with your hair a mess and your brain even messier. She brings you snacks. Ruffles your hair. Says things like “wherever you go, we’re gonna love you anyway” which is so annoying.

You try not to think about the decision when you’re with her. You talk about everything else. You help her decorate the nursery. You watch her wobble dramatically around the house, hand pressed to her lower back, dramatically asking, “Will you still love me when I’m just a human beach ball?”

You tell her she’ve always been a beach ball, but like… a really hot one.

You both giggle. She throws a pillow at you. But then one night, it gets quiet. Too quiet.

It’s late. The house is dark. Sam’s already passed out on the couch with a cookie halfway in her mouth.

You crawl into bed next to Kristie. You’re still wearing your oversized hoodie, the one with the red Arsenal crest faded from too many washes. You burrow yourself under the covers, half trying to disappear.

She doesn’t say anything. Just waits. And eventually, with your cheek pressed against her shoulder, you whisper, “I have so many options, Kris.”

“I know, baby.”

“Like, real ones. Barça. Lyon. City. A team in the NWSL even called.”

“I know.”

“They all say the same things, like it’s going to be the perfect step, or a new chapter, or a great financial move. But…” Your voice cracks a little. “It all just feels wrong.”

Kristie hums, rubbing your back slowly. “Because it’s not home.”

You nod, hoodie pulled up so she can’t see your teary face.

She keeps stroking your back, soft and patient.

“Sometimes I wonder,” you mumble, “if I’m just scared of change. Or if I’m making the easy choice. But then I see the girls at training, or hear Leah yelling at me from three rooms away, or I remember how Beth brings me strawberry milk when I’m sad, and I think… this isn’t the easy choice. It’s the right one.”

Kristie tilts her head and kisses the top of your hair.

You take a shaky breath. “I said yes.” A pause. “I’m staying.”

There’s no dramatic gasp. No over-the-top celebration. Kristie just holds you tighter and murmurs against your forehead, “Good. You’re home.”

You smile into her shirt.

“I mean,” she adds after a beat, “you still owe me like two months of foot rubs for the emotional toll of this whole saga, but yeah—home’s a good start.”

You groan. “Can’t believe you emotionally supported me just to invoice me.”

Kristie laughs. “Kid, this is the Mewis Package™. Love, emotional stability, and accountability. You signed up the second you crawled into my lap that day after your first press conference and cried about Sam feeding you spoiled Vegemite.”

You roll your eyes. “You still bring that up.”

“You said it tasted like regret and burnt rubber. I’ll never forget that.”

She leans down and kisses your forehead again. “We’re so proud of you, Chickie. No matter what. But I’m really glad you’re staying.”

You grin. “So… can I stay in your bed forever too?”

“Okay, no,” Kristie says, laughing. “One child at a time. The baby hasn’t even arrived yet and I already have one Chickie curled up like a feral hoodie goblin.”

You stick your tongue out and nuzzle closer. “Too late. I live here now.”

Kristie sighs. “I’m gonna have to get a bigger bed.”

And you both fall asleep like that, hoodie goblin and soccer mom, curled up safe, home, and finally, finally at peace.

The locker room was silent. Like the kind of silence that pressed in around your chest and made it hard to breathe. The kind of silence that came after goodbyes, after endings, after heartbreak.

No one said it out loud, but they all felt it. The tension was thicker than a milkshake on a summer day. It hung in the air like fog, heavy and impossible to see through. They were all waiting.

Lotte sat with her elbows on her knees, staring at the floor. Kyra had her head against the wall, arms crossed tight across her chest. Vic was half-hunched in a corner, pulling at the strings on her hoodie like they’d unravel her anxiety. Alessia scrolled aimlessly on her phone, not even looking at the screen. Even Beth wasn’t smiling.

Leah paced. She’d been pacing for ten minutes straight, muttering to herself under her breath like she was delivering a dramatic monologue in a Shakespearean tragedy. Lia had given up on getting her to sit down.

“Do you remember when she first arrived?” Alessia asked suddenly, voice soft.

A murmur of agreement went through the room.

“She walked in with the biggest hoodie I’ve ever seen,” Kyra added. “And said, ‘Is it always this cold in England, or is this a punishment?’”

They all laughed, even if it was a little watery.

“She used to get so nervous before games,” Lotte said, a smile tugging at her lips. “But then she’d go out there and nutmeg someone twice her size.”

“And that one time she tackled Leah during training and then offered her a gummy bear as an apology,” Vic said through a sniffle.

Leah paused her pacing just long enough to scowl. “She launched herself at me like a cannonball.”

“But you ate the gummy bear,” Kyra pointed out.

Everyone chuckled.

“She changed this team,” Beth murmured, voice cracking just slightly. “Made it warmer. Lighter. Louder. Better.”

A hush settled again.

“I don’t know what we’re going to do without her,” Alessia said. “It’s not just about football. It’s—” she swallowed, “—not seeing her every day. Not hearing her giggle when she sneaks biscuits into the physio room. Not having her throw herself across the locker room just to give you a hug after a bad game.”

“I miss her already,” Vic mumbled.

“She’s not even gone yet,” Leah said, almost defensively. But even her voice was trembling. “She’s just… deciding.”

The door creaked open.

Renee walked in with a grin so wide it was practically criminal. She had something tucked under her arm. A laptop. And a gleam in her eye.

“Right,” she said, “everyone pay attention.”

They all straightened, alert. Hope sparked, but no one wanted to say it out loud. Not yet. Not until they were sure.

Renee opened the laptop, turned it toward them, and pressed play.

The screen flickered. And there you were. Wearing your kit, hair pulled back, standing in the middle of the training pitch with a nervous, excited smile.

Your voice was soft but clear.

“Hi. Uh, surprise? I guess. I’ve been thinking a lot, and it hasn’t been easy. But the truth is…” You looked into the camera, eyes bright. “I’m not done here.”

The room exploded. Beth screamed. Kyra started yelling. Vic burst into tears so aggressively she dropped her water bottle. Lotte stood up and immediately sat back down like her knees gave out. Alessia looked like she was going to faint.

And Leah? Leah fell straight to the floor like a Victorian woman being struck by a scandal. Lia didn’t even try to catch her this time. She just sighed and rubbed her temples.

“Oh my GOD,” Leah gasped, clutching her chest dramatically. “I thought I was going to have to start watching Barça matches.”

Beth was crying so hard she couldn’t speak, just waving her arms around like she was conducting an emotional orchestra.

And then the door opened again. And there you were. Smiling. Calm. Hoodie up, but your Arsenal crest proudly peeking out from underneath.

“Told you I was good at keeping secrets,” you said with a cheeky grin.

You didn’t even get the chance to take another step before they swarmed you. Like a pack of overexcited puppies, they tackled you in a group hug that nearly took you down. Arms wrapped around your waist, your shoulders, your legs. Someone kissed your cheek. You were pretty sure it was Beth. Vic buried her face into your side, sobbing. Alessia just held your hand like you were going to disappear again.

“Don’t do that again!” Lotte said between tears.

“You scared us!” Kyra added.

“You’re not allowed to go anywhere without written permission from the group chat,” Vic sniffled.

“Yeah,” Leah added, pulling back just long enough to point a very stern finger at you. “We’re implementing another buddy system.”

You laughed. Overwhelmed, flushed, happy beyond belief.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said, hugging them tighter. “This is home.”

They all squeezed you even harder. And in that cramped, chaotic locker room, full of laughter and happy sobs and glittery signs and people who loved you. It really, truly was home.

[rainydaygotham]

THE HALL PASS

Chracters react to their civilian partner declaring their hero persona as their ‘hall pass’. Nsfw by nature lmao.

BONUS) Roy Harper, Wally West, and Conner Kent

• for Dick, Jason, Tim and Damian click here •

Requested: Roy was but I wanted the other two 😂

a/n: look, I know Roy looks like a disney prince when he cleans up (just see the ‘23 Titans run lol) but I love the ball cap blue-collar look too much lmao. Uh Kon’s looks like the longest, probably bc I was in the middle of reading a Superboy comic while writing this. Whoops

It’s a night on the town. With a few drinks and a few of your boyfriend’s friends, you’ve got some great company, even if you don’t know them well. They’re obviously other masks, even as they’re trying to be all secretive and not ‘talk about work’ as they put it when someone accidentally brings something up around you. Eh, it doesn’t really matter to you right now, you’re having a great time just hanging on your boyfriend’s arm.

You don’t really remember much of the conversation, you weren’t really listening, too caught up in snuggling and snoozing into your boyfriend’s biceps. But apparently they had started talking about hall passes, for some reason? You know, the game that couples play where they each pick a celebrity or a few and agree that they can sleep with that celeb if they’re ever given the chance and their significant other can’t be mad? And they had gotten your attention just to interrogate you on the subject.

“C’mon Y/n, just a simple question, if you had to choose, anyone in the world, who’d be your hall pass?”

“You don’t have to answer that,” your boyfriend soothed, petting your hair, “just go back to ignoring them,”

“Ohh, instant deflection. Are you scared of their answer?” Jason taunted.

“No, he’s right! Y/n, you don’t have tell these assholes anything,” Dick came to your defense as he put his glass down in order to stare daggers at his friends.

“Dick’s just saying that because he got his ass embarrassed to all hell the other night by his partner’s hall pass,” Tim sneered.

“I am not!”

“Sure you aren’t—“

You didn’t hear the rest of the shouting, too busy with the idea that you’d just gotten… An evil idea. You could definitely embarrass your boyfriend too. Especially since he doesn’t know that you know. You know, what you know.

“Uh. Well,” you straightened up in your seat, “I do have one, I think. It’s really good…”

That peaked everyone’s interest, even Dick stopped fighting with Tim. They leaned forward in their seats just slightly to hear you better. Honestly, your boyfriend had this coming. Dragging you here just to show you off to his bros.

“Well come on. Share with the class,” Tim urged.

“I think, I would have to choose—“

[Roy]

“Arsenal,”

“Really?” Roy raised a brow, “Arsenal,”

A smile tugs at his lips. He can’t say he was expecting that but it’s a pleasant surprise.

“Yeah. He’s hot. Like really hot. Ruggedly handsome,”

“You got a thing for red-heads, Y/n?” Jason was teasing Roy more than you.

“Maybe,” you played coy, “the muscles don’t hurt either,”

Roy lifted the mug of beer to his mouth, trying not to look smug. He works hard, so why shouldn’t his partner appreciate him both in and out? If anything, this just proves to him that he’s good at what he does.

“Seriously though, have you seen his hands? The sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. And you know after decades of archery, he knows exactly how to curl those two fingers—“

Roy spit the beer right back into the mug, sputtering. You smirked.

“But you know he’s gotta be incredibly skilled with other things too. I mean he’s been on how many hero teams now? And that sweaty baseball cap gives him such sexy handyman vibe, you know what I’m saying?” you patted your man’s arm, “Like you, Roy,”

“Just like you, Roy,” Dick was way too happy to tease him.

Roy’s face was redder than his hair at this point, “Shut UP, Dickhead,”

“Look boys I’m just saying,” you paused for a second to bite your lip before dishing out the killing blow, “Arsenal could put his arrow in my sheathe any day,”

“Oh my god..” you heard your boyfriend whimper next to you, hand over his face in exasperation. Goal Achieved.

“He’s so scrappy, he’s so sexy—“

“Oh Kay,” Roy interrupted you, springing up, “I think it’s time for another person to have their turn at this game,”

The whole table laughed. Laughing at his misery. Horrible, horrible friends he has.

“It’s okay, Babe,” you patted his bicep as you melted back into him, “You’re still my favorite red-headed muscle hunk. No one could ever replace you, Roy G. Biv,”

He scoffed, playfully rolling his eyes. Fine. Arsenal’s gonna be putting his arrow in your sheathe alright. He wasn’t just gonna let you get away with this, even if you didn’t really know the extent of what you were doing. And he can’t lie, your compliments look good on him.

But he’s gotta get through this night first.

“How bout you, Jason?” Roy tried turning this on the guy who started the whole thing, his asshole best friend.

“Oh I pick Arsenal too,” Jason answered without hesitation.

Roy just glared at him and his stupid shit-eating grin. You cracked up.

You know, Jason’s pretty funny. Maybe you’ll tell him first so you two can collaborate on a plan to prank tell Roy you know about his vigilante life. No way Jason won’t be down for that.

You reached up and gave Roy a kiss on the jaw. He didn’t say anything, but he looked down at you, face softening from annoyance into something much more loving. He pressed a quick kiss to your nose before rejoining the conversation which was now apparently about how hot Tim thought Steven Yeun was. Yeah, it’s gonna be good night.

[Wally]

“The Flash,”

Wally narrowed his eyes as he turned in his seat to face you, “Which Flash?”

“Uh, Keystone, obviously,”

“Phew,” Wally let out the breath he was holding, “good,”

He returned to the mug of beer that didn’t do anything for his hummingbird metabolism to try and play it cool.

You feined irritation, “why? What’s wrong with Central Flash?”

“Nothing, nothing,” he put up his hands in a placating motion, “he’s just not as young as Keystone. Or as hot as Keystone. Or as cool as Keystone. Or—“

“Oh, do you want to make this a threesome?” you deadpanned as Wally balked, “I didn’t think you’d have such strong opinions on which Flash I’d want to fuck.”

“I… Don’t.”

“Really? So you have no problem with me making sweet love to that handsome Central City Flash? No problem at all?”

Wally felt his eye twitch. He was 90% sure you were purposefully messing with him now… Which meant something he wasn’t really ready to unpack right here at the table in front of god and every nosy civilian in the pub.

“No,” he said through gritted teeth, “not at all”

Dick leaned forward, “Psst, hey Y/n, do you want Central Flash’s number?” he staged whispered to you, “I uh— he worked with us at the Blüd PD for a case, see,”

“Oh, yeah, I remember. You told me all about that,” Roy added with a wink, “He’s such a great guy, Y/n. You should totally take Dick up on this,”

“I’m not talking to either of you ever again,” Wally stated very seriously as he possessively pulled you closer to him.

You chuckled, “Thanks, but I’ll pass, Dick—”

Wally loosened his grip on you in relief.

“Not unless you have Keystone’s number too. I was just joking about Central but I’m serious about Keystone,” you giggled as Wally squeaked.

“Oh what’s so great about him, huh?” Wally huffed in annoyance.

Wait, is he getting jealous of himself right now?

You looked at him, not missing the flush on his freckled cheeks or the little pinch in his expression as he pointedly looked away from you. Oh my god, he’s actually getting jealous of himself right now. Jesus, he’s adorable.

“Keystone’s just the sweetest, okay? He saved me from Weather Wizard last week and he was so sweet and funny,”

Yeah, Wally remembers that. Which also reminded him that you’re talking about him right now. Suddenly, he’s feeling a little silly.

“He carried me bridal style, and took me really far away from the battle downtown, and he even gave me a kiss on the cheek before he ran off!”

Okay, now Dick was a little more interested, “Did he now?”

Shit. Okay so he thinks he knows how you found out. Oopsies.

Wally straightened up in his seat. If Dick brings it up later, he’ll will just tell him the truth, that he loves and trusts you enough that he doesn’t think this is a big deal. Or a deal at all. This relationship was starting to get serious anyway, might as well take the leap.

“He did, no lie,” you laughed as you pressed your face back into your boyfriend’s bicep, “But I’m kidding, really. I don’t want either of their numbers,” you looked back up at the red-headed red-faced boy you were cuddling, “I just want Wally,”

He pressed a kiss to your forehead.

[Kon]

“Superboy!”

“Superboy?” Kon fake coughed, “I mean, Superboy?”

He didn’t sound any more nonchalant. You grinned.

“I’m sorry Conner, I have a type,” you dramatically brushed your hair back, “and it’s boys who’re jacked and kind,”

“I thought it was ‘bad boys’”

“Seriously?” you rolled your eyes, “A punked out leather jacket and fingerless gloves don’t make him a bad boy. He saves kittens from trees, for fuck’s sake,”

“You can like kittens and still be a bad boy,” he gestured to make his point, “I like kittens,”

“You’re not a bad boy either, Conner,”

He put his hand on his chest, making a horribly exaggerated wounded noise. You giggled and gave his shoulder an affectionate headbutt, like the aforementioned kittens.

“It’s fine, Babe. Bad boys aren’t sexy. You know what’s sexy? Compassion,”

“Oh my God,” Kon rolled his eyes with his whole head, “you got anymore lines straight from a youth pastor’s mouth?” he teased you.

You put your hand up in a hear me out gesture, “I’m just saying. I don’t just want to fuck his sexy body, I want to fuck his sexy soul,”

“Pfft,” he shook his head, “Okay Y/n,”

“Plus…” you bit your lip, “Who knows what kind of.. creative things we could get up to with that telekinesis stuff he’s got…”

You heard Tim choke on his drink and start laughing. Conner flushed next to you. He doesn’t fluster easily, so this is a rare treat.

“Oh, trust me, he can,” Tim wiggled his eyebrows.

“That’s right, you dated him for like a week, didn’t you?”

No, the paparazzi just caught Kon bringing Tim a latte one morning while in his Superboy gear and the tabloids went wild. They had to stage a fake breakup and everything. After that whole fiasco, Kon learned to be a lot more sneaky with his coffee deliveries. Which has come in handy while dating you, of course.

“See, Tim agrees with me, it’s so hot,” you teased, “Wait, Tim, do you still talk to him? Can you get me a date?”

Tim smirked wickedly like the good friend he was, “Oh I can totally set you guys up,”

“Sweet,”

“Well, that’s Too Bad, Y/n,” Kon pulled his arm out of your grasp to cross them over his chest, “because, as you have said, Superboy is a great guy, who would not want to help you cheat on your boyfriend with him,”

“Hmmm. You’re right…” you said with mock thoughtfulness, “I guess I’ll just have to break up with you first. Just shoot off a quick ‘we’re over’ text as soon as me and Superboy meet,”

“What—”

“I’m sorry Conner, but who am I to let my boyfriend stop me from meeting my husband?”

“Wait…“

Kon just stared at you blankly. You held a straight face for as long as you could.

“…I can’t tell if you’re actually considering leaving me for Superboy right now,” he said in astonishment.

And you broke. Conner was smiling too now, because that awful snort laughter you thought was ugly? He thought was the most adorable thing in the world.

“No Baby,” you pulled him back into your embrace, “I wouldn’t leave you for anyone. Not even Superboy,”

“Pinky promise,” he smirked as he held up his pinky.

“Pinky promise,” you hooked your pinky with his.

And then used your other hand to grab his face and shove your tongue down his throat. Conner responded in kind.

“UGH GUYS. REALLY?” Dick squawked across the table.

Kon flipped him off, not leaving your lips. He didn’t really care if they saw or if fucking Nightwing had anything to say about it. Because yeah, he’s kind of a bad boy, no matter what you say.

And you know what? Maybe he’ll make your dreams reality tonight. Even the weird tk ones. It wasn’t called tactile telekinesis for nothing.

‘Can’t let my boyfriend stop me from meeting my husband’ psssh. Oh, he’ll show you husband alright.

[gay-dorito-dust]

You: Roy I’m sad.

Roy: I’ve got a solution

Roy: *points to jason* Jay- Jay take your shirt off!

Jason: no! What do I have to take my shirt off?! And why are you both so obsessed with my chest?

Roy: (name) is sad! *points to you*

You: yeah I’m sad!

Jason: sad or not I’m not taking my shirt off. End of discussion.

You: booo!

Roy: boo! Tomato! Tomato!

Jason: I live with children…

[moviecritc]

✦ ˚ : · TROUBLE, DICKIE BIRD AND GINGER SNAP · : ˚✦

pairing ☆ roy harper x fem!reader x dick grayson

summary ☆ you hate roy and dick so much, so so deeply that you don't hate them at all.

warnings ☆ hurt/comfort

a/n ☆ i don't really like this, but i know we are all starving on dickroy content so this was very necessary

main masterlist | letterboxd

The Tower feels like it’s holding its breath.

Everyone else is out, off on a mission or just avoiding each other with quiet coordination. You’d thought you’d have the place to yourself for once. Maybe catch up on your backlog of case files or finally fix the stupid glitch in the comms system. Instead, you’re stuck here. With them.

Dick Grayson and Roy Harper. Two people you wouldn’t trust to be in the same room without supervision, let alone with you in it.

The silence isn’t peaceful. It’s heavy. The kind that comes with too many unsaid things and too much history no one wants to sort through. You feel it like static, buzzing under your skin as you pad barefoot into the kitchen, still wearing the tank top you slept in.

And of course, Roy’s already there.

Shirtless, leaning against the counter like it belongs to him, chewing lazily on an apple with that half-smile he always wears when he’s about to say something that’ll make you want to hit him. His hair is messy from the bed, but still falling around his forehead and sides perfectly.

You stop in the doorway and stare. “Oh. Fantastic. I was hoping the pest problem had cleared up.”

He grins around the bite. “Morning to you too, Trouble.” His eyes drag down, slow and deliberate. “Didn’t know gremlins needed caffeine.”

You cross to the coffee maker, ignoring him. “Didn’t know strays were allowed in the kitchen.”

He chuckles, stepping aside just enough to let you pass. “Only the house-trained ones. Figured you’d still be brooding in your room. Blüdhaven finally spit you out?”

“Don’t worry,” you mutter, opening the fridge with more force than necessary. “I’ll be gone before you get the urge to pick a fight or accidentally shoot someone in the ass again.”

Before he can answer, another voice cuts through.

“Wow. You two flirting already?” Dick strolls in, towel draped around his neck, hair damp from training. “Didn’t think I’d be walking into a soap opera at eight in the morning.”

You don’t look at him, just wondered how many hours he has been training those stupid backflips. “Oh look. The emotionally constipated bird has landed.”

Roy snorts. “Dickie Bird, you’re looking extra uptight today. That stick in your ass must’ve gotten stuck overnight.”

Dick doesn’t even blink. “Still working through your abandonment issues out loud, Harper?”

"Bold of you to say that, Wingy-"

You sigh loudly, finally pouring your coffee in a mug with a stupid slogan. “Do you two ever stop talking like background characters from a CW show?”

Dick raises an eyebrow. “And here I thought you’d be halfway through a monologue by now. Or are you saving that for your next emotional breakdown?”

Roy barks a laugh, but you cut him a sharp look.

“Don’t get comfortable, Ginger Snap. You’re not off the list.”

He leans against the table, unbothered. “Ginger Snap? That’s cute. You spend all night coming up with that one, thinking about me?”

Your jaw tenses. You hated how calm Roy is always, how he doesn't give a fuck about literally anything. And how close he always gets to you when fighting.

“I wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot tranquilizer dart,” you shoot back. “But it’s sweet how you think I’m tempted.”

Dick folds his arms, already tired of the whole thing. “Why are you both even here? Don’t you have lives? Or better targets?”

The brunette thought of himself as the mature of the situation. You and Roy acted like reckless teenagers even past the young age. You fight loudly in the comms, shouting each other's names like your secret identities were a mere choice to be comfortable. He had saved both of your asses more times that you like to admit and he was so tired of acting like a goddamn babysitter.

You shrug. “If I wanted intelligent conversation, I wouldn’t be in this room.”

Roy grins, stepping closer. “And yet here you are. Drawn to danger like a moth to a dumpster fire.”

You shoot him a warning glare. “Careful. I still have access to the armory.”

Dick exhales through his nose, rubbing his temple like he’s already gotten a migraine. “Do you two ever take a break?”

“No,” you and Roy say in unison.

Your eyes meet across the kitchen. Neither of you looks away. Not immediately.

Dick throws his hands up. “This place is hell. And you’re both the reason.”

“Oh, Dickie,” Roy says, mock-affectionate. “Don’t pout. It’s embarrassing.”

You glance at Dick, grinning. “He’s just mad we’re not bowing to his natural leadership. Poor baby.”

Dick levels you with a flat look. “You’re acting like you’re not desperate for attention.”

You laugh once, dry. If any other had said that to you, it would've affect you someway. But fucking Dick Grayson? Saying that you wanted attention? It felt like a very bad joke. “This coming from the man who does backflips off rooftops just to be seen.”

Roy nods, impressed. “She has a point.”

Dick glares at him. “Don’t fucking agree with her. It’s weird.”

You lean back against the counter, arms folded. “I can’t believe I’m stuck in the same building as the two of you. What did I do in a past life to deserve this?”

“Same,” Roy says, stretching like he owns the place. “I thought I’d paid my dues with moody vigilantes and emotionally repressed archers, but here we are.”

Dick squints. “Wait, which one of us is which?”

Roy shrugs. “Depends on the day.”

You roll your eyes. “You two fight like you used to date.”

“And you fight like you want to be choked,” Dick says before he can stop himself.

The silence that follows is immediate.

You blink. Roy actually stills. Dick realizes a beat too late what he said, and his jaw tenses like he wants to rewind time.

“…Wow,” you say slowly. “That escalated.”

Roy bursts out laughing. “Jesus, Dickie Bird, didn’t know you were into breathplay.”

Dick groans, already walking away. “I’m going to the gym. One of you breaks something, I break your spine.”

He disappears down the hall, tension trailing in his wake like smoke.

You stare after him, then glance at Roy.

“I’m going to punch both of you one day.”

He smiles like he’d pay to watch it happen. “Just make sure I’m looking when you do.”

You shake your head.

“You’re the worst person I’ve ever met.”

“And yet,” he says, tossing the apple core into the trash, “here you are.”

You don’t respond. You just walk out, your coffee forgotten on the counter.

✶✶✶

Some hours passed with no interactions between each other, everyone locked in their rooms. But your feels too quiet.

No messages, no new intel, no alerts on the comms. Not even a sparring match scheduled to blow off the kind of frustration that’s been coiling tight in your spine for the last few days.

The Tower’s too big when it’s silent. You try music. Doesn’t help. Try pacing. That’s worse. Every wall echoes like it’s taunting you. So eventually, grudgingly, you grab a water bottle and head to the gym. Worst-case scenario, you punch a dummy until your knuckles go numb. Best-case? Maybe someone from the team comes back, someone who won’t drive you to homicide.

You throw your phone on the bed. Nothing. Not even memes.

You’re officially losing your mind.

But as you get closer, there’s noise. A lot of it.

Grunting, thuds, the creak of the weight rack, shouting, maybe? You can’t tell. It sounds rough, like a fight already in progress.

Your heart kicks up. You roll your eyes.

Because of course. Of course. Only they would be too emotionally constipated to have a normal conversation.

You push the gym door open, expecting flying fists, maybe Roy's nose broken (that would cheer you up so much), maybe Dick’s escrima sticks already out. You even rehearse a “For fucks sake, are you twelve?” under your breath.

But what you find is not that.

Not that at all.

Dick is pinned against the mirror, shirt bunched up, legs around Roy's waist like he weights nothing and muscles tense. Roy’s got one hand fisted in his hair, the other gripping the curve from Dick's hip to his ass so tightly it has to leave a bruise.

And they’re kissing.

Not soft. Not sweet. Aggressive.

Teeth. Tongues. Hands moving like they’ve been holding back years.

You freeze. Wide-eyed. Paralyzed.

Your brain refuses to process for a second. It’s like walking in on a fight and realizing the weapons are moaning.

“What the actual fuck,” you blurt.

Roy jerks back first, lips swollen, pupils blown wide. He looks like he might say something clever, but then he recognizes you. His eyes narrow, rolling a little.

“Of course,” he mutters. “Trouble always shows up at the best part.”

Dick’s still breathing heavy, chest rising and falling under Roy’s grip. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stares at you like you’re the intruder.

“You two are—” You gesture between them, then to the air, then back. “You literally hate each other!”

Roy shrugs, still with his hands all over Dick. “Yeah. That’s kind of the point.”

“You’ve spent months calling him ‘Dickie Bird’ like it’s a slur.”

“I have slurs for people I like,” he smirks, he looks at Dick once with a stupid expression.

Dick finally speaks, voice low, a little rasped: “Get out.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

He frees himself from Roy's hands, taking a step forward and wiping at his mouth like he can erase what you saw. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“Oh, it absolutely concerns me. You two make me suffer through your constant dick-measuring contests, screaming at me and at each other, and now what, you’re just making out in the gym like we don’t all live here?!” You make a disgusted expression.

Roy lifts an eyebrow. “Jealous?”

Your jaw tightens. “Of what exactly? The sheer amount of unresolved tension or the fact that I now need bleach for my brain?”

Dick looks like he wants to murder something. “You weren’t supposed to see this.”

“Oh please. Like you weren’t being loud on purpose.”

Roy’s smirk grows. “I dunno. Maybe a part of us wanted to be caught.” His gaze slides over you now, slow. Calculating. “Maybe we were hoping you'd walk in.”

You blink. Hard. “What the hell are you implying?”

Dick lets out a slow breath, fisting his hands, stepping back from Roy like he’s grounding himself. “Don’t.”

But Roy doesn’t listen. He never does.

He steps toward you, shirt still wrinkled, mouth red. “Tell me, Trouble,” he says. “You ever think maybe the reason we fight so much is because all three of us can’t stand not touching each other?”

You open your mouth. No sound comes out. Because your stomach just did something terrible. Like it agreed.

Dick sees it.

“Stop talking, Roy,” he says, voice tight.

“Why?” Roy asks, eyes still locked on you. “She’s not leaving. Look at her.”

“You’re both insufferable,” you say, but it doesn’t sound as biting as it should.

You hate that he’s right. You hate that your feet won’t move. You hate that your fingers twitch like they want to grab something.

Someone.

Roy grins like the devil. “So are you.”

And then he takes another step.

“So,” he murmurs, “you gonna keep pretending you didn’t want in on this, or are we finally gonna stop playing dumb?”

Dick groans. “Roy—”

But you interrupt, extending a finger to them. “Shut up. Both of you.”

You blink, your gaze dancing between them, Roy even had the time to leave some marks in Dick's neck, glistening and laughing at your face. You felt a bit idiotic, thinking about how many times have they laugh about you mid-kisses, tangled between each other while they talk about how stupid you looked screaming at them.

You take a step back, then another. Shameful, jaw tense and hands fisted. Dick isn't even looking at you anymore, Roy is waiting for you to join them like a slut.

You leave the gym without another word, still barefoot, the door closing behind you with a dull, final click. The hallway feels colder than it should. The echo of your steps is swallowed up by the thick quiet that follows you, but your heartbeat still pounds, loud and disoriented.

Your fingers are curled tight, knuckles white.

The image is burned into your brain, Dick with his legs around Roy’s hips, Roy holding him like he knew every inch of him already, like he had every right. The kind of kiss that didn’t come from nowhere. It came from history. From tension. From the kind of feelings that don’t just show up one day. They build. Slowly. Painfully.

They were lying. To everyone. Including themselves.

You don’t even make it halfway back to your room before you stop walking. You just stand in the middle of the hallway, stunned and furious and something else you don’t want to name.

Back in the gym, the silence has settled in again but it’s not the same as before. It’s tight. Breathing heavy. Raw.

Dick exhales slowly, the sound shaky. He steps away from Roy fully now, rubbing at the back of his neck with one hand while the other hovers awkwardly in the air, unsure what to do.

Roy watches him, arms crossed, lips still red. “You gonna say something, or should I just assume we’re back to pretending this didn’t happen?”

Dick avoids his gaze. He focuses instead on the scuffed floor or the way his own hands won’t stop shaking. “You shouldn’t have said that to her.”

“She was going to figure it out eventually.”

“She wasn’t supposed to see us like that.”

Roy scoffs. “You say that like what we’re doing is something to be ashamed of.”

Dick’s jaw tightens. He finally looks up, eyes narrowed. “It’s not about shame.”

“Then what is it, Grayson?” Roy says, stepping forward again, not as close as before, but close enough that Dick flinches. “You let me pin you against a mirror five minutes ago. You’ve been letting me. So what is it now?”

Dick takes a breath like he’s trying to steady himself and failing. “It’s not just about you and me anymore. It hasn’t been for a while.”

Roy doesn’t blink. “You mean her.”

Dick swallows hard. Doesn’t answer.

Roy sighs. “God, you’re terrified.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” Roy cuts in, voice quieter this time, not cruel. Just observant. “You’re scared because this is messy.”

Dick looks away again. “It doesn’t make sense.”

Roy huffs a laugh. “It’s not supposed to.”

“You and I, we barely function. And she—she hates both of us half the time. The three of us in one room is like lighting a match in a gas leak.”

“And yet you kissed me like you wanted to burn down the whole place,” Roy says, not flinching, not raising his voice. “So maybe stop pretending this was just about tension. Or anger. Or boredom.”

Dick doesn’t speak.

He looks like he wants to argue. Or run. Maybe both. But instead he just folds in on himself a little, his voice quiet:

“She looked hurt.”

Roy’s expression shifts. His grin fades into something more serious. “Yeah. Because you looked at her like she wasn’t supposed to matter.”

“She wasn’t supposed to walk in.”

Roy shrugs. “Maybe she was.”

Dick finally meets his eyes again, the weight of it like gravity. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Roy’s answer comes without hesitation. “Neither do I. But you were fucking mean to her, Grayson.”

They stand there for a long moment. Not kissing. Not fighting. Just breathing.

Roy finally breaks the silence. “Are you going after her?”

Dick hesitates.

“I don’t know if I should.”

“Then I will.”

Dick grabs his wrist before he can move.

Roy stops. Raises an eyebrow. “You gonna tell me not to?”

Dick shakes his head slowly. “No. I just… can I come with you? Should I...?”

Roy blinks, and for a second, something almost soft slips through the cracks in his usual sharp expression. The smug edge fades. He looks at Dick like he’s seeing something honest for the first time in a long time.

“You’re asking me?” he says, quiet. “Since when do you ask permission?”

Dick looks exhausted. Not physically, emotionally. Like this whole thing has drained something from him he hadn’t realized was even still there. He releases Roy’s wrist, but doesn’t step back. “Since this stopped being just about you and me screwing around behind closed doors.”

Roy tilts his head. “You think it ever was?”

Dick breathes out through his nose, short and uneven. “I think I was pretending it was.”

They stare at each other again, and for once, there’s no tension crackling like wires about to short. Just… quiet. That strange, unspoken kind. The kind that only happens when both people are finally tired of lying to themselves.

Roy nods, like something inside him settles. “Alright,” he says, rubbing a hand down his face. “Then yeah. You can come.”

Dick’s shoulders lower, fractionally. He still looks hesitant, like the words taste strange in his mouth. “We should… talk to her.”

Roy gives him a look. “You think she wants to talk right now?”

Dick runs a hand through his hair, eyes unfocused. “I don’t know what she wants.”

Roy laughs once, dry and tired. “Join the club.”

They leave the gym side by side, but with too much space between them to be casual. Neither says a word as they cross the hall, the silence now buzzing with quiet tension.

They stop outside your door.

Roy knocks once. Sharp.

No answer.

He knocks again. Nothing.

Dick shifts his weight. “Maybe she left.”

“She didn’t,” Roy says, eyes on the door like he can see through it. “She’s still here. Just pissed.”

“Then maybe we should give her space.”

Roy turns to him. “Or maybe you should stop acting like hiding is a solution.”

Before Dick can say anything, the door opens.

You stand there, arms crossed, face unreadable.

You’ve changed clothes. You’re still barefoot, but the tank top’s gone, now replaced with an oversized hoodie you must’ve found just to feel less exposed. There’s a twitch in your jaw, and your gaze flicks between them like you’re bracing for impact.

Roy opens his mouth first.

“You left your water bottle,” he says, holding up the bottle he somehow remembered to grab from the gym.

You don’t smile. But your eyes linger on the bottle longer than they should.

Dick takes a small step forward, hands behind his back and scared to meet your eyes.

“Can we come in?” he asks.

You stare at them, say nothing for a moment too long, and then shift aside without a word.

They step inside awkwardly, like they’ve never seen the room before, like it’s sacred ground now just because you look like you might actually murder one of them if they say the wrong thing.

Dick stays near the door. Roy flops on the edge of your bed like it’s his goddamn right, tossing your water bottle onto the sheets like it belongs there. You stay standing, arms still crossed, keeping distance like a wall you built fast and high.

Nobody speaks.

It’s Roy who breaks first, of course.

“You’re pissed,” he says. “Obvious.”

You shoot him a flat look. “Glad you still have basic pattern recognition.”

“Okay,” Roy says, holding up his hands. “I deserve that.”

Dick clears his throat, like he’s been waiting for Roy to shut up long enough to get a word in. “We weren’t… trying to keep it from you.”

You lift your eyebrows. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He shifts uncomfortably. “It’s complicated.”

“No,” you snap. “It’s not. You just didn’t say anything. For months, the two of you have made my life hell. Snapping at each other in front of everyone, dragging me into your weird pissing contests, acting like I’m the only adult here and the whole time, you’ve been… doing that?”

You don’t mean to sound hurt. But you do.

Roy sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. “We weren’t doing that the whole time. It’s not like that.”

You shoot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Then what is it like, Harper? Enlighten me.”

Roy glances at Dick, and for once, the smugness drops entirely. “It’s not about you being out of the loop. Or us laughing at you, or keeping you on the sidelines. It’s just…” He trails off, frustrated. “We didn’t know what the fuck we were doing, alright? Still don’t.”

Dick finally steps forward. His voice is low. Careful. “We didn’t mean to hurt you.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “Well, you did.” You look at Dick in the eye. "Especially you."

Dick lifts his gaze to meet yours, like he has betrayed one of the only two persons he would let them see him.

Roy leans forward on your bed, elbows on his knees, head lowered. “We’ve been idiots. You’re right about that. But don’t act like you haven’t been part of the mess, too.”

You stare at him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Roy says, eyes lifting to meet yours, “you give as good as you get. You fight with us. You bait us. You put yourself in the middle even when you don’t have to.”

“That doesn’t mean I deserved to be lied to,” you say, voice quiet but biting. “You two made me feel crazy. Like I was imagining things. Like I didn’t matter.”

Dick steps closer, hands open at his sides, trying not to make the wrong move. “You do matter.”

“Then why did it feel like I was the punchline to some inside joke?”

Roy shakes his head. “You weren’t.”

You cross your arms tighter over your chest. “You made me feel like I was. The arguing, the games, the constant pushing and pulling. I didn’t know where I stood with either of you. One day you’re glaring at me like I ruined your lives, the next you’re joking like we’re friends. Then I walk in and find that, and you even have the audacity to tell me to join you?.”

Your voice cracks on the last word. You hate that.

Dick’s jaw tightens. He takes a slow breath. “We didn’t handle it right. We got caught up in it. And you’re right to be angry. You deserve better.”

That stops you. You blink.

Roy looks up at you, more serious than you’ve maybe ever seen him. “You deserve more than two emotionally repressed assholes who never grew out of playground insults.”

You snort, despite yourself. “You said it, not me.”

“I mean it,” Roy says. “We’ve been assholes. And we’ve been idiots. But we’re not trying to shut you out.”

You shift your weight, eyes flicking between them. “Then what are you trying to do?”

They both go still at that.

Dick opens his mouth, closes it again. Then, finally, he says, “Figure out how to not screw this up more than we already have.”

You narrow your eyes. “By ‘this,’ you mean what? You and Roy? Or me?”

His eyes lock on yours. “All of it.”

You suck in a slow breath. The room feels hot all of a sudden.

Roy stands from the bed, moving slower this time. “We’re not good at this. Any of it. Not with each other, and definitely not with you. But we’re not trying to play with you. Or push you away.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you mutter again, but softer this time.

Roy glances at Dick again before continuing. “We didn’t say anything because we didn’t know how. You walk into a room and everything shifts. You get under our skin and we didn’t know what the hell to do with that.”

You stay quiet, but your fingers loosen where they’re tucked under your arms.

Dick finally steps in closer. His voice is quiet, sincere. “You scare the hell out of me. You always have.”

Your head snaps toward him. “Excuse me?”

He looks up at you, eyes clearer than you’ve seen them in weeks. “You’re not like anyone else on this team. You’re sharp and loud and real. And you call me on my bullshit, which no one does. And the worst part is I like it. I like you. And that scared me. I disguised my fear with hate.”

You blink. “You’re seriously using ‘I was scared’ as an excuse?”

“No,” he says, fast. “I’m using it as an explanation. Not an excuse. I still fucked up.”

Roy’s voice comes next, quieter. “We both did.”

You run out of words for a moment, focusing on how Dick fidgets with his fingers.

You look between them. “Why now?”

That seems to catch them both.

Roy tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

“Why are you here now?” you ask, arms dropping to your sides, finally. “Because I caught you? Because you didn’t want to deal with the fallout? Or because suddenly you care?”

Dick takes a step closer. “Because we do care.”

You don’t look away. “Then say it.”

Dick swallows. “You matter to me.”

Roy nods beside him. “To both of us.”

You narrow your eyes. “No jokes?”

“None,” Roy says. His voice is flat. Honest. Bare. “I’m not playing anymore. We played too long.”

There’s something heavy behind that. Maybe even regret.

You stare at them. You wait for the punchline. The snide comment. The self-sabotage you’re used to from the both of them. But it doesn’t come.

“I don’t trust either of you,” you say, and the words come like a truth you’ve been choking on for weeks. “Not yet.”

They both nod.

Dick clears his throat. “I wouldn’t, either.”

"You made me feel stupid, did I mention that?" you say, arching your eyebrows.

"You did," Roy nods slowly. "A couple of times."

"Okay, fine." You finally say, shrugging with a tired look. "I guess that between all the insults and hatred we never really knew each other, don't you think?"

Dick leans back slightly at that, like your words hit a little deeper than he expected. His mouth opens, then closes again. His fingers twitch at his sides.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “We were so busy pushing each other, and pushing you, we never really asked who the hell we were actually dealing with.”

Roy exhales through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’d think a couple of detectives would’ve figured that out sooner.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a little less venom behind it now. Just exhaustion. “You two made me feel like I had to earn my place every damn day. Like I had to prove I belonged here.”

Roy looks at you, serious. “That wasn’t on you. That was us not dealing with our shit.”

Dick nods, swallowing. “We made you the referee in a game you never agreed to play.”

You snort softly. “More like the emotional punching bag.”

“Fair,” Roy mutters.

There’s a beat. Then another. Long enough for silence to start creeping in again. But you’re not ready for silence. Not yet.

You glance toward your desk. Then under it.

A beat of hesitation. Then:

“I have beers,” you announce.

Both of them blink.

You cross the room, drop to one knee, and slide out the little duffel bag from under your desk with a rustle. You unzip it, pull out three slightly warm cans of cheap lager, and hold them up like an offering. “For, you know, team apocalypse or emotional disasters.”

Dick arches a brow. “As team leader, I should probably disapprove of this.”

Roy grins, catching the can you toss at him. “As someone who’s had his tongue in the team leader's throat, I think you should shut up.”

Dick groans. “Jesus, Roy.”

You finally crack a smile. A real one this time.

“You’re both so fucking stupid,” you mutter, handing Dick his can.

He accepts it with the air of someone who’s not sure he deserves it.

You all sit down on the floor instead of the bed, like it’s neutral ground. Roy sprawls as usual, long legs crossed lazily in front of him. Dick sits tighter, posture neat even when slouching. You plant yourself between them but not too close, popping your can open with a hiss that echoes faintly in the room.

None of you talk for a bit. Just the occasional sip. The faint fizz of carbonation.

Then you say it, because someone has to.

“So you never actually hated me? 'Cause I very much despised you two.”

Roy tilts his head. “We kind of did too.”

Dick glares at him. “Roy.”

“No, I mean—we didn’t hate you. We just… didn’t know what to do with you. You were chaos. Smart, sharp-tongued, no-bullshit chaos, and we were both already flammable.”

You huff a laugh, despite yourself. “So your solution was to light the whole tower on fire with tension?”

Dick winces. “That part wasn’t exactly intentional.”

You look at him. “And you? What was your excuse?”

He looks at the can in his hands like it might give him an answer. Then he says, very quietly, “You reminded me of me. But… less broken. And more honest. It scared the hell out of me. Still does.”

Roy whistles low under his breath. “Wow. That’s… the most emotionally articulate thing you’ve said in a decade.”

“Shut up.”

You sip your beer and sigh. “You know what’s fucked up?”

Both of them glance at you.

“I think I liked it. The fighting. The tension. I think I started expecting it. Needing it.”

Roy raises his can slightly. “It's addicting.”

Dick doesn’t argue.

You lean your head back against the wall, eyes closed for a second. “I thought I was just the one getting caught in the crossfire. But I was playing too.”

“You still are,” Roy says. “We all are.”

You open your eyes. “Then what the hell do we do about it?”

They both fall quiet.

Then Dick says, slowly, “We try not to screw it up again.”

Roy adds, “We learn how to talk without throwing punches.”

“And maybe,” you say, voice soft, “we figure out who we are to each other.”

That makes them both look at you again. Dick licks his lips slowly.

"I don't want this to be only sex, by the way," he says, almost whispering. "Like, yeah, Roy kisses just fine and I've been wanting to kiss you since our fight in the morning. But I don't think I can only do physical, I-"

"Just fine?!" Roy repeats. "I'm sorry, did you forget the part when you were whining-"

"Roy!" Dick calls out, almost blushed.

You grin around the rim of your beer can, warmth prickling up your chest: part adrenaline, part the way Dick’s words hit like a sucker punch dressed in vulnerability.

“Wait,” you say, eyes narrowing, teasing flickering back into your voice. “You’ve been wanting to kiss me since our fight this morning?”

Dick turns scarlet. Full-body blush. Shoulders curling like he could fold in on himself and disappear entirely. “I— That’s not— I didn’t mean—Can we please go back at the part when I tell you that I want a relationship, not just two fuck buddies??”

Roy lets out a wheeze of laughter, almost choking on his beer. “Oh my god,” he manages between breaths. “You’re so bad at this. It's honestly adorable.”

Dick looks like he’s debating whether to fling his can across the room or crawl under the bed and live there permanently. “You two are insufferable,” he mutters, staring at the floor like it might offer him a manual for social interaction. “This is why I don’t talk.”

“No, this is why you should talk,” you counter, pointing your beer at him. “That was the most honest thing you’ve said to me since I met you. And I liked it.”

Dick peeks up through his lashes. “You did?”

You smile. Not a smirk. Not the tight-lipped, careful grin you’ve given them both a thousand times to keep your cards close. Just a small, real smile. “Yeah. I did.”

There’s a beat. Then Roy leans forward, elbows on his knees again, studying you with a different kind of intensity. “You’ve been quiet. Like, really quiet for someone who normally tells us exactly where to shove it.”

You arch a brow. “What do you want me to say? That I’m thrilled to be part of your sudden epiphany?”

“I want to know what you want,” Roy says, no teasing this time. Just low and direct. “Because I’m not gonna lie, I want it. Both of you. Even if it’s complicated. Even if it’s stupid. I don’t want to pretend anymore. But you—if you don’t want it, I need to hear it.”

Dick goes very still beside you, like he’s holding his breath.

You stare at Roy for a long second. Then glance at Dick. His eyes are on you, wide and careful and scared.

Your pulse kicks up a notch. This could blow everything up. Or settle it, finally.

“I think I do want it,” you say. “I’m just... scared too. Like, how the hell does this even work? We can barely be in the same room without sarcasm or tension.”

“Yeah,” Dick says, voice rough. “But I’d rather try and fail than keep pretending I don’t want you.”

Your mouth opens. Closes.

Roy watches you like he already knows what’s coming. Like he’s just waiting for you to catch up.

“I wanted to kiss you too,” you say finally, turning to Dick.

His eyes flick to yours. His lips part.

“I wanted to hit you this morning,” you add. “But I also wanted to kiss you. And maybe that says something fucked up about me, but it’s true.”

“It says you’re as messed up as us,” Roy says. “Which is kind of perfect.”

You turn to him, giving him a slow once-over. “And you. I wanted to hate you. You made it so easy. But then you were there, when I didn’t even realize I needed someone to be.”

Roy shrugs, casual but not smug. “You looked like you needed backup. Even if it was the annoying kind.”

You exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Then you put your beer down.

Dick tenses immediately, watching you like you might lunge or bolt. “Are you—”

You cup his jaw and kiss him.

It’s soft. Surprisingly soft. Gentle, even. Like you’re tasting the possibility of something not built on tension or mutual scarring, but something real. Dick melts into it like a man who’s been starving for this and never thought he’d get to try.

When you pull back, his eyes are wide and dazed. “Holy shit,” he breathes.

You smile, putting your hand on top of his. “You really are bad at talking.”

He laughs. And it sounds like relief.

Then you turn to Roy.

He raises his eyebrows, a grin twitching on his lips. “That an open invitation, or…?”

You roll your eyes, but you grab the front of his shirt and pull him in.

This kiss is different. Hotter. Messier. Familiar in a way that makes your heart lurch, because of course Roy Harper kisses like he fights, like he’s already memorized every weak spot you have. His hands hover like he wants to grab your waist and never let go, but he doesn’t. He waits.

You keep your hand in Dick's the whole time you kiss and you took a moment to separate yourself from Roy because he didn't seem to let you go.

"God..." you muttered, resting your head against the wall and you squeeze Dick's hand slightly. "You were right, Dickie Bird. He kisses just fine."

Dick cracks a laugh and Roy lifts his whole body when he hears you.

"HEY-"

[bobskysworld]

London is… red?-Micky van de Ven

pairing: Timber!sister x Micky

summary: The Timber brothers learn who their little sister is dating

note: 🧍🏾‍♀️i’m back on my siblings bullshit

liked by jurrientimber, mickyvdven, djedspence and 789,422 others

yntimber grwm and charlotte tilbury🤭

user7 YN’s beauty has no boundsss

user9 the prettiest Timber sibling

yntimber 🙂‍↔️🤏🏽🤏🏽🤏🏽

user2 queeen

gabriel.martinelli ola😍

jurrientimber no.

quintentumber get your dog ass teammates!

dylantimber she’s not allowed to date until she’s 60.

yntimber you guys are scaring the huzz man🧍🏾‍♀️

xavisimons thank you for tagging the photographer…

yntimber 🤭your welcome!

user6 YN and her brothers are so funny lmaooo

user8 how old is YN anyways?

user5 20?…. her birthday is coming up tho

user1 yeah she’s the youngest sister

user3 COME BACK TO LONDON

yntimber 🤫🤫🤫

djedspence is this her?

jurrientimber what are you doing here?

brenjohnson NOTHING! he’s just lost!

jurrientimber he better be.

user8 😭😭Jurrien omds

liked by richycala, richarlison, w.saliba4 and 1,129,002 others

yntimber 24 hours in Italy🖤 swarvoski

user6 she is her.

user5 just a sponsored babe!

dylantimber some clothes would be nice….

yntimber it was like 40 degrees that morning??

dylantimber idc, cover up.

yntimber yes dad🙄

richycala i hope you enjoyed my home country, next time i’ll be there to show you all the nice things😊

yntimber are you one of those nice things?🫦

jurrientimber what did i say about my teammates?

yntimber ITS NOT MY FAULT THEY’RE HOT????

quintentimber keep it in your pants.

user3 😭oh YN

w.saliba4 you said when are you going to be in London?

quintentimber if you value your ankles….

w.saliba4 i’m asking so i can not be here!

yntimber am i that repulsive?🥲💔

jurrientimber Saliba.

w.saliba4 NO MA BELLE! YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL! GORGEOUS EVEN!

jurrientimber oh so now you’re flirting with her

w.saliba4 i can’t win here.

saka DRIIPPING in designer little one!

yntimber you already know the vibes!

liked by mickyvdven, brenjohnson, jurrientimber and 643,110 others

yntimber London i’m in you😋

user6 SHE HAS LANDED!

user8 ouu and Arsenal is playing later this week are we gonna see her at the Emirates?!???

jurrientimber this is how i find out?

yntimber it’s for work lol

jurrientimber 🥲💔💔💔💔

yntimber if i have time i’ll come watch you play you big baby🙄

jurrientimber 😊😊❤️❤️❤️

virgilvandijk coming to a Liverpool game young one?

jurrientimber over my dead body

darwin_n9 that can be arranged

yntimber IF I HAVE TIME

djedspence oh that’s why my boy isn’t in practice today….

destinyudogie he had better things to attend to

brenjohnson “sick” my ass!

user5 everyone is fighting for her and that’s so REAL

liked by marmoush, rubendias, dylantimber and 901,004 others

yntimber some shots that didn’t make the cut for pandora… mad love for you Omar🫵🏽

user6 is that-

user8 is it wrong that i ship….

jurrientimber i’m just gonna act like i didn’t see this

yntimber anything for that bag brother

jurrientimber i literally make enough money to keep us both afloat

quintentimber don’t forget about me too

user8 the ballers have spoken!

marmoush it was a pleasure filming with you!

yntimber the pleasure was all mine!

jurrientimber i beg your pardon?

yntimber i’m being NICE!… you wouldn’t know that now would you?

user3 but Calafiori and YN…. walk with me…..

richycala i’m walking!

jurrientimber no

dylantimber matter of fact cut his legs off.

user2 she’s so hot bro

liked by matheusnunes73. user7, marmoush and 499,023 others

yntimber 🙄happy now jurrientimber?

user8 LMAOOO

jurrientimber ELATED!

quintentimber ME NEXT!

yntimber NO! i’ve had enough.

user4 😭😭Jurrien fr forced YN to a game

yntimber can you believe such!

user2 oh my girl was forced to SUFFER!

yntimber i didn’t suffer entirrrely, i was enjoying the eye candy!😇😋

user3 like?

yntimber Kai Havertz😍😍😍😍😍😍

jurrientimber LEAVE KAI ALONE HES MARRIED

yntimber and i can marry his BEAUTIFUL wife too!

kaihavertz hello???? no????

user1 YN is such a vibe

w.saliba4 what about me ma belle?☹️

yntimber 🫦🫦🫦 mmmh, yes i love me a baguette!

richycala me???

yntimber rest.

user8 YN LMAOOOOO

user4 oh she’s dating one of the Gunners

yntimber oh no baby my man is WHITE, CAUCASIAN!

jurrientimber YOUR WHAT

dylantimber YN…. answer the phone.

yntimber no thanks xx

user3 oops-

liked by mickyvdven, richarlison, spurswags and 380,002 others

yntimber my safe space❤️

user3 oh she wasn’t lying!?

user9 timber brothers are about to lose it

dylantimber YN.TIMBER

dylantimber ANSWER YOUR DAMN PHONE I CAN SEE YOU’RE ONLINE

quintentimber on my soul if it’s one of those trophiless mfs from arsenal someone’s gonna die

jurrientimber i thought we agreed you’d start dating at 60?!?

jurrientimber WHO IS THIS????

jurrientimber YN TIMBER ANSWER ME NOW!

user9 😭😭😭a valid crashout

user3 😭😭oh YN please blink if you’re alive

mickyvdven i love you so much❤️

jurrientimber A SPUR?!??

dylantimber WHO THE FUCK IS THIS-

quintentimber MICKY?!????

mickyvdven i swear we didn’t plan this….

jurrientimber oh you’re so dead next week.

user9 please?!??

liked by djedspence, mickyvdven, saka and 892,003 others

mickyvdven happy birthday to my one and only❤️

user5 AWEEEEE I’M SOBBING

user2 Micky is still alive

jurrientimber not for long.

user3 HELP????

jurrientimber count your days.

yntimber please…. he’s the only one whose loved me for me and not because he could meet you, or Q or get VIP tickets…

quintentimber oh….

dylantimber oh no little sis, that’s not… call us please

yntimber fine, but the first one to raise their voice and i’m hanging up

mickyvdven can i put a shirt on first?

jurrientimber HES WITH YOU????

yntimber we’re in Greece rn Ju…

user8 oh i love to see a family come together

richarlison THEY DIDN’T KILL YOU!

pedroporro HES STILL ALIVE

destinyudogie might wanna wear some ankle guards next time brother

user1 please man Tottenham Hotspur’s Football club!😭

liked by jurrientimber, dylantimber, user7 and 280,192 others

yntimber offline with my Dutch Boy! thank you for the birthday wishes❤️

comments have been turned off

liked by

yntimber apparently i’m a Spurs WAG now😋

user6 WE LOVE TO SEE IT!

user8 Jurrien found DEAD

richarlison WELCOME!

djedspence don’t scare her away now

richarlison never that! i want new friends!

user3 this is what i like to see!

saka i’m sad to see you leave little one

yntimber you havn’t lost me forever… i’ll still come visit, it’s my home!

richycala YAAAY!

jurrientimber not for you.

richycala awww :///

user9 cuties!

jurrientimber posted a story

mickyvdven posted a story

[queen-of-gotham]

When they almost lose you

Synopsis: in which you get badly hurt on a mission and their reactions

Notes from the Batcave: for ✨this✨ request! Enjoy!

Everyone in this writing is of age 😊

Dick Grayson

The moment he sees you, his whole demeanor shifts.

Dick’s voice drops low, calm in a way that’s meant to ground you while his hands are already skimming over your arms and shoulders, checking for fractures.

He’s good at hiding his fear, but you can see it in his eyes, the quick, darting glances to the blood on your face.

“Okay, sweetheart, I’ve got you. Just lean on me, we’re gonna get you patched up, Alright? You’re okay.”

He makes light jokes to keep you conscious, but his grip on you is firm, protective, and he refuses to let you walk on your own.

Jason Todd

Jason freezes for exactly one second when he sees the state you’re in, then he’s moving fast.

His jacket is around your shoulders before you can protest, and he’s practically hauling you toward safety, bridal style to keep you safe.

“Who did this?” comes out before “Are you okay?” because Jason runs on rage and fear in equal measure.

He won’t let go of you until you’re sitting somewhere safe, and even then, he crouches in front of you like a guard dog, checking each injury himself because he doesn’t trust anyone else to handle it right.

He’s holding tension everywhere in his body until he knows for sure you’re alright.

Tim Drake

Tim’s brain instantly switches to triage mode, he’s assessing your gait, your breathing, the amount of blood loss, all while moving you toward a medkit.

His words are clipped at first because he’s calculating, but then his voice softens, like he’s afraid you’ll shut down if he sounds too clinical.

“I’m not mad, just… you scared me. Sit still, okay? I’ll take care of it.”

He’ll pull an all-nighter at your side, not doing anything else until you’re stable, and every time you start to drift off, you can feel him checking your pulse.

Duke Thomas

Duke’s eyes go wide the second he spots you, and he’s at your side in moments, steadying you with one arm around your waist.

“Hey, hey, I’ve got you. Just focus on me, alright?”

He talks the whole way back to the safehouse, partly to keep you conscious, partly to keep himself from spiraling.

Later, when you’re patched up and asleep, he sits nearby, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor with that lingering adrenaline still buzzing under his skin wondering how he let this happen.

Damian Wayne

Damian hides his fear behind irritation. He stalks over, his steps sharp and fast, before grabbing your arm with a surprisingly gentle grip.

“You are an idiot. A reckless, infuriating idiot-“ he mutters, but his hands are already supporting your weight.

He doesn’t let anyone else clean your wounds, claims it’s because others are incompetent, but really, he just needs to make sure you’re okay with his own eyes.

He stays close enough that your shoulders brush, refusing to leave your side even once you’re in bed.

Roy Harper

Roy’s hands are on you instantly, one steadying your waist, the other cupping your face just enough to make you look at him.

“You can’t keep doing this to me, babe,” he says, but his voice cracks just slightly on babe.

He scoops you up without asking, muttering under his breath about how you’re not walking anywhere in this state.

He’s quick but careful, keeping you close to his chest like you’re going to slip away if he loosens his hold.

Makes sure you get patched up and watches over you all night until he’s certain you’re alright.

Wally West

Wally’s there in a blur the second he hears you’re hurt. He slows down only when he’s right in front of you, taking in the bruises and the limp with wide, worried eyes.

“Nope. Not letting you finish that sentence, you’re done for the night,” he says, already sweeping you off your feet before you can argue.

He keeps talking while moving you to safety, voice light but tight with worry.

Later, when you’re asleep, he’s restless, pacing, checking on you every few minutes, because the thought of you being that close to not making it home rattles him more than he’ll admit.

Kyle Rayner

Kyle’s whole face drains of color the second he sees you. There’s no hesitation, a construct forms instantly, cradling you like the most overprotective bubble wrap imaginable.

“Oh my god, okay, okay, I’ve got you, just stay with me,” he says, his voice fast and almost breathless. He keeps glancing at your face like he’s checking you’re still there.

Once you’re somewhere safe, he kneels in front of you, hands hovering like he wants to touch you but is terrified he’ll hurt you. But he sucks it up and gets you patched up.

The lantern glow reflects in his eyes when he says quietly, “Don’t ever scare me like that again. Please.”

And yes, he absolutely doodles you safe and unhurt later in his sketchbook, because it’s the only way he can calm down, once you’re safe and recovering.

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⭐️DCU Masterlist⭐️ 🦇Return to the Batcave🦇

[woso-dreamzzz]

Small

Arsenal Women x Teen!Reader

Summary: You just want to play

You try to catch her eyes, bobbing and weaving on the bench to just get the smallest hint of eye contact.

She does a very good job of pointedly avoiding your gaze.

Next to you, Vic smothers her laughter.

You pay her no mind, trying to catch your mother...no, your manager's eyes.

She's not your mother when she's coaching or at least that's what she always says.

"Your time will come," Lia says from your other side with just a hint of amusement," Renée would be a fool not to sub you on at some point. It'll come. It's still the first half. Give her time."

But patience has never exactly been your strong suit. Impatient was your trademark, always ready and raring to go and always annoyed when other people weren't the same way.

You try to act casual at half time, leaning against the door of the locker room as you wait for your manager to arrive.

"No," Renée says easily when she catches sight of you.

"But-"

"No," She repeats," Not yet. We'll see how the second half will go and then I'll think about it."

You groan. "You never have to think about it with Kyra!"

"Kyra isn't a sixteen year old menace who thinks she's much taller than she actually is."

"I don't think I'm taller than I actually am! And...And Kim's small!"

"And Kim also doesn't try to pick fights with people almost double her height. You need to actually be able to play, menace, not just try to bulldoze the tallest person you see."

Your mouth opens and closes a few times but you come to find that you don't actually have a comeback for that one.

You are kind of small and you do tend to pick fights with people much taller and much stronger than you actually are. But that's not really your fault. If given more time, you're sure you could twist your behaviour into an excuse for standing up for yourself or something similar.

"But you'll definitely think about? Like you actually will and you're not just saying that?"

Renée sighs. "Your mother won't be very happy with me if she tunes in and sees you playing against someone like Renard."

You grin cheekily. "But Mum isn't here and you're not beholden to her rules? Because you're the manager and you'll do what's good for the team? And you know I can absolutely ball out in midfield if you let me?"

Renée rolls her eyes, lightly bumping you with her shoulder. "We'll see how the second half goes and if you don't complain, maybe I'll sub you on."

You grin to yourself as you finally slip into the locker room, sitting down in your cubby and reaching over across Alessia to snag some of the mini cookies Kyra's eating.

"What's got you so happy?"

"Mama said she'll think about subbing me on if the second half goes well."

Alessia snorts. "She's not too scared of your Mum to back out this time?"

Your face turns red surprisingly quickly. "It was one match! And she said sorry after!"

Kyra giggles, hand reaching out to pinch at your cheeks. "Are you sure you don't want to stick to the bench? Maybe we can find some cotton wool to wrap you in?"

"Leave me alone!" You bat her hand away.

It wasn't exactly something you liked talking or even thinking about. You didn't like the team bringing it up.

The way you were coddled that is.

You'd moved over to Arsenal's Academy when the family moved over from Sweden when your Mama got her job as Jonas' assistant coach. It's not exactly that you got in because of who she was because you were already in an academy in Sweden but Arsenal didn't make you do a trial or anything to join them.

It was only a matter of time before you joined the senior team but that was a bit awkward at first, the rest of the team unsure of how hard they were allowed to go with you in training when Renée was on the outskirts supervising.

They relaxed into it, of course, but those first few months this season had been awkward and now that they'd seen how Renée was only willing to play you against low ranked teams, the teasing about being coddled had never worn off.

Your height hadn't exactly helped in that matter. All it did was give Renée an excuse to not play you against good teams with height on their side.

But you wanted this. You wanted Champions League football and you wanted to play now.

You're between Vic and Lia again on the bench when half time finishes, head still bobbing and weaving like it would make Renée sub you on any quicker.

She meets your gaze a few times but her eyes give nothing away.

Eventually, Vic leaves your side grab a drink and you stubbornly cross your arms over your chest.

"This is so unfair."

"Are all sixteen year olds as dramatic as you?" Lia muses idly," You don't have to play this match, you know. It's not a bad thing. You're still a kid."

You bite at your cheek to keep silent.

You don't want to admit why you're so desperate to play this match. You don't want to admit why you're so desperate to show off your skills against an elite opponent and, bar Barcelona, Lyon was as elite as it got.

There's Dutch girls on both teams. The same Dutch girls that could potentially be going to the Euros in the summer.

You want to be one of them.

You want to represent the Netherlands in Switzerland this summer. You want to represent your country like your Mama once did.

But you don't want to say it out loud. Because that makes it real. That means your teammates will be looking at you differently. Renée will look at you differently.

You don't want her to be disappointed if you don't make the team.

So you don't voice your wants and you hope and you pray that you're being watched by the Netherlands coaching staff just like you're hoping and praying that you'll get subbed on today.

And then your time comes.

You rush through a warm up and wait for Frida to come off, slapping your palms against hers as you head onto the pitch.

Blood roars in your ears, a steady pumping sound as you jostle around in the box against people nearly double your age and your height.

They practically dwarf you but you're scrappy, twisting and turning and sending the person behind you in the complete opposite direction.

The ball comes in from a corner and then goes flying back up into the air.

Someone jams their whole body weight into your shoulder and you fight to stay upright.

Your head whips up to track the ball and somehow you find yourself in the middle of the group.

There's barely enough space to do anything but somehow your leg extends out.

Your leg extends out and you kick the ball on the volley.

It's like slow motion.

Your touch is a little off, under pressure and acting on instinct, so the ball doesn't quite go where you want it to.

Because it rattles the crossbar, bouncing over the line and into the goal.

You're sprinting to the corner flag before you even realise it, grabbing and shaking it as the excitement bubbles up out of you.

Arms close around your legs and you're lifted up into the air.

Leah's the one holding you, bouncing a little bit as you laugh and try to keep your balance.

"Come on!" Someone else cheers in joy next to you towards the fans, Steph, you think.

Adrenaline pumps through you as Leah finally sets you down onto your feet again. There's head pats and laughter and you're panting like you've run a marathon.

You feel like you've been running for your life with the amount of adrenaline and endorphins running through your system.

There was no doubt throughout the second half that Arsenal would be going to the final.

Your goal in the dying minutes of the match was just the cherry on top.

Through the celebrations, you chance a glance over at the bench.

Renée stands in front of it, the widest smile on her face and you find yourself settling.

"Come on," You laugh with your teammates as they give you head pats and ruffle your hair," We've still got another minute left. Let's just see this one out."

[crochetnerdsworld]

Captain Softie (Leah Williamson X Reader)

Y/N brings her baby niece to visit Leah at training. The team teases Leah for how soft she is for Y/N and the baby. TW: Mentions of drug addiction 

Y/N adjusted the baby carrier one more time as she approached the Arsenal training ground, her six-month-old niece Dakota gurgling happily against her chest. The baby's blue eyes widen as she takes in her surroundings.

Y/N has had sole custody of the little girl since her birth. Y/N's brother, the baby's biological father, is a drug addict and has zero interest in raising the baby. The baby's biological mother, also struggling with addiction and being only twenty, did not feel ready to raise the child, but also felt strongly against the baby being placed into the foster care system. Thus, Y/N stepped up and volunteered to raise her niece. 

She was worried that her longtime girlfriend, Leah, would leave her, but Leah has been amazing since day one, immediately naming herself the baby's favorite auntie. After many months of begging from the team, Leah gave in and suggested bringing Dakota to see the team after training. They've met the baby before, but Dakota has never been to the training center.

"There's my girls," Leah called out as she jogged over, smiling widely at Y/N with that smile that always makes Y/N's heart flutter like crazy. She was still in her training kit, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, but she immediately softened when she saw the baby.

"Hello, baby gooner," Leah cooed, her voice dropping to the gentlest whisper as she stroked Dakota's head. "Aren't you just precious in your little jersey?" 

The moment is interrupted by Beth's voice coming from behind them: "Oh my god. Would you look at our captain? We should start calling her Captain Softie.", 

Soon enough, the entirety of the team had gathered around, and Y/N watched in amusement as Leah completely transformed. The fierce, fiery defender who commanded respect from teammates and opponents alike was now making silly faces and cooing at Dakota, her teammates' growing grins going completely unnoticed. 

"Leah, mate, you're absolutely gone," Kyra chuckled, pulling out her phone to record as Leah freed Dakota from the carrier and began to bounce her in her arms, earning a squeal of delight from the baby. 

"Look at her face!" Alessia whispered to Katie, who was wearing a smirk on her face. "She's completely smitten."

"Our co-captain, everyone," Vic announced dramatically. "Tough as nails on the pitch, but put a baby into the picture, and boom, she turns into a giant puddle of mush."

Leah finally looked up and took in the circle of rather amused faces around her. "What? She's adorable! Look at her little jersey! And those tiny toes!"

"She's only six months old, and you're already planning her future Arsenal academy enrollment, aren't you?" Beth teased.

"Her home-from-the-hospital outfit was an Arsenal onesie," Y/N added, biting back a laugh as Leah's cheeks flushed from embarrassment. 

 "Maybe," she mumbled before turning her attention back to Dakota. "Yes, you're going to be a Gunner, aren't you, sweetheart?" 

"This is hilarious," Steph commented, shaking her head in wonder. "Y/N, you've turned our skipper into absolute mush."

"It's not just the baby," Caitlin pointed out, grinning wickedly. "Look how she goes all soft and mushy whenever Y/N's around anyway."

"That's different!" Leah protested, but her argument was weakened instantly when Dakota grabbed her finger, causing the blonde to immediately melt again. "Oh, look at that grip! You're so strong! Yes, you are!"

"Different how?" Katie pressed, enjoying every second of this. "You reorganized the entire training schedule last week so you could drive Y/N to her appointment."

"And last month, when you missed team dinner because Y/N had a headache?" Emily added.

"Or when you spent an hour researching the best tea for her cold?" Lotte chimed in.

Y/N watched, Leah's blush deepening even further, finding it incredibly endearing how flustered she was becoming. Dakota seemed to sense the attention and let out a happy babble, reaching up and touching Leah's cheek. 

"See? Even the baby knows you've gone all soft for Y/N," Kyra declared victoriously.

"I am not soft," Leah protested half heartedly, but she was smiling as Dakota grasped a strand of her hair. "I'm just... caring."

"Soft," the entire team said in unison, causing Y/N to double over in laughter.

"Alright, alright," Y/N said, taking pity on her red-checked girlfriend. "Leave her alone. There's nothing wrong with being soft now and then," 

Leah shot her a grateful look before turning back to the baby. "Don't listen to them, Dakota. Auntie Leah is very tough and super scary."

Dakota's response?: Blowing a spit bubble, which quickly sent the team into a fresh round of laughter and caused even more cooing from Leah.

"Hopeless," Beth declared, smiling fondly. "Absolutely, 100%, completely hopeless."

As the teasing continued, Y/N caught Leah's eye and mouthed "I love you" over Dakota's head. The soft smile that spread across Leah's face made Y/N's heart warm. She loves that Leah is so soft for her and Dakota. 

"Right then," Leah said eventually, carefully passing Dakota back to Y/N when the baby reached for her. "Who wants to explain to this little angel why Arsenal is the greatest club in the history of the world?"

This causes an immediate and dramatic collective groan from the team, but Y/N noticed they all gathered closer anyway, each taking a turn to say hi to Dakota. And if Leah kept her arm wrapped protectively around Y/N's waist the entire time, well, that was just proof that no matter how much of a tough guy act she can put on, deep down, their captain is just a big softie for her girls. 

[mapiforpresident]

could i please request: leah williamson x single mom reader ( to like a 1 year old) maybe they meet at a cafe and r and leah go on some dates and on one date r is in the middle of telling leah about her daughter “ i have something really important to tell you, i understand if you want to end whatever we have right now when you find out” when she gets a call from the babysitter that her daughter won’t stop crying and she has to go home, so she panics and says she needs to go home so leah offers to drive her and when they get there r just hops out of the car and runs inside leaving the door open so leah slowly walks in behind her and sees her and her daughter

btw i love your writing!

what we don’t say

leah x reader

warnings: daughter

~~~

You didn’t expect much from the coffee shop that day. Just caffeine. A little quiet. Maybe five whole minutes without someone wiping their nose on your shirt or throwing puffs across the floor like confetti.

You loved her. God, you loved her more than anything. But being a single mum to a one-year-old? Exhausting didn’t even begin to cover it.

So yeah, coffee. That’s all you came for.

And then Leah Williamson held the door open for you.

You barely looked up, too busy juggling your bag, your keys, and a sippy cup that somehow always leaked. But she smiled. One of those soft, knowing ones. The kind that didn’t feel performative, just kind.

You smiled back because, well. Have you seen her?

She held the door. Let you go ahead. And then, somehow, ended up behind you in line. And then beside you while you waited. And then leaning in with a little laugh to say, “Don’t worry, I always panic at the till too.”

And maybe you laughed a little too loudly. Or maybe she just liked your laugh. Either way, she asked if she could sit with you. And you said yes before your brain caught up with your mouth.

You didn’t tell her anything real that day. Not your last name. Not what your life looked like. Just that you were tired and the coffee helped and the weather had been a bit shit lately.

She didn’t ask much.

She just made you laugh. And you let yourself feel normal for twenty whole minutes.

That should’ve been it. A one-off thing. A cute story you never told anyone.

But then she showed up again.

And again.

And again.

And suddenly you were texting. Grinning like a fool when her name popped up. Going on walks that turned into lunch. Lunches that turned into “You’re actually really easy to talk to.”

You never meant to let it get this far. You never meant to feel this much.

But she made it so easy.

By the time your third official date rolled around, you knew you had to say something.

You’d been putting it off. Convincing yourself it wasn’t the right time. That it was too soon. That she’d run. That she’d hear the word daughter and suddenly remember she left the oven on.

But she was sitting across from you in that quiet little pub, her eyes soft, her fingers brushing yours over the table like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like there was nowhere else she’d rather be.

And you knew you had to say it.

“I have something I need to tell you,” you said, voice a little too stiff.

Her brows furrowed just slightly, but she didn’t let go of your hand.

“I don’t want to scare you off,” you added quickly. “But I also can’t keep this from you. And I get it if you want to end this once you know. I really do.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but then—

Your phone buzzed.

Loud against the wood of the table.

You glanced down. One look at the name and your stomach dropped.

It was your sitter.

You picked up immediately. “Hey, everything okay?”

The answer was no.

“She won’t stop crying,” your sitter said. “I’ve tried milk, I’ve changed her, I rocked her, everything. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Your heart was already pounding. “I’m on my way.”

You hung up without explaining. Stood up too fast. Grabbed your coat and your phone and—

“I’m sorry. I have to go.”

Leah stood too, her hand on your arm. “Is everything alright?”

You hesitated. “My daughter, my babysitter called, she’s inconsolable and I just, I have to go.”

You didn’t mean to say daughter like that. Like you were dropping a bomb. Like you were bracing for impact.

But you were. Because now she knew.

You didn’t even give her time to respond before you were turning to leave.

“I’ll drive you,” Leah said quickly.

You froze.

“What?”

“Let me drive you. You’re shaking. You’re not going to focus if you’re behind the wheel.”

You looked at her, really looked at her, and her face wasn’t full of judgment. Or panic. Or that polite smile people use when they’re already thinking of their exit.

She just looked worried.

She just looked like she wanted to help.

You barely spoke in the car.

Leah didn’t push. Just kept her hand steady on the wheel, glancing over every now and then to make sure you were okay. She didn’t ask about your daughter. Didn’t ask why you’d never mentioned her. Just drove, quiet and steady.

When she pulled up to your place, you barely managed to say thank you before you were already out the door.

You didn’t even shut it behind you.

Leah got out slowly, unsure if she should follow. The door was still open, and the panic in your eyes was still fresh in her mind.

So she stepped inside.

And there you were.

In the middle of your small living room, down on your knees, holding a wailing little girl to your chest. Rocking back and forth with your eyes squeezed shut and your voice whispering “shh, shh, mummy’s here, it’s okay now.”

Leah froze in the doorway.

You didn’t notice her at first. Too focused. Too overwhelmed. Too caught in that instinct that only comes when someone’s whole world is crying in your arms.

But when your daughter’s cries started to soften, when her fingers clutched the fabric of your shirt and her head tucked into your neck, you finally looked up.

And Leah was still there.

Quiet. Hesitant. But still there.

“I didn’t mean for you to find out like this,” you said softly.

Leah stepped forward, just a bit. Her eyes locked on the little girl now hiccuping against your chest. “She’s beautiful.”

You blinked. “You’re not… freaked out?”

She smiled, small and genuine. “A little surprised. Not freaked out.”

You shifted, one arm still cradling your daughter. “I was going to tell you tonight. Before the call. I just… didn’t want to scare you off.”

Leah took another step. “She’s your daughter. That’s not scary. That’s honestly kind of amazing.”

You blinked again. “Really?”

“Yeah,” she said, then crouched a little so she wasn’t towering over you both. “And now I get why you always smell like baby wipes.”

You laughed, soft and surprised, and your daughter stirred a little, her sleepy eyes cracking open to look at the new person in the room.

Leah smiled at her. “Hey, sweetheart.”

And your daughter… smiled back.

Small. Wobbly. But real.

And you felt something shift in your chest.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Leah said quietly, eyes still on your daughter. “If you’ll let me stay.”

You swallowed hard.

And nodded.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I think I’d like that.”

And maybe it wasn’t how you planned it.

But maybe, just maybe, it was exactly how it was meant to happen.

[killerplink]

SPRAWL

Pairing: Roy Harper x Female Reader

Plot: lazy mornings with Roy always start slow—coffee, cigarettes, and soft kisses. but you're half naked in his shirt, he's hard, and neither of you has any patience

Words: 7,8k

It's the sunlight that wakes you first, warm and slow across your legs, the bedsheets rumpled low on your thighs. You stretch a little under the weight of him, blinking the sleep from your eyes, and smile when you realize he's draped half over you like a big, clingy human furnace.

Roy's still asleep. Or close to it, anyway. One arm is slung across your waist, heavy and lazy, his fingertips curled just under the hem of the shirt you'd stolen from him last night like you always do. His face is buried somewhere between your neck and the pillow, warm breath tickling your skin.

He's only wearing boxers—hadn't even bothered with a proper pair of sweats—and you're in nothing but his old t-shirt, soft from too many washes, riding up too high on your thighs. Neither of you had the energy for much after last night's shared shower, anyway; you barely dried off before crawling into bed and knocking out mid flop.

You shift a little, just enough to adjust the tangled sheets, and his arm tightens instinctively like he can sense you trying to slip away.

"Mmhmm... stay."

His voice is rough with sleep, gravelly and low, and it rumbles against your shoulder more than anything. You hum and turn your head, brushing your nose against his soft hair before kissing his forehead.

"You gonna wake up eventually, or just keep crushing me like a weighted blanket?"

"Warm weighted blanket," he mutters, nuzzling into you with a sleepy smirk. "With abs. What's not to love?"

You laugh softly and let your hand drift up into his hair, fingers threading through the messy strands. He doesn't open his eyes, but he shifts again, this time slotting his hips more snugly against your leg. The heat of his body, the brush of his skin on yours, the low groan in the back of his throat, it all starts to melt into something messier, lazier, hungrier, but that always happens with him.

He finally lifts his head, red hair sticking up at every angle, eyes still half lidded as he reaches across you to grab the pack of cigarettes off the nightstand. The arm that stays around you slides a little lower on your body, possessive and unhurried.

"Really? Gonna smoke in bed now?" you huff, arching a brow as he taps one out and sticks it between his lips.

"Just one. Morning ritual."

He lights it, inhales slow, eyes locked on you as he exhales toward the ceiling. Then he shifts, leans in with a little smirk and a hand sliding up your bare thigh. "You want some, trouble?"

You nod, already reaching out to wrap your fingers around his wrist as he holds the cigarette steady. He watches you through sleepy eyes, smirking just a little as you take the drag, because you know damn well he's watching your mouth. You hold it for a second before blowing the smoke out smooth, letting it curl between your lips like you've done this with him a dozen times before. Because you have.

After a beat, you slide out from under the covers without a word.

"Baby," he throws his hands up, voice still scratchy with sleep, "where are you goin'?"

You giggle, glancing over your shoulder as you pad toward the doorway. "I'm just gonna make some coffee, dummy. Wasn't that part of the morning ritual too?"

You make sure to flash just the barest hint of ass before smoothing the hem of his t-shirt down again. Not enough to satisfy, just enough to tease, and God, the little sound he makes in response is so worth it.

The kitchen is quiet, sunlight spilling in through the windows like honey. You move through it barefoot, still warm from the bed, and start prepping like it's routine—because it is. You grab the good beans, the dark roast Roy actually likes but forgets he likes unless you make it for him, and load up the machine.

A few minutes later, your mug is already sitting there, coffee simple and black, just how you take it. No frills, no nonsense. His, though? That's a whooole thing. You pour his strong and dark, then dump in that ridiculous creamer he insists "just makes it taste better".

You stir it all together until it's the color of caramel, with just a little bit of froth on top. It smells way too sweet for a man who used to eat MREs on rooftops, but oh well, he's a complicated guy.

With the two mugs in hand, you head back to the bedroom, and God, there he is.

Still sprawled across the bed like he owns the damn thing—back against the headboard, legs stretched out, cigarette balanced between his fingers, smoke curling lazy in the sunlight. His red hair is a mess, and the tattoos on his chest and arms are on full display. He looks like fucking sin and comfort and home all rolled into one.

"You look good like that," you murmur as you step back into the room, handing him his mug.

Roy takes it from you with a grin, eyes dipping low to trace the line of your legs as you set yours on the nightstand and crawl back into bed.

"Yeah? Thought you liked me better underneath you, baby."

"I do," you shrug.

"Yeah?" he says, lazy and amused, eyes locked on your face.

You don't even get a second to nod before his arm snakes around your waist and suddenly you're yelping, a little squeak catching in your throat as he pulls you right into his lap. Your thighs part instinctively to straddle him, and you feel him shift beneath you—adjusting the angle, the position, just so—until his dick is nestled perfectly between your folds, already hard and hot through the cotton.

"Jesus, Roy—" you slap his chest, a soft, playful thud against muscle and ink.

"That's better," he nods, one hand sliding up the back of your thigh to palm your ass. "My pretty girl deserves a good seat in the morning."

You roll your eyes, trying to keep up the act, but you don't budge an inch. Roy stretches, reaching over to grab your mug off the nightstand with one hand while the other stays possessively on your ass. He hands it to you with a little scrunch of his nose, his expression one of pure judgement.

Roy watches you sip, but he looks like he's personally offended. "I don't know how you can drink it like that, baby," he mutters, flicking ash into the tray on the nightstand.

You raise a brow, deadpan. "Says the guy who dumps a criminal amount of sugar and creamer into it and still calls it coffee."

He just shrugs, all cocky and unbothered. "Tastes like a fuckin' dessert. I like it."

You purse your lips, take another sip, then look at him out the corner of your eye with that familiar, playful look, and he knows what it means.

He grins, brings the cigarette to your lips without a word, and you take a drag, deep and lazy, and when you exhale the smoke, you hum sweetly and purr, "Good boy."

That gets him instantly. And fuck, do you feel it—the twitch of his cock under you, pressing up against your pussy like it heard you first.

Your cunt clenches around nothing in response, slick already smearing the front of his boxers. Roy huffs a breath through his nose, grinning around the cigarette as he plucks it from his mouth and puts it out in the ashtray.

"Oh, trouble, you're so fuckin' lucky I like bein' praised."

He takes the mug from your hand with a little smirk, setting it down next to his on the nightstand like it's an afterthought—because right now, it is. What matters is you, perched in his lap, pretty and hot and so fucking wet for him already.

Both hands grab your ass, rough and greedy, fingers digging into soft flesh like he needs to feel all of you. And then he ruts up into you, lazy and slow, his cock thick under the damp cotton, sliding against your pussy and fuck, you're soaked, the friction dragging a little moan out of you before you can stop it.

Your hands flatten against his chest, fingertips brushing across the ink and muscle like you've done a thousand times before.

You lean in close, close enough to feel his breath on your mouth, your lips barely ghosting over his as you murmur with a grin, "Do you, baby?"

He hisses through his teeth, and that cocky little smile vanishes. The slap lands before you even register his hand moving, right across your ass, just enough sting to make you gasp, and you jerk against him, nails biting into his chest.

"Fuckin' brat," he mutters, low and wrecked, and then his other hand is in your hair, tangled up at the nape of your neck as he pulls you in, mouth crashing into yours.

The kiss is filthy, messy, soaked in want and need. His tongue slides right against yours, teeth catching on your bottom lip just to make you whimper, spit mixing as he devours you. He grinds up into you the whole time—slow, rough rolls of his hips that drag his cock against your slit, the wet patch between you growing hotter, stickier with every pass. You're panting into his mouth, rocking your hips to match the rhythm, desperate to get more, to get him inside already.

But Roy's greedy. He kisses like he's trying to fuck you with his mouth first, like if he licks deep enough, bites hard enough, you'll fall apart before his dick ever gets inside.

Your thighs tremble around his hips, breath caught in your throat when he sucks your tongue into his mouth like he can't stand not tasting every inch of you. One hand is still in your hair, the other gripping your ass, pressing you down harder against his dick.

"Feel that, baby?" he murmurs between kisses, "so fuckin' hard for you it hurts."

You moan his name, soft and sweet like it slips out without thinking—"Roy..."—and it's enough to make him hum like the sound alone gets him off.

"What's wrong, baby?" he says, lips brushing yours, smug and soft and fuck does he know. "Need somethin'?"

You nod, eyes fluttering, grinding down against the thick ridge of his cock, catching it right between your soaked folds. The friction makes you whimper, makes your thighs tense. He groans, dragging you closer with a tight grip on your ass, greedy fingers kneading like he's feeling you lose it.

"Yeah?" he breathes, "What do you need, trouble?"

You stutter, breath catching as you rock against him again, more slick sticking to his boxers. "Y-your... your dick, baby. Please."

And God, the way his lips part around a chuckle, like he lives for you begging like that. And it kinda shows, because you sound so fucking sweet when you're whining for his dick. Ever since the first time he heard you beg, he's been feral every single time you do it.

"Yeah?" he murmurs, voice rough. "Then take it, sweet girl. It's right there."

You moan, dragging your hands down between you, lifting your hips so you can shove the waistband of his boxers down, just enough to free his cock. And there it is: heavy, thick, flushed along the shaft with veins you can already feel, sticky with precum just from grinding against your pussy.

It's long enough to make your mouth water, girthy enough that your thighs twitch around him, and he's got a slight curve, the kind that hits just right every fucking time without even trying. From the very first time he fucked you, you've been addicted—completely gone for it—because it's hands down the best dick you've ever had.

But before you can even sink down onto him like your body is screaming to, he grabs your hips and drags you back down, cock slipping between your folds again, grinding slowly against your pussy.

"I want you to cum like this first," he says, low and mean and sweet all at once, eyes half lidded and fixed on your face because he knows you'll obey.

You whine, high and breathy, and your first instinct is to argue, to tell him you need him inside already. But really, you should've expected this because Roy's a little shit in the morning. Teases you when you're soft and pliant, makes you work for it with that smug ass smile and those hands that never stop grabbing and guiding and owning.

So you don't protest. You just whimper as his cock slides through your folds, catching on your swollen clit, dragging slick from tip to base. You're soaked, leaving his dick shiny with it, making the drag dirtier, the grind deeper.

You lean in again, lips parted, and he meets you halfway, tongue already pushing into your mouth like he needs more of you. The kiss is slower, wetter, lips parting and meeting again with sloppy little sounds as your hips roll over his cock and your cunt starts clenching down on nothing. His tongue licks into you deep, breath ragged as he keeps grinding your pussy against him, and you swear you could cum just like this, just from the pressure, the mess, the weight of it all.

"Fuckin' hot," he murmurs into your mouth. "So fuckin' wet for me. You gonna make a mess on my dick, baby?"

Your moans are getting higher, whimpers spilling past your lips with every grind, every wet little slide of your pussy over his cock. You're soaked—fucking drenched—and it's loud, those slick little noises echoing in the room, obscene and shameless and so goddamn perfect that Roy swears under his breath.

"Fuck, listen to you," he rasps, hands gripping your ass as he rocks you down harder. "You hear that? That's you makin' a mess on my dick."

Your thighs are shaking, hips stuttering, and he knows you're close. He knows your body like his own fucking name, knows how you fall apart when he talks like that, touches you just right, kisses you like you're his whole fucking world. So he gives it to you, everything you need like he always does.

"That's it, pretty thing," he coos, eyes locked to your face. "That's my good fuckin' girl."

Your breath shudders and your hips jolt forward, and that's when he knows—you're gone, right on the edge, barely holding on.

But he's had enough of the fabric in the way. With one tug, he yanks the shirt up and over your head, tossing it somewhere on the floor without looking, too busy staring at you, bare and flushed and whimpering on top of him. One hand comes up to grab at your tits, thumb swiping over your nipple as his other slides up to squeeze and tease the other.

You lean back just enough to give him more to see, bracing yourself on his thighs, your nails digging into his skin as you grind your pussy over his cock, messier, needier, slick just everywhere. He watches the way your folds spread around the thick head of his dick, how your clit catches with every pass, sees the way you're using him, and it does something to him.

He moans, low and rough. "Jesus, baby... look at you."

And fuck, he loves seeing you like this. Loves how you never hold back, how you've been bold from the very beginning, if he's being honest. From the moment you straddled his lap for the first time and whispered filthy shit in his ear like you owned him. From that first kiss, with that pretty mouth that could ruin a man, looking him dead in the eyes and telling him you were gonna ride him until he couldn't walk. And you did.

That boldness? That fire? It still wrecks him. Because you're here, back arched, tits in his hands, soaking his dick with every grind, desperate and flushed and fucked out and somehow still in control. Using him to get yourself off like it's your right, like he's yours to ruin. And he fucking is.

"You gonna cum for me like this, baby?" he breathes, voice wrecked. "Gonna make a mess on my dick before I even get it inside you?"

"Y-yeah," you whimper, voice all breathless and trembling as your hips grind harder, rougher, rubbing your clit against the thick, slippery slide of his cock.

"Yeah?" Roy breathes, and there's that little cocky tilt to his voice again, low and smug and wrecked at the same time.

His chest is heaving hard, his hands are still on your tits, and then he pinches your nipples, thumbs rolling the peaks between his fingers, just the way you like, just how he knows it drives you crazy, and it's over.

Your mouth drops open on a gasp, a moan caught in your throat as your body jolts—hips stuttering forward, thighs trembling as your pussy clenches hard around nothing and you cum, just like that, soaking his dick in a hot, messy wave. Slick coats his cock, spreads down his shaft, makes it filthier, wetter as you keep grinding through it, riding it out like you can't stop.

You're panting, keening, nails biting into his thighs, tits bouncing under his hands as your whole body shakes through it, and Roy is fucking feral underneath you—watching, feeling, losing it.

Because your pussy when you cum? It's fucking unreal. Hot and soaked and clenching so hard like it's desperate for more, like she's trying to pull him in. And he fucking wants it. Wants to feel that perfect, velvety heat wrapped around him, wants to give you more, give you everything until you can't breathe.

But first he lets you have it. Lets you take your pleasure, lets you ruin his dick with it, lets you rub your sweet little cunt on him until you've wrung yourself out.

And then you lean in again, lips finding his, and it's not gentle. It's hungry, hot and wet and messy as fuck, your mouth moving over his with tongue and teeth, licking into him like he's the only thing you'll ever need. You're moaning into his mouth and he's groaning back, grabbing your ass with both hands and dragging you flush against him, fingers flexing hard enough to bruise.

Then you lift just enough—just barely—and Roy doesn't hesitate because he already knows what you want. One hand wraps around the base of his cock, soaked and slick and so fucking hard it aches, and he lines it up, eyes locked to yours, lips still brushing.

He pushes in, slow and deep, stretching your pussy open inch by thick inch. And God damn it, you're so wet. He sinks in with no resistance, just warm, wet heat and the sloppy sound of your cunt sucking him in. The stretch burns just a little, but it melts into that delicious, overwhelming fullness that makes your breath catch, makes your pussy flutter around him.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, jaw clenched tight, eyes locked on your face. "Greedy little pussy, still squeezin' me like you didn't just cum."

But he swears he's never getting used to this. To the way you take him like you were made for it, the way your soaked pussy hugs every damn inch of his dick like it's yours. Because it is.

You start to move, hips rolling in a teasing rhythm as you begin to bounce on his dick real slow, taking every thick inch inside you. You both moan like you can't help it, like it's a relief to be connected this way, hot and tight and right where you belong. Your fingers find his shoulders, nails pressing in just a little, and Roy groans as his hands squeeze your hips, guiding your movements, making sure you take it deep every time.

"That's it, baby," he murmurs, voice all rough and sweet and ruined. "Just like that. Ride me slow, sweet girl. Let me feel that pretty little pussy."

Your lips brush his, teasing a little, and then—fuck it—you lean in and kiss him again. It's lazy and messy and hot, your mouths moving together like you've done this a hundred times and still can't get enough. His tongue slides against yours, slow and deep, like he's fucking you with his mouth too, tasting every moan you give him.

And God, the way you fuck him—it's not just bouncing, it's grinding down on every stroke, rolling your hips to make sure he hits just the right spot, just the way you like it. That slow build kind of fuck that's all heat and slick and needy little moans. His dick is so hard inside you, every stretch, every grind, every lazy bounce melting your thoughts into nothing. Because you fucking love Roy.

That smart ass grin, that cocky voice that goes soft when he talks to you. The way he's always got your back, always calls you his girl, the way he smokes like it's a personality trait but still puts the cigarette out the second you get needy. The way he holds you when you're falling asleep, the way he fucks you like this like he knows your body inside out and wants to ruin it with love every damn time.

He's it, you're sure of it. He's the love of your life. But his dick? Yeah, that's a very nice bonus.

Because it's thick, heavy, hot as fuck, and it hits that spot deep inside you every single time without even trying. You swear he was made for this—for you. Fills you up just right, keeps you stuffed and clenching and soaking wet, makes you feel every inch of him like your pussy can't get enough.

And the way he watches you ride him? Fuck, it makes you feel like the hottest thing he's ever seen.

"Look at you," he murmurs against your lips, panting. "Takin' my dick so good."

You sit upright as you bounce on his cock, planting your hands on his chest to steady yourself, and the second your body lifts—just a little, just enough to show him the mess between your thighs—you know he's looking. His eyes drop like gravity yanked them there, locked in on the way your pussy clings to his dick, and the groan he lets out? Low, rough, wrecked.

"Fuck..." head dropping back against the headboard for a second like it's too much. "You see that? Pussy so wet I can hear it, baby... you're fuckin' unreal."

Sticky little strings of slick stretch between your folds and the base of his dick every time you lift yourself up, and then you drop back down with a wet smack, taking him all the way to the hilt. Again. And again. Real slow, real messy. And every single time, he grabs at your waist like he's trying to ground himself, like if he doesn't touch you, he might lose his mind completely.

You moan, low and needy, because you can feel it too—every thick, aching drag of his cock through your soaked, fluttering cunt, each wet slide making your back arch. The stretch is obscene, just the right kind of hurt, and every blunt push against your sweet spot makes your belly twist tight and your legs tremble like you're about to break.

And God, you love being on top of him. You love the way he looks at you, all flushed cheeks and hazy eyes, arms tense from holding back, like he's one second away from flipping you over and pounding into you but is so fucking obsessed with the way you ride him that he won't.

You love how he watches your cunt like he's starving. You feel powerful—his, but in control, using him, soaking him, giving him the best fucking view imaginable. His cock sinks inside you over and over again, and he moans every single time, like it gets better each time your pussy swallows him whole.

"Goddamn," he pants, thumbing at your waist, squeezing the flesh there like he needs to feel you everywhere. "You ridin' me like you missed this dick since last night, pretty thing. Missed me fillin' this sloppy little pussy up?"

You whimper, your thighs shaking from how slow and hot the pace is, how fucking full you feel, and his dick just drags through all that slick heat like he owns it. Because he does.

You're soaked for him, dripping all over his lap, and you can feel it building again, that pressure curling low in your belly, tighter and tighter with every bounce, every grind, every filthy word he moans.

You start pausing every few thrusts, rolling your hips in lazy, slow circles on his cock, grinding on him just to watch him lose his fucking mind. You know exactly what you're doing, dragging your soaked pussy over every inch, clenching around him just a little tighter every time he twitches inside you, giving him that perfect squeeze that makes his eyes roll back.

Roy hisses, hands flexing on your waist like he still can't believe how good your pussy feels wrapped around his dick. He groans your name like a prayer, hips jerking up into you helplessly, chasing the friction like he's seconds from snapping.

"Fuck, baby. That's it... That's so good. Keep goin', just like that," he pants.

He leans in, mouth hot on your neck, dragging his tongue up the sensitive skin before kissing and licking and sucking hard enough to make you gasp. He groans into your throat, lips open, messy, leaving hickeys without a second thought, claiming you all over again like you're not already his.

He bites down just enough to make it sting, then soothes it with his tongue, sucking until it blooms dark under his mouth. One, then another, and another—he's marking you like it gets him off, like he wants you wincing every time you look in the mirror.

"You're fuckin' perfect," he mutters against your skin, hot breath making you shiver. "Gonna mark you up everywhere, sweet girl. Wanna see it later all over you."

You whimper, clenching around his dick, and he groans again, licking his way down, wet kisses and teeth on your chest until he gets to your tits. He doesn't hesitate—takes one in his mouth, tongue flicking fast over your nipple before he sucks hard, pulling the soft flesh between his lips. His other hand comes up, pinching and rolling the other nipple between his fingers, and your back arches on instinct, a sharp moan falling out of you.

"Oh God... Roy—"

He bites gently, licks, then sucks again, groaning low in his throat like your tits are his favorite fucking thing in the world. And honestly, they probably are, second only to your pussy.

"You're so good, trouble," he growls against your skin, mouth trailing slick and spit over your tits. "Fuckin' love watchin' you ride me."

"I'm so close," you moan, voice all high and wrecked, "Baby, please—"

He smirks against your nipple, that cocky little shit eating grin you should've seen coming, then lets his hand slide down between your bodies. He finds your clit easy—so swollen, so fucking needy—and starts rubbing you in tight, fast circles. The kind of touch that makes your thighs shake, makes your walls clench harder around his dick as you start to bounce a little faster, harder, chasing that high with every grind and thrust.

Roy's mouth never leaves your tits, licking and sucking and biting until your whole body is on fire. His other hand stays locked on your waist, dragging you down onto his cock with each bounce like he needs to feel you take every inch.

"You gonna cum for me, baby?" he groans, licking over your nipple before sucking it back into his mouth. "Gonna soak my dick like a good fuckin' girl?"

"Y-Yeah," you whimper, nodding fast, your voice all breathy and high.

Roy smirks, not even trying to hide how much he loves you like this, all flushed and fucked out, tits bouncing with every needy grind of your hips, your slick making a mess of his cock. He leans back in again, mouth greedy as he sucks another bruise onto the soft swell of your chest, groaning against your skin like he lives for the way you whimper when he does it.

"Yeah, sweet girl?" he murmurs, low and filthy, voice rough from sleep and lust and love, dragging his tongue along your chest before burying his whole face between your tits.

His stubble scrapes just enough to make your toes curl as he licks a long, hot stripe up the middle. His cock twitches deep inside you as he looks you over—your tits flushed and wet, your cunt squeezing him so tight, your lips parted as you ride that edge, right there.

You can't even think, can't fucking breathe as he finally pulls back, settling against the headboard again like he's gonna sit back and watch the show. But his fingers never stop moving. Still rubbing your clit in tight, perfect circles, matching the slow, sloppy rhythm of your hips as you fuck yourself on his cock.

And it's too much. Too good. Your head falls back, mouth open on a moan as it hits you—hard.

Your orgasm crashes over you, full body and intense, every nerve lit up. Your pussy clenches around him like a vice, hot and soaked, making his cock slick with your release. It's messy, loud, your hips jerking, thighs trembling as your voice spills into the room, gasps and whimpers and helpless little sobs of his name.

You swear you black out for a second, every muscle trembling, overstimulated and wrung out and soaked as you ride it out on his dick.

Roy's still rubbing your clit because he knows just how far to push you, how to toe that perfect line between pleasure and ruin.

You whimper, twitching in his lap, your body jolting every time his thumb circles over your swollen clit. "R-Roy—it's—fuck, baby, it's too much—"

It is too much. You're too sensitive, nerves all shot and overstimulated but it still feels so good, so raw and wet and filthy. He knows exactly what you need, exactly how to wreck you and put you back together in the same breath.

"I've got you," he murmurs, eyes locked on your cunt grinding against his dick, lips parted like he can't even believe how hot you look falling apart for him, every fucking time. "That's my girl."

He gives you a little break—just a little—fingers slipping away from your soaked clit, letting you breathe for all of two seconds before smacking your ass hard enough to make you jolt with a cry. The sting blooms hot and sharp, and you barely get to whimper before his big hand stays right there, gripping a handful of your ass.

His other hand snakes into your hair, fingers tangling tight as he yanks you down, crashing your mouth against his in a kiss that's nothing but teeth and tongue and filthy, desperate need. You moan into him, gasping against his mouth as he finally starts to pound up into you, hard and deep, his cock slamming into your soaked pussy like he's been holding back this whole time just to ruin you right.

And fuck, he does. He fucks you like he's starved for it, like he's been waiting all morning for this exact moment, for the chance to make your thighs shake and your brain melt right out of your pretty little head.

Every thrust hits home, hard and brutal and so fucking deep you swear you feel it in your gut. His hips smack up into yours, skin on skin, wet and obscene, echoing off the walls like porn you don't even remember putting on.

Your slick is everywhere—dripping down your thighs, clinging to his cock, stringing sticky between your bodies every time his hips slam into yours and pull back. You're babbling into his mouth, little gasped out curses and moans, your nails dragging down his chest like you're trying to hold on to something while he fucks you dumb.

And he loves it. Loves how messy you are for him, how wet, how your pussy sucks him right back in.

"Goddamn, baby," he pants against your lips. "You're so fuckin' tight—takin' it so good for me."

He shifts his angle just a little and Jesus, it hits something that makes you cry out loud, your whole body twitching as your pussy clamps down around him like it's already trying to cum again. He groans, eyes rolling a little as his hips stutter, but he doesn't stop. Just fucks you harder. Deeper. Filthier.

You cry out, the kiss breaking as your head drops to his shoulder, too overwhelmed to even keep up. Every thrust rocks through you, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the room, your slick making it so easy for him to fuck in deep, the thick stretch of his cock dragging against your fluttering walls with every thrust. He moans into your neck, biting a little, panting into your skin, and you're just... gone.

He's losing it too, jaw clenched, muscles flexing, cock buried balls deep. You're so fucking wet, so tight, your whimpers and sobs against his neck making his hips snap up faster, harder, your cunt swallowing his dick again and again.

Fuck, he's close. All he can think about is how perfect you are, how good you've been for him this morning. Letting him take his time. Letting him tease. Letting him wreck you. He loves you like this, sloppy and sensitive, still shaking from your last orgasm but grinding down like you need another one.

"You gonna take it for me, sweet girl?" he pants, voice hot and filthy in your ear. "Gonna let me cum in that pretty pussy? Fill you up real good?"

God, he knows you will. You always do.

Because you're his, and your pussy was just made to take his cock like this—so desperate, so perfect, fucking down on him like you'd die if he didn't pump you full and give you every last drop.

All he can think about is how good you feel wrapped around his cock, how you always take him so well, even when you're shaking, even when you're crying, even when he's fucking you rough and deep and you're clawing at him like it's too much, but you never tell him to stop. You just take it, like a good girl. Like his good girl.

And you? Your mind is not even working anymore. Just one messy, broken loop of yes, yes, yes, please, need it, hips grinding down faster, sharper, chasing it with everything you've got. You want his cum. Need it. Want to feel it spilling out of you after. Want him to keep it inside you, kiss you through it, tell you what a good girl you are while he's still stretching you open and making a mess.

You're so fucking close again. And so is he.

His thrusts get all sloppy and desperate, hips jerking up into your soaked pussy with no rhythm anymore, just this raw, needy push of his cock trying to bury itself as deep as it can go. You whimper, mouth falling open against his skin, nails sinking into his chest, because you know that twitch, you know that exact second right before he cums.

"Shit—" he gasps, voice all rough and broken as he slams up into you one last time and stays there, buried to the hilt, deep and thick and so hot as he finally cums.

And oh fuck, it's so much. You feel every pulse of his cock inside you, every thick rope of cum spilling into your already soaked cunt, so deep you swear you can feel it paint your insides. And just like always—just like every damn time he cums inside you—you cum too. Doesn't matter if it's your first orgasm or the fifth, the second his dick twitches like that inside you, you're done.

You shake for him, whole body trembling as your pussy flutters and squeezes around his cock, sucking every drop out of him. Your hips twitch helplessly, stuck in that sweet, wet aftershock while he keeps you seated on his cock, his hands gripping your ass, strong and sure, keeping you right there—it's too much. Too perfect.

He's moaning for you, head tipped back, jaw clenched, sweat slick on his skin, muttering your name, telling you, "Fuck—good girl, such a good fuckin' girl for me," like the words can ground him.

Your face stays buried in his shoulder, gasping through it, barely holding yourself up, just moaning soft little sounds as you milk his dick with every squeeze of your pussy, rubbing your clit against his skin to ride it out, desperate for every last wave.

He stills deep inside, just like he always does, just so you can feel every twitch, every pulse, the way he stays thick and hard while his cum leaks around him and drips from your fucked open cunt. You both sit in it, gasping, trembling, the only sounds in the room your ragged breathing and the occasional, broken moan when you shift and squeeze him without meaning to.

You lift your head, and he's already looking at you—sweaty hair stuck to his forehead, lips parted, eyes soft in that fucked out, love high way that makes your heart ache.

Your lips part for him like it's second nature and he's there, meeting you halfway, his mouth soft but starving, dragging a low moan from your throat the second his tongue brushes yours. It's not rushed, not frantic, not even about sex anymore. It's just you and him, clinging to each other, greedy for closeness, for the taste of each other on swollen lips.

You tilt your head and kiss him deeper, tongue stroking slow against his, wet and unhurried. He groans into it, low and warm, and you feel it buzz in your chest like it belongs there. His hands stay on your ass and your waist, big and strong and a little shaky as they anchor you in place while your body molds to his, still sticky and full and flushed.

He kisses like he touches—possessive, filthy, loving. His mouth fits to yours with the kind of heat that makes you forget how to breathe, your fingers curling into the messy strands of his red hair as you moan into the kiss, thighs trembling from the aftershocks still rolling through your body.

He licks into your mouth like he owns it, like he knows you'll let him have anything he wants and more, and fuck, he's not wrong. You let him take and take, let him press you down against his chest as his tongue drags over yours slow and slick and hot because you know he gives just as much, always has.

Every wet drag of your mouths makes your pussy throb around his still hard cock, makes more of his cum leak out and drip down his skin, and he moans into the kiss at the feeling of it, at the warmth of your cunt keeping him soaked and buried deep.

You kiss like that for minutes. Just gentle and messy, tongues brushing, sighs slipping out between every press of your lips. The kind of kiss that says mine, even when neither of you say a word.

He sucks on your tongue a little, lets his teeth scrape your bottom lip, like he's tasting you just because he can. And every time you breathe out a soft little moan, he kisses you deeper, hungrier, like he needs it—like he needs you—his hands tightening on your hips like he might pull you in closer still.

When you finally break away, you don't go far, just collapse against his chest with a sleepy little exhale, your nose nuzzling into his neck. He's still inside you, still hard and hot and keeping his cum nice and deep where it belongs, and God, you love that. Always did.

His arms slowly wrap around you, his grip loosening just enough so you can settle into him without losing the closeness. His palms drag up and down your back in lazy strokes, fingertips catching on your sweaty skin but so gently. You feel him nuzzle into your messy hair, lips brushing your temple, soft and warm.

"Good, trouble?" he murmurs, voice worn down to that low, rough rasp you love.

You hum, a sleepy little "Mhmm," brushing your nose along his pulse point before pressing a soft, lingering kiss where his heart hammers under his skin.

It's sweet and lazy, nothing like the filthy mess you just made together, but that's the thing about Roy. He can rip you apart one second, then hold you together in the next.

Even with everything he's been through, all the darkness he's dragged himself out of, he still loves like hell—fierce and full and without hesitation. Like he's got something to prove, or maybe like he finally found something worth keeping.

And the truth is, he has. He knows it. You're it. You're the one who never flinched when you saw the mess, who took all his sharp edges and called them yours. So when he holds you like this, it's not just softness. It's a promise, one he plans on keeping.

You stay like that for a while, bodies tangled up, breaths slowing down, just feeling each other. The sticky warmth between your legs, his cock still nestled deep, the steady beat of his heart beneath yours.

He's quiet, fingertips skimming your back in slow, lazy circles, grounding you without a word. That's how he always is—fuck the soul out of you first, then piece you back together with nothing but soft touches and a steady hold.

He doesn't always say it, not out loud, but this is how he loves. In the way he keeps you close, the way he never pulls out too soon, the way he makes sure you feel safe, feel wanted, feel his.

Eventually, Roy stretches out with a lazy groan, reaching toward the nightstand for his pack. He barely gets the cigarette between his lips before you lift yourself up on his chest, all smug, and steal it right out of his mouth.

"Hey," he grunts, eyebrows raising before his palm smacks your ass again, less rough this time but still enough to make you jolt and giggle. "You little trouble."

You grin, licking his lower lip as you purr, "You looove me."

Another playful slap lands on your ass, his hand staying there after, kneading the warm skin possessively.

"I do," he mutters without missing a beat, that soft affection bleeding into his voice, all sincerity wrapped in that cocky Roy Harper tone.

Your chest flutters with it, but all you do is bat your lashes before he takes the lighter with his free hand, flicking it and bringing it to your cigarette, watching your face the whole time as you take the first drag, eyes half lidded, his own gaze soaked in adoration.

"Jesus," he says quietly, the barest hint of a grin tugging at his lips as you exhale slow, smoke curling into the warm air. "You're gonna be the death of me, y'know that?"

You smirk, placing the cigarette between his lips this time, giving him exactly what he wants back without even making him ask. "Worth it."

You sigh, all soft and content as you slowly sit upright on his lap, making a little pleased noise at the shift of his cock still tucked inside you. He groans under his breath, eyes flickering to your pussy, all wet and wrecked and full of him.

You hum like nothing is wrong, reaching lazily toward the nightstand for your coffee mug. It's only slightly warm now, but you take a sip anyway, licking your lips as you catch him watching you again with that filthy, soft kind of hunger only you ever get.

Then—just to be a brat—you roll your hips in a slow, slow circle, grinding down on his dick like you didn't just cum three times and soak him completely.

He hisses, head falling back against the headboard as he mutters, "Fuckin'—"

You giggle, sipping your coffee again as you tilt your head, all fake innocence and mischief. "Sensitive, baby?"

He growls low in his chest, one hand grabbing your hip. "Don't push it, pretty thing."

Your stomach growls, loud and rude in the sticky silence of the bedroom. You pause, blink, and then snort into your half warm coffee while Roy grins beneath you, all smug.

He gives your hip a squeeze as he says, "Wanna make breakfast, trouble?"

You set your mug down with a little clink, tilting your head as you smirk down at him. "Only if you bend me over the kitchen counter while I make it."

He groans loud, real dramatic with it too, throwing his head back and dragging his hand down your thigh like he's already imagining it. "Fuck, you tryna kill me? Breakfast's gonna take a while."

You giggle as you grind your hips down just enough to make him twitch inside you again, giving him your best sweet little shrug. "You could just say no, baby."

"I could," he grumbles, sliding his hand up your body and letting his thumb trace over your tits again, "but then I'd miss out on watchin' you try to flip pancakes with my dick buried in you."

You bite your lip, leaning down close enough to brush your nose against his. "I'd do it. I'd make them fluffy too."

"Of course you would," he mutters, kissing you, already halfway to dragging you off the bed and into the kitchen.

And well... breakfast did take a while because apparently, it's really fucking hard to flip pancakes when your man's pounding into you from behind.

[holyblonded]

number 5 | paige bueckers

pairings: paige bueckers x reader, arsenal wfc x reader

summary: arsenal’s star girl and the new point guard for the dallas wings cross paths

notes: this was requested! i actually struggle writing romance so much also i did fabricate the scores a little…

You were born to be a star. Or at least that’s what everyone told you from the moment you could walk. You excelled at every sport you tried, basketball, tennis, track, but football stuck. Something about the ball at your feet, the way it seemed like an extension of your body, just made sense. Running up and down the field, the burn in your legs, the weight of a perfect pass, the sweet crack of a shot hitting the back of the net, it grounded you in a way nothing else ever did.

So when you were ten and got an invitation to try out for Arsenal’s Centre of Excellence, it was no surprise. Your mom scraped together every penny she had, bought two plane tickets, and told you to make it count. You balled out. There was no other way to put it. From that day on, you wore red and white like it was stitched into your skin. Arsenal was your home, your heartbeat.

You rose through the ranks quickly, and by fourteen, you were making your senior debut. With it came fame, the kind you never asked for and never wanted.

Kim Little used to tease that if you could physically dissolve into the shadows after a game, you would. But fame was a package deal. No matter how much you hated it, it stuck around. And with fame came obligations: appearances, interviews, photoshoots. Events you wouldn’t even watch in your free time, let alone attend.

Which is how you found yourself sitting stiffly in a chair, allowing a makeup artist to brush powder across your face, while your manager, Maggie, flipped through an email on her phone.

You kicked your legs back and forth, the chair squeaking slightly. “Maggieeee,” you groaned, tilting your head back dramatically. “I don’t want to gooo.”

“You think I want to be here babysitting you?” Maggie deadpanned, not even looking up from her phone.

You gasped, clutching your chest theatrically. “Wow. After everything we’ve been through? The trauma we’ve survived together?”

“The trauma of you refusing to attend anything remotely social?” Maggie snorted. “Get over yourself.”

You pouted into the mirror. “I am over myself. I’m so over myself I’m begging not to go.”

The makeup artist, bless her, tried to stifle a laugh. Maggie just rolled her eyes. “You’re going. You’re sitting in your assigned seat. You’re smiling when the cameras swing by. You’re congratulating whoever walks by. And you’re not escaping to the bathroom for half the event this time, understand?”

You groaned louder, tossing your head back against the chair. “I cannot believe this is my life.”

“You’re literally getting glammed up to sit at the WNBA draft and interview the next upcoming basketball stars. Cry me a river,” Maggie said, arching an eyebrow at you through the mirror.

The makeup artist finished your base and started on your eyes. You blinked up at her. “Wait, are you doing eyeliner? The swoopy kind? The dramatic cat one?”

“It’s called a wing, sweetie,” the artist said kindly.

You looked at Maggie. “Why do I need wings? Am I supposed to fly out of the event halfway through?”

Maggie laughed. “I wish.”

You sulked. “This is a violation of my human rights.”

“Uh-huh. Tell that to the Nike execs paying your endorsement deal,” Maggie said, standing up to go check the rack of dresses hanging nearby.

You glanced over your shoulder at the clothes. “Wait, wait, wait. I thought I was wearing a suit. Didn’t we agree on a suit? I can’t walk in heels. I’m going to fall and go viral for the wrong reasons.”

Maggie hummed thoughtfully. “You’re wearing the suit. Relax. But there are options. Versace sent three.”

“Three?” You practically yelped. “Maggie! Choices make me anxious!”

“That’s literally the least of your problems,” Maggie said, yanking one of the hangers free.

The makeup artist finished and handed you a mirror. You stared at your reflection, a little stunned. You looked…grown. Too grown. The soft glam, the liner, the perfect glow, someone who looked like they knew what they were doing. Someone who belonged at fancy events. Not the awkward, slightly fidgety player who still preferred a Sunday league game over a black-tie gala.

“I look like I know things,” you said faintly.

Maggie snorted. “You do. You know how to kick a ball better than ninety-nine percent of the planet. Now come on. Pick a dress so I can get you dressed before you start hyperventilating.”

You stood up and padded over to the garment rack, eyeing the options with suspicion. One was navy, one was black, and one was a daring white. You pointed at the black one. “That one. Safe. Stealth mode.”

Maggie gave you a look. “You’re not a ninja.”

“Could be.”

“Pick shoes.”

You rifled through the shoe boxes. “Do they make cleats that look like dress shoes?”

“Pick real shoes, you menace.”

You grumbled under your breath but chose a pair of sleek black heels. A couple of stylists helped you into the dress, fixing your straps and adjusting the dress like a mom getting her kid ready for picture day.

As you smoothed your hands down your dress, you caught your reflection again. You looked…good. Still felt like a fraud, but looked good.

Maggie handed you your small clutch. “Smile at least once tonight. You can manage that much, can’t you?”

“I’ll smile once if you let me skip the afterparty.”

“We’ll negotiate.”

You side-eyed her. “You’re the worst.”

“You’re lucky I like you.”

You bumped your shoulder into hers lightly. “You’re lucky I like you.”

Maggie smirked. “Go on, superstar. Time to suffer.”

You sighed, exaggerating every step as you followed her toward the waiting car, already counting down the minutes until you could escape back into your quiet, normal world.

But hey, at least you looked good while suffering.

The draft was buzzing, flashing cameras, laughter, the occasional high-pitched squeal of celebration, and you were sitting center stage, right in the chaos of it all.

You shifted in your seat, adjusting the long, black custom Versace dress hugging your frame. The gold designs swirling around the fabric caught the light with every move, glinting like fire. Your black and gold heels clicked lightly against the floor as you crossed one leg over the other, holding the mic lightly in your hand, playing your role for the night, interviewing players for Nike’s coverage of the draft.

This wasn’t really your scene, you didn’t love the noise, the chaos, but tonight, you were good at faking it. You were charming, quick-witted, and, surprisingly, actually having fun.

Right now, you were interviewing A’ja Wilson, who had the entire place wrapped around her finger with her energy.

“So, A’ja,” you said into the mic, grinning. “Be honest. How many group chats do you think have exploded the night you were drafted with people pretending they’ve been your best friend since elementary school?”

A’ja cackled, throwing her head back. “Girl, my phone look like it got hacked, that’s how many messages I got!”

You fake gasped, putting a hand to your chest. “And here I thought I was special.”

She laughed again and bumped your shoulder with hers. “You’re special. You different.”

You played it up, winking at the camera. “You heard it here first. I’m different.”

The two of you bantered back and forth for a few more minutes, keeping the energy light and fast. A’ja was a dream to interview, lively, hilarious, easygoing. But eventually, her PR person tapped her on the shoulder and pulled her away for more press.

You were just adjusting your mic when someone from Nike leaned down and murmured, “Paige Bueckers is next. She’s on her way over.”

Your stomach did a weird little flip.

Paige Bueckers.

You weren’t exactly the type to get starstruck anymore. You were too used to being the star yourself. A trailblazer that’s what everyone said about you. You had carved your own path through Arsenal, through women’s football, smashing records before you were even out of your teens.

But still…Paige was different. And when you looked up and saw her walking toward you, blonde hair shining under the lights, that easygoing smile on her face, yeah, okay, maybe you were a little starstruck.

Paige’s eyes caught yours and she didn’t look away. There was a jolt of electricity between you, instant and undeniable.

“Hey,” she said, voice low, almost amused, as she sat down next to you, a little closer than strictly necessary.

“Hey,” you echoed, giving her a slow smile as you passed her a mic.

You introduced her to the camera with your usual polished energy, but under the surface, there was a heat building, a charged current in the air between you that you knew the cameras couldn’t quite capture.

“First of all, huge congrats,” you said, grinning. “Drafted number one to the Dallas Wings, casual, no big deal.”

Paige laughed softly, eyes crinkling. “‘preciate you.”

“And second of all,” you added, digging into the bag at your side with a mischievous glint in your eye, “since it’s a big night, I thought we should toast.”

You pulled out two juice boxes.

The entire area around you cracked up, staff, Nike reps, even a few players passing by.

Paige raised her eyebrows, grinning wide. “You’re unreal.”

“I get that a lot,” you deadpanned, offering her one.

She reached out to take it, and your fingers brushed. Lingering. Way longer than necessary. Heat exploded up your arm.

Paige didn’t break eye contact for a second as she gently tapped her juice box against yours. “To new beginnings,” she murmured.

“To causing chaos,” you said back, voice dropping just a fraction.

She smiled, slow, lazy, devastating and for a second you genuinely forgot what your next question was.

It didn’t help that every time you handed her the mic, or gestured toward her, her fingers would find yours, light, feather-soft touches that made your brain foggy. It was all flirting, lowkey, under the radar, enough to make you giddy while still keeping the professional face for the cameras.

Eventually, after what felt like the fastest and slowest ten minutes of your life, Paige’s team had to pull her for other media obligations. She stood, squeezing your shoulder lightly as she handed the mic back, the contact lingering just a second too long, and then she was gone.

You blinked after her, shaking your head a little as you straightened in your seat.

“Get it together,” you muttered under your breath, adjusting your dress.

The rest of the night went by in a blur. A few more interviews, lots of smiles, polite laughter but your mind kept replaying her.

Finally, hours later, you sat at a small lounge area off to the side, checking the time on your phone. Five more minutes, and you could officially leave. You sighed, letting your head rest back against the chair.

“Long night?”

You turned and there she was. Paige.

Standing there, still looking stupidly good, her hands tucked casually into her pants pockets.

You smirked. “You stalking me now?”

“Maybe,” she said, grinning, sliding into the seat next to you.

This close, you could smell her perfume, clean and a little sweet. She turned slightly toward you, her knee brushing yours lightly.

The air between you felt electric again like something important was about to happen.

“You were great earlier,” she said, voice a little softer, a little rougher. “Had me laughing the whole time.”

You grinned, tilting your head. “I aim to please.”

She leaned in just slightly, eyes locked onto yours. “You do a good job of it.”

You were fully engaged now, giving back every ounce of energy she was throwing at you. Your posture, your smirk, the teasing glint in your eyes, it was all deliberate. It was fun. Dangerous.

Just when you opened your mouth to throw a cheeky comment back, Maggie appeared behind you, tapping your shoulder.

“Car’s ready,” she said.

You groaned dramatically. “Five more minutes, Maggie.”

Maggie just rolled her eyes and walked off, clearly used to your antics.

You gathered your clutch and started standing up when Paige said quickly, “Wait—can I get your number?”

You paused, pretending to think it over, tapping your finger against your chin. “Hmm. I don’t know…do you deserve it?”

Paige raised an eyebrow, challenging. “I’d like to think so.”

You glanced around, spotted a Sharpie on the table, and grabbed it. Without another word, you gently took Paige’s arm, rolled up the sleeve of her jacket just enough, and scribbled your Instagram handle in bold, black ink across the inside of her forearm.

You capped the pen and handed it back, smirking. “You have to work for the number. Start there. I’m here until the 19th.”

Paige looked down at her arm, then back up at you, pure amusement and interest written all over her face.

“Challenge accepted,” she murmured.

You shot her a wink, then turned and walked off toward the exit, feeling her eyes burning into your back the whole way.

Behind you, Paige just sat there, arm resting on the back of the chair, staring at the Instagram handle scrawled on her skin, a smug, satisfied smirk tugging at her lips.

The past few days had felt like something out of a dream, one you didn’t quite want to wake up from.

Since the draft night, you and Paige had been nearly inseparable. Breakfasts that turned into lunches. Exploring Dallas, discovering hidden coffee shops, cozy bookstores, late-night drives with the windows down and music blasting.

There was something about Paige, something easy and magnetic, that made you drop your guard quicker than you ever thought you could. You weren’t usually the type to let people in so fast, but with her? It felt natural.

She made you laugh until your sides hurt, challenged you in every little way, and had this habit of looking at you like you were the most fascinating thing she had ever seen.

Now, it was your last night before you had to catch your flight back to London, back to Arsenal, back to the chaos of your life.

Neither of you had said it out loud, but the weight of it hung in the air.

You were sprawled out on her couch, the two of you a tangle of limbs, comfortable and lazy. The TV was playing something neither of you were watching, the golden glow of the setting sun pouring in through the windows.

Paige nudged you with her foot. “Twenty questions.”

You turned your head to look at her, grinning. “Childish.”

“Scared?” she teased, one eyebrow raised.

“Never.”

You shifted to face her fully, folding your legs underneath you. “Fine. You start.”

“Okay.” Paige bit her lip, thinking. “Favorite color?”

You snorted. “Weak start. Black. Obviously.”

“You’re so emo,” she teased.

“Yeah? What’s yours, Bueckers?”

“Purple,” she answered easily.

You nodded. “You look like you like purple.”

You volleyed back and forth, favorite foods, hidden talents, weirdest fears (hers: snakes; yours: accidentally locking yourself in a bathroom at a party).

The questions grew slower, deeper. What’s your happiest memory? What scares you most about getting older? How do you actually cope with the fame?

That one hit differently. You stared at the ceiling for a second before answering.

“I don’t know if I do,” you said finally. “I think I just… compartmentalize. Like, there’s me, the person, and then there’s the version of me people want. And I just…try not to let them touch too much.”

Paige watched you quietly, eyes impossibly soft.

“You’re good at pretending,” she said, almost like it wasn’t a question.

You chuckled under your breath. “Yeah. You too.”

There was a beat of silence. The kind that was heavy and thick but not uncomfortable. Just… charged.

You didn’t know who moved first, maybe it was both of you at once, but suddenly Paige was shifting closer, and you were mirroring her without even thinking.

“Your turn,” she said, voice low.

You wet your lips, heart hammering. “What are you thinking right now?”

Paige’s eyes darkened, a slow, smoldering look that made your whole body tighten with anticipation.

“I’m thinking about how long I’ve wanted to kiss you,” she said, voice almost a whisper now.

Your breath caught, not from shock, but from pure, overwhelming want. You didn’t speak. You just leaned in, your hand finding her cheek, thumb brushing lightly across her skin. And then her lips were on yours. It started slow, gentle, almost cautious.

You tilted your head, deepening the kiss, feeling Paige’s fingers slide up to bury themselves in your hair. Her other hand found your waist, pulling you closer, pressing you flush against her.

You kissed like you were starving for it, mouths parting, breathing each other in, that sweet sting of desperation hanging between you.

You shifted your body, swinging a leg over her lap without even thinking, straddling her. Her hands found your hips instantly, gripping tight, anchoring you to her.

She pulled back for half a second, just enough to look up at you—lips swollen, cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide.

“Can I have your number now?” she asked, slightly breathless, but that same teasing glint still dancing in her eyes.

You grinned, slow and wicked, pretending to think about it.

And then, instead of answering, you leaned down and kissed her again, harder this time, teeth grazing her bottom lip in a way that made her groan low in her throat.

She pulled you closer, her hands roaming your sides, fingertips dragging against the thin fabric of your shorts, touch after touch setting your nerves on fire.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathing heavily, foreheads resting against each other.

“You’re a tease,” Paige murmured, her voice wrecked and fond all at once.

“You like it,” you whispered back.

She laughed, that gorgeous, laugh that made your chest ache, and tightened her hold on you like she wasn’t planning on letting go anytime soon.

The locker room buzzed with the usual pregame energy, music blasting, boots being laced, jerseys being pulled over heads. You were tucked into your little corner, half-dressed in your kit, phone perched secretly in your hands as your thumbs moved fast over the screen.

p buckets 🩷

Good luck today superstar. Wish I could sneak down there and see you before the game starts.

You bit your lip to hide the stupid smile tugging at your mouth, your cheeks burning. You quickly fired back a reply.

you

behave, bueckers. you’ll distract me.

Almost immediately, another text pinged.

p buckets 🩷

No promises. You’re too fine in that jersey.

You couldn’t stop the laugh that slipped out, low, giddy, and you bowed your head, trying to be subtle about it.

Too late. Katie McCabe, the nosiest, loudest teammate you had, caught sight of you immediately.

She strutted over, towel thrown around her neck, and leaned down into your space.

“Alright, who’s got you smiling like a little idiot, huh?” she teased, smirking.

You jumped slightly, snapping your phone against your thigh and shoving it behind you.

“No one!” you blurted out way too fast.

Katie laughed, throwing her arm around your shoulders. “Yeah, sure, tell me another one.”

Before you could even come up with a terrible excuse, another figure appeared, Leah Williamson herself, captain, protector, honorary big sister. She had her arms crossed and an eyebrow raised, clearly sensing blood in the water.

Chloe Kelly, recently back from on loan from Man City and another big-sister figure in your life, wasn’t far behind. The two of them exchanged one look, a deadly one, before closing in on you like sharks smelling blood.

“Who is it?” Leah demanded, half-joking, half-serious.

“No one!” you insisted again, your voice climbing an octave.

“Why you lying for?” Chloe chimed in, laughing. “We’ve known you since you were running around the training ground in your big cleats.”

Leah nodded solemnly. “Exactly. We know your tells.”

“I don’t have tells!” you whined.

They both raised their eyebrows.

“Yeah? Then why are you blushing like a tomato, little one?” Katie added, winking.

You were about to come up with some desperate, terrible lie when Renee, your head coach, clapped her hands loudly from across the room.

“Alright, enough!” Renee barked, her voice cutting through the chatter. “Eyes up here, team meeting!”

You exhaled a huge breath of relief as everyone shuffled toward the center of the room.

Katie shot you a wink. Leah narrowed her eyes in mock suspicion. Chloe mouthed we’re not done before turning away.

You shook your head, cheeks still hot, and tucked your phone away safely in your locker.

The game against Lyon was electric — exactly what you expected from a Champions League semi-final first leg.

It ended tied 2–2, a hard-fought, emotional battle with moments of brilliance from both sides. You had picked up an assist and drawn the foul that led to your team’s penalty. Not bad, but you were already replaying every moment in your head, thinking about how you could have done even more.

After the final whistle, you did your usual rounds, clapping the fans, signing shirts, tossing your training jacket into the crowd.

It was the best part of nights like this, connecting with the people who supported you through it all.

You made your way along the barricades, signing shirts, hats, even a football boot at one point. And then you saw her.

Paige.

Leaning casually against the barrier, her blonde hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, wearing a simple black Nike hoodie and jeans, somehow still managing to look unfairly good.

The second your eyes locked, you felt yourself light up like a firework.

You tried—tried—to keep it cool, but your grin cracked through instantly.

“Hey, superstar,” Paige teased as you got closer.

“Hey yourself, rookie,” you fired back, feeling breathless for absolutely no reason.

You signed a few more things for kids near her, pretending not to be in a rush to get to her. Finally, you stopped right in front of her.

“You want something signed, Bueckers?” you teased, tapping the Sharpie against her hoodie.

She smirked, mischief in her eyes. “Depends. You gonna make it special for me?”

You chuckled lowly, took a dramatic, exaggerated breath and then, grinning wide, you grabbed the hem of her hoodie and scribbled your signature across it. A big, messy, ridiculous signature.

“Collectible now,” you said, handing the pen back and winking.

She laughed, brushing her fingers lightly against yours as she took it, a little lingering, a little too casual. You felt the shiver go down your spine.

You two kept flirting, kept leaning a little closer than necessary, exchanging little touches that burned hotter every second. Then you felt it. That disruptive energy.

You peeked over Paige’s shoulder and sure enough across the pitch, perched near the tunnel, Leah and Chloe were squinting hard in your direction. Hands on hips. Mouths slightly open like they couldn’t quite believe what they were seeing.

You rolled your eyes and groaned dramatically.

“Problem?” Paige teased, noticing your sudden change in vibe.

“Just my bodyguards,” you said dryly.

She laughed, low and knowing.

“I’ll see you after I finish up,” you said, stepping back slightly but still reluctant to leave.

“You better,” she said, eyes twinkling.

You shot her one last grin, before jogging back toward the tunnel but not before blowing her a playful kiss that made her shake her head and laugh under her breath.

The whistle blew and the Emirates erupted.

5–1.

Five to one.

You could barely hear yourself think over the roar of the crowd, your teammates piling onto you, hugging, shouting, screaming their lungs out.

You had scored a banger, a left-footed rocket into the top corner, and you could still feel the buzz in your veins.

Arsenal Women were going to the Champions League final. The first time in eighteen years.

You stumbled around the pitch with the others, grinning so hard your face hurt, high-fiving everyone you could reach.

Confetti was already starting to drift down like snow. Flags waving, chants booming from the stands. It was a dream.

You turned, soaking it all in and then your eyes swept the crowd. And there she was.

Standing just beyond the barriers, hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket, a soft smile on her lips as she watched you.

The second your eyes locked, you lit up like the fourth of July.

You grinned wide, practically bouncing on the spot, and jerked your head toward her, mouthing wait for me.

You tore through your usual post-game routine, signing shirts, tossing your training top into the stands, posing for a few pictures, rushing but trying not to make it obvious.

The second you got close enough, you didn’t even think. You launched yourself over the barrier, right into Paige’s arms.

She caught you instantly, strong and sure, wrapping you up and lifting you slightly off the ground. You laughed into her neck as she swung you side to side, holding you tight like she wasn’t planning on letting go.

“I am so proud of you,” she murmured into your ear, voice warm and full of something that made your heart squeeze painfully.

You pulled back just enough to see her, your faces inches apart, still smiling, still dizzy with adrenaline and joy. And then, without a second thought, Paige leaned in and crashed her lips onto yours.

It was messy and breathless and perfect, the taste of victory and salt and something sweeter you didn’t have a name for yet. Her hands cupped your jaw, yours grabbed fistfuls of her shirt, both of you entirely forgetting the rest of the world existed.

Unfortunately, the rest of the world had not forgotten about you.

A chorus of screams shattered the moment. You cracked one eye open to see Leah and Chloe a few meters away, standing on the edge of the pitch, pointing at you dramatically.

“OI!! WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!” Leah shouted, voice high with betrayal.

“YOU’RE DEAD! DEAD DEAD DEAD!” Chloe screeched, looking two seconds away from vaulting the barrier herself.

You snorted into Paige’s shoulder, half laughing, half dying of second-hand embarrassment.

Thankfully, Lia Wälti appeared behind them like an angel. She threw an arm across both Leah’s and Chloe’s chests, physically restraining them like they were wild animals about to bolt.

She caught your eye over their heads, gave you a slow, exaggerated wink, and mouthed go!

You grinned wickedly, stuck your tongue out at Leah and Chloe, and watched as their shrieks of protest somehow got even louder.

You turned back to Paige, still tucked safely against her. “Let’s go,” you whispered urgently, laughing under your breath. “Before they break free and I have to explain to the board why Leah Williamson murdered me in public.”

Paige grinned, grabbed your hand tightly in hers, and tugged you away into the bowels of the stadium—running, laughing, hearts pounding, hand in hand, your futures cracking wide open right behind you.

[super-marvel-dc]

Roy: You're smiling. What happened?

Jason: What? Can't I smile just because I feel like it?

Y/N: Dick tripped and fell down the stairs today.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Dc boys when you put a blanket over them upon finding them fast asleep somewhere

Dick, Kyle, Roy

They subconciously smile and grab at the blanket, holding it tightly against their chest or up to their chin. They're trying to make themselves comfortable beneath your blankets but end up looking like wriggling, writhing worms in multicoloured knitting, it's a cute sight to see that even when deep in slumber their energy is still there; but then hate the aspect of their bare feet being shown out of the blanket and struggle to get them back under, pouting.

They are portective of your blanket, not wanting anything or anyone else to take it from them, not wanting to ever be departed with something you had put over them even if it was to keep them warm. To them you didn't need to speak any words at all to show your deep rooted care for them, your actions spoke louder and that's what they treasured more then anything.

They could easily visualise your face upon seeing them in their sleeping spot, scoffing but a smile plastered upon your face that told them that while this was unsusual, it was only adding to the many reasons you love them dearly. They are hardworking, a little silly but more then enough serious to not take your little acts for granted.

They might snuggle their faces into the blanket, breathing in your scent deeply as they only seem to smile wider upon realising that you were tucked beneath this not that long ago, your scent was still strongly intertwined with the fabric. It felt to them as though they were asleep upon your lap or chest, leeching off of your warmth and clinging onto you as though the idea of letting up was blastophamous. They love feeling closer to you however they could, if it was a blanket or a plushie you've left by accident, it's guarenteed to be in their arms within seconds.

They kiss the blanket if it's close to their lips or just easily accessable for them to do so, as though blessing it in thanks of being your blanket in specific, honouring it as such like they should as a lover. They would be in the upmost bliss under your blanket and will get a little grumpy if you were to take it away from the prematurely, pouting and grumbling under their breath about the good dream they were having, only to open their eyes ans see you greet them and their smile is back as they claim their dream had just came true before their eyes. goofy, cheesy little love sick bugs the lot of them.

Bruce, Damian, Jason

They sleep light so they knew you were coming by your footsteps, knowing your breathing like the back of their hands, easily able to distingush you without even trying as they anticipated your nect move like it was a game only you two were playing.

So when they felt you drape your knitted blanket over their shoulders- they brace like they're waiting for an oncomming attack- waiting paitiently as the rush of air that ruffled them ever so slightly when you draped the blanket over them until it greeted their skin gently with a kiss, telling them that they can fully submit themselves to rest now, to not stay vigilant when rest was calling for them to truly submerse themselves into their dreams.

The balnket smelt like you they quickly found and in that they found comfort in the knowledge, the idea of having a part of you with them, blessing them with warmth and a reminder that he wasn't alone anymore and he had someone to protect with their lives. They let you tuck them into the blanket, secure, soft and always leaving a kiss or two upon their furowed brows that magically fade away, giving them a look of peace and serenity as their hands were quick to grap the blanket like it's their only anchor to their light.

They were so stiff in their slumber before you draped the blanket over them, now they were more relaxed, unclenched jaws, no hands firmly grasping for their nearby weapons in case of a fight. They were just a hardened indivisual looking like he had found the respite they had been seeking after being delt the cruelest hand life could give them. They fiddle with the gaps in the knitting, thinking as though they were reaching out to hold your hand, intertwining your fingers together and letting your palm kiss his calloused one and let the notion focus his everything on the you within his dreams.

They're minds were at war with themselves before you draped the blanket, now they were silent, they were at peace they knew wouldn't last as long as they liked but a peace they'd hold onto like it's the last thing they would do. They cling to the calming dreams your scent within the blanket evoked, gripping onto the softer, domestic landscapes you'd be found waiting for them in with open arms, forever striving to one day have that reality where the war within his mind would end and he could stay on the pastel skied landscape with the grand sweeping fields of grass as smells of peach, apple and lemongrass filled the air with you forever.